A Lesson Learned From An Atheist

       The debate ended up taking a surprising twist.  I came into class and instead of a formal debate full of Cross-X, rebuttals and flowery statements, our teacher had decided to play the role of an Atheist and asked us to challenge him. I was utterly terrified because I had never had the opportunity to debate with an atheist (even a pseudo-one) at this level--that is, the very existence of God. 

The few so called “apologetic” articles and books I had perused about Atheism made the world much more confusing, complicated, and frustrating than seemed necessary.  What and who would I be facing? 

Of course, you have to have arguments--good old logic, right?  That pithy stuff in our brain that helps us win disagreements. 

So I used a few... 

Pulling from the acclaimed C.S. Lewis, I worked my way through a discussion about how man cannot find ultimate satisfaction on this planet--not limited to himself. 

Do you agree, sir? Yes. 

Moving on, then.  Do you believe that this lack of ultimate satisfaction has an ultimate solution? 

Perhaps.

That solution implying an outside and transcendent source of satisfaction? 

Perhaps.

       I kept trying to prove a knowledge beyond the mind--a knowledge not entirely tangible, but around us all the time.  Relational knowledge.  If he admitted that we were creatures who contain relational knowledge and pursued relationships, it would be an easy ride to “prove” God. 

       Then it hit me. No matter what I said, my arguments were unconvincing to him. My ideas were either “logically impossible” or “completely superfluous.”

I realized something quite shocking... no one can win a debate with an Atheist. 

If I do convince him in that short period of time, either he is not a true atheist or I am unconsciously placating to his philosophy. 

How in the world do you “win” a debate with an Atheist? 

That’s the thing--you don’t “win” it. 

The solution to ever bringing an Atheist out of atheism is found in relational knowledge, not proving a series of arguments.

There comes a point when, if you can't get the atheist out of his mind, then you must wait for him to experience something which is outside of his mind...

Or, you treat him in a way which is not simply rational. 

You don't give up on him, you don't become exasperated with him, you don't leave because he's too smart.  

You show, instead of tell, that knowledge is more than just rational. That there is something which cannot be explained or warded off by the mind. In essence, to convince an Atheist that relational knowledge (and thus God) exists, you must do more than just argue.

You must give him an experience.

An Atheist, at heart, is not looking to defeat you or prove the irrelevancy of the world. He is asking for you to knock on his heart, instead of strangle his mind.  Atheism is not a stance, it is a plea.

How do you handle an Atheist in real life?  You become their friend--truly their friend, not to convince or convert them. It takes significantly more time than a simple debate does... but that’s the most beautiful part of it. 

It is a series of building blocks, not a pre-made home.  It is a growth, not an explosion.  It is a refining, not a demolishing.

And perhaps this applies to far more than just Atheism. 

(Special thanks to Mr. Bart Martin and Fr. Andrew Stephen Damick) 

Weekly Creative Writing #18

My kinfolk tumble blindly across the universe - or, what we know to be the universe.  That is, this world... a collection of continents in the cradle of an immense sea. 

We are wisps of folded paper, written words, some stamps, a dried flower lovingly placed in our seams.  We are created the moment words are married to us... the moment a pen, a stylus, a pencil presses into us and creates our identity and determines our future.    

Our souls are thoughts, pleas and ponderings.  We are all different - unrepeatable, unique, never to be recreated in the same way.

Each of us experience a different story.  

Our creation is sometimes quick, as our creator speedily scribbles something and suddenly, we’re alive.  Then he folds us in haste and flurry.   We’re suddenly enveloped in paper, sealed and tattooed with numbers and stamps, then sent off.

Sometimes our creation is frightful.  We’re penned into existence among the black, light-depraved thickness of the night, in the trenches of a battle.  Rain stains our infantile existence but his tears rapidly mature us.  Again, we are sealed, but with trembling hands and tearful kisses... receiving whispered, tender messages that, unlike what we contain, will never be delivered. 

Then we are thrown in a sack, or a metal container, or letter box. 

From place to place we tumble and our dwellings are never permanent until we reach the hands of those our stamps and tattooed numbers have destined for us... You see, a human’s life begins in a home and then he or she begins to tumble around in the world.  But, us... our lives are spent tumbling until we find our home... and when we do:

Then some of us are eagerly ripped open - our seals broken and our souls read.  Some of us are handled with care.  Some of us are never opened. 

And then our dwellings become the desks of dear friends; under the pillows of sweethearts; the bedside tables of military families; in the hope chests of little girls, within a father’s wallet; used as a scholar’s bookmark, or sheltered in the folds of a grandfather’s Bible.  

And so we live... restless until we find rest, meandering until we are delivered, and riding on the winds of thoughts and hopes until we find our home in expectant hands. 

For the absolutely brilliant counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project, visit: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Hemingway and Sentences

Ernest Hemingway leaves some confusion about how the words "same way" can be interpreted - some are martyrs, some die naturally, some received the death penalty, some are killed by disease.  

However, the essence is understood.  We all physically die.

How we die?  Again, that differs, but we do die.  Our story (here, at least) comes to a temporary end. 

In the same way he says our lives end, so do they all begin in the same way.  We are all born.  We all struggle for that first, laborious breath into the vast cosmos and our cries soon beckon for our dear mothers.  

Remember learning about sentences and punctuation in the first grade?  How a sentence - a proper, living sentence - begins with a capital letter and ends with a period?  

All the words and grammar inside that capital letter and period may be total rubbish or they may surpass Shakespeare’s genius.  Nonetheless, we all get a fair share.  Regardless of the sentence’s quality, it will always begin and it will always end. 

What lies between those two things distinguishes that sentence from every other sentence in the world.  What lies between the first letter and the period tells its own unique story.

Rather like a life does.

The verbs are especially important.  Haven’t our composition teachers asked us to use "strong verbs" in our sentences for ages?  To make our sentence interesting?  So that other will want to read it? 

“Strong verbs” and “strong actions” give our sentence dimension, depth, and style. 

They are rather like the “details of life” that Hemingway talks about, aren’t they?

Who knows, if a sentence is anything like a person's life - beginning and ending -maybe our composition teachers were teaching something beyond just writing.

Maybe something about life?

Of course, not that we should like “dangerously.”   “Strong verbs” are not rash, bloody, mindless things.  Rather, maybe they - like Hemingway - are trying to show that we must live “strongly.” 

Lastly, this saying to wrap up everything... =)  

Please comment with any additional thoughts! 

Weekly Creative Writing #`17

For Jessie. =) 

I am blind.  “Darkness” and “black” are not words to describe what I “see.”  In fact, a way to describe the nothingness my eyes give me does not exist.  I simply do not.  All my life, I have been denied from knowing the world through what you call “colour,” “dimension,” and “movement.”  And, contrary to what many may think, I do not consider the absence of sight a “void.”  It was just never there and so other things took its place.  

I like to think my sister took the place of my sight.  Not literally, of course, but it is a lovely thought.  I would much rather have no ability to gaze on the world, than to lose her.  For with her, I can see the world so much more beautifully than if I my own eyes were freed. 

Her laugh, for instance, is entirely infectious and sweeter than any bells you will ever hear.  It is all the colours I cannot see.  Yellow, pink, and light blue (apparently that is the color of the sky?) are the colours her laugh paints when she is happy.  She says those are “happy” colors.  Reds and oranges - a stifled, angry, and sarcastic snicker.  Deep blue, green - a melancholy sigh.  Black - no sound.  White (she says white is all the colours in the world together), so I like to think white is when she’s happiest, when the world is most at peace. 

She is always moving.  I cannot see it, but I don’t need to see movement to feel the energy it gives off.  She loves dancing.  And, no doubt, everything is brighter when she does - twirling and jumping around like she does.  That wonderful energy and happiness is released into what I feel is a heavy, burdened world - giving it some hope, some rest in the midst of its struggles.  And, swimming.  She adores it and she is fantastic at it, I hear.  I’m not surprised at all.  I have been swimming a few times.  The water certainly holds you up, yes, but if your spirit is not light and trusting, it will sink into the depths of fear - fear of the water, fear of the world, whatever. But it will sink.  That’s why I know she is so good at swimming - her spirit is light. 

She is an old soul, though.  She laughs like a newborn and dances like a fairy, but her mind and heart are so much older, so much deeper, and hold so much more dimension than anything else in the world.  She talks to me about books - how the older they feel and smell, the better they are.  Old books are trustworthy books.  Many times we sit and talk about God, heaven, philosophy and the patterns of our lives.  She willingly takes up those discussions with the wisdom of an elder, yet the vigorous humility of a childlike heart.  You want true dimension and depth?  Go find her and talk to her about the world.  Trust me, though I may not be able to perceive the depth of an ocean, I promise you she is even deeper than it.  

So, I guess I really can see colour, movement and dimension... a part of them that most of world is blind to, yet which my sister helps me see. 

The Happiest of Birthdays to my little sister today!  Χρόνια πολλά, αδελφή μου!   This specific writing is dedicated to her - an exercise in trying to describe her as if I was blind.  I am thankful that my reality isn’t blindness, but I want you all to know that everything said about her is truly reality. 

For the fantastic counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project, visit: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Pens and Perception

I was skimming Pinterest the other day and stumbled across some curious "pins" which caused me to stop and think a bit....maybe some of you could also give your thoughts?

With regard to the above images... for those who can't read the small script, the first one says, "If I tell you there are mountains, you will imagine them as such."  Directly next to it, the graphic and witty pun talking about the positive effect of writing.  How do these two relate?

Whoever said that pens and pencils are "weapons of mass creation" either 1) had been studying far too long for exams and the erasers of pencils were nubs - their rubbery pink fuzz scattered across the table.  Or, 2) meant something beyond just the "positive" effect of words - perhaps their ability to cause mass harm or change perception.

How does that relate to the funny black triangles next to it?  Perhaps what great influence words have on how someone perceives reality.   Those triangles could be anything - they may not even be considered triangles by some.

To a lost tribe in South America, they may represent the heads of arrows.  As a father, covered in the yellow and red paint of a warrior, is telling his story to his son.

To native Americans, the shapes could easily be analogous to the charred and burning teepees that beckoned them longingly as they began their Trail of Tears.

To a Christian, it may very well be an icon of the Trinity.

To a Muslim, it is just another geometric and calligraphic shape to add to a newly handmade transcription of the Koran, since they are not allowed to depict animals or humans.

But, he said they were mountains and it takes a lot of effort to forget that, doesn't it?  His words were weapons of mass creation inside your imagination.  Imagine what the words we have heard all our lives have done - both for better or for worse.

Random Linguistic Fun - Αντίο!

        A fantastic introduction on how to approach learning accents and dialects.  Not to mention, it is an helpful perspective to take when learning languages.

http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=VJyTA4VlZus&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVJyTA4VlZus

       Anyways, I’m off to a Greek Orthodox camp for a week.  Expect Creative Writing to resume upon my return, along with regular blog posts, and stories about what fun Greek dancing is, how incredibly disgusting (signome, my Greek friends) dolmathes are, and some peppering of my gleanings on Orthodox life and theology.  (as always... haha.)  

Όλη η αγάπη μου! Αντίο!

Oh, and y’all will appreciate these linguistic conundrums ;) : 

http://www.businessinsider.com/22-maps-that-show-the-deepest-linguistic-conflicts-in-america-2013-6#the-south-is-also-really-into-slaw-the-north-and-west-call-it-coleslaw-6

Weekly Creative Writing #16

Merton DeWitt Strom stumbled his way down the cliffs behind his house.  His eight-year old hands grasped the ancient rocks and moist moss of the rocky path and his blond, bleached hair was lightly bathed by the misty air.  The eyebrows of the elfin German boy were rigidly angled and sharply placed - to the point that if it weren’t for his German homestead and contemporary clothes, the boy could easily have been mistaken for the imperturbable student of a Hellenistic Stoic philosopher.   Yet, beneath those stolid eyebrows shone the bright and curious eyes of his youth - sparkling sea blue, with specks of grey - like the tranquil, speckled sky above him.   His high cheek bones were lightly freckled and he held up his sturdy little chin high as he walked, imitating his father.

It was Friday - a fast-day for his family.  For the whole village, really, since the only church for hundreds of miles was a small Roman Catholic parish.  And, Friday meant the traditional fish fry when the community of fishermen brought together their choice catches; the women cooked and chopped for hours; and the children entertained themselves with fantastical games and dangerous escapades.  Merton had become tired of aimlessly walking around the house, waiting for relatives to arrive, and smelling food which made his empty stomach rumble.  That old trail of his grandfathers’ and uncles’ stories seemed enchanting enough, despite his past fear of the place.  He wondered what he would find at the end of this difficult, rocky collection of rocks leading to the long-deserted lake. 

As he neared the water, his once clean shoes were christened in mud and the trees arched lower than usual to kiss the ground.  After parting the dew-heavy greenery, he stopped suddenly, realizing that he had reached the very edge of the shore, before it sank into the crystal lake water.  Just beyond was a stressed hut of some sort.  Small, old, with its pathway sunken beneath the water.  From where Merton stood, he could see a window casting light on the crude shadows of what seemed to be buoys and cages.  His stoic eyebrows raised in fascination and his eyes gleamed with that dangerous curiosity of childhood. It was still March, and the water was freezing, but he still waded his way to the make-shift door of the fishing hut - fully drenching his trachten socks.  

The interior was hardly a mansion - containing all that was familiar to him - that is, the tools of a fisherman. He found a bucket to stand on and hoisted himself up to the window with his scrawny arms.  He leaned out to see the view like so many before him had done as they waited for their fish. He shivered. It was cold.  His thin trousers, linen shirt, and suspenders were hardly enough to keep his petite body warm during this frigid spring season.  But he stayed, nonetheless, and played with the white puffs his every breath created in the frosty air.  

In his play, he never saw what happened behind him.  The ghosts of his ancestors came from the moss covered walls - all at once and struggling to be free.  Their eerie shapes walked, sat, and shuffled about the hut behind Merton - broad shouldered men just as blonde, just as freckled, and just as curiously stoic as him.  One phantom mended a net.  Another cast one.  A few others laughed in a corner, enjoying some equally wraith-like beer.  The genesis and history of his family walked behind him.  Each man passing on the trade of the net-and-hook to the next.  

Then, deep voices rang in the distance and the smell of frying fish finally invaded the little hut.  The families had come.  Merton didn’t want to go and he didn’t know why.  The view and hut felt like home.  But, still, he put his tyrolean alpine hat back on and turned towards the door.  The phantoms faded quickly into the past and into his heart.  He walked home, but now - now, he was connected to that place.  He would go back again and again, until his blond hair was silvery grey, and his hands were weathered by the lake and sea.  Like the threads of the delicate nets, he was now mended into that legacy of fishermen from his past.  And, later his son would join that webbed net of heritage, and so would all the young men after him - haunted by the phantoms of their fathers. 

For those of you who enjoy name origins, here are the meanings behind the German/European names of the main character:  Merton (one who settles by a lake) Dewitt  (blond) Strom (brook, stream). 

For the marvelous counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project, visit:  http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com  =)