Koans
(Zen riddles for meditation)
Entering the forest, he moves not the grass
For his lawn mower is broken.
*
He who knows does not say
For who can get in a word otherwise?
*
One word determines the whole world
But it took six words to tell you that.
*
Ever onward to where the waters have an end
For an end is like a bachelor’s party only wetter.
*
If you meet an enlightened man in the street
Invite him to lunch but don’t expect him to pick up the check.
*
The secret bird manifests eternal truth
But it lives in a cage so how much can it really know?
*
Sitting quietly, doing nothing
Such is the life of the lazy.
*
The water before and the water after
And the soap goes in between.
*
If you do not get truth from yourself
Try putting it on layaway.
*
If you wish to know the road up the mountain
Subscribe to National Geographic.
*
The wild geese do not intend to cast a reflection
And they don’t use a blinker when changing lanes.
*
From of old there were not two paths
And this backed up traffic considerably.
*
We all know the sound of two hands clapping
But when only one hand is clapping
We try to be as quiet as possible and clean up afterwards.
Zen and the Art of Unicycle Maintenance
A Zen master once said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a modest accumulation of frequent flyer miles. However, he added, enlightenment can also be reached by unicycle or the New Jersey Turnpike, the first of which is addressed in this short essay.
One wheel representing the one way of Zen; two pedals for the dual nature of existence and three juggling balls in case you’re offered a job in the circus. Riding a unicycle requires balance, as does the yoga of a Zen disciple; and for the health conscious Zen disciple there is low-fat yoga on a sugar-free cone. Learning to ride a unicycle requires practice and devotion, as does Zen meditation and tax evasion.
The way of Zen is to make sure the tire is suitably inflated with hot air, which can be readily provided by any Zen master. The Zen master says always wear a helmet in case you fall or happen to be riding under the lotus tree when Nirvana comes crashing down. And lastly, if you must ride a unicycle to reach enlightenment, remember to make reservations ahead of time and always travel in the bike lane or you will surely become one with the pavement.
The Parable of the Vine
The Zen master spoke a parable:
A wise man was crossing a field when a tiger began to chase him. He grabbed a vine and swung over the edge of a cliff, dangling just out of the hungry tiger’s reach. When he looked below him, he saw another tiger waiting to devour him below. Soon a pair of mice, one white and one black, began nibbling on the vine. The wise man then convinced the mice there was no God, which filled them with such existential dread they lost their appetite. As for the tigers, he sold them a beachfront condo in Florida and they traveled south to enjoy retirement.
The Parable of the Thief
A Zen master lived the simplest kind of life. One night a thief came into his house to rob him but found no possessions to steal. The Zen master took off his clothes and gave them to the thief, who slinked away into the night. Later, the Zen master sat naked in his house, enjoying the beautiful moon and calculating how much he would save on dry cleaning.
Zen Pudding
Prep: 12 min Bake: 30 min Oven: 350 degrees
4 beaten eggs
2 ¼ cups skim milk
1 tablespoon eternal nature
2 teaspoons Satori
½ cup packed brown sugar
2 tablespoons fat-free yoga
1 peeled haiku
3 cups self abandonment
Showing posts with label Religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Religion. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2011
FICTION - The Problem of Evil & The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream
Introduction
The philosophical problem of evil has been and continues to be a topic of fierce debate among theists and atheists. Put simply, many people think the existence of moral evil, human suffering and all things French constitutes good reason to reject belief in an all-loving God. That is, if an all-powerful and all-loving God existed there would be no evil. And since evil exists, it is reasonable to believe that there is no God, and for the dyslexic atheist, no dog.
Prodigious works of literature like Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov stand as timeless statements of the problem of evil and human suffering, as is the case with most thousand page Russian novels. In Albert Camus’ seminal work The Plague, a man must decide between chocolate or vanilla ice cream, which is seen as both a metaphor for racism and belief in God.
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream can be understood as the following four propositions:
(a) God exists,
(b) If God exists, an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good being exists,
(c) Human suffering, i.e. ice cream dripping on my shoe exists,
(d) An omnipotent, omniscient, and wholly good being would eliminate all ice cream dripping on my shoe,
Therefore, God does not exist.
The evidential argument from evil still proves a viable criticism of belief in God, and can also be understood in the following way: I have an ice cream cone. It begins to melt after only a few minutes and drips on my shoe. If God were all-loving then God would want me to be able to eat my ice cream cone without it melting on my shoe. If God were all-powerful then God could prevent ice cream from melting on my shoe. However, since ice cream does in fact melt on my shoe, it is logical to infer that an all-loving, all-powerful God does not exist.
Theism and Theodicy
Some theists have attempted to construct a viable theodicy in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. The lactose intolerant Oxford don, Sir Richard Simoes has formulated a version of the classical free-will defense. Human freedom, Simoes maintains, makes possible the choice to eat, or refrain from eating ice cream. Or, “because cones are not logically predicated by ice cream,” one can choose to eat from a bowl and thus prevent dripping. Thus, by creating human freedom God has facilitated eating ice cream without danger of dripping.
However, the noted cookies n cream enthusiast & scholar, Shodd Twilligear, thinks this argument arbitrarily privileges the good of free will over the good of eating ice cream, especially from a cone. And while Twilligear concedes that ice cream is not logically predicated by the existence of a cone, the existence of cones and the human preference for cones is nonetheless evidence of “double modality, that is, cones are possible but not necessarily necessary.”
In another attempt at theodicy, the theistic philosopher and author of Neapolitan as Trinity, Dr. Daniel Reiter offered his now famous ‘Sundae Building Theodicy’. This argument maintains that the human suffering entailed by dripping ice cream will motivate human agents to build a perfect, frozen dairy treat which he compares to a ‘sundae’. Reiter posits the ‘sundae’ as the perfect development of the frozen, dairy treat, free from dripping. “The cone can be placed on top of the ice cream, like a hat, thus preventing any dripping on the shoes.” Reiter, a crypto-Universalist, has received criticism from evangelicals for his insistence that the ‘perfect sundae’ would not only necessarily entail an infinite number of toppings, but spoons enough for everyone.
The eminent Christian apologist and Anglican scholar Jessica Talamantez, has posited her controversial “sherbet theodicy” in which she argues that the development of metaphysical categories such as sherbet and yogurt have made the evidential argument from ice cream outdated. In order to facilitate meaningful dialogue, Talamantez argues that another version of the evidential argument from ice cream utilizing these “non-dairy alternatives [will] provide a more precise examination of flavorful options.”
Conclusion
I conclude that theism has failed in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. In each case theism has failed to take into account the pointless evil and gratuitous suffering caused by ice cream dripping on my shoe. The existence of ice cream dripping on my shoe is reason enough to reject belief in God, and thus the evidential argument from ice cream is a valid criticism of theism.
Selected Bibliography:Simoes R. 'The Homogenization of Human Free Will',
Oxford Univ. Press,1996
Twilligear, S. 'Modality and the Question of Possible Cones', IVP,1999
Reiter, D. 'Sundae Building Theodicy & the God of Love' Abingdon Press, 2002
Talamantez, J. 'Some Varietes of Frozen Theodicy' Yale Univ. Press, 2005
The philosophical problem of evil has been and continues to be a topic of fierce debate among theists and atheists. Put simply, many people think the existence of moral evil, human suffering and all things French constitutes good reason to reject belief in an all-loving God. That is, if an all-powerful and all-loving God existed there would be no evil. And since evil exists, it is reasonable to believe that there is no God, and for the dyslexic atheist, no dog.
Prodigious works of literature like Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov stand as timeless statements of the problem of evil and human suffering, as is the case with most thousand page Russian novels. In Albert Camus’ seminal work The Plague, a man must decide between chocolate or vanilla ice cream, which is seen as both a metaphor for racism and belief in God.
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream
The Evidential Argument from Ice Cream can be understood as the following four propositions:
(a) God exists,
(b) If God exists, an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good being exists,
(c) Human suffering, i.e. ice cream dripping on my shoe exists,
(d) An omnipotent, omniscient, and wholly good being would eliminate all ice cream dripping on my shoe,
Therefore, God does not exist.
The evidential argument from evil still proves a viable criticism of belief in God, and can also be understood in the following way: I have an ice cream cone. It begins to melt after only a few minutes and drips on my shoe. If God were all-loving then God would want me to be able to eat my ice cream cone without it melting on my shoe. If God were all-powerful then God could prevent ice cream from melting on my shoe. However, since ice cream does in fact melt on my shoe, it is logical to infer that an all-loving, all-powerful God does not exist.
Theism and Theodicy
Some theists have attempted to construct a viable theodicy in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. The lactose intolerant Oxford don, Sir Richard Simoes has formulated a version of the classical free-will defense. Human freedom, Simoes maintains, makes possible the choice to eat, or refrain from eating ice cream. Or, “because cones are not logically predicated by ice cream,” one can choose to eat from a bowl and thus prevent dripping. Thus, by creating human freedom God has facilitated eating ice cream without danger of dripping.
However, the noted cookies n cream enthusiast & scholar, Shodd Twilligear, thinks this argument arbitrarily privileges the good of free will over the good of eating ice cream, especially from a cone. And while Twilligear concedes that ice cream is not logically predicated by the existence of a cone, the existence of cones and the human preference for cones is nonetheless evidence of “double modality, that is, cones are possible but not necessarily necessary.”
In another attempt at theodicy, the theistic philosopher and author of Neapolitan as Trinity, Dr. Daniel Reiter offered his now famous ‘Sundae Building Theodicy’. This argument maintains that the human suffering entailed by dripping ice cream will motivate human agents to build a perfect, frozen dairy treat which he compares to a ‘sundae’. Reiter posits the ‘sundae’ as the perfect development of the frozen, dairy treat, free from dripping. “The cone can be placed on top of the ice cream, like a hat, thus preventing any dripping on the shoes.” Reiter, a crypto-Universalist, has received criticism from evangelicals for his insistence that the ‘perfect sundae’ would not only necessarily entail an infinite number of toppings, but spoons enough for everyone.
The eminent Christian apologist and Anglican scholar Jessica Talamantez, has posited her controversial “sherbet theodicy” in which she argues that the development of metaphysical categories such as sherbet and yogurt have made the evidential argument from ice cream outdated. In order to facilitate meaningful dialogue, Talamantez argues that another version of the evidential argument from ice cream utilizing these “non-dairy alternatives [will] provide a more precise examination of flavorful options.”
Conclusion
I conclude that theism has failed in response to the evidential argument from ice cream. In each case theism has failed to take into account the pointless evil and gratuitous suffering caused by ice cream dripping on my shoe. The existence of ice cream dripping on my shoe is reason enough to reject belief in God, and thus the evidential argument from ice cream is a valid criticism of theism.
Selected Bibliography:Simoes R. 'The Homogenization of Human Free Will',
Oxford Univ. Press,1996
Twilligear, S. 'Modality and the Question of Possible Cones', IVP,1999
Reiter, D. 'Sundae Building Theodicy & the God of Love' Abingdon Press, 2002
Talamantez, J. 'Some Varietes of Frozen Theodicy' Yale Univ. Press, 2005
FICTION - excerpt from "Messianic Memoirs"
originally published in THE RECTANGLE,
The Literary Arts Journal of Sigma Tau Delta
International English Honors Society, 2006
A Long Island woman, shortly after dying of a heart attack while preparing smoked salmon for her husband of twenty-two years, told me about this. While shopping once in a religious bookstore (for the record I never go in those places, it’s like a hall of mirrors on Coney Island, only creepier) she spotted a figurine of a bearded man in a robe and sandals. When asked who the figurine was supposed to be, the old spinster who owned the shop smiled and said, “It can be Moses, or Abraham or Jesus or whoever you want it to be.” This basically sums up the root of my problem.
The world over, for nearly two millennia, I have appeared in the most peculiar places, inspiring something like a sacred chronicle of Elvis sightings. My face has appeared on everything (though I’m still anticipating the cover of GQ) from a mysterious burial shroud to a homemade tortilla. Coincidentally, I once saw the face of Sir John Gielgud in a Caesar salad; as I raised my fork he whispered, “et tu?” Anyway, I often wonder how people, who have never seen me before, recognize my face and know it’s me. How do they know it’s not the incorporeal apparition of Dick Clark, another face that seems to persist through the ages? My answer is they cannot. Let me explain.
First off, Roman law forbade the use of flash photography or audio and video equipment at crucifixions. Today, if elderly men in suits can enjoin tourists at the MOMA to obey a similar law; imagine how successful a detachment of armored centurions were? Since you’re probably wondering, the reasoning behind that law was Rome’s attempt to safeguard the method of their uniquely brutal means of execution until it could be copyrighted and subsequently sold to other bloodthirsty nations and Hollywood. Marketing, where the real money from the Roman Empire was made!
Anyhow, without describing the gory details (I’m still a fan of non-violence though I do enjoy the Three Stooges) my death went off without a hitch (historical addendum: hitches were added to the crucifixion process sometime in the 2nd century to prolong death and thus increase sales at the snack bar). So, because Ken Burns’ brilliant career was still centuries away, not only were my chances at an Oscar nomination ruined but the lofty responsibility of preserving the crucifixion narrative was left to slightly less reliable, documentary sources: the personal testimonies of my disciples.
Now everyone knows that the best storytellers are people who exaggerate (you should hear Moses after a few martinis; the Red Sea is the Atlantic by the time he gets done) but to make matters worse, the majority of my disciples were fishermen, and you know what that means. Let’s just say that when I found them they were loitering on Bethsaida Beach, ogling the lifeguards and bragging about the one that got away. For Judas, the one that got away was this shicksa shepherdess, whom we later learned had been sleeping with a Samarian soothsayer who saw the whole betrayal at Gethsemane incident before it happened. Incidentally, I heard they married, abandoned their respective sheep and sooths and eventually broke into televangelism.
So before the good news of the Gospel could be spread throughout Judea and all the regions hereafter (I like to throw in an occasional ‘hereafter’ or ‘verily I say unto you’ for dramatic effect) I had to round up my frenzied disciples who had spent the three days after my crucifixion trying to get their old jobs back and preaching the bad news that I had died and they had made a dreadful mistake. Imagine having to explain that to your friends and makhetunim? Needless to say my post-tomb appearance allayed their fears and doubts; except for Thomas who demanded to feel my nail-pierced hands and wounded side, as well as see some positive photo id and proof of insurance. Thankfully, Joseph of Arimathea still had my driver’s license, student id and Jerusalem Public Library card. I did let him keep my cup though, which I think he later pawned when his monogramming business went under.
Don’t get me wrong; my disciples were a great group of guys as healing, preaching and drinking buddies go. I don’t think I have to tell you that when thirteen guys get together and one of them can change water into wine, you can get pretty shickered up. Still, for all their skill in casting out demons and dividing bread and fish, there wasn’t an Edward Gibbon or Huston Smith among them. I must confess, sometimes the Gospels read like John Cage wrote them.
Despite my disciples’ literary handicaps and other minor obstacles (the Dark Ages for example) the tales and parables of my life, death and ascension into heaven (I actually walked backwards up a hill in the fog) spread throughout the land that would be known as Christendom. I suggested naming it Christ World, with plans for a Euro-Christ World in Paris but (oy vay!), when I gave Peter the keys to the kingdom and popes began speaking ex cathedra, everyone stopped listening to me.
So by the advent of DaVinci’s, The Last Supper, which unfortunately omitted our grass skirts, leis and coconut drinks, the world had accepted a certain likeness of me that still appears on candles, t-shirts and statues today. And speaking of statues, I’ve never figured out why mine don’t look like Michelangelo’s, David. Granted, I only went to the gym twice a week, never on the Sabbath, but overturning the tables of moneychangers in the temple can be quite a workout. As for David, I hate to burst everyone’s bubble but he was a scrawny shepherd boy from the wrong side of the pasture, not ugly, but about as close to the Olympean ideal as Woody Allen.
If a certain wall-eyed, French existential philosopher were here he might conclude that no finite point has any meaning without an infinite reference point; which is to say, in carpenter’s terms, that people who claim to see me without any reference point by which to recognize me, are full of… well let’s just say something besides the Holy Spirit.
When considering my iconographic dilemma, too often I relate to Jimmy Buffet’s song,
I Heard I was in Town. Since my resurrection I’ve been continuously astounded to discover the people to whom I’ve spoken, denominations I represent, books I’ve coauthored, cults I’ve established, napkins I’ve blessed, not to mention the countless shrines, stadiums and personal computers where I’ve made appearances. And the real downside to all this is appearing without getting paid, not even a handful of denarii (and I still play to sold-out shows, which is quite an accomplishment when you consider the generation gap). When I tell my mother it’s not easy being the Messiah, always offering mercy and forgiveness to everyone, she says, “From that you make a living?”
I suppose when it all comes out in the wash, the important thing is that a Long Island woman wanted to buy a statue of me. Whether it looked like me or not, religious faith can be a beautiful gesture that distinguishes man from beast; just remember that misrepresentation and slander is something even snakes and rats frown upon.
The Literary Arts Journal of Sigma Tau Delta
International English Honors Society, 2006
A Long Island woman, shortly after dying of a heart attack while preparing smoked salmon for her husband of twenty-two years, told me about this. While shopping once in a religious bookstore (for the record I never go in those places, it’s like a hall of mirrors on Coney Island, only creepier) she spotted a figurine of a bearded man in a robe and sandals. When asked who the figurine was supposed to be, the old spinster who owned the shop smiled and said, “It can be Moses, or Abraham or Jesus or whoever you want it to be.” This basically sums up the root of my problem.
The world over, for nearly two millennia, I have appeared in the most peculiar places, inspiring something like a sacred chronicle of Elvis sightings. My face has appeared on everything (though I’m still anticipating the cover of GQ) from a mysterious burial shroud to a homemade tortilla. Coincidentally, I once saw the face of Sir John Gielgud in a Caesar salad; as I raised my fork he whispered, “et tu?” Anyway, I often wonder how people, who have never seen me before, recognize my face and know it’s me. How do they know it’s not the incorporeal apparition of Dick Clark, another face that seems to persist through the ages? My answer is they cannot. Let me explain.
First off, Roman law forbade the use of flash photography or audio and video equipment at crucifixions. Today, if elderly men in suits can enjoin tourists at the MOMA to obey a similar law; imagine how successful a detachment of armored centurions were? Since you’re probably wondering, the reasoning behind that law was Rome’s attempt to safeguard the method of their uniquely brutal means of execution until it could be copyrighted and subsequently sold to other bloodthirsty nations and Hollywood. Marketing, where the real money from the Roman Empire was made!
Anyhow, without describing the gory details (I’m still a fan of non-violence though I do enjoy the Three Stooges) my death went off without a hitch (historical addendum: hitches were added to the crucifixion process sometime in the 2nd century to prolong death and thus increase sales at the snack bar). So, because Ken Burns’ brilliant career was still centuries away, not only were my chances at an Oscar nomination ruined but the lofty responsibility of preserving the crucifixion narrative was left to slightly less reliable, documentary sources: the personal testimonies of my disciples.
Now everyone knows that the best storytellers are people who exaggerate (you should hear Moses after a few martinis; the Red Sea is the Atlantic by the time he gets done) but to make matters worse, the majority of my disciples were fishermen, and you know what that means. Let’s just say that when I found them they were loitering on Bethsaida Beach, ogling the lifeguards and bragging about the one that got away. For Judas, the one that got away was this shicksa shepherdess, whom we later learned had been sleeping with a Samarian soothsayer who saw the whole betrayal at Gethsemane incident before it happened. Incidentally, I heard they married, abandoned their respective sheep and sooths and eventually broke into televangelism.
So before the good news of the Gospel could be spread throughout Judea and all the regions hereafter (I like to throw in an occasional ‘hereafter’ or ‘verily I say unto you’ for dramatic effect) I had to round up my frenzied disciples who had spent the three days after my crucifixion trying to get their old jobs back and preaching the bad news that I had died and they had made a dreadful mistake. Imagine having to explain that to your friends and makhetunim? Needless to say my post-tomb appearance allayed their fears and doubts; except for Thomas who demanded to feel my nail-pierced hands and wounded side, as well as see some positive photo id and proof of insurance. Thankfully, Joseph of Arimathea still had my driver’s license, student id and Jerusalem Public Library card. I did let him keep my cup though, which I think he later pawned when his monogramming business went under.
Don’t get me wrong; my disciples were a great group of guys as healing, preaching and drinking buddies go. I don’t think I have to tell you that when thirteen guys get together and one of them can change water into wine, you can get pretty shickered up. Still, for all their skill in casting out demons and dividing bread and fish, there wasn’t an Edward Gibbon or Huston Smith among them. I must confess, sometimes the Gospels read like John Cage wrote them.
Despite my disciples’ literary handicaps and other minor obstacles (the Dark Ages for example) the tales and parables of my life, death and ascension into heaven (I actually walked backwards up a hill in the fog) spread throughout the land that would be known as Christendom. I suggested naming it Christ World, with plans for a Euro-Christ World in Paris but (oy vay!), when I gave Peter the keys to the kingdom and popes began speaking ex cathedra, everyone stopped listening to me.
So by the advent of DaVinci’s, The Last Supper, which unfortunately omitted our grass skirts, leis and coconut drinks, the world had accepted a certain likeness of me that still appears on candles, t-shirts and statues today. And speaking of statues, I’ve never figured out why mine don’t look like Michelangelo’s, David. Granted, I only went to the gym twice a week, never on the Sabbath, but overturning the tables of moneychangers in the temple can be quite a workout. As for David, I hate to burst everyone’s bubble but he was a scrawny shepherd boy from the wrong side of the pasture, not ugly, but about as close to the Olympean ideal as Woody Allen.
If a certain wall-eyed, French existential philosopher were here he might conclude that no finite point has any meaning without an infinite reference point; which is to say, in carpenter’s terms, that people who claim to see me without any reference point by which to recognize me, are full of… well let’s just say something besides the Holy Spirit.
When considering my iconographic dilemma, too often I relate to Jimmy Buffet’s song,
I Heard I was in Town. Since my resurrection I’ve been continuously astounded to discover the people to whom I’ve spoken, denominations I represent, books I’ve coauthored, cults I’ve established, napkins I’ve blessed, not to mention the countless shrines, stadiums and personal computers where I’ve made appearances. And the real downside to all this is appearing without getting paid, not even a handful of denarii (and I still play to sold-out shows, which is quite an accomplishment when you consider the generation gap). When I tell my mother it’s not easy being the Messiah, always offering mercy and forgiveness to everyone, she says, “From that you make a living?”
I suppose when it all comes out in the wash, the important thing is that a Long Island woman wanted to buy a statue of me. Whether it looked like me or not, religious faith can be a beautiful gesture that distinguishes man from beast; just remember that misrepresentation and slander is something even snakes and rats frown upon.
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