Why The Hunger Games Is Dangerous

Full disclosure, I haven't read the books. As such, this isn't a review of the books, or a comparison between the two, or a review of the movie insofar as it is an adaptation. This is a review of the movie, as a movie, for what it is in itself.

Here be spoilers.

In The Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen (whose character, incidentally, bears a striking resemblance to Loretta Lynn as portrayed in Coal Miner's Daughter) is a young woman in a poor, outlying district of a dystopian, fascistic future American society. When she was younger, her father died in a mining accident. Her mother was unable to cope with the loss and all but shut down, leaving Katniss to do most of the providing for the family. Things are so bad this includes hunting for wild game so the family can have enough to eat. Even squirrels.

We are told as the film opens that years before the people had risen up against the government. When the rebellion was suppressed, the Hunger Games were introduced as "penance" for the people's crimes. Every year, each of the 12 districts would put forward two "tributes," one boy and one girl, between the ages of 12 and 18. They are given over into the custody of the government, after which they are pitted against the tributes from the other districts in a fight to the death. The winning district receives not only glory, but food. Perhaps even enough food for everyone to eat relatively well for the rest of that year.

It soon becomes clear that these games serve much the same purpose as the gladiatorial contests of Ancient Rome did, namely, quelling uprising, though they go about it in a slightly different way. They both provide a similar catharsis for the people's violent tendencies, but where the Roman games were a kind of State propaganda, continually reminding the people of the State's ability to conquer against adversity and protect them from harm, the Hunger Games remind the people of the State's superiority over its own subjects. Interestingly, as the President (Donald Sutherland) suggests, they also provide the people with something to hope for. There is a realistic goal. Even though the more wealthy districts train their own tributes, one of which wins almost every year, any district can win in theory, and every one has before. If they do win, their hope is rewarded, but only until next year's games. If they lose, their hope for a better life has been quashed for another year, preventing rebellion.

When Katniss' little sister is selected as tribute against all odds, Katniss volunteers, taking her place. After being whisked away from her family she travels to the capital with her male counterpart Peeta in the lap of luxury. Upon arrival her training commences amidst a series of pageants and public appearances glorifying the event. All the while she begins to befriend Peeta against her better instincts. After all, in the end she'll have to kill him along with all the others in order to win. They are provided with a Mentor for their training, a former victor from their own district, in this case the drunk but devoted Haymitch (Woody Harrelson). It turns out that the most important factor in a victory is the ability to win sponsors who are able to provide you with much-needed supplies in-game.

Immediately the District 12 team begins attempting to capitalize on the notoriety Katniss has already won by volunteering in place of her sister. They appear in public for the first time wearing flaming suits, representative of their district's coal production. Later Peeta confesses on live television to having held an unrequited crush on Katniss for some time, Katniss is furious until Haymitch explains that they can play up the "star-crossed lovers" aspect in the media, thus setting them apart, winning them popularity, and earning them sponsors. Later, Haymitch instructs her explicitly to do what she can to sell the image he will attempt to create from the outside.

The night before the games begin neither can sleep. Peeta admits that he wishes there was some way that he could refuse to play the Capital's game, teach them that they don't own everyone, that they don't call all the shots. It is clear that the only way to accomplish such a thing would be to commit suicide, thus robbing the Gamemakers of their legal prerogative to sacrifice him "for the good of the nation." Katniss replies that she "can't afford to think like that," meaning she has a family to go home to, a little sister and mother to take care of. She doesn't have the luxury of thinking up ways to stick it to the Man; she must win, for her family first, and her district second.

As the games begin, we discover that Peeta was in fact given a kind of "way out." It has been obvious from the beginning that he has no real chance of victory. Katniss is the front-runner, or at least, the front-runner for the distinction of being the underdog against the well-trained and lethal "career" tributes. As such, it seems that he was instructed that his job was to keep Katniss alive, which, of course, he was more than willing to do, first, so that somebody from District 12 can win and its people eat well for a year and, second, out of love for her.

As the game progresses, the two grow even closer together, and Katniss begins to follow Haymitch's advice about embracing the "star-crossed lovers" ploy. It is clear that she is conflicted about doing this, but it is also clear that she has some kind of interest in Peeta. Nevertheless, she is obviously feigning most of the romantic aspect for the viewers' benefit. About midway through the games this leads to an announcement that the Gamemakers have made a rule change allowing two tributes to win together if they are from the same district. Immediately Katniss seeks out Peeta, finding him severely wounded, proceeding to nurse him back to health. In the end, it comes down to Katniss and Peeta versus one of the career tributes who is dispatched by an arrow to the hand and, quite literally, thrown to the wolves.

Just then, when they think they've won, another announcement is made that the prior rule change has been rescinded and the two "star-crossed lovers" must now fight each other in a theatrical final battle. Peeta asks Katniss to kill him, but Katniss produces a handful of poisonous berries and embraces Peeta's earlier idea. They each take some of the berries and prepare for their romantic suicide pact. They count to three, and just as they are about to eat the voice comes over the loudspeaker again and declares them the joint winners rather than allow them to disgrace the Government in this way.

And now we come to the heart of the potential problem with this movie. All appearances are that Katniss and Peeta have fallen so completely in love with one another that they can't bear to be without one another. Later Katniss says this very thing in an post-game interview. Faced with that painful possibility they would rather commit suicide, sticking it to the Man in the process, showing the powers that be that true love conquers all and what have you.

Is this the message we should be sending our children? Should we be telling them that, when life gets rough, it's better to die or to have never lived than to have to live in pain and suffering? That suicide is ever the right answer? To be sure they are presented with an awful, awful situation no one should ever have to face, but can one justify suicide even in such an extreme circumstance? Or should they just allow themselves to be killed by the Gamemakers in retribution for their refusal to comply?

I would argue that, in fact, what appears to be happening in this scene is misleading. First of all, Katniss isn't really in love with Peeta. She has definitely developed a kind of affection for him, but she is no Juliet to his Romeo. All the evidence presented to us in the film is that Katniss has one goal in mind: get home to her family. In the earlier scene where Peeta had first brought up his idea about committing suicide, Katniss' response was firm and straightforward: "I can't afford to think like that." In other words, "That's an interesting idea, but I've got a family to take care of, and I'm going to do my damndest to make sure that happens, whatever the cost." As far as we can see, she never wavered from this position. All the pageantry, all the romantic business with Peeta is all just her playing the part well so she can see to it she makes it out alive.

The suicide pact with Peeta is just another episode in the charade she's created. That is to say, she wouldn't have actually eaten the berries. She may have pretended to for Peeta's benefit, so that he could at least die "happy," thinking she loved him back. But at the end of the day, whatever her feelings for Peeta were, whatever her feelings toward the Government and the Gamemakers were, her only real conviction was of her need to get home to her mother and sister.

This may bear out in the sequel when she is forced to confront Peeta about her real feelings for him. Unfortunately, right now, this is a rather nuanced observation, and I don't think it will be clear to the average moviegoer. Instead, there will be a great many who are convinced that the suicide pact was the best decision they could have made. There will be a great many who see a film where suicide leads to a good outcome.  More than that, a mutual suicide motivated by romantic idealism! And that's dangerous.

Gothic Art

Gothic art is said to originate with the Church of Saint Denis in Paris. Clearly, though, this Church represents only a kind of symbolic beginning, the true origin of the Gothic being impossible to pin down as it developed organically out of the Romanesque. In fact, the movement was so organic that it was only centuries after it replaced Romanesque as the preferred style across Europe (especially in the North and West) that it was even given a name. 16th-century Renaissance artists who sought a return to the more strictly Classical rejected the Gothic as a "barbaric" corruption of the "purity" of more Classical forms. The term "Gothic" is, then, retrospective and pejorative, being a reference to the violent Sack of Rome by the Gothic barbarians.

In one sense, these Renaissance artists were correct. Gothic is a kind of "corruption" of Classical purity and simplicity. The Gothic is, I would argue, a legitimate development of Classical art via the Romanesque. While similar development can be seen in all the artistic media, it's most clearly seen in the two styles' monumental architecture. For instance, let's compare these two arcades, one from the Pantheon in Rome, and one from Notre-Dame de Paris:

Both have columns with bases, shafts, and capitals, supporting an architrave and entablature with similar detailing, atop which sits a cornice. Even though in the former this all supports a pediment and in the latter the structure continues upward, the only significant difference between the two arcades is that in the Gothic example the columns can be skinnier, and in exchange more numerous, as a result of the arches which distribute the weight amongst them. (This is one of the ways in which Gothic architecture is able to feel so light and airy. By splitting the weight up amongst a larger number of thin columns, one prevents the heavy clunkiness of a small number of immense columns.)

Nevertheless, development though it is, it is true the Gothic accumulates and innovates forms which "corrupt" Classical purity. Let's look at a reconstruction of the Parthenon's facade verses that of Cologne Cathedral:

I've chosen the Parthenon specifically because it's of the Doric Order rather than the more ornate Ionic or Corinthian to illustrate my point more forcefully. Even though the proportions of the two buildings are similar, this may be hard to recognize simply because of all the decoration glued onto the Gothic facade. Where Classical architecture was largely content to leave its structure as it was, for the most part adding only what was necessary to hold the roof up in a beautiful and orderly manner, the Gothic feels compelled (almost obsessively) to slap on as much ornamentation as the underlying bones of the structure can hold up.

I said the Renaissance was right to call this development a corruption. The trouble is, the Renaissance was incorrect in rejecting it. What the Gothic did was take the Classical (and true) notions of form (function), beauty (proportion), and truth (honesty of construction), and capitalized on them to create something both imminently Classical. The Gothic "baptizes" the good in pagan art which was attained by human reason, by adding the supernatural, the heavenly, the grace of Christ. Gone is the reticent austerity of Classical architecture, a building can now be a Sacrament of Truth, a material vehicle for the transmission of God's Life to us.

By virtue of the God made Man, things which were formerly unreachable, purely spiritual realities, are now accessible in and through the material world. Wood, stone, and glass are no longer mere tools to hold a roof up, but great mysteries that point to God's participation in the World. Suddenly they contain within them, analogically, hints of Christ's ongoing interaction with us. A wooden beam now calls to mind the Wood on which hung the Savior of the World. A stone, the Rock on (or out of) which Christ builds his Church. Glass, the heroes of our faith, the saintly intercessors, through whom Heaven's Light falls on the faithful. A Church building can become, quite literally, Heaven on Earth:

Suffering & Death

I like The Walking Dead. I must admit I haven't read a frame of the graphic novel, to my shame. Nevertheless, the television version is absolutely wonderful. I completely disagree with all those who would suggest this season has serious flaws. While it hasn't been as good in general as the first season, I won't condemn the show outright simply for its lack of action or whatever else. For example, I think the second season has dealt with major underlying philosophical themes and moral issues a bit too transparently, but it's still dealing with them, which is more than can be said for most of what's on television.

In last week's episode, the group were saddled with a problem. Rick had previously rescued nobly an enemy outsider who was certain to die due to a serious injury. After he was patched up, the plan was to drive him, blindfolded, 18 miles out and leave him somewhere where he would have a fighting chance at survival in a world overrun with hungry, revivified corpses. Upon arrival, though, it was discovered that the prisoner was from the area and knew exactly where the group has been camped out. Worse than that, after interrogating him when they return, it comes out that he had aligned with a very large and powerful group with little to no problem with murder, rape, and the like. How does one solve this problem?

It's clear that the prisoner is a threat. He cannot be allowed to leave for fear he will turn them over to the other group. On the other hand, he can't stay. As much as he might promise to play by the rules, he can't ever be trusted. Ever. And it's not as if the group can spare the manpower it would take to keep him supervised 24 hours a day. Even then it's still too risky. He also can't be driven further out on account of the grave peril that would present to those doing the driving. Rick resolves with the unlikely support of Shane that the only solution is to execute him.

Dale, the oldest and (usually) wisest member of the group, protests immediately, arguing that a young man's life can't simply be thrown away without a second thought. The rest of the episode Dale travels all around the farm attempting to win over the rest of the group to no avail. At sunset the entire group convenes to discuss the final decision. Though Dale argues vehemently for the prisoner's life, the rest of the group are convinced that the only viable solution to the threat is the one already decided upon. Sarcastically, Dale asks if they'll all be watching the execution too, or if they'll all go hide themselves away and try to pretend nothing ever happened. Glen rightly points out that this is the first time that Dale has ever been wrong.

This is what the Catechism of the Catholic Church explains the teaching of the Church is about the death penalty, quoting the encyclical letter Evangelium vitae of Blessed Pope John Paul II:

Assuming that the guilty party's identity and responsibility have been fully determined, the traditional teaching of the Church does not exclude recourse to the death penalty, if this is the only possible way of effectively defending human lives against the unjust aggressor.

If, however, non-lethal means are sufficient to defend and protect people's safety from the aggressor, authority will limit itself to such means, as these are more in keeping with the concrete conditions of the common good and more in conformity to the dignity of the human person.

Today, in fact, as a consequence of the possibilities which the state has for effectively preventing crime, by rendering one who has committed an offense incapable of doing harm - without definitely taking away from him the possibility of redeeming himself - the cases in which the execution of the offender is an absolute necessity "are very rare, if not practically nonexistent," (Catechism 2267).

Unfortunately for the prisoner in this situation, it is absolutely necessary. There is no viable alternative. The threat must be dealt with in order for the group's continued safety to be guaranteed, and there is simply no other way to do this other than to execute the man who personifies that threat. Just like in war, if the only way that the society can be truly protected from another who means to do them harm is by his death, it must be done. But only as a last resort. This is not Divine Revelation, this is human reason.

On the other hand, Dale's sarcastic comment about the group watching was, I think, apt. While as far as I am aware there is no authoritative teaching on this issue, such an execution is the public act of the community. It is only fitting that they should witness it. It is on their behalf, and for their benefit after all. This is not morbid; it is just. As Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell put it: "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Shouldn't those on behalf of whom that man acts at least witness the death of the guilty party?

Essentially, this episode of The Walking Dead is just a rehashed court drama trying a case on the death penalty. While the majority of the characters in the show come down on the right side of the issue, it's clear the message the producers are trying to send: "Dale is the valiant lone wolf upholding justice against the others who have resorted to primitive savagery to solve their problems."

At the end of this same episode a character gets attacked and mortally wounded by a walker. In agonizing pain, with the rest of the group gathered around, they come to the hasty decision that he should be put out of his misery—euthanized, in other words. This certainly seems merciful. Why should a man be forced to go through unnecessary pain if it can be avoided? What possible reason could there be for allowing an innocent man to suffer? Aren't pain and death the most terrible things a human being can ever have to go through? If we can make it any easier, by all means, let's do it.

One major question has pervaded the entire second season of The Walking Dead: Is it the characters' job simply to survive at any cost? Or are there universal and everlasting principles of justice and morality which must be upheld even when the world has gone to hell? These two notions are championed by Rick and Shane respectively. In the first season Rick led an incredibly risky rescue mission to retrieve a man who had tried to kill him and seize power only hours before. What's more, he did this right after having been reunited with his wife and son against all hope. Early in the second season, Shane shot a man in the leg and left him to be eaten alive so he could get away. This was done in order that he could bring necessary medicine to Rick's dying son, but you know what they say about good intentions. These two characters have been butting heads over this issue constantly, and an outright fight is getting closer and closer to erupting.


If Rick is right, the group should do their best to uphold things like honor in spite of a world which will kill them no matter if they do or not. Worse than that, attempting to do so will put the group at substantially more risk than if they were follow Shane's advice and throw all morality to the wind and do whatever they had to to survive.

Here's the thing, though, if Shane is right, and there is no real morality or justice, and these are only ideas contrived by society for practical purposes, where does it end? The logical conclusion of such a position is that there are no principles except the survival of the fittest. What's to stop Shane from murdering Rick and taking his wife for his own (which he would very much like to do, by the way)? You get the idea. Without objective and universal principles, there can be no society, no community, no family.

"Why don't you take a look at your khal? Then you will

see exactly what life is worth when all the rest has gone."

Now, someone might say, so what? I don't need some kind of fuzzy "companionship" to survive. I just need my wits and a weapon or two. But here's where we get to the real heart of the issue. Practically speaking, Shane is right. One would probably survive significantly longer if he threw morality out the window and did whatever he needed to keep on living one more day. But would that extra day be worth living with the knowledge of what it took to obtain it? Without others in one's life to give it meaning and purpose? Without children to live on into the future on behalf of oneself and a wife with whom to make and raise them? The final episode of the first season of A Game of Thrones has an answer.

Suffering, and that most final and powerful of all pains, death are awful, awful things. They should certainly be avoided if at all possible. But it's not possible to avoid it all, is it? Certainly not death. The zombie apocalypse of The Walking Dead is really not substantially different from our own world. Pain and death are still inevitable realities of life, even if they are somewhat less prevalent and harsh this century. What then? Do we put an early end to someone's life simply so they can avoid some pain? Here again, where does it end? The logical conclusion of this principle is the right of anyone, anywhere to end their life whenever they choose because it has gotten too uncomfortable. Even aside from the question of justice or morality, is this good for a society? How long do you think it could survive with such a policy?

Don't get me wrong, the world is a rough place, full of all manner of nasty and uncomfortable things. But isn't the point to find the good in life in spite of all the bad? In a recent interview with The New York Times, Stephen Colbert was asked to comment on the tragic death of his father and two brothers and how that painful experience affected him. Here's what he had to say:

“I’m not bitter about what happened to me as a child, and my mother was instrumental in keeping me from being so. She taught me to be grateful for my life regardless of what that entailed, and that’s directly related to the image of Christ on the cross and the example of sacrifice that he gave us. What she taught me is that the deliverance God offers you from pain is not no pain—it’s that the pain is actually a gift. What’s the option? God doesn’t really give you another choice.”

A Catholic would say that pain is a gift because it makes us like Christ, because it unites us to his suffering on the Cross. It does this because, like Christ's suffering and death, pain can be redemptive if undergone sacrificially. Like Christ, I can convert my personal suffering into something redemptive for both others and myself. How? Like he did, I can suffer for them, and paradoxically, do myself good in the process. This does not mean one should go around seeking pain. It does mean that unavoidable pain which comes our way is an opportunity. An opportunity to give ourselves away. And receive more of ourselves that we started with in return.

Like suicide, euthanasia is evil in part because it robs people of this opportunity. More importantly, though, it is evil simply because it is wrong to end a person's life unnaturally, unless the greater good demands they be brought to justice for a heinous crime they have committed because no other solution can be found. The only reason it seems merciful to euthanize someone in the first place is because, as a culture, we have forgotten how to deal with suffering—by looking to the suffering God underwent on our behalf.

Heartwarming Short

The magic and imagination of Pixar in a stop-motion short:

Address Is Approximate via I Watch Stuff

Apologies

I regret the lack of posts lately. As of last Thursday, I'm a full-time member of the workforce and have significantly less time to devote to quality writing as a result. Not to worry, though. I haven't given up. It's just a matter of figuring out how to work the writing into the new schedule. That being said, I will undoubtedly be forced to decrease the frequency with which new posts are published from (roughly) daily to, perhaps, several posts per week.

I hope you will all continue to support and participate in this little community of ideas by reading and commenting. As always, don't forget to send any ideas or suggestions to improve the blog to popsophiafeedback@gmail.com. Fresh perspectives are always welcome. In the meantime, and feel free to check out some older content you may not have had time to read before by consulting the archive at the bottom of the sidebar.

Catharsis: Why We Care What Happens To Frodo

Is there a point to any of this? Or was Macbeth right?

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing," (V.5.19-28)

There is no doubt that, as Kant says in the Critique of Judgment, life seems "purposive," it seems to have meaning. In the question on Divine Providence in the Summa Theologica, St. Thomas Aquinas quotes Holy Scripture as evidence that the universe has meaning: "[Divine Wisdom] reacheth from end to end mightily, and ordereth all things sweetly," (Wis. 8:1).

He goes on to explain that, because all agents undertake actions for a reason, and God is the agent in the creating and sustaining of all the exists, all that exists does so for the reason he intended it to. To put it another way, when I do something, I do it for a reason. Everything that ends up happening as a result of my action (everything that's under my control), then, happened for that reason. But everything that exists, God caused to be; therefore, everything that exists exists for the reason God created it.

We can know, then, using reason alone, apart from faith, that everything has a purpose. Unfortunately, we can't know what that purpose is. Why not? Because we don't know everything. Gandalf said it right, "Even the very wise cannot see all ends," (The Fellowship of the Ring, 74). Because we can't know how everything is connected, and because we can't know how everything will end up, in our own lives or at the end of time, we can't know why things happen the way they do.

Say I built a machine that turned peanuts into peanut butter. Now say you were a sentient peanut. As you went through the machine you would be able to learn a little bit about how the machine worked, but not everything. Also, as you went through the machine, you would have no idea where you were going to end up. Only once you got turned into peanut butter would you realize what it was all about.

In the Poetics, Aristotle called Literature "cathartic," meaning that the reading of Literature (or watching of plays or movies, or listening of music, etc.) purges frustrations pent up as a result of conflict and tension in the narrative. He also says that art imitates life and reality (the Greek is mimesis, as in English "mimic"). In other words, the emotions that we live through in microcosm in works of art be they literary, musical, architectural, or what have you) are the same emotions we live through in real life.

Literature gives us the opportunity to live a second life, to put ourselves in the characters' shoes and do what they did and see what they saw. This is why, as Joseph Campbell points out, protagonists must be relatable. They must be down-to-earth and believable like Luke Skywalker or Frodo or Clark Kent. Or a peasant carpenter from Nazareth, for that matter. Either that or they must be champions, larger than life heroes that can fight on behalf of us little guys and do the things we never could, like Achilles or Superman. Or Christ, the King of the Jews and God Incarnate.

Literature is cathartic because it also allows us to see the ending, to see the meaning behind everything that happens in this second life, to learn lessons about life and reality from the people and events we encounter in art. It's like getting to regret bad decisions and glory in good ones without having to actually make them. This is not to say that the purpose of Literature is to teach us lessons; it is to say that it does, as a result of what it is, potential reality, imagined and given form by an artist.

Why Red Letter Bibles Are Dumb

In 1901, Louis Klopsch published the first Bible in which those words "universally accepted as the utterances of our Lord and Saviour" were printed in red—the first "red letter Bible." They've been extremely popular ever since, especially amongst Protestants. Here's the problem with red letter bibles: nothing in the Bible is more or less important than anything else. It's all the Word of God, not just the stuff presented as quotations of Jesus.

Even though the Gospels are eyewitness accounts, and we believe the Apostles were given a special grace to be able to recall all of Jesus' teachings and recount them faithfully (cf. John 14:26), the Gospels aren't word-for-word, moment-by-moment, exact histories of what happened. The Gospels are history, yes, but the Apostles didn't conceive of history in the same way we do. I'm not suggesting that what they say happened didn't happen. I am saying that they're not, nor were they ever intended to be, perfectly factually accurate accounts with exact quotations.

To say that everything the Bible says is the Word of God and absolutely true is not to say that every part of it should be interpreted in the same way. Obviously the Gospels aren't the same kind of literature as 1 Corinthians or Revelation. Different books and sections of the Bible have to be interpreted in light of how they were intended to be read.

For example, when John says that angels in heaven are singing (cf. Rev. 5:8-13) he clearly doesn't mean that literally, because it's not possible. The angels are purely spiritual beings, they have no bodies. A being without vocal cords can't sing. What John is saying is something like: "the angels declare the glory of God and worship him." In order to get this idea across, he likens it to human songs of praise. In other words, it's a metaphor. It's still absolutely and undeniably true. But it's true metaphorically, not literally.

This principle must be extended out over the entirety of Scripture. The question is, How do we determine which parts should be interpreted in which way? Well, there are several answers. First, the Church, carrying on the Apostolic Witness to Christ, guided by the Holy Spirit is custodian to the truth of the Word of God, of which Scripture is the special, written testimony. Second, theologians determine how we must interpret particular passages of Scripture in light of what we know to be true about God and Christ. Third, bible scholars, archaeologists and the like are always coming up with new information about the people and times which produced Holy Scripture, giving us new insight into their culture and, as a result, literature.

To be sure, there are portions of Scripture which it's less crucial to read than others. Someone once suggested a new Christian read the New Testament twice before he ever read the Old Testament. Obviously, every last ceremonial precept in Leviticus and Deuteronomy don't need to be memorized to get the idea. Nevertheless, we ought not to treat the "words of Jesus" in the Gospels as exact quotations. Nor should we devalue the rest of Scripture as any less authoritative (when interpreted properly).

Decorating The Nursery, Bad Luck Or Not?

I'm a pretty superstitious guy. At least, most people would probably call it that. It's not really superstition. That is to say, if some old wives' tale or something obviously has no basis in reality whatsoever then I don't pay any attention. Like walking under a ladder or a black cat crossing your path.

There's no such thing as luck. I don't mean that everything happens for a reason or that we're all controlled by fate—quite the opposite. Aristotle explains that what we call luck is simply a chance convergence of two events. Whether this convergence works in our favor or not depends on whether we see it as good luck or bad luck: "Chance or fortune is called 'good' when the result is good, 'evil' when it is evil. The terms 'good fortune' and 'ill fortune' are used when either result is of considerable magnitude," (Physics II, 5).

But, what if by bad luck we mean that there is some kind of unseen causal connection between one thing and a bunch of bad things happening. In other words, what if breaking a mirror somehow, for unknown reasons, actually brings about undesirable events? Well, obviously that's not true. Like walking under a mirror, a black cat crossing your path, or spilling the salt, the odds that breaking a mirror will have any kind of severe impact on the events of your life are very slim. I mean, assuming it's not somebody else's very expensive mirror or something.

Here's the thing, though. What if some of those old wives' tales aren't made up? What if they're based on centuries upon centuries of accumulated empirical evidence? For example, it's supposedly bad luck to decorate a new baby's nursery before it arrives. Depending on who you ask, it can be bad luck to do it at all, or maybe just bad luck to finish it completely. Either way, what if this particular myth came about by a whole bunch of people observing the effects, one way or another, of a whole bunch of different couples choosing to either decorate or not decorate and drawing a conclusion. I'm tempted to consider that possibility. Just because we don't fully understand the causal relationship doesn't mean there's not one.

Obviously a big part of this has to do with the outcome of labor being really pretty uncertain until fairly recently. I can't imagine what it must be like to have to come home and take apart a fully-decorated nursery. I have another theory, though. I've heard a few people say that the first few weeks after a new baby arrives can be a little crazy. It must be hard to keep one's feet on the ground after such a huge change. I mean, it's got to be quite a shock to realize (especially given the half-committed nature of most marriages these days) that you're...not your own anymore. You're living for somebody else now. For ever.

Even aside from that, just the sheer practical changes that occur. The sleep deprivation. The constant worry. All of it. I bet any parent would tell you this was the most stressful period in their life. While not the whole story I'd bet this has a lot to do with the phenomenon of postpartum depression. It's just got to be hard to cope.

I wonder if being forced to go through the motions of putting a nursery together at the same time could be a mechanism for keeping new parents focused and occupied those few moments they don't have to be feeding, burping, changing, or lulling baby. I bet it's satisfying to get to see such a concrete manifestation and validation of one's nurturing ability. I bet it obliges everybody to keep close at first, maybe in the same bed, maybe baby in a bassinet next to it, to make it easy for the new parents to have some much-needed reassurance about his well-being through those first few nights. At the same time, I bet it gives them something to do besides stare at him, or worry about him—all in all, just serving to keep new parents sane.

That's my theory anyway. What do you think?

William Shatner's Queen Cover

In case you weren't aware, somebody convinced Shatner to do a spoken word cover album. And, because no cover album is complete these days without "Bohemian Rhapsody":

Apparently brought to by and for stoners. I wonder if this falls in the "laughing with" or "laughing at" category. Hard to tell.

Is There Intelligent Life On Other Planets?

As complicated and fascinating a question as this might be to anybody else, it seems to me that for a Christian, the answer is pretty cut and dry: an unequivocal and resounding "No."

In the second volume of C.S. Lewis' Space Trilogy Perelandra, he explains that the inhabitants of Venus (unlike those of Mars encountered by the protagonist Ransom in Out of the Silent Planet) are human because they were created after the Incarnation.

Lewis understands that it is by virtue of our reason that we share in God's Divine Nature in such a special way. We are animals through and through. But for the faculty of reason we would be nothing more. It is our reason by which we are made in the image of God.

Sometime around the Year of Our Lord 1, Jesus the Christ was born to a pure Virgin in a stable in Bethlehem. God became Man. Henceforth humanity itself has been intimately and personally bound up with the Trinitarian Godhead. The Second Person of the Trinity, the Word, the Logos, Reason himself, is human; therefore, all temporal, rational beings must be human.

I would go even further than Lewis, though. When Christ ascended into heaven 40 days after being raised from the dead, he re-entered the eternal sphere, taking his body and human nature with him. As a result, even though the Incarnation occurred in time, it is an eternal reality, and in fact the second person of the Trinity is now, has always been, and will always be the God-Man Jesus of Nazareth, body, Mother, and all.

This is, for instance, why many scriptural theologians believe Jesus appeared several times in the Old Testament. These appearances are called "Christophanies," which word stems from the Greek Christos and phanein, "to show." This is, of course, related to our words "phantasm" and "epiphany," which means "to show forth." I don't happen to agree with this hypothesis. Nevertheless, I admit that it is possible.

At any rate, the Incarnation and the Ascension make it impossible for intelligent life on other planets to exist. While some might find this disappointing, it really makes sense. If there were intelligent alien species we would have to consider whether or not they, too, were fallen, and, if so, how, seeing as the Incarnation applies to humanity only, how it would be God would redeem them. It's a whole thing.

That being said, there's no reason that we shouldn't find all manner of animal life scattered throughout the universe. It's only fitting as God seems to adore diversity. It gets even more interesting when you consider that they may not be fallen as the creatures here on earth are. (See my Ugly Creatures series).