• goodbadi

    Sacrifice and What’s So Great about the Bible

    February 10, 2011

    The sacrifice of others is rather common.

    Consider the great filmShrek, in which the vain but cowardly Lord Farquaad holds a tournament to select a knight to go on the princess-finding quest on his behalf. He tells the contestants, “Some of you may die, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”

    Military personnel are routinely sacrificed by government leaders to protect the god of national wealth; some say abortion is infant sacrifice to the gods of convenience and materialism.
    And in the Bible, Genesis 22 shows Abraham nearly stabbing to death and burning his son as an offering (reportedly until God congratulates him on his fear of God).
    (About Abraham: At church not too long ago, when I voiced my skepticism about Abraham’s perceptions about what God intended for him (land grabbery, propagating with his slave, sending his own son into the wilderness to die, willingly nearly murdering his child, etc.), one person’s response was immediate if not overly original: “And God used him anyway to do great things, in spite of his faults. Isn’t it great how God takes messed up people and does great things?” Maybe, but my guess is that although he really was a messed up guy who made a lot of immoral choices, Abraham wasn’t any more likely than the next person when it came to having that sort of direct line to God or special mission designed by the divine.)
    Jesus’ crucifixion is also commonly framed as a sacrificial act by God, as in God sending his son to be sacrificed to appease God’s wrath against humanity.

    In both of these biblical examples, I have to wonder, What happened to “God is love”? I only see inexplicable cruelty.

    1 John 4 reads, “Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.”


    God willingly pounded Jesus onto a cross in love?

    There must be some mistake, and perhaps it’s rooted in a misguided take on sacrifice. Indeed, as Jesus taught in John 15:13: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” Not–get this–being laid down as were the victims Isaac and Jesus, but choosing to lay down, as in the Jesus whose death was not an act of violent spiritual payback but a willful statement against the powers of the world. (Perhaps equating Jesus with God makes the crucifixion a choosing, but the Bible strongly suggests the father-son relationship scenario. And don’t forget the Nephilim!)

    Abraham’s act of “sacrifice” was as deranged as Farquaad’s, and God’s “sacrifice” of Jesus is as counter to love as it gets. Neither shows what Christians consider core: self-sacrificing agape love.

    Now, I’m willing to be told I’m wrong in my discounting of these interpretations of events, but on a deeper level I think my supposed challenges to religious tradition are perfectly acceptable within biblical heritage. Indeed, the Bible is a story that considers a particular group’s history and formation–and shines because it is not propaganda. Even as it tells of the group’s “chosen” identity and special purpose, the Bible reveals the people’s failings, at times even with condemnation (see Jeremiah 22, Micah 1, and Mark 13:1-2).

    The Bible’s own critiquing of the very people it touts as God’s chosen allows for–encourages?–critical questioning of its own contents. Its oft-gruesome tales, whose even watered-down telling in my daughter’s picture Bible require selective reading (I sure am not going to show her those pictures of Isaac on the pile of sticks or read to her that Jesus’ loving daddy stuck him up there to bleed), are part of a messy heritage whose narrative merits active readership and constant reinterpretation towards redemption and grace.

    For that quest there is no high-and-mighty glossy marketing brochure–just a guiding text’s act of selfless sacrifice.

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    An Afternoon Skunk

    February 1, 2011

    Today as I rode my bike up the slushy gravel road amid the forest noises of melting snow, what did I see about 15 yards ahead, in my tire track, waddling towards me, unphased in the least by my presence, but a skunk.

    I’d almost had a run-in with a skunk once before, back when we lived in town and I barely noticed it in the dark of the morning as I pushed my bike up the driveway. But this was the middle of the afternoon. Was it rabid?

    I couldn’t simply move to the left tire track; that wouldn’t have given me much room to sneak past it. I couldn’t jump off the road a ways just to let it pass; the drop to the stream on the left and the steep bank on the right had me penned. I climbed off my bike and walked back down the road a few yards.

    The skunk kept right on approaching.

    This wouldn’t do, I decided. I wasn’t going to reroute myself, which would have added a long time to my ride, time I didn’t have because I wanted to get home to spot the damage the neighbor’s escaped cows were wreaking on our yard. In deep thought I looked down at the ground, where I found inspiration: snow balls.

    One after the other I threw, most of which scattered around the stinky varmint, who raised its tail and squeaked a couple times and kept walking towards me. I persisted, however, and soon enough it moseyed up the steep bank and I continued home.

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    Snow Days: A Report

    January 28, 2011

    Tuesday I pedaled home from school with no dog interference and excited about supper. I’d planned to–and did–bake three pounds of burger into patties. We ate some of them for supper that night:

    But that meal wasn’t the only item on the excitement agenda for the week. Last week I’d heard rumors of a storm that was guaranteed to hit us, and Wednesday morning played out nature’s goodness that let me sleep in, mosey about for a while, do a little house remodeling work, and delve into renewing our home owners’ insurance which, I found under “Perils We Insure Against,” does not cover anything related to pretty much anything homeowner related.

    For example: “We do not pay for loss caused by any of the following: … faulty, inadequate, or defective: a) planning, zoning, development, surveying, siting; b) design, specifications, workmanship, repair, construction, renovation, remodeling, grading, compaction; c) materials used in repair, construction, renovation, or remodeling; or d) maintenance; of part or all of any property on or off the residence premises.”

    What’s left to lose, pray tell?

    While doing my “office work,” I also called our credit card company to see if our card could be made eligible for any of the benefits–cash back, etc.–that are so politely advertised by other cards. No dice.

    Since cancellation of school today was announced last night, M and I stayed up “late” to watch Zorba the Greek, who is responsible for some great lines: “You have to admit, boss. It is big. But she shakes it well”; “Listen. God, who is a clever devil, today put in your hands a gift from paradise”; and, “They say that age kills the fire inside of a man. That he hears death coming. He opens the door and says, ‘Come in. Give me rest.’ That is a pack of old damn lies! I’ve got enough fight in me to devour the world. So I fight.”

    Today, then, found me burning the year’s brush pile, ordering a shock collar with remote for our dear but disorderly dog, and making supper: a few more of the burgers specially placed to bottom out our mashed potatoes (I made plenty, ’cause I wanted extra…not sure I exactly wanted five quarts of leftovers):

    Now, with school already called off for tomorrow, I think M and I will finish off the peach cobbler she made, and then maybe I’ll stay up late (until 9:30?) working on the letter I’m writing to my so-typical insurance provider pleading for reimbursement for our planned home birth this summer.

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    Of Cold and Dogs

    January 25, 2011

    I broke my cold-weather-commuting low-temp record today with a ride in 9 degrees.

    I’d been worried about appendage separation due to the frigid air, but the absence of natural wind very much diminished the expected harsh brutality of the ride, and my fingers and toes didn’t even really feel cold until near the end of my ride.

    Plus, I’d been assured by my dear wife. “Don’t worry,” she told me before I set out. “You’re very attached to your [appendages].”

    One of the great jokes from A Prairie Home Companion this past weekend: A female brain molecule wandered into a man’s head. Finding it empty of other brain molecules, she called out, “Hello? Hello?” From far away she heard a response: “We’re all down here!”

    In my feet, of course. On the way home this afternoon, a pesky dog gained a certitude of wisdom, and I’ve written this poem about the experience:

    I Am Pleased To Say

    I have kicked in the side of the head
    the dog
    that once chased you as
    you jogged

    and at which
    you were incredibly
    peeved
    for so long

    Congratulate me
    the kick was delicious
    so instinctively
    executed

    But this is not to say
    my toe didn’t hurt
    for a while

    Or to say I didn’t look in
    my handlebars mirror
    a lot

    just waiting
    for the dog’s owner to come after me
    in a car

    with who knows what

    (Thanks, William Carlos Williams for the inspiration.)

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    Shameless Commerce: Pans for Pizza

    January 25, 2011

    I made pizza twice this weekend, first on Saturday at M’s parents’ house, and then on Sunday at our house for some guests we invited at nearly the last minute.

    We’d arrived back from our weekend away to find delivered the most recent item provided for review by CSN Stores: Celphalon’s Classic Bakeware Jelly Roll Combo. I never make jelly rolls, so the opportunity to make pizza in the new pans was perfect. N helped mix up and spread the dough–and scatter toppings, too–and then the pizzas baked. Perfectly.


    Whereas our old pans would have burned the crust bottoms and let sauce seep over the edges, in these pans the crust stuck not one little bit, and baked the whole way through with a beautiful golden brown underneath.

    I was happy.

    M washed the pans this morning, then used them for granola today. When I washed them this evening, no granola crumbs were stuck on, so cleaning the pans was an easy wipe or two.


    Sweet!

    They’re not as perfect as my pizza, though: As described in the sales website, these pans can’t handle metal utensils on them, although I used a pizza cutter yesterday and didn’t notice any adverse effects; I guess that’s why they’re for jelly rolls, not pizza. Also, there did seem to be a bit of audible warping going on in the oven (375 degrees) during baking, but everything turned out fine, so maybe that’s not really a problem. 

    Before actually going out and purchasing any goodbadi-reviewed item, please email goodbadiblog@gmail.com to confirm that the reviewed item’s features include longevity.

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  • goodbadi

    God’s Right Hand Man

    January 18, 2011

    It was spookily not unlike what some might call not coincidence but Godincidence.

    See, I’d been inspired, in church yesterday, to begin writing a song. Inspiration often strikes me in church, when people say things that either puzzle, intrigue, offend, or appall me. An example of a typical inspirational tidbit would be “God told me to do such-and-such,” or “God made this happen,” or “I am grateful to be the hands and feet of God at my work.” This type of talk just strikes me as, well, I don’t know. Not right? Overly ambitious or knowing? Extremely dangerous? Oh, I know! Great material for a song!

    Then, after church, before I’d developed the song beyond a few key phrases, M and I loaded N into her backpack and went for a little walk during which M debriefed from her reading of Jon Krakauer’s very sobering Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith about Mormon fundamentalism in which God “tells” certain people (narcissistic men, anyway) to do things (including murder) and the people around them go along with these divine edicts. (Note to self: read the book sometime.)

    The resulting song is obviously one to be sung only in devout sincerity. Here it is in its stately day-old perfection:

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