Is anybody else angry all the time?

Something that happened after Donald Trump left office in January is I got a lot less tense. Four years of checking Twitter the second I woke up, of losing friends I'd cared about deeply, of never getting to slow down seemed ... to ease up a bit. Honestly, the best thing about Joe Biden's presidency is what it's done for my mental health.

But: I think I'm moving back to that place where I'm angry all the time. I can't decide if this is a me thing or a world being stupid thing.  

Memories: The difference between fundamentalism and evangelicalism

Photo by Nikko Tan from Pexels

Discussing the debates within the Southern Baptist Church, David French offers a distinction between evangelicals and fundamentalists (and no, he emphasizes, the two are not the same):

Instead, I’d frame the difference in a number of different ways—“grace versus law,” or perhaps “open-hearted versus closed-minded.” In an earlier newsletter, I described fundamentalists as possessing “fierce existential certainty.” The fundamentalist Christian typically possesses little tolerance for dissent and accepts few sources of truth outside of the insights that can be gleaned directly from the pages of scripture.

(Snip.)

Evangelicals often also have a higher view of grace than fundamentalists. They emphasize God’s grace more than God’s rules and are more prone to focus on God’s mercies than God’s judgment.

In my real life and my online/writing life, I refer to myself as a lapsed Mennonite, but it's actually more complicated than that. I was raised and baptized -- Feb. 27, 1983 -- in the Church of Christ, a fundamentalist nondenominational church found primarily in the south. Some of my earliest memories involve my dad's year attending what was then known as Oklahoma Christian College, a sort of denominational school, as much as there could be one, for the churches of Christ.

I grew up so afraid of sin. So afraid I would lie, then die without having had the opportunity to pray for forgiveness. It's stressful to be a kid when Hell is sitting at your elbow, constantly. Jesus dying on the cross was an act of love, but it also reflected God's Terrible Wrath. God may have so loved the world, but he also was ready to torture you eternally for getting crosswise with him, and that was the part that made an impression. I think I remember the word "grace" being used in Church of Christ sermons, but I don't really remember feeling it. 

In 1984, my family moved to Hillsboro, a central-Kansas town populated mainly -- but not exclusively -- by Mennonites and Mennonite Brethren, the latter a more evangelical branch of the church. And then, one day, my parents decided to take us to an MB service. This was shocking -- to step foot inside a church that wasn't a Church of Christ, to worship with all these people we'd been told all our lives were going to Hell because they didn't love God the right way (they used musical instruments in their worship!) was terrifying.

Over time, though, I got over it. What I remember most from this time was a transition from the constant fear, from a legalistic belief in God, to the emphasis on God's mercy -- on having a relationship with God. Hell was still there, to be sure -- it was one reason the church supported missionaries. But it receded as a presence from the center of my daily lived theology. Eventually, as I got older, I embraced the Mennonites more broadly, but then slipped away from the church. I won't lie: Along the way the old ways have occasionally stuck in the back of my mind. What if my grandparents, who stayed in the Church of Christ and who railed against my father's choices, were right? What if a little embrace of grace was just a steppingstone to Hell? 

Somewhere over the years I asked myself that question and answered: "So be it." I think it was when I encountered gay Mennonites at the original national meeting of the Mennonite Church-USA in 2001. (Oh, goodness, that's 20 years ago now.) I decided that if God really did so love the world, he wasn't going to hold it against me for trying to act in the same spirit even if I got the particulars wrong. It was liberating. Of course, that also liberated me to leave the church entirely, I suppose.

The point being: French's distinction between fundamentalists and evangelicals really resonated with me. They both might look conservative from the outside, and they are, but there are (um) fundamental differences in approach. In my life, those differences have been meaningful.

Fighting domestic terrorism is necessary and also dangerous to our civil liberties

Today the White House released its "National Strategy for Countering Domestic Terrorism." The promise is that it "lays out a comprehensive approach to protecting our nation from domestic terrorism while safeguarding our bedrock civil rights and civil liberties." But fighting terrorism -- a necessary task -- is in always tension with protecting civil liberties, as should be obvious from our experiences over the last 20 years. It probably won't be different this time -- and the danger is that as a result, the radicals might take the whole thing as proof they're on the right track. (We've seen it before, domestically: Ruby Ridge and Waco led to Oklahoma City.) I'm not sure the right balance can be found.

Review: 'How to Hide an Empire'

"The history of the United States is the history of empire." Many American readers will recoil from that conclusion -- we think of ourselves as Luke Skywalker, not the Death Star --  but Daniel Immerwahr makes a fair case. His book as a easy-reading primer on America's territorial expansionism, ranging from Daniel Boone through the occupation of the Philippines and Puerto Rico, all the way up to the military bases in Saudi Arabia that were a source of anger leading to the 9/11 attacks. (For me, reading about America's war against rebels in the Philippines during the early 20th century is always a source of shame and rage.) Even today, some four million people occupy territories governed or possessed by the U.S. At one point, that number was 19 million.

One of those territories is Guam. Immerwahr quotes a military analyst discussing how the Guam's people have no say in how the United States uses their territory as a military base:

People on Guam were forgetting that “they are a possession, and not an equal partner,” the analyst explained. “If California says they want to do this or that, it is like my wife saying that she wants to move here or there: I’ll have to respect her wish and at least discuss it with her. If Guam says they want to do this or that, it is as if this cup here,” he continued, pointing to his coffee mug, “expresses a wish: the answer will be, you belong to me and I can do with you as best I please.”

Immerwahr goes further, showing how technology has enabled the U.S. to mostly evolve away from a territorial empire into something more subtle: Globalization. America dominates the Internet, the setting of international industrial standards, and even the language that people around the world use to speak and write to each other. In so doing it has created what the author -- quoting Winston Churchill -- calls "empires of the mind."

That doesn't seem as obviously, immediately pernicious or racist as taking over a distant island and telling its people they have no say in how their collective futures. But knowing that might change the way Americans see themselves -- and how they might expect to be seen from the outside.  They can start by picking up Immerwahr's breezy, very readable short book.

Review: 'Klara and the Sun'

(Spoilers ahead).

Faith is something we cobble together out of our own needs, observations, coincidences and hope. And yet it also helps us create the story of ourselves for ourselves -- it might be not entirely rational or correct, but that doesn't mean it can't be meaningful. 

A lot of reviewers have talked about Kashuo Ishiguro's "Klara and the Sun" as a love story, and it's sort of that, but it's Klara's faith journey that sits with me most. Our protagonist is an "artificial friend," a living doll of sorts chosen to be a companion for a young, sick girl. Klara, we see from the beginning, is endowed with a consciousness, but is treated by humans around her either as an object of sorts -- one unkind character likens Klara to a vacuum cleaner -- or as a potential vessel for something of more value than she intrinsically possesses.

We see from the beginning that Klara sees the world in patterns, observing objects and vistas as something less than the whole of their parts -- describing the world instead as a series of colliding geometries; it often takes time for her to reconcile those geometries into a rough understanding of who, or what, she might be seeing. In reverse fashion, she takes a series of observations and coincidences -- as well as her own body's particular needs -- to fashion a likeness of religious faith, treating the Sun as a deity endowed with its own consciousness of its own. In both cases, Klara never quite sees a thing for what it is.

And yet, a miracle happens. 

Or does it? The medical crisis at the center of the book is resolved, seemingly by divine intervention. But we're also told that other people who have suffered the same sickness have sometimes -- sometimes -- gotten better for good after experiencing the same condition. Maybe what looks like a faith healing is in fact something a bit more random.

But the faith version of the story gives Klara a way to organize everything she's seen -- a way to "place her memories in the right order," as she says at the end of the book.

There are many ideas going on in "Klara." Thoughts about how elites treat those below them as disposable. How those "lesser" people find meaning in a world not built for them. Ishiguro's prose is as elegant as ever -- and his themes as large, and unsettling, as they've always been.

White Punks on Dope

 I'd never heard this song before this weekend. Now I love it.

Saturday morning vinyl: Isaac Hayes

 One of my favorite songs ever.