Commonplaces

And I want you to know the truth: that you are far worse than you think, and God is far better than you think, and the distance between you and God is far greater than you think.

--Mark Driscoll, God Dies



Puritanism: the haunting fear that somehow, somewhere, someone is happy.

--H. L. Menken (who greatly hated God and honored J. Gresham Machen, the last of the old-school Puritans)

Hell

Yet more random mutterings and protestations on the ever controversial topic of hell.

The first point to be made is quite simple: hell is not an elaborately designed torture chamber planned by a malicious genius who is always looking for more victims. It is a place infinitely removed from the Grace of God, to which He consigns those who spend their entire lives spurning Him. This is just even as far as our limited minds can conceive: if men spend their entire lives rebelling against their rightful Sovereign, does it not inevitably follow that they will at some point be cast out of His Kingdom and the protection that it entails?

My second point is even simpler: hell is eternal, and those that are sent there are punished eternally. To those who say that they are punished only until the measure of their sins is expiated (annihilationism), I completely agree. The only problem is that for all of eternity, they are still sinning against God, still raging that their punishment is unjust, still cursing the mercy that they spurned for all of their lives, and, thusly, their sins are never expiated. All mercy and restraint is removed from them, and they continue, unleashed as it were, eternally in their previous rebellion and eternally in their current punishment.

My final point is the simplest of all: hell is desired by those who go there. The world follows a design, and that design is not complicated: God Is, and He Is Good. All that exists exists in Him, supported either in submission or in rebellion, and all that exists was created by Him for His Purposes, and will give an account for every word and deed, by which reckoning we are all righteously damned, and to His Glory. Yet, He took that damnation upon Himself, again for His Glory. Those who fall upon this mercy are saved, and those who still hate God are given (to) what they desire: an eternity apart from Him. What was not counted upon ties into the first point: when He removes His Holy Presence, the blessings that accompany Him are removed as well.

"I finally have everything my heart desires, and with finality find myself in hell."

Prince Caspian: Movie Review

I can think of no person alive on this earth who has heard me cuss. Prince Caspian was absolute shit.

I raged, I fumed, I cried, I begged, and all to no avail.

There was no reason to make High King Peter the Magnificent into a sniveling little angst filled twit; there was no reason to make Queen Susan into Xena, Warrior Princess; there was no reason to remove God from the story until the very end (nice little deists, aren't we?); there was no reason to make Caspian twenty instead of twelve; there was no reason to attack Miraz' castle; there was no reason to skip the school and town scenes; there was absolutely no reason to make Susan and Caspian fall in love--that made me feel ill; give Glory to God, there was no reason to make this abomination of a movie.

Book Review: The Tipping Point

The Tipping Point, by Malcom Gladwell, surprised me. Firstly, I was surprised that I read it--NY Times bestseller with the subtitle "How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference" just doesn't sound like me. I hate people, and if enough of them like something, I generally won't. But, I put aside my arrogant elitism (just kidding--I don't know how) and read it. Secondly, I was surprised that I loved it. It was a very good book, and worthy of however many hours you put into it.

Gladwell traces social movements that, at some point, take off, "tip," and explode. He then tries to pin down what (and who) makes them do so. It is quite fascinating--The mavens, connectors and salesmen, the law of the few, how Blues' Clues surpassed Sesame Street, how people behave when some of them are made prison guards and the others prisoners (near torture and a riot within one week), and many, many more things from smoking to why a suited white male pulls a gun and shoots four black gangster-like teens on a subway. It really is fascinating, and will be a very valuable reference book for years to come.

There was, however, one problem of considerable importance (at least to someone like me), and that was his view on the importance of parenting.

Now, someone like Gladwell is hard to refute, as he simply states facts that he (and others) have assimilated, and though being unbiased is impossible, he is what we would consider unbiased. The problem I found was not in what he said, but what he failed to say. Here is the situation.

Gladwell says:

"...our environment plays as big--if not bigger--a role as heredity in shaping personality and intelligence..." and, "whatever that environmental influence is, it doesn't have a lot to do with parents." This opinion is based off of several tests that seem quite incontrovertible, and indeed, upon closer review, are quite correct. He elaborates by stating "the environmental influence that helps children become who they are--that shapes their character and personality--is their peer group." So, he holds that the peer group itself supercedes parents in the influence wielded upon the members of the group. This is, astonishingly, entirely correct. We find it (if vaguely) in the Scripture: "a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife:" the "peer group" is what man is designed for, and it affects him tremendously, even more than his parents.

But this in no way takes away from the affect that the parents have--they are the screening process that his peers have to pass, and this is the fundamental point that Gladwell misses. And why does he miss it? Because all to often, it is invisible. All in all, his assessment of the importance of peers is quite correct, and should serve as a rather striking warning to us: no matter what you say and do to your kids, who you let them spend their time with away from you will define them more than you ever will. Ouch.

Last and Greatest (or at least most awkward) Declamation

Oh Sweet Smell

The first week of NSA was awkward. There was a barrier within our class, and this barrier was the sexes. No one knew how to act or what to say.

The first time I met Sean, it smelled right. In my nose every nostril hair was swaying back and forth singing the Hallelujah Chorus. If Capon wrote a book on smells, Sean would be Capon’s onion, only it would take more than ten pages to unpeel all the mysteries of Sean’s smelliness. Sean smells so good, and I told him this. “Sean, you smell soooooo good.”

I do not think that this was necessarily the greatest thing to tell a guy, especially one that you just met, but I don’t regret it. Anyone so odiferous deserves a prize: a plastic cookie, a statue of a naked Greek god, coupons…anything.

Needles to say this made Sean extremely uncomfortable, which was only a small part of the joy it gave me. He stepped back, and in his eyes I could see a picture of the Antichrist. He shifted his little mouse eyes, and anxiously moved his little mouse hands in distress. Trying to help him understand, I said: “Sean, really, you are the best smelling person I know. You smell like home.” This just made things worse…

Now when I see Sean it is like the story of Abelard and Eloise. Anytime I came within a three-foot radius I say, “Abelard, I don’t want to use Herbal Essence anymore, I just want to smell like you.” And Abelard says back, “Eloise, Eloise, Eloise, live for God.”

Amusing Links

Click on the title.

A Touch of Humor (or Humour for the Brits)

1). What do you call an attractive man walking down the street with a blonde?

A hostage.



2). The Top 10 Reasons why it's better to be an NSA student than a Jedi:

10. Gas money to Spokane is cheaper than passage on the Millennium Falcon.

9. You don't need midi-chlorians to appreciate truth, beauty, and goodness.

8. Jedi probably have to study *modern* languages.

7. None of the NSA faculty are 900 years old, short and green with pointy ears.

6. Some of the Padawan learners might have gone to public school.

5. NSA students have cooler robes.

4. Dr. Stokes.

3. In Latin, you can put a sentence in any order you want!

2. Doug Wilson is more powerful than the Jedi Council AND Emperor Palpatine.

And the #1 reason why it's better to be an NSA student than a Jedi:

1. Jedi are prohibited from forming attachments. NSA students, on the other hand...




3). Painful Yiddish Joke

Back in the days of the Wild West, a westbound wagon train was lost and running out of food. No other humans had been seen for days. Then, finally, the pioneers saw an old Rabbi sitting beneath a tree and reading the Torah.

“Is there some place ahead where we can get food?” they asked him.

“Vell, I tink so,” the old man said, “but I vouldn’t go up dat hill over dere und down de udder side. Somevun tole me you’d run into a big bacon tree.”

“A bacon tree?” asked the wagon train leader.

“Yah, an bacon tree. Vould I lie? Trust me. I vouldn’t go dere.”

The leader goes back and tells his people what the Rabbi said. “So why did he say not to go there?” a person asked. Other pioneers said, “Oh, you know those Jewish people - they don’t eat bacon.”

So the wagon train goes up the hill and down the other side. Suddenly, Indians attack them from everywhere and massacre all except the leader, who manages to escape and drag himself back to the old Rabbi.

Near dead, the man groans, “You fool! You sent us to our deaths! We followed your route but there was no bacon tree, just hundreds of Indians who killed everyone but me!”

The old Jewish man holds up his hand and says, “Oy, vait a minute.” He quickly picks up a Yiddish-English dictionary and begins thumbing through it. “Oy Gevalt, I made myself such ah big mishtake! It vuzn’t a bacon tree... it vuz a ham-bush!”

Westminster Rhetoric Paper

In the Spirit of the Day

A Proposed Retranslation of Genesis 3:8

Jesse Broussard, Westminster Term Rhetoric, 2003 words.





Exordium: Spirit, wind and breath. In three different languages, each of these shares a single word. In Latin,anima, in Greek, pnuemos, and in Hebrew, ruah. Usually, this presents no problems; we are not often speaking Latin, Greek or Hebrew, and context will generally eliminate one or more options. But, when we come to Scripture, all of our authoritative texts are in Hebrew, Greek or Latin; the context is often less than helpful, and that is when having three possible meanings for the same word in every original copy of every authoritative text becomes a problem.

Narratio: Generally, those of us who are Orthodox Christians don’t like to mess around too much with Scripture, and that’s a good thing. There are always exceptions, such as wild exegesis—“St. John saw many strange monsters, but none so strange as one of his own commentators”—but even wild exegesis is exegetical (or isogetical, my point is that there is a longsuffering text to bleed beneath our benevolently bumbling scalpels). But what do we do when the text itself is under dispute? Should we preach off of that little section at the end of Mark? Should we try to go over it in our familial devotions? And what do we do when respected theologians are disputing different interpretations—how do we know which one to go with?

Meredith Kline’sImages of the Spirit proposes a retranslation of Genesis 3:8: “they heard the sound of Yahweh God traversing the garden as the Spirit of the day,” particularly retranslating “l’rwh hyywm” as “Spirit of the day” instead of the traditional “wind of the day,” which we changed (for the sake of clarity) to “cool of the day.” Kline states that judgment is inherent and essential to the narrative, and that the “day” (ywm) is the “day of the Lord,” the day of judgment.

Everett Fox translates this verse in his Shocken Bible in the more traditional mean: “Now they heard the sound of YHWH, God, (who was) walking about in the garden at the breezy-time of the day. And the human and his wife hid themselves from the face of YHWH, God, amid the trees of the garden.” In his footnote he clarifies: "breezy-time: Evening."

Partitio: These two translations are obviously different approaches to the text, and they offer different perspectives from which we would view the judgment of the fall of mankind. The traditional translation (Fox’s), however, does not seem to adequately capture the importance of the narrative—the comment that “it was evening” seems entirely superfluous, where reading the text in light of judgment seems to clothe the overall narrative with a far more suitable and consistent theme. Propositio: While we traditionally translate the Hebrew phrase "l'rwh hyywm” as "cool of the day," we should probably translate it as "spirit of the day."

Confirmatio: One of the reasons to translate this phrase as “spirit of the day” is that while evening is mentioned numerous times in the Old Testament, the particular phrase l’rwh hyywm is never used to indicate “evening”—in fact, through all of Scripture, that phrase is found onlyhere, in Genesis 3:8. It would seem that such an unusual phrase would bespeaka similarly unusual occurrence (such as the fall of mankind), not merely evening (which is most often denoted “le’et’ereb” ). As ruah means spirit, wind, or breath, these are our options for its translation. Since “wind of the day” leads to a very odd way of saying “evening,” and “breath of the day” makes no contextual sense whatsoever, we are left with the phrase “spirit of the day.” But what does that mean? The spirit of what day?

In his Images of the Spirit, Meredith Kline comments that the “spirit of the day” would almost undoubtedly be the spirit of the day of the Lord—the Day of Judgment. Defending this, Kline shows that the “day of the Lord” is always a day of judgment, and that judgment is the entire effect of God’s visit to man in this narrative.

To support this theory, he studied the common factors in all of the more explicit theophanies of Scripture, and narrowed them down to a foundational three: light or day, dark or obscuring, and “qol,” sound. Since all elements of the day of the Lord are present, Kline states that this Parousia “corresponds fully…to the awesome approach of the Glory met with elsewhere in Scripture, the approach with which a thunderous voice of Yahweh is regularly associated.” The qol is a great and thundering noise, and is what Adam and Eve hear traversing the garden toward them in l’rwh hyywm (spirit of the day), and it is this that causes them to hide (obscure) themselves. It is not the sound of “footsteps,” or of twigs cracking, but the sound of a great thunder, of a crushing waterfall, of earthquakes and armies and trumpets—it is the sound of approaching judgment. This day is a day of the Lord—He comes in power to judge his faithless people and those who have led them astray, and then to promise a future deliverance from these curses. He truly was coming in the Spirit of the Day—in judgment.

Because this is such a momentous event, one that bestows upon us the first Messianic prophecy, the protoevangelium, because this isthe reason for our sehnsucht, because this is the origin of all that is evil in the world, we expect the prose of the narrative to reflect that gravity and severity of judgment. But, should “ruah” mean wind, we do not find even a hint of it—the segue from Adam to God gracefully leaps from the high dive, only to encounter a dry pool floor in verse nine, where God is catching on to what has just happened, like a dad opening his daughter’s bedroom door and finding her boyfriend, “dressed” only in the loosest sense of the word. However, ifruah means “spirit,” then judgment pervades the narrative, covers it as the sky covers earth, or as skin covers muscle and bone. This seems to be the primary and crucial difference between the two viable interpretations of ruah: judgment is incidental to the “evening,” and central to the “spirit.” And which of these would we expect?

But the most definitive point, the point that converted me, is quite simple. According to the traditional translation, why is the phrase even there? What is the significance of mentioning that God was walking in the evening? It is definitely an evocative description, so if it were a peaceful scene in poetry, it would make perfect sense. But in this? In this horror and empty, desolate bereavement, this stark prose recitation of the pathetically futile, damning and abortive rebellion of mankind against severe sovereign holiness and beauty, this origin of all that is painful, evil and ugly? The sun was darkened, moon bloodied, earth undone; the stars were hurled from heaven, a seraph cursed; forgive me, butGod damned Himself: an idyllic stroll seems a touch out of place.

Refutatio:The only argument that I have yet heard that makes any sense of the jarring insertion of “evening” appeals to the poetry of the situation: a heaven on earth, where God walks in His garden with the human caretaker each eve, and then this utopia becomes literal utopia: not here, as it is laid waste by man’s sin.

But the problem with this exegesis is the same as before—why the obscure wording? Were the Author wanting us to read “evening,” why did He not simply write it? He does not hesitate to do so elsewhere. Why use a phrase so unusual that we find it nowhere else in Scripture? If it is to flag the one and only time that mankind’s innocence is utterly destroyed and the death of God Himself is, in that moment, necessitated, then I understand the use of such a singularly rare phrase. If it is to show the time of day, it’s absurd.

The single greatest argument against re-translating this passage is the weight of all of Church history. Who indeed are we to correct the mistakes of so many (and such great) men? And yes, this is a huge step—if we are retranslating a Scripture because it makes more sense to us, what is to prevent us from editing it to please ourselves? Already liberals are headed down this track with the TNIV, Episcopals can no longer play chess (is it a bishop or a queen?) and our names for God, “Father, Son and Holy Spirit” are being judged by many as inferior to “Rock, Redeemer and Friend” (which will hopefully stop before it becomes “Rock, paper and scissors”). We have resisted this abominable trend to retranslate the Words of God as we see fit, and rightly so.

But for us to struggle with the translation of a verse is not anything new—the Church has defined the bounds of Orthodoxy over less: “For there are three that bear witness in heaven…and these three are one (1 John 5:7).” According to Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses, these three are one in their will, one in their actions. According to Christians, Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses are heretics, because they deny the divinity of Christ, and their translation of this verse is one of the ways in which they do so. Here, the translation of the word “one” in a highly disputed passage of Scripture divides orthodox from heterodox, possibly heaven from hell.

Nor does stating something about Scripture place us above it in any way—we are testifying to something in it, not changing it at all. John the Baptist declared Jesus to be the Lamb of God, but his declaration did not make Jesus the Lamb of God any more than my statement “it’s a hamburger” changes anything about the nature of my hamburger. Indeed, the only problem comes in when I say, “It’s a hamburger,” and it is in fact, not a hamburger. To use an absurd analogy, if I claim that it’s a hamburger when it is actually an aardvark, this will cause awkwardness for those that believe me (as well as the aardvark). If we claim that this Scripture says something that it does not say, then we are guilty of leading people astray as well as corrupting the text, which is why we should take great caution when translating Scripture. If we translate “ruah” as wind, and then have to make it “cool,” all so that it can use the most obscure way possible of saying something that is an irrelevant side note to an otherwise continuous and tremendous narrative, all while there is a perfectly cogent, meaningful, and contextual translation that could be made with no violence to the text whatsoever, then we are guilty of handling the text with great frivolity, if not plain stupidity. The sooner we correct that, the better.

Peroratio: “L’rwh hyywm” should be rendered Spirit of the day, and we should keep this in mind as this new typology further links this day in Genesis 3:8 with all other days of the Lord, including—especially including—the judgment of Christ as the second Adam. For that is the day when God darkened the sun, crushed the head of the serpent, lifted the curse from the ground, and welcomed man into His new garden-cemetery (from which man in Christ will never be expelled) to walk with the dead man, who is the living God, in the new spirit of the new day, which shall never end.


And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time…
And all shall be well, and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.















Bibliography:


Kline, Meredith, Images of the Spirit (Eugene, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 1999), 106.

Fox, Everett:Vol. I of The Schocken Bible: The Five Books of Moses (New York: Schocken Books, 1995), 22.

Free Republic, Culture and Society, “Presbyterians Consider Renaming the Trinity (“Mother, Child, Womb,” “Rock, Redeemer, Friend”), http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1652271/posts, (Accessed April 18, 2008).

Peter Leithart, Leithart.com, New Testament, 1 John, http://www.leithart.com/2007/01/29/sermon-notes-fifth-sunday-after-epiphany/#more-2735, (Accessed May 1, 2008).

More Declamations

There is one more coming, and it is the best of them all. But, as it has not yet been sent to me, I cannot yet give it to you.
Enjoy.

Sean Johnson
-----------------------------------------
HIGH NOON FOR THE HIGH-BROW EYEBROW

There is a great and terrible power that dwells on Mr. Appel’s forehead. His left eyebrow, though small and hairy, proved a fearsome foe. Originally I knew it only as a friend. Like Balaam’s ass, it would turn freshman fools from the anger of the Lord—quivering suspiciously whenever our answers were leading us out onto the skinny branches of believability, as if to say “why don’t you stop while you’re ahead?” or “actually, that’s a heresy.” But I remember the day I finally provoked that awful eyebrow to wrath.
For several weeks I had passed Lordship lectures submissively, quickly lowering my eyes when, in the course of his pacing, Mr. Appel’s domineering gaze would meet mine. However, familiarity breeds stupidity, as they say, and I soon found the courage to hold my head up. The next time our eyes met, mine stayed put, and his widened in interest; what was this, a challenger? Then we battled. Across rows of tables and unknowing students we battled, grappled silently, unmoving, unflinching.
By some strange trickery my eyes were instantly parched and itching; I could feel them shriveling like little grapes in their sockets, but I was already committed to this fight and not about to blink. Sensing my resistance, his gaze narrowed—the way a cottonmouth coils and condenses before it strikes. Then, whip-crack! went the eyebrow as it leapt to the middle of his forehead, delivering the fortieth lash to the fleshy backside of my soul. My spirit utterly undone, I cowered in defeat, and the wrath of the eyebrow was satisfied.


Laura Wilson
Rhetoric/Westminster
Word Count: 254
April 22, 2008


Well Done, Sister Suffragettes!
Or
Against the Offensive Notion that Men Own Everything Simply By Existing

It was war: full-out, cross-that-line complete annihilation on the church lawn. The boys started it by transgressing the ancient boundaries. Their sticky-fingered adolescent selves insisted on taking over the giant fir tree that was, coincidentally, the girls’ fort. We, being the superior of the species had snagged that prime real estate long before their sordid clan had learned intelligent speech. Our tree had a lore all its own, its blood-red trunk boasting tales of murderous carpenter ants infesting its cavernous interior. The boys were relegated to the only remaining land of any strategic value: a giant divot in the lawn, a stone’s throw from our tree. Their pitiful little hollow that was woefully unprotected. Our tree, by contrast, was a bastion of female security. It was far superior and their primitive eyes burned with desire and cast scheming glances at our branched fortress. One Sunday afternoon, as we skipped in daisy dresses across the lawn, we were met quite unexpectedly by the sight of their smug, smeared male faces peeking out from behind the maternal boughs of our fort. Well, we had squatters’ rights on that tree and no amount of masculine invasion was going to change that. Nose to nose with the snot-faced Neanderthals, we demanded our rights, but brandishing their rudimentary weapons, they only threatened us with grunts and sticks of fury. Our shrill voices raked the silence on that breezy afternoon in the daisy field between the divot and the tree and there was a line drawn and it meant war.


Andrew Givler
Rhetoric/Westminster Term
Word Count: 261

Dreams are Truer than You Think

Behold, in my dream the red brick walls of New Saint Andrew’s College, my new institution of learning, towered before me. Its walls seemed to be as thick and tall as the mightiest of fortresses. The ominous sky behind it bubbled like lead, full of malice and hatred. It seemed as if the entire principalities and powers assembled against NSA prepared to vent their rage.
Suddenly I looked, and behold! I saw Dr. Atwood standing atop the school, and over his head he held the giant leather-bound book with the name of all the students there were and who were to come. And he spoke with a voice like thunder; “Come!” and Behold a teacher with a white tie sprang forth from the fortresses’ walls. In his left hand he held a Latin textbook and in the other a projector’s remote, and he said, “Latinam aut mortem!”
Again Dr. Atwood’s voice shook the foundations, “Come!” and behold a second teacher sprang forth with a tie the color of crimson. The wearer was permitted to take happiness from the Liberal Arts students by making them take all of the quadrivium.
Again “Come!” summoned a teacher; this one wore a tie of blackest night, with a pen of deepest red in his hands. “Augustine, Calvin, and tales of food and wine right before lunch are in what I delight!” was his cry.
For a final time Dr. Atwood cried “Come!” And Behold! A teacher with a tie the color of a corpse, and to him was given authority to crush freshmen’s spirits and ridicule them; and his name was Nate Wilson.

Rhetoric: Westminster Final Written Exam

Well, this week felt like I volunteered as a crash test dummy for the new Geo-Metro. I found out at ten-thirty last night (don't ask me how I missed it before) that the Rhetoric written final was today. So, I went to bed about one, got up at five, went to the Atwood's prayer breakfast, came home and studied for nine hours.

Usually I like to study over at least a two day period, otherwise I have to wear earplugs to keep everything from dribbling out, but oh well. Somehow, I believe that I did very well, all glory to God and my roommate.

Angels In the Architecture

On Beauty:

"Instinctively we do know that true beauty proceeds only from Deity. Our problem is that we have deified ourselves and have assumed, contrary to the visible results, that whatever proceeds from us must be beautiful."

"Sound theology always leads to the love of beauty. When there is no love of beauty, we may say, reasoning modus tollens, that there is no sound theology."


This book is worth reading the way that eyes are worth opening.

My Declamation; Written By Dunnett

Jesse Broussard
Westminster Term Rhetoric
250 Words

Excerpt From Dorothy Dunnett’s Queens Play: Wolfhound (Luadhas) Verses Cheetah

She was a noble bitch, high in heart and honest after her calling. She could overthrow a wolf, but the alien, wicked beauty slipping through the grasses ahead was of an element she had never known. She raced uphill, tail streaming, rough hair blown and parted with her speed, loping high on her long legs; and fast as the gap was closing between cheetah and hare, the gap between dog and cat began to close faster still…

There was never a doubt as to its end…the dog had no chance. Hound and cheetah rolled over and over, compacted silk hair and rough, mean, triangular head and long-nosed Byzantine; then Luadhas, lips bared, would seek a grip on the spotted spine and the sinuous snakelike fur would unroll and untwine; the heavy soft paw would flash, and on the skull of the dog the brindled hair sank, wet and dark, as the deep lifeblood welled.

She was a brave dog. As she bled she bit, her strong teeth sunk again and again in the dirty yellow-white plush. She shook her head and the cat, blood-spotted and scarred, wrenched free and staggered a pace: a dancer tripped, inelegant and baleful. There was a pause. Then, his haunches tightened, the cheetah called on the great muscles of thigh and hock and with all his power sprang quiet, curved and deadly into the sunlit air. The soft body fell and its great paws, needle-sharp and fatal, sank into the great cords and vessels of Luadhas’s neck and spine. The bitch screamed, rolling over; and on the squeaking, flattened grass her great body opened and shut, the soft fur like a woman’s twined about it, the cat’s claws deep in her back.

Rhetoric Declamations: Last of our Lives

I am actually seriously depressed to be done with Rhetoric. I could easily spend the rest of my life taking that class, writing and listening to things that others have written. Oh well. I think we get to do more stuff like that later.

Anyway, enjoy these. They're some of the best that we've ever done (though there are more coming, and the last of these is a touch risky).


Rhetoric - Westminster Term ’08 – Week 6
Timothy van den Broek
Word count: 260


I Am a Man

11pm. Tuesday night. Main Street. One male, three females and all very drunk. They were approaching the Third and Main St crossing from the other direction than I was.

5,000 miles is a long way to travel and set up a new home. But a long way can suddenly become very well worth the trouble. “Hello man” one of the girls said. “Yes!” I yelled inwardly. Having a beard has paid off! It is clear to women on the street that I am man! My measured “why, hello” did not even vaguely reflect my inner excitement. She retorted back “Hello man!” God is indeed playful: who would have expected Him to encourage this wandering saint by means of a girl plastered by alcohol?

Such unqualified confirmation of my manhood was what my soul needed. God is not just playful though, he is generous. Just after passing, “hello man” became no more than a shadow, a type. “He looks,” she said, “very intelligent.” And I wasn’t even wearing a tie!

Should I hug her? I’ve hugged girls at the rate of roughly one per two and a half months since arriving in America, and surely this was a significant enough event for the fourth hug. But remember the time you last tried to drink the just the “O”s from a glass of H2O? Same problem. She was so glued to the side of the one man in the group that it would have been impossible to both hug and maintain my moral scruples. So I just laughed out loud. And why not? I am, after all, a very intelligent looking man.



Gwen M. Burrow
Rhetoric/Westminster
Creative Sketch
April 23, 2008
Word Count: 252

What Shall We Do With a Drunken Roommate?

Before coming to NSA, I never knew you could get drunk overnight without stepping a foot out of bed. This particular phenomenon becomes apparent as soon as you roll out from under the covers and attempt to walk upright. Balance is an issue. However, you can still manage. It is possible, I find, to remain in a fetal position while walking across the room; your legs don’t really need to uncurl until the tenth step or so. But I never would have known this except my roommate Rosalie does it every morning.
After hitting her alarm, she lies in bed for at least fifteen minutes. I suppose this is to allow the worst of the hangover to subside. Then she sits up and peers around the room, wearing a sleep-happy smile that looks like it leapt straight off the face of the Grinch. Once she’s confirmed that the floor and walls are still there, she crawls out of bed and endeavors to walk. This is a very dangerous idea. Bent over at the waist, she tips and staggers towards the door, flailing both arms for balance and at last reaching the bathroom, which she enters at half-height. There she holds onto the counter and looks in the mirror, blinking, and gives her typical objection to the morning: “Mwah.”
Since I’ve never been able to find an empty bottle of booze under her bed, I’ve started blaming this morning ritual on all her dreams about being brainwashed and giving birth to baby pigs.


Desmond Jones
RHT-01/Westminster ‘08
Word count: 254

Creative Sketch:

The R

One time I tried to count the number of engines that my father-in-law has on the farm. There are the cars, the old farm truck, the new farm truck, the lawn mowers and weed whackers and chainsaws, the grain truck with brakes and the one without, several tractors and swathers, the quads and ski-doo, and at about that point I lost track. This time of year is when most of them shake off their dusty hibernation and cough out lungs full of carbon and spew mouse nests that were built in feasible, if not strategic locations. The cars are well behaved, especially the Hondas. They speak in graceful, urbane voices and keep the burnt-oil halitosis to a minimum. The equipment, on the other hand, makes no pretense at social graces. The grain augers will hack and sneeze right in your face, and then act as if nothing happened. The Volvo growls his complaints that his front-end loader looks like headgear. The hippie-era John Deere model 95 screams like an angry, toothless reminiscing army General who thinks his grandkids aren’t listening. And the 5010 chafes against all attempts to get him into gear. But there is one machine whose sweet voice is your pack-a-day grandma, recounting the good ol’ days while she blows smoke rings in the air. Without pomp, the ’51 John Deere R is awoken. Her confident and merry chugging echoes across the valley as her boots trod familiar fields, grinning farmer at the helm. Spring is here; dad’s on the R.




Stephen Sampson
Westminster Term Rhetoric
250 Words


This lady had one thick five o'clock shadow, the kind of thing that grows on rocks in rainforests. Post-op, pre-op, whatever op it was, I couldn't tell which side of the Y chromosome she was shooting for. A she waddled to the counter of the burrito stand that has now become my special circle of hell she sports a pink clutch purse, Coke bottle glasses, and a belly that could, if I had known the gender, have been bringing life into this world, but the fungus sprouting from her feminine face wasn't helping me.

For many, life is filled with questions: why are we here? Who put us here? What is the meaning behind all of this? These questions escaped me as the only thing I could question was, why me? And why here, with me trapped behind this counter, does God hate me this much? I mean, I know I faked being sick that one Sunday because I didn't want to deal with that old lady who used to always ask me if I was doing drugs, and sure, I used to swipe change from my brothers desk, but I was five then! I didn't know any better!

Luckily all the dude wanted was a glass of water and I never had to find out whether she-males prefer black or pinto beans. She slinked off to the bathroom and I heaved a momentary sigh of relief till my mind went to the only place it could.

This place has two bathrooms.

What is the criteria for legal she-male bathroom use?

Answer To A Friend

A friend just asked me how I would respond to the question "Does God Exist." Here's my spur of the moment response:

Yes.

Just kidding.

The short answer is yes, God exists. I assume you are curious as to my reasoning.

The only way that I will ever debate this is roughly as follows (and remember--pick your audience. Whom are you talking to--the guy across from you? The crowd? Then tailor your argument to their needs--this one is made for the audience):

1). Make circular argument: "God exists because He says in His Word that He exists."

2). Wait for screaming to start: "Petitio Principii!! Petitio Principii!! Circular reasoning! You're an idiot!"

3). Look bemused (give it a second, wait for the volume to die down).

4). Affirm that it is circular reasoning, and state that God cannot be rationally proved apart from circular reasoning, and you're not interested in trying--He commands us to accept Him on faith, and you're going to. After all, He Is God. Then,

5). Comment that you also believe in God because of the impossibility of the contrary--without God, it is impossible to prove anything.

6). Wait for the rabid denial to die down (always look amused, never, ever, ever be threatened or shrill--the moment you argue, you've lost. Don't argue, simply illustrate--you are the long-suffering teacher, and the atheist is your bitter, angry, rebellious and slightly dense pupil. God is in control, so act like you actually believe it, as your demeanor does more to the crowd than your logic ever will). When the denial has died down, ask them

7). Do you believe in reason? Get them to say yes--if they aren't an idiot, they will.

8). Then say, "Can you give me a reason to believe in reason? Oh, actually wait--can you give me a reason without using reason? Don't want you to be guilty of petitio principii (peh-tit-eey-oh prin-kip-eey-eey: this is an obvious humor and ethos card to drop--1, it shows that yes, you do know this logic stuff, and 2, you find this whole thing kind of funny. Grin at some friendly face in the audience, chuckle a bit).

9). Then, deal lightly with their response (some variation of "Nuh-uh! Is not circular reasoning!) by 1), patiently making the point over as if they just aren't seeing it (which is usually true), or 2), sidestep and hit this point from as many angles as you can--show how reason has to be assumed for them to prove anything, then comment that you believe in reason because it reflects the Nature and Character of God--why do they? Because it works? Well, they might want to practice using it a bit more, as they still don't seem to be able to see where they were just blithely assuming enormous leaps of logic (say this in an almost concerned fashion, make sure to sound sincere, or you sound like an ass).

That's about it. But I only ever debate to affect an audience, as debates never change the minds of those debating. Those, you invite over for dinner, dessert and a movie, and you demonstrate the love and life of Christ to them. After all, they are depressed, bitter, lonely and very, very scared--to them, be a haven and a blessing. Be courteous, be loving, and always be two steps ahead--God is Wisdom, we have no excuse for not using it.

Blessings,
Jesse B

Answers

Becky gets extra credit and brownie points.  She got a sixty percent, a minime, but on the curve, it became one hundred percent, Summa Cum Laude.  The rest of you are condemned to the outer darkness where there shall be weeping and reading of Dickens.

1).  Augustine, Confessions

2). Bierce, Devil's Dictionary

3). Wilde, Importance of Being Earnest

4). Wodehouse, Jeeves and Wooster

5). Chesterton, Orthodoxy

6). Lewis, Abolition of Man

7). Austen, Emma (spoken by Churchill of Mr. Knightley)

8). Dillard, Holy the Firm

9). Spurgeon, Lectures to My Students

10). St. Brendan (quoted by Dorothy Dunnett in Checkmate)

Bible in Ninety Days

There is a group of students and other church members up here that, on Sunday, are starting to read the Bible through in ninety days, taking one week off.  Should any of you be interested, let me know, and I'll forward the schedule to you.

Blessings,

Jesse Broussard

Descarte's Cogito

Descarte's cogito, "Cogito, ergo sum--I think, therefore I am," can be and should be severely criticized.  It places man at the foundation of all things, and our reason as the method for deriving all (other) knowledge.  (Side note: reason has to be assumed, obviously--we cannot prove it rationally without engaging in circular reasoning, which is a rational fallacy, and we cannot irrationally prove it without simultaneously disproving it.)

However, his derivation of his cogito came about as a result of his "Evil Deceiver" theory--he could not know anything for certain, because there might be an "Evil Deceiver" that led him to hold whatever belief it might have been.  However, he doubted those beliefs, and did not believe that an Evil Deceiver would try to convince him of something and then try to make him doubt it.  His cogito might as well have been a dubito--"Dubito, ergo sum."  I doubt, therefore I am.

It doesn't really matter--this is still just as flawed as his initial cogito.  If there were an Evil Deceiver, then making him doubt his beliefs may well have been his initial intent, and we're back at the beginning.  

A great book that has a tangent related to this can be found by clicking on my title.

Blessings,

Jesse Broussard

Why can't I be kidding?

The cold wetness in the self-conscious form of billions of individually unique water crystals still falleth from the sky, but sticketh not upon the ground.  Long and the short of it is, it's snowing without the opportunities for sledding, snowball fights, or even accidentally sending a small child off a hill into a snowbank.  Now they land in bushes or on rocks, and their parents are less understanding.

Hell and Repentance

In Rhetoric class, we were asked a hypothetical question: "If someone in hell truly repented, would they be freed?"

Obviously, we all believe in the eternality of hell, and none of us are saying that it would be possible.  But hypothetically, were a person in hell to truly repent, yes, they would be freed.  Hell is not an eternal punishment for a lifetime of sins, but an eternal punishment for an eternity of sins.  And it is what is desired by those who go there.

Amen.

How Long O Lord? Will You Forget Us Forever?

It is still, even now, at this late hour, snowing.  Aqua qui cadit ex caelum nix est.  Sic, veras.  Valete.