7 years of Christmas Together

Christmas Over the years. This is pretty funny :)

One man's salvation is another man's damnation

There are a bunch of things I have been thinking about lately, and one of them has been the concept of agency and moral objectivism. And my conclusion is this: if God exists, I don't think even he believes in moral objectivism, and he certainly does not believe in agency.

Let's step back for a moment, and argue within the realm of theology, and then afterwards we can go without it.

When I say, one man's salvation is another man's damnation, I mean that what God commands one man to do would not be acceptable for another man to do. For instance, God commanded murder, and yet there is a commandment specifically states not to kill (David and Goliath, the genocide of an entire group of people in the Bible, Nephi and Laban). God condoned certain persons to lie, (Esther about her identity, Mary and Joseph about her pregnancy) and yet many Christian religions maintain that God viewing lying as a sin. Eating pork during the law of Moses was a sin, while drinking wine was not. Today it is the opposite.

One thing that always bothered me about "commandments from God", is that they seemed to constantly be changing. And a lot of them reflect social trends. Having grown up with the view of moral objectivism (that things are moral or immoral regardless of people practicing them, and they exist eternally, independent of God), it was very confusing to me why one person would be commanded to kill, and another person would be condemned to hell for it.

Then I realized something. There is no such thing as a moral absolute. It is never absolutely wrong to kill, and it is never absolutely morally right to turn the other cheek. Which is why God commanded wars while at the same time commanding charity and love. There is no such thing as black and white. There is only gray. And anyone who thinks differently, is not seeing reality for what it is. And if God exists, he understands that. Simply put, arguing from a theological perspective, a person's entrance into eternal bliss is dependent upon one thing: obedience. Not objective morality. But obedience to God's ever changing whims. So, going from an LDS perspective, the test was to come to earth to see if we would obey God in whatever he commanded us to do. From large orders to entire groups of people, down to the little man commanded to slay an unarmed drunken aristocrat in the street.

Now the real question, how on earth does this make sense? Shouldn't the pathway to salvation remain the same regardless of the individual, regardless of the century, regardless of social media, scientific breakthroughs, genetic studies, and anthropological publications? If God is an all knowing, omniscient, perfect being, then why are his commandments and methods and tolerances in a constant state of flux? Saying that salvation is a personal thing is unfair, and unjust. One person needs to die from ebola, while one person needs to live in a rich mansion and give away millions of dollars to charity to maintain a decent image in the public eye. How is it fair to give them a similar reward if they didn't come to it under similar circumstances?

Basically, theological salvation hinges upon obedience to an unseen being's subjectivity.

The next problem is agency. I know not every religion believes in agency, or free will the same way the LDS church does, but that is the viewpoint I will speak from, because it the one I am familiar with. It is taught that each man is given the ability to choose right from wrong. Though now we can see how right and wrong are a little skewed and really, there is nothing objective about what is right and what is wrong. (Christmas example: A child out of wedlock with an individual that is not the husband in an era where it was perfectly okay to stone [murder] a woman for such actions by religious law. [Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not commit adultery or fornicate]). But back to the concept of agency as it is understood, is actually a complete paradox. Most religions believe in an omnipotent, omniscient God. Roughly translated, it means God knows everything, past present and future. If this is the case, God always knew and always knows what we are going to do, even when we do not. And yet, creates commandments, rules, and restrictions for us to adhere to, knowing perfectly well when we will and when we won't. We are then punished eternally for not adhering to the subjective commandments of a being who already knew we wouldn't obey in the first place. Thus, the concept of agency exists only in the mind of the individual experiencing it, and therefore cannot be an eternal truth. How can we say we can always choose when what we will choose is already known by the one condemning or saving? Seems a little rigged. Like the whole system was created for the eternal one-per-centers to stay on top.

And if we are going to talk about what is moral, how can we in good conscience accept a an eternal being who treats different groups of people differently? Who has favorite races? Who condones the continued unfair and chauvinistic treatment of women? Who commands love for all, but condemns love when it exists outside of what is Biblically acceptable in terms of family? And who, above all, allows imperfect men to make all the decisions in his kingdom on earth? Where individuals are looked at differently for having tattoos or multiple piercings, but not for abusing prescription narcotics because it comes from a doctor. Where an abusive husband is valued more than a gay couple. Where the only life that is sacred is a week old fetus and not an enemy civilian murdered in the horrors of war, or the countless animals that are killed and used at man's leisure.

So tell me then, how can objective morality possibly exist? And how can we ever believe we are free to choose anything? I'm not saying life is a free-for-all and "I was going to kill him anyways".....but I'm saying eternal damnation and salvation can't happen the way religion teaches it based on the facts that agency can't exist with an omniscient God and everything of that nature is subjective. The only things that aren't subjective? Math.....and yeah, math.  2+2 always = 4

My greatest dream is to write a book

So here's the first chapter of my most recent undertaking. I have two others I'm working on, and one I finished. But this one I have to say is quickly becoming my favorite. Just in case you were interested :)

PROLOGUE

Sometimes it’s like waking from a dream. Sometimes it feels like deja vu. And sometimes its so mind numbingly painful I wish I were dead, again. But death never comes when you want it, not for me at least. That’s life, I guess.

That’s exactly how I felt the first time I saw Paris. The first time in this life; I knew we had met before, and I was fairly certain we’d meet again. But the first time this time around, he was sitting on a park bench, outside of the city cemetery, slouched so far back I thought he would slide right off. His sandy colored hair was neatly groomed, but messy enough to look stylish. He wore a blue-collared shirt and black dress pants that fit his legs perfectly. I felt sad for him, sad because I knew we had experienced this before. I wanted to comfort him.

Even then, instead of going and introducing myself, I just walked away. I was determined not to get involved, not this time. Of course, fate had other plans for us.

CHAPTER 1

Grandpa Joe was always my favorite. So standing at his gravesite, ground still open, next to my sobbing family, I felt a little weird at, well, feeling nothing. I guess it just hadn’t hit me yet. That or maybe I didn’t care as much as I thought I would. Still, it was unfortunate that here we all were together, saying farewell to a man we all loved and would likely never see again. Unless, you know, we decided to dig him up.

            Sorry for being morbid. Maybe that’s my way of coping. But like I said, Grandpa Joe was always my favorite. No, he wasn’t some crazy dancing lunatic like from Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, but he did take a special interest in me. We did everything together, from fishing, to throwing water balloons at Mrs. Hempkins across the street. Grandpa said she was a sad old bag that needed some cheering up. And of course, that is exactly what I think of having done to me when I’m in a bad mood. Luckily for Mrs. Hempkins, Grandpa was a terrible shot. I however wasn’t.

            She was there too, standing beside my mother, arm around her shoulder with a consoling look on her face. I had a water balloon in my pocket, you know, for grandpa. But for some reason, instead of chucking it at her as soon as the preacher said “Amen”, I simply walked over and handed it to her. With kind of a half smile, she took it from me, and surprising everyone around by being as irreverent as possible, she threw it at the lowering casket as hard as she could and screamed “take that you old coot!”. I gave her an approving nod, and she clapped me on the shoulder.

            “Kid, I’ve got to say, it’s going to be a little boring not worrying about ducking for cover every time I walk out to my car,” she said to me. I laughed.

            “Just because Grandpa Joe is gone doesn’t mean I am,” I said back. She smiled.

            “I’m glad to hear it.” My mother was glaring at me, so I shrugged. Mrs. Hempkins needed it.

            “Paris,” my mother scolded, pulling me aside as everyone else mingled, shook hands, and cried. “That was completely inappropriate.”

            “Mrs. Hempkins liked it, and grandpa would have too,” I said, without any hint of apology. “It was sort of closure for her.” My mother huffed a disapproving sigh, but left me alone to go and talk to some of grandpa’s older, much much older, relatives. It was amazing that they were even alive. Although grandpa did have a stroke. When had I asked my parents how it happened, they both got an uncomfortable look on their face, and my dad muttered something about him straining too much.

            “Oh, like he was lifting something heavy?” I asked.

            “Not exactly,” my mother trailed off.

            “Oh,” I said, realizing the hygienic nature of his passing. “Well, at least he died like a man.” My mother groaned at me.

            Grandpa loved me most. Or I like to think he did. I was named after his second son, Paris, who died tragically the day before I was born. He was a firefighter, and was caught on the 3^rd floor of an apartment building while trying to save a young mother and her twins. They made it out the window just fine, he did not. What’s worse is there wasn’t even anything of his body left to bury. I think honestly the “ash” at grandpa’s house is really just charred wallpaper from the apartment that the coroner scooped up and put in a fancy urn. But it served a purpose in giving grandpa some comfort. And I liked the idea of being named after a hero.

            So there we all were, mom, dad, and me, watching as the cemetery folk threw dirt haphazardly over grandpa’s casket until there was a little mound in front of his granite headstone. My mom placed the bouquette of white roses she had been cradelling like a baby on the mound gently, before turning and walking towards the car.

            “Come on son,” my dad said. I shoved my hands in my pockets, starting to feel a little angry, which may have been a manifestation of sadness.

            “’Bye gramps,” I said to the mound, and followed after my mother. We had parked in the cemetery, along the little cobble stone path that lead out to the street. As I slumped into the back of my parents Volvo, I tried to keep my mind occupied with other things, like soccer and girls.

            “We’re going to go over to grandpa’s to pick up a few things before the sale. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to keep?” I heard my mom ask me. I looked up briefly and shrugged.

            “Well, think about it. He said in his will you are allowed to pick one thing for yourself, anything,” my dad added.

            “I hope he had a treasure chest or a safe,” I muttered.

            Granpa Joe didn’t live in your typical old person abode. It was a pretty contemporary home, redesigned and destroyed by his youngest daughter, an aspiring architect going through a post divorce midlife crisis. Auntie Beth was a little kooky in my opinion, but I’m all about letting people be happy however works for them. The home had actually been bequeathed to her, to do with what she liked. So before she brought in her wrecking ball, mom and dad and I were going to empty it and have an estate sale of the items no one wanted.

            As we got closer, I started mentally going through the home, trying to decide what I wanted for myself.

            Honestly, that house was an eyesore, and I could see it all the way from the turn off the main road. It was the last house on the block, and it looked like the underside of a rusted, barnacled ship. Aunti Beth insisted it was modern, mom and dad insisted it was garbage. Grandpa Joe loved seeing his kids squabble.

            “Watch this,” he’d chuckle as soon as dad and Beth started arguing. “I put my money on Remy this time. He’s got the homeowners association on his side.” As we pulled into the driveway, mom sighed something about the city hopefully taking the matter into their hands.

            It was weird walking up to the front door and knowing the house was going to be empty. And when I say empty, I mean Grandpa Joe-less. I still had no idea what I was going to pick. Next to me, dad fumbled around in his pockets for the keys to unlock the door, while mom tapped her foot impatiently.

            “Hurry up, Remy, I want to be out of here before Beth shows up,” mom said agitatedly.

            “I know I brought them,” dad said, biting his tongue visibly out the corner of his mouth. A second later, we heard the jingle of keys and dad held them up proudly. “They got stuffed in the tiny pocket,” he laughed nervously. “You know, that little one by the cro---“

            “Yes, I know,” mom brushed him aside, taking the keys, and unlocking the door. Together, we walked in to the eerily quiet parlor. Grandpa’s coffee cup was still sitting on the side table next to his faded blue armchair. I tried imagining his last few moments, sipping coffee, reading the morning paper, and then getting the sudden urge to go die. I hoped I didn’t go like that. I hoped my passing was a little more dignified than being found on the John.

            “You-hoo!!!” we heard the familiar trill of Auntie Beth’s voice.

            “Oh Lord,” mom sighed, before she turned around with a fake smile. “Beth! So nice to see you!” Beth was clambering up the driveway from her brand-new purple minivan. I could see her five children all pressed up against the windows staring at us.

            “Sorry we didn’t make it in time for the graveside services,” Beth huffed when we made it to us. She absently straightened out her frilly collared shirt, smiling at us. Her hair was an atrocious mess of frizz, which unfortunately was stylish on women. I thought it looked like a rat’s nest. But I smiled anyways.

            “At least you were at the funeral,” dad said. Beth shoved past into the room.

            “Well, the kiddos got the munchies halfway to the cemetery, and well, we just couldn’t pass up a lunch at the Micky-D’s. Dad would have loved it too,” she said melodically, running her finger over the dusty mantel around my uncle Paris’ urn. Mom sent me a sideways glance, and I shrugged. What did a dusty mantel matter to anyone?

            “So, when are we going through the will?” Beth asked, turning to face us. Dad had sat down in the armchair, and mom was still standing next to me, barely out of the doorway.

            “Later this afternoon,” dad answered. “After we go through the house and figure out what Paris wants. That was the first line of the will, dad’s lawyer said, and needed to be done before anything else.” I suddenly felt very special. Auntie Beth sent me a very forced smile, and I could tell she was about to explode in her overpriced panties.

            “Well, isn’t that just, special?” she said through clenched teeth. I shrugged.

            “Ok, Paris, go ahead, we will wait,” mom said to me. I felt a little strange picking out an item from my dead grandfather’s home with all of them watching, so I walked off to another room. Just off to the left, through the very outdated kitchen, was grandpa’s living room. It had his antique TV, the kind with dials on either side, a very long bookcase with dusty books about the wars, and a hand carved coffee table stacked with sport magazines. Nope, nothing in there. So I continued through to the bedroom. I peeked under the unmade bed, went through the shelves in the closet, and all I could find were boxes of clothes, old magazines, and shot glasses. Geez grandpa, I thought.

            Disappointed, I walked back into the parlor, to find dad and Beth arguing about what was going to happen to the house.

            “I’m going to knock it down,” Beth said. “And build an apartment building. It will be great for the college kids in the fall.”

            “Oh wonderful,” dad seethed. “Let’s make a profit off of dad’s death.”

            “Hey, this life is for the living,” Beth said, with her hands on her hips.

            “I can’t believe you!” dad thundered. “You wouldn’t even give us any of the money if you did it.”

            “Remy!” mom said.

            “I would if you would support me for once, but I’ve also got all my kids to think a bout,” Beth said, examining her nails.

            “Oh yes,” dad sighed, “the kids you left boiling in the car in the driveway.” Beth made a weird gurgling noise in her throat.

            “Ulgh,” she sighed, throwing her hands up in a very overdramatic gesture.

            “Look out!” mom screamed, but Beth was way too clumsy. She had thrown her hands out so wide, that she bumped uncle Paris’ urn. And poor dad, he just wasn’t fast enough. As he lunged, the urn slipped right past his out stretched arms and landed with a loud clash on the hardwood floor, sending clay shards in every direction, and showering us all in a cloud of ash.

            “Ohhhh,” my mom shuddered. Beth looked very uncomfortable.

            “Oops,” she let out, wiping the ash from her face. Dad just buried his head into the floor.

            “Wait,” Beth said, sniffling slightly.

            “What?” I said.

            “What’s that?” Beth said, pointing to the largest part of the urn that had survived and landed next to my left foot. I looked down, wondering what she was talking about and nearly fainted. There, right beside my foot, was the largest ruby I had ever seen. Well, I don’t know if it was a ruby, but it was a giant red gemstone. Entranced, I bent down to pick it up before Beth dove at me. The ash over it had concealed the golden pendant it was set into. It fit into my palm comfortably, a golden bird of some kind. The stone took up the entire body of the bird, and the carved out tail curled around the body resembling what I thought looked like flames. It was attached to a thick chain, also of gold I assumed. It was very beautiful, and I felt my parents’ and Beth’s eye boring holes into my back. I held it up into the light for them to see.

            “That is absolutely—“ Beth started

            “What I pick for my one item,” I finished.