Winter Skies

Under winter skies I saw her, her scarf waving in the breeze.

Snowflakes dancing on her cheeks, she smiled and whispered to me:

“I have come for you. I have carried you through childhood.”

My tears are frozen now; my body is at rest.

A warm feeling comes over me, though the sun now sets.

“I have come for you. I have carried you into old age.”

She brought me flowers in the springtime, in all the colors of the rainbow.

She brought me fruit in the summertime, so tenderly from the vine.

She brought me solace in the autumn, never shaken like the leaves.

And now she brings me peace.

Stretched out in the ruby-red snow,

I gaze towards the sky

And trace the clouds with my finger.

As she sings sweetly, in her bosom I fall asleep.

The Hand You're Dealt

Life is either not fair, pure and simple, or it’s what you make of it, come what may. I don’t mean to complain. I try to count my blessings. Every once in a while, however, I think about my lot in life. True, the bigger questions about meaning and purpose usually preoccupy my contemplative life. How did all of this get here? Why are we here? Is there something beyond the material realm? Yet I also think about my social and economic status from time to time. An introspective moment in the latter sense  came to me again this past weekend when I was fulfilling my Army drill duty at Fort Elroy.

I assisted my platoon sergeant in a land navigation exercise out in the vast woods south of the installation. We would instruct soldiers in the basics of identifying terrain features, finding coordinates on a map, and using a compass. I might not have a clue in life, and I can get lost in the urban jungle; but I’m good at land navigation. Give me a compass, throw me into a forest, and I’m G to G. It’s a dying skill, however, what with GPS and other technologies. I’m told that the military doesn’t include instruction on it in basic training anymore. Anyway, many of the soldiers last Saturday had a tough time locating the three coordinates that we required them to find. The way it works is that each soldier (and later we had them go out in pairs) uses the coordinates and distances he or she already plotted on the map in order to find yellow wooden posts. Each post has a number on it. The soldier would write this number down to prove he or she indeed found the coordinate. Sometimes soldiers would get lost or just take too long to find their points.  Concerned about their safety on a humd day, we would take the Humvees out to look for them along the perimeter roads.

Okay, the foregoing paragraphs were gratuitous set-up for what I really wanted to write! One of the soldiers whom I’ll call Private Snuffy volunteered to search for lost soldiers with his own vehicle. Hours later we hadn’t heard from him and had to send out a search party for the search party! Private Snuffy, who I happen to know works for a rail company, is a rotund man in his mid to late twenties; frankly, he shouldn’t be in the military because of his weight alone. More to the point, he’s not the brightest apple in the bushel. At the risk of sounding insensitive, I suspect he was a special ed student back in school. He’s not just dense in the head; he also has a way of getting under your skin. He invades people’s body space and stares at you with creepy eyes. Anyway, it turns out he got his brand new, red Suburban with an exhaust pipe as big as a cannon stuck in a place he shouldn’t have been driving it in the first place. I would think twice driving even a Humvee through the thickets and heavy brush, but he had no such compunction.

Once we spotted him, we took two Humvees out recover his vehicle. My platoon sergeant hitched up the truck to pull it out as the rest of us stood by in amazement at Private Snuffy. He wasn’t even apologetic; rather, perhaps in an effort to deal with the scoffing and our dumbfounded expressions, he was putting on a macho front. “Yeah, it don’t matter to me. It’s just a truck.” It took some effort but we got the vehicle out. Lucky for Private Snuffy! He could have had a situation on his hands for the rest of the weekend.

Now, here’s my thought-process during all of this. Private Snuffy apparently has all the money in the world. Granted, I don’t have a passion for rail, but he nonetheless has a great job. (I know about his job because I first met him in April when I was in California for Annual Training. At the time he was boasting about having provided soldiers with safety vests from his company.) And maybe there’s something I don’t know, like his father being the owner of the company or him getting some kind of disability benefit for life.

Nonetheless, I looked at this fat, lazy, insensitive dumbass lacking social skills as he sat in his nice big truck. (A sergeant informed me that Private Snuffy once owned an even larger vehicle but that he probably got rid of it because he was getting fatter and it became more difficult to climb up into it.)  Then I turned introspective. I have higher degrees, presumably a modicum of intelligence, an awareness of the world beyond myself, and sensitivity toward the perceptions and needs of others. So I should be living in a castle in comparison to this guy, right? Nope, it doesn’t work that way. Life deals you your hand and you make the best of it. I don’t begrudge Private Snuffy for his prosperity and insouciance. Moreover, it’s not like I dwell on my lot in life all the time. I can’t help but ask, though, why my life couldn’t have turned out slightly better than it did, you know?

I learned over many years of disappointment and dashed expectations to get excited over scraps from the table.  Going up against hard reality, my objectives gradually diminished in scope.  I had set out to land a tenure-track position as a university professor and applied diligently for over a decade.  I had publications, a great teaching record, and involement in academic conferences.  Nowadays I'd be happy to teach as a part-time adjunct.  Before you sanguine types and optimists beat me to the punch, let me acknowledge again that I count my blessings. I have my health, wonderful children, a home, sources of income, and I have time to write blogs about my discontent in life. What more could I ask?  Well, a castle for starters.

Where Have All the Bleeding Heart Liberals Gone?

Writing about our military commitments in Iraq and Afghanistan in the previous blog reminded me of an observation I've made over this past year and I want to get your take on it. I don’t know what percentage of the American population have soured on the war in Afghanistan. I’ve heard different pundits cite different polls. Here’s the thing. Generally speaking, people left of center would have us get out of Afghanistan as soon as possible. (True, now that a Democratic president is directing the war less Democrats advocate a withdrawal than before. The cover of Time magazine, a liberal publication, recently pictured an Afghan girl with her ears and nose cut off and a caption that reads: “What happens if we leave Afghanistan.”)  Fair enough. If it’s ultimately a losing fight, why shouldn’t we? First of all, if you were to look up the word corruption in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Hamid Karzai and his government. Why do we want to support a regime that has no clout among the people? Been there, done that. Besides, how many more American soldiers are we willing to sacrifice? And what progress have we made in the last nine years?  Poppy cultivation and the drug trade seem to be as strong as ever.  Finally, what makes us think that we can turn around a medieval culture any more than the Brits or Soviets? Keep in mind that the Soviet Union had half a million troops in the country at one point and didn’t tie their soldiers' hands with rules of engagement.

As you can see, I find validity in the turn-tail-and-run option, even if I view of the oft-cited comparisons to Vietnam superficial and polemical. What I don’t get, however, is how readily liberals and progressives dismiss or ignore the consequences of a pull-out. Once the U.S. and NATO forces leave, the Taliban, an odious totalitarian organization dreaded by the majority of the Afghan people, will initiate a program of retribution so heinous that it will make their earlier time in power look like child’s play. First, they’ll rape the women, stone them in the soccer stadium, and ban the rest from any form of education.  Heads will roll.  They'll force all men to grow beards and make an example of any "collaborators" with the West.  All I ask is that liberals and progressives—self-proclaimed advocates of women’s rights and democracy—acknowledge these consequences. They rightfully ask conservatives to weight the consequences of their actions by asking the question: How many men and women in the American uniform are you willing to send to their death? That’s a legitimate question.  Likewise, a liberal should consider this question: All things considered, are you okay with the rape, murder and oppression of the Afghan people?

Why do they overlook the consequences of a U.S. withdrawal? I suspect a number of reasons. Some of them are legitimate, such as the concerns I’ve stated in the first paragraph. Others see the conflict in Afghanistan as Bush’s War, and they hate Bush. Then there are those, both on the near left and far left, who would oppose any war, or so they claim. Purist pacifists are hypocrites at best, for they often oppose only wars when it suits their partisan outlook. Pacifists are also parasites—loathsome creatures who would thrive in the peace and freedom established by the sacrifices of others. As science fiction writer Robert Heinlein once wrote: "Pacifism is a shifty doctrine under which a man accepts the benefits of the social group without being willing to pay—and claims a halo for his dishonesty."  Above all, those who want us to leave Afghanistan are not unlike their conservative opponents in one respect: they want us to take care of Americans first and foremost. Looking out for our own is rooted in our evolutionary psychology and, apart from Jesus’s injunction to love one’s enemies, in the Bible as well.

Don’t misunderstand me, dear reader. I’m not saying we should stay in Afghanistan indefinitely. We all know why we went there in the first place: to deprive Al-Qaeda a base of operations and thereby avoid another 911. Having said this, our military presence in Afghanistan brings to mind a number of issues that I’ve written about elsewhere. Are we the policeman of the world? Mass rape and genocide occur seemingly non-stop throughout the world. How can we stamp out this evil? Why are we so worked up about the Taliban when Kim Jong Il, the Mullocracy of Iran, and Robert Mugabe, to name only a few culprits, have people tortured and killed every day?

I suppose I find myself in the camp of those who think we should be in Afghanistan but that our government has not conducted the war in both Afghanistan and Iraq as it should. That is, when we fight a war we should have as much of the American public involved as possible. Only a few hundred thousand have made sacrifices: the military and their families. The rest of us have not had to fight or pay an extra war tax. Also, I’m highly critical of our use of contractors, which outnumber our troops, from the mercenary soldiers a la Black Water to those who do the cooking and laundry. What a soldier does for $30,000, a contractor does for $150,000 or more. It’s disgusting and corrosive to our military. But the bigger problem, again, is that we aren’t fighting this war as a nation.

So why should we maintain the fight?  My only point is this: Before you so readily argue for a U.S. withdrawal, think about the consequences. Think about the Afghan people, especially the women and girls. Be mindful of what it is you’re asking. 

I'm Going to Jackson

Fort Jackson, that is! In a few weeks I'll be driving down to South Carolina for BOLC—the Army’s Basic Officer Leadership Course. It's about time. I got pinned as a second lieutenant on 7 September 2008, nearly two years ago. Upon joining the Army I had planned to become an NCO; once I made sergeant, however, I decided to pursue a direct commission. Enlisted and officers alike had advised me in this direction given my education, bearing, and age. (Broadly speaking, NCOs handle operations and commissioned officers are involved in planning.) It's a good fit so far, but I've had to wait too long to attend officer school. I didn’t know it would take this long, what with the Army allegedly hurting for officers.

The training will last for three months; I’ll be home by Thanksgiving. I’ve trained in humid summer weather before, so spending the autumn months at Fort Jackson should be a better situation for me. Moreover, I’m in good physical shape presently and unlike five-plus years ago when I went to basic training as an enlisted soldier I had little knowledge of Army culture and jargon. I generally don’t like surprises. What will I be doing there? The Army just restructured BOLC, but I think I’ll still be training in military tactics. A great emphasis, I should think, will be physical fitness; in fact, I’m already scheduled for the initial APFT (Army Physical Fitness Test) for September 2. For the most part, though, I’ll receive classroom instruction. As an enlisted soldier I was an intelligence analyst. I wanted to go into intelligence as an officer as well, but I wouldn’t have received a bonus if I did. For this reason I opted to go into a different branch of the Army: Adjutant General, which is basically administration. I suspect I’ll cross over into a different branch—intelligence, engineering or transportation—once I’ve received my bonus pay.  AG training will give me a good grounding in the duties that all officers should know.

People often ask me whether the Army will deploy me overseas upon my completion of school. I have no clue. In accordance with the Bush administration’s policy, President Obama promised to reduce troops in Iraq to 50,000 by the end of this month. Supposedly a complete withdrawal of our forces will occur this time next year. As far as Afghanistan goes, the war against Al-Qaeda and the Taliban will be a long drawn-out fight for some years to come. Eventually, the U.S. and NATO will do what the Taliban are waiting for us to do: leave. Until that fateful day comes, I don’t think we’ll increase troop strength there, for good or ill. Our greater interest is in Iraq in terms of geostrategic importance and the prospect for ultimate success. If and when we pull out of Iraq, though, the chances of Shiite and Sunni militia going at each other full throttle again, as they did back in 2006, are high, and we shouldn’t rule out another Iraq-Iran war on the dark horizon. Sending troops back to Iraq someday is not out of the question, as far as I see it. Incidentally, if we’re still in Germany and Japan almost seventy years after World War II, and given the huge embassy we’ve built in Baghdad, we are not leaving Iraq. If you think we are, you’re sorely misguided. I’ve got about 15 years military service left in me. I will neither shrink from deployment nor chomp at the bit for it. If I have to go, so be it. That’s in the job description.

I hope to spend some time with my family before I go to South Carolina, but these next couple of weeks will be fairly busy for my wife and kids as they prepare for school. Monika will be trying out for tennis and soccer. Jessi will be starting swimming soon. Meanwhile I have a number of issues to take care of before I leave. And that’s your latest Der Viator update!

Family Portrait (8/12)

I checked my watch: 7:53 pm. It had been dark for over an hour. Despite the glare of the parking lot lights, I could spot the Big Dipper, but for the life of me I couldn’t locate the Little Dipper. The moon, almost full, had a bluish tint. The pungent scent of prairie grass, borne aloft by a mild breeze, infiltrated my nostrils.

As Peterson drove into the mall entrance and toward me I must have looked like a strange statue amid a dark sea of asphalt. I stood in an area relatively free of vehicles, but not too far from the mall. His headlights jerked me out of my contemplative mode and into the sanguine person I needed to be for the moment.

As I scooted into the passenger seat, I kept babbling on about the weather, the area, and my critique of the coffee industry. My intention was to deflect his thoughts from the awkwardness of meeting in a parking lot at night. He didn’t waste time in talking business.

“So you’re interested in Northgate as a location for your coffee shop?” Peterson was referring to an indoor mall on the far western area of the city, land currently under development. His secretary mentioned on the phone that Northgate was their big account, so I casually brought it up in a phone call conversation knowing it would pique Peterson's interest in me all the more.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a coffee shop. I envision much more than that. Can I call you Chad?”

“Please do, Brad. Brad Stevens, right?” He looked at my business card and then at me.

“Yes. Chad and Brad.” I chuckled. He smiled in response to the rhyme, but little did he know I was also laughing about something I had thought about an hour earlier. I’m going to knock him off with a date-rape drug, but the only date he’ll have is with my screwdriver. I couldn’t tell you why it makes me smile so much.

I insisted in this jovial spirit that we clinch any future business relationship with a toast. I poured him our flagship blend, Java Jack, from a thermos I had carried in a daypack, but it was nothing more than coffee I had bought from an Exxon food mart down the street from the mall. I had “slipped a mickey” into his cup as he was pulling up, quite a few “mickies” in fact. (If he weren’t a coffee-drinker, I had soda and tea as back-ups.)

Earlier in the day I visited websites of various coffee distributors and retailers to glean useful facts. I have no clue about coffee; you won't get me to drink that stuff. I enjoy the challenge of coming across authoritative on a topic I know nothing about.

“Do try some, won’t you? Java Jack is a bit bold. And don’t worry, it’s decaffeinated. I know it’s late.”

“No, no. That’s fine. I’d drink regular coffee at practically any time of the day. I was a coffee fiend back in the day.”

“Is that right?”

“You bet.”

“Staying up all night to write those college term papers, I can imagine!”

“Something like that.”

When Peterson took a sip he made a face, so brief and slight, that only I, knowing that the cup contained Rohypnol, could catch it. He immediately pretended to enjoy it. “Not bad.” He nodded his head in slow, measured approval.  I had read him like a book.  He doesn't have to believe in a product; he just has to make his money.  Business is business. “A bit acidic, no?”

I drank from a coffee tumbler full of water as if it were hot coffee. “Yes, perhaps even bitter, but that’s just one of our flavors,” I reassured him. “Please try some more, it’ll grow on you—I promise.”

He sampled Java Jack with a few more slurps before reaching greedily into his breast pocket to pull out a packet of Marlboros. “Do you smoke, Brad?”

“No,” I responded, with a sigh in my voice as if to make it clear I wouldn’t appreciate cigarette smoke.

“Just thought I’d offer.” He placed the pack back in his pocket. “Nasty habit,” he added.

“So,” I asked, “do you know much about selling and promoting coffee products?”

“Most fortunately we don’t and I mean that sincerely. What I mean is that we have some core ideas that we believe in, ideas that will give your product an edge over any competitor. You want to think outside the box and get a fresh perspective.”

“Great! You know, my partners and I have been looking for someone to help us with the right look, something that matches our vision of….”

“Say no more! I’ve brought some information with me, though if you stop by the office…”

“You understand that our meeting here, well, what was supposed to be my office, is just a preliminary…”

“Of course. Where do you buy your beans?” Peterson took another swig, bless his heart. “How do you brew your coffee? Do you have a facility?”

I forgot what I told him, but I was clearly lying through my teeth. This part of the plan was really adlib, but I didn’t have long to wait. Fortunately he becoming drowsy quicker than I thought he would. To keep him drinking more than yapping, I described my business while rummaging through fake documents in a satchel I brought with me.

“Good?”

“Yes, it’s…I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know why I’m so tired.” He reached for his cigarettes with some determination, not troubling himself with my assent this time.

“That’s okay.” Peterson looked into the cup. “What do you think, Mr. Peterson? Excuse me, I mean Chad. Would you like some more?” He didn’t respond. At the moment I said these words two things seemed to have happened. He recognized me from before and, just like in the movies, he suspected he had been drugged.

“Hey! You’re that photographer! What did you to do?” Unlike the big screen, though, he started to vomit, an adverse effect from the drugs. Believe me, I wasn’t shy on dosage. As he started to twist his torso in my direction, as if to put up a struggle, I took the cup out of his hand (which immediately became limp) and told him everything’s fine.  I placed it back in my bag, as I didn’t want anything with fingerprints left behind.

“You know,” I said with a barely disguised grim, “I still think your eyes look like little gravestones.” With these words I reach over and pulled the key out of the ignition and pushed him over by the shoulder so that he’d slump away from me, careful as I was to keep his vomit off me. By this time I knew he was completely out of it. I admit that I took a risk in revealing myself before he passed out. He could have slammed his hands into the car horn.

Nobody was around, or so I thought. After as I moved him into the back seat and as I was adjusting the driver’s seat, I saw the flashing yellow lights of what appeared to be a police car at the other end of the parking lot and started to panic, but it turned out to be mall security going about its routine patrol. At this point the plan was in auto drive; I didn’t have to think about it.

After tossing his cell phone into a dumpster (plus three packs of cigarettes I found in the backseat), I exited the mall and headed to my studio. A crisp autumn evening along a dark, tree-lined road suits me fine and inevitably leads my thoughts pleasantly astray. I had a good hour’s drive, as the mall was just outside Mueller County. Sure enough, while I tried to focus on the business at hand, my thoughts drifted, and to an odd place too: Florida. I was rifling through the glove box of the vehicle as I drove, wearing gloves of course, and pulled out a brochure for Disney World.

I’ve always wanted to move to Florida, ever since I was a kid and my mom told me about the times she spent on the beach when she wasn’t working the clubs. I had an opportunity to move there about three years ago when I was seeing a woman named Cammie. I met her at Orange Beach when my divorce was not yet finalized and was considering the next phase of my life. She was from Pensacola, a fact you couldn’t mistake: a tattoo of five F/A 18 Hornets in diamond formation on the small of her back—the Blue Angels—said it all. Her dad had served as flight instructor at the Naval Air Station; my brief stint in the Navy was initially a plus for her, though I found myself on more than one occasion explaining to him that I received an honorable discharge for an accident during a training session. I still have the scar on my left temple, and as my hair recedes it becomes more visible.

I wasn’t attracted to Cammie, mind you, but she wanted to move to West Palm Beach to be closer to her mother; I figured the relationship would put me in a different direction, for a while at least. Things didn’t pan out with Cammie, however. She sort of vanished one day. I know what you’re thinking (and I must confess I led you there), but I had nothing to do with it.

My mom, on the other hand, would never go back to Florida; she’s set in her ways at 55, happy in the hellhole of Batesville, even after Russ’s death. It would be difficult to leave my mother behind. Plus something else holds me here and I don’t care to specify just yet what that is.

Peterson groaned loudly from the backseat, shaking me from my reverie. The Sunshine State evaporated from my mind. For the rest of the drive I was focused on the plan.

I pulled up my drive, lugged Peterson into the backroom of my studio, and bound him up with cords. I’ve never drugged a victim before and didn’t know what to expect. I wanted him to feel the pain of my screwdriver entering his head. I had taken the precaution of placing plastic sheeting on the floor and around my clothes. Blood was everywhere.

What surprised me was how long it took for someone to discover the body. I realized that Dr. Halleck would determine roughly the time of Peterson’s death. The extra hours wouldn’t necessarily change the nature of the investigation.

“Look at me!” I demanded. I wanted him to be conscious of his imminent death at my hands, but he never awoke from his drowsy state. I was sorely disappointed, for the original plan entailed his consciousness. Fortunately, the pain and agony he felt was no less acute; his groans immediately turned to shrieks.

I’m not exactly Jack the Ripper. I don’t have a steady surgeon’s hand, then again neither did Jack the Ripper, despite the traditional view of him. I should also add that I have no “signature” or MO, a fact that would make it difficult for law enforcement to link my “crimes,” should they become aware of them all. I kill each person in a different way not because I want to confuse the police, but because of the aforementioned “visions” that I get.

Naturally, as a photographer, I want to document their corpses and the manner in which I killed them. After I took photos of Peterson, I drove him to the alley next to T.K. Tavern, the “crime scene.” I had parked my car earlier about two miles away on the other side of a wooded area. I hustled back to my car and drive home. Tired from the festivities, I went on autopilot down the highway, that is, until a goddamn armadillo crossed my path and almost forced me into a ditch. Like I’ve said before, I never know how the “vision” is going to unfold during execution.

He had a hard face to match his dense head. I hurt my wrist as I stabbed him repeatedly. In recounting his death, I’ll try to be honest about my feelings. Killing these primates is an intimate act that brings me peace of mind, if only for a few moments; but it’s worth it and I feel absolutely no remorse. Why should I? I have a clear conscience; God and Darwin are my witnesses. Peterson will no longer look upon the world, I made sure of that. I don’t believe in a conventional hell, but if I did he could rot there for all I care.

One of the few things I am sure of in life is the rightness of my kills. True, I must conduct my activities in secret, but such measures do not make them any less moral. Any philosopher or social scientist worth his weight in gold will tell you that morality is a social construct. You probably disagree with my viewpoint, but if so, you’ll need to rethink your value system, not me.

Why am I killing, you might ask? Years ago I read a book about serial killers based on interviews that the author conducted in prisons throughout the States. Some of them said they enjoyed the power they exerted over the victim or, similarly, the exhilaration of the kill, the sense of being fully alive as they took another’s life. Sexual satisfaction often figures prominently. But most of them, if I remember, couldn’t explain origin of their strange desires and violent actions. They don’t know why they torture and kill.

I once heard a preacher describe meaning and purpose in terms of ultimate and penultimate causes. The context of his sermon was God and salvation, but he gave me terms to articulate my reasons for killing. I know why I kill, but each instance is different. Peterson’s eyes and neck led me down this path. Only God knows the ultimate cause. I’m a homo sapiens, simply thus. I think we’re all hardwired to commit violent acts; some just happen to be more honest and decisive about it.

And yet the question Why? persists. I imagine a curious soul asking why the sky is blue? We could educate ourselves and answer this question with scientific explanations. We could take the time to familiarize ourselves with these reasons and understand them completely. Even so, we still might ask the question: Yes, yes, I realize the scientific causes of a blue sky, but why blue? So my explanation as to why I kill is a penultimate explanation. I’ll perhaps never know the ultimate reason.

Perhaps you’re wondering why I have taken such painstaking effort in recording my thoughts and actions, above all my interaction with Sheriff K. Do I think my life merits such attention? No. I’m insignificant. But if something should happen to me, an accident of some kind, you will know the truth. You’ll learn that people aren’t what they appear to be.

You know something about me, but you still don’t know the full story. Why? In part because I’ve revealed to you only what I want to reveal. More importantly, I have a couple of secrets yet to divulge and, depending on the sheriff department’s investigation of the Peterson murder, I might keep them buried in my heart. Again, Peterson is a means to an end; his eyes and neck told me that he was the one. He would be the “sacrifice,” if you will. Now I’ll just sit back and wait for Sheriff K to figure out the “crime.”

Faith and Doubt: The Perennial Battle

This past week I read Victor Stenger’s The New Atheism: Taking a Stand for Science and Reason (2009). Stenger is an American physicist in his mid seventies. The book looked like it would survey the recent literature of the so-called New Atheists, so I thought it would be a splendid idea to use Stenger as my guide in reflecting on the related books I’ve read over the last few years as well as numerous lectures and debates I’ve watched on YouTube. I’m not writing a book review, mind you, nor will I give a chapter by chapter summary of the book’s contents; rather, I will bounce my ideas off of the book and select only those ideas and themes that interest me most.

Sam Harris sounded the clarion call with his book The End of Faith (2004).  Not long thereafter Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens and Daniel Dennett followed with a best-seller of their own devoted to the topic of atheism. Stenger, rather obnoxiously, likes to show his own contributions to what he calls a “movement” (though I could imagine Hitchens and Dawkins preferring a word like “trend” so as to preserve the idea that they’re all independently minded). It’s not a coincidence that these books follow 911. Harris is quite vocal about the impact of 911 on influencing him to write about religious fanaticism. I’m not entirely sure, though, what motivates these writers; it could in fact be a confluence of various concerns.

“New Atheism,” as opposed to old school atheism, is more “evangelistic” and strident. In Stenger's words: "The new atheists are committed to helping accelerate the trend away from religion that is already occurring in certain parts of the world."  I would also add that the aforementioned authors are not content with doubters settling into agnosticism much less letting believers remain in their belief undisturbed by the facts of science and reason. As Stenger points out, the late Harvard scientist Stephen Gould, himself an atheist, had separated the knowledge we can attain from science and religion into two "non-overlapping magisteria." The New Atheists are convinced that there is no such distinction. I can’t blame them. If they’re convinced that there is no God and no life after this one, that our body forevermore returns to the earth and we go into nonexistence with the expiration of our biological functions, then they have every right to proclaim the truth as they see it from the rooftops. Back in the day, Christians defended their missionary emphasis, what was called in the peculiar language of christianese “witnessing” or “sharing one’s testimony,” with the analogy of a burning house. If you saw a burning house, would you go in there and save whomever you could or would you just keep walking by and not intervene? If, and I do say if, believers have the salvation of souls from eternal damnation as their motivation, regardless of whatever religion they’re peddling, I can’t blame them for proselytizing. Problem is, it appears that more often than not missionary activity—and one thinks of 19-year-old Mormon boys knocking on doors—is about obligation and church growth (read: increasing the demographics to validate the faith) than a heartfelt concern for one’s spiritual destination.

First let me point out a few minor criticisms of The New Atheism. You’d think that the publisher, Prometheus Books, a bastion of atheist and agnostic sentiment, could afford more vigilant and able editors given the new interest in atheism and non-belief. The book is riddled with typos and poor phrasing. Secondly, I tire of Stenger tooting his own horn, always pointing out his original arguments and contributions to New Atheism; he constantly refers to his best-selling book God: The Failed Hypothesis (2007), and he’s not afraid to tell you it’s a best-seller. He obviously wants to place himself in the camp of the “Four Horsemen” (Dawkins, Harris, Hitchens, Dennett); I’m not saying his voice isn’t important, but he’s not near the writers these guys are. Thirdly, this book is largely derivative, at best rehashing theories the author has already worked out. He pads the book with a chapter, entitled “Holy Smoke,” with information entirely culled from Jon Krakauer’s excellent book on the Mormons, Under the Banner of Heaven. You might as well read the original book. Fourthly, I detect a political bias throughout the opening chapters, which is his right, but I find it annoying. I have a more substantive criticism, however, and I suppose it’s leveled at the New Atheists in general.

I still take issue with the notion that religion is the culprit for violence throughout the world and the concomitant claim that a world of atheists would be peaceful. I’ll pull a “Stenger” and refer to one of my previous writings, “Of Pulpits and Primates,” which discusses the former claim. Stenger’s example of Mormonism, specifically the Lafferty murders described originally by Krakauer, does make the case that religion can be the main, if not sole, source for killing. Dan Lafferty slit a baby’s throat convinced that it was God’s will—God’s will as revealed through a self-proclaimed prophet named Robert Crossfield.

Although Dawkins doesn’t say that religion is the root of all evil, Hitchens acknowledges that some religions are worse than others, and Harris is open to a Buddhism divested of spirituality, they go too far in arguing that religion is, as Stenger paraphrases Harris’s view, “a major source of evil in the world.” Perhaps they make this argument for rhetorical purposes, as they want to show how ironic is the theist claim that atheism accounts for millions of deaths in the 20th century. I recently caught a debate between Harris and Reza Aslan on YouTube and perceived Harris backtracking slightly; he claimed he was talking about ideology, a belief system, more generally, and not religion per se. Fine. I agree that communism and Nazism operate like secular religions. So my point about religion, that is, religion in the traditional sense, not being the source of most atrocities in the world, still stands.

The implication here is that atheists would not commit foul and loathsome deeds. Presumably they would not succumb to fanaticism and blind devotion. If only everyone were a Dawkins or Hitchens, they seem to say. Have they forgotten the deep truths of natural selection so readily? Human nature will probably take millennia to catch up with technology. For generations and generations to come we will use the handy-dandy inventions of our frontal lobe like nuclear fission and string theory to dominate as a nation or ethnic group (or whatever defines a group) other nations or ethnic groups. Our base instincts, the viscera, will have us calculating what is in our best interest. The Us and Them mentality is firmly rooted in us all. And please don’t charge me with seeing the glass half empty; I’m not saying what I want to be the case but what is the case. As I’ve suggested elsewhere, a world of atheists would still be a violent world. We can quibble over whether it would be less violent, however; Stenger points to peaceful countries like Denmark and Sweden that have “lost their religion” for the most part.

You might think that as an agnostic I have residual feelings for religion or those who to subscribe to religion, but I don’t. I’m convinced by both Darwin and Marxist that ideologies are created to dominate and, in the process of natural selection, control the gene pool. Darwin’s second major work, The Descent of Man (1871), addresses the moral implications of natural selection. Since only half my readership consists of rabid Leninist-Marxists, the passage in The Communist Manifesto (1848) merits quoting. Addressing the poor saps who have been duped by the wicked bourgeoisie, Marx and Engels write:

Your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the condition of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all, a will, whose essential character and direction are determined by the economical conditions of existence of your class. The selfish misconception that induces you to transform into eternal laws of nature and of reason [and religious obligation], the social forms springing from your present mode of production and form of property…this misconception you share with every ruling class that has preceded you.

I’m not an advocate of their economic and political agenda, especially when they go on to propose some wacky and offensive things like the abolition of the family, marriage, and private property. Moreover, their revolution never happened and the state that adopted their views, Russia, put a tyrant on the Soviet throne and in any case was woefully behind the West in wealth and technology. But there’s a general principle here. You need to look behind the superficial reasons given for actions to discover the basic selfish drive for territory, wealth, goods, and women that they screen. Similarly, much of “religious violence” is really good old-fashioned violence with a religious veneer. The New Atheists seem convinced that a world of atheists will mean a world without genocide and suffering. I don’t believe that atheists are any less moral than believers, and I’d agree with them that there are plenty of cases in which atheists are more moral than believers.  However, they're not particularly less moral than everyone else.

Did the New Atheists convince me to turn agnostic? Yes and no. They perhaps tipped the scales of my doubts and most certainly provided greater clarity in the arguments for and against the existence of God and an afterlife. Most people don’t give up a belief system overnight, and I’m defining a few years of “New Atheism” as overnight. My journey was years in the making, and I only gradually realized that I had been traversing down a path of doubt, always uncertain or unaware whither it might lead me, Der Viator, the wayfarer. Leo Tolstoy once recounted the story of two brothers who went on a hunting expedition. One of the brothers offered a prayer before he went to bed. The other brother remarked simply that he didn’t realize his brother still kept up with prayer. He didn’t try to talk him out of a religious life; he just made an offhanded comment. The brother who prayed never did so again for the rest of his life. William James cites this story as an example of counter-conversion in The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902). Tolstoy’s account of the brothers, according to James, shows how an “additional stimulus,” however small, “will overthrow the mind into a new state of equilibrium when the process of preparation and incubation has proceeded far enough.” This “hypothesis of subconscious incubation” pretty much sums up my situation.

But like other non-believers, be they agnostic or atheist, I base my decision on what I believe to be true and not what might be comforting or useful. Believers too often conflate these two separate issues. Unless you’re a professional philosopher or scientist or otherwise someone who’s spent a lifetime on a serious quest for truth, don’t try to throw out this or that argument to me because, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I’ve probably expended more energy and have read in more depth and breadth both religious and non-theist literature than you have. And if you say that such learning and “intellectualism” is beside the point and a harmful diversion from spiritual issues, well, then any discussion would be pointless.

If I were absolutely convinced that there is no God, I might be inclined to “evangelize” my newfound atheism like the New Atheists. Perhaps I would help those benighted souls see the light and henceforth live a life based on reason and science. Remember the metaphor of the burning house? I should snatch believers from the flames of ignorance and fear rather than walk on blithely.  For their part, the New Atheists would spur any fellow atheist into action. To their way of thinking, it would be arrogant and condescending to let others continue in their blind faith, just like the kings and priests of old who used religion as an opiate of the masses. Harris, Stenger, and Dawkins believe we can appreciate life better once we've come to terms with truth. They also affirm that the atheist position, contrary to the theist claim, hold the mysteries and beauty of the universe in greater awe. Dawkins calls nature the “greatest show on earth.” Plus they’d say the stakes are too high; religion is too dangerous not to try and root it out of people. Think of the president of Iran or the United States operating more on the idea of a returning imam or apocalypse than reason and science.  "We not only regard such beliefs as wrong," writes Stenger, "we see them as immoral and dangerous to the future of society."

Even if I were an atheist, however, I wouldn't feel compelled to spread the less-than-good news.  A friend of mine who is treading on the same path mutatis mutandis has commented that he doesn’t want to be the source of someone’s disillusionment. I agree.  If any friends or acquaintances of mine were to challenge me to disabuse them of their credulity and theism, in the spirit of an intellectual joust, I would point them elsewhere; there are plenty of books and documentaries available that they can consult instead.

Perhaps for some atheists “morality shapes theology.” Evangelical Christians like to talk about how the unbelief of unbelievers stems from their desire for immorality and unwillingness to face a Holy God who demands righteousness. Some of the things I hear Christopher Hitchens say might give some credence to this view. While some atheists, like the comedic actor Ricky Gervais, wish there were a benevolent God but just can’t bring themselves to believe it without any evidence, Hitchens claims he’d never want such a “totalitarian” tyrant peering into every aspect of his life. However, I don’t think a desire to live their lives the way they want to is one of the strong motivations for atheists in rejecting the existence of God.  For most of them it's more about the weight of scientific evidence against the notion.

Stenger devotes a chapter to “Suffering and Morality.” Theodicy, or the “problem of pain,” has interested me for years and years. For atheists and secular humanists, the presence of suffering and evil in the world has provided them with ammunition against theism. Maybe, maybe not. Stenger incorporates some of the insights of biblical scholar Bart Ehrman, who lost his evangelical faith after studying Scripture in depth. I have a couple of his books. Stenger’s main claim here is that the Bible is not the most moral book and he gives some examples. He brings up an observation I had never really considered. The book of Job recounts the life of a man who lost everything. Satan told God that Job serves him faithfully only because he’s living on easy street. Take his livestock and children away and he’ll be singing a different tune. Apart from the problem that God comes across rather capricious and subjects himself to Satan’s criticisms, another disturbing conclusion of this story is that Job’s children, the ones who die and not the new batch he gets after God’s test is over, don’t fare very well. If the book of Job is about remaining faithful to God throughout trials and tribulations, this lesson was lost on Job’s dead children.

I'm not an atheist, but I am an agnostic of a sort.  It'd probably be more accurate to say that I've become more self-conscious of my agnosticism.  Let me address briefly my dear Jewish, Christian and Muslim readers, that is to say, the non-rabid-Leninist-Marxist operatives who visit this site. Don’t think I relinquish my faith easily; it’s a joyless occasion. It’s not a rite of passage to be celebrated with fanfare and feasting. The prospect that life ends with our biological demise is a bitter pill indeed, even if long-term atheists have learned to accept this reality or in fact never had an issue with it. Stenger, rightly and wryly, comments that he’ll never win adherents with a message of non-existence after death.

Who wouldn’t want to live forever in paradise alongside loved ones? With death comes the cessation of all my precious memories. Everything that I have studied and learned—history, science, economics, you name it—will be erased. The love of family and friends will be no more. All the passion, heartache, sacrifice, devotion, exhilaration that you have ever experienced—all for nought.  Atheists try to salvage a modicum of comfort out of these hard facts. They say, for instance, that we live on in the memories of future generations and in the DNA we’ve bequeathed to our progeny. They might also add that my knowledge and involvement have contributed to the advancement of the species in some small way. We could similarly add the old Roman notion of fama (fame) as a kind of immortality.  I think of the words of the fictional character in the movie Gladiator, Maximus Decimus Meridius, as he leads a cavalary charge against the Germanic hordes: “What we do in life echoes in eternity!” Whatever. If I ever find consolation in these suggestions I would be absolutely amazed!  I find them hollow and futile.

Why do humans possess a yearning for something eternal?  I don't want to rehearse a version of St. Anselm's bogus ontological argument here, but our innate thoughts about something beyond ourselves must give us pause.  We must wonder if our thoughts stem from a real spiritual realm of some kind.  Of course these thoughts don't have to lead us toward a personal, intelligent and ethical God in the Abrahamic tradition.  No, there might be some "force" out there devoid of intelligence and morality.  I know what Darwinists would say: We as a species have created gods and an afterlife either as a way of coping with our short, mortal existence or as a means of adapting to our environment.  Think of the passage from The Communist Manifesto above.  The Haves will fashion an ideology of control, replete with morals and a vengeful deity, in order to keep the Have-Nots in their places.  I'm not entirely convinced by these valid arguments.  Only those who are predisposed to be anti-religious would say that religion is entirely about control and leave out other positive aspects.  And why do we need to come up with a life beyond ours as a way to cope with our mortality?  Why couldn't we be hardwired just to accept this fate?  Just because we seem drawn to a spiritual explanation of phenomena and many of us long for a life after this one doesn't prove anything.  But it's still worth pondering.

I remember reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short story “Young Goodman Brown,” which is at least in part an allegory of faith or the lack thereof. The Puritan man leaves behind his beloved Faith, “exchange a parting kiss” only to stumble across a witches Sabbath in the woods. I feel like Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown stumbling across his beloved Faith at a witches Sabbath in the dark woods. You might think me impious or sacrilegious when I say that if a personal God is out there, by all means please reveal yourself to my weak eyes and weaker faith. I’m waiting with open arms to embrace a life of purpose, a life beyond this mundane one, full of eternal joy. I haven’t done away with faith altogether; I’m an agnostic and existential theist with a lot of hope. I remember the author Steven King once saying in a radio interview that it would bum out his day if God didn’t exist. That's how I feel too.

I am not an atheist and I don't think I ever will be. I understand the point Stenger makes about lack of evidence, but I’m still taken aback that the New Atheists speak with such certitude on things that they can't possibly know for sure. Theism and atheism are both dogmas. The theist and atheist are making an assertion about the way things are. Alas! I feel like a ship without an anchor adrift in a sea of uncertainty. For good or ill, I must be faithful to the dictates of my doubts; my conscience is captive to intellectual integrity.  Here I stand.  I can do no other.  God help me.  Amen.

"Get to Shoot an M16 and Eat that awesome Army Chow!" (2/4)

Back in April I wrote about my experience in the military. I’ve decided to continue the story here. Before I move on from basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, permit me a few more comments.  To clarify the title once again, this was my stock reply when anyone ever asked me why I joined the military so late in life.  I got tired of the question, and anyway the real reason—to serve my country—seemed to hokey for some.  This response warded off further questions sufficiently.

I couldn't tell you how much basic training has changed over the decades, but my training took nine weeks, not counting the an initial "reception" week when you get processed and, frankly, sit around for long stretches of time and try to memorize Army slogans and shit.  The Army divides the nine weeks of actual training into three three-week segments that get progressively easier: red, white, and blue.  So the "red" weeks are hell on earth.  But the drill sergeants get relatively more lenient in the subsequent phases.  I remember many episodes of collective punishment.  Some Private Snuffy would break a rule, or allegedly break a rule, and before we know it we'd have drill sergeants blowing whistles in our ears and hollering at us to get out of bed and outside asap.  Then we'd have to do pushups and roll around in the dirt.  Good times.  If memory serves, they eased up slightly on collective punishment in the blue phase of training.

At the end of each three-week phase we’d have an FTX, or Field Training Exercise. The first one was awful. I remember laying in my “hasty” for hours as the rain soaked me to the bone, snakes and mosquitoes keeping me company the whole time. A “hasty” is a shallow foxhole hastily dug for one person. Heaven forbid you should lose your weapon. On the second FTX I fell asleep while laying in my hasty. The drill sergeant, bless his little black heart, took it from me. My punishment was to dig a foxhole, not a mere hasty, in very stony soil. The third FTX went much better, in large part because we knew we were only days from graduation. One of the unpleasant aspects of this last FTX was a gas attack. They forced us to stay in formation until they exploded CS gas, aka “tear gas,” near us.

Speaking of CS gas, at some point in the first or second phase they had us go into the ominous and probably ill-advisedly named “gas chamber.” Some of the soldiers in training expressed their concern mostly for the gas exercise. For my part, as mentioned in part I of this series, I hated the sleep deprivation. Anyway, drill sergeants and the ubiquitous military contractors lead soldiers into a concrete building out in the wood. The room inside is full of tear gas and recruits are required to walk slowly and stand inside there for a few minutes both with and without their gas mask. Once they open the door, you run out like a Mofo, spitting and vomiting and crying. To make things worse, they have some dude filming you as you come out. Why? They’re going to sell you a DVD of your experience at basic training at the end. Ah, the capitalistic spirit of America that wants to separate young recruits from their money!

As the title of this blog indicates, qualifying on the shooting range was an enjoyable experience. I must admit that I’m mediocre as a marksman; I had virtually no experience with guns before basic training. Sometimes hunters have a disadvantage when it comes to firing a weapon the “Army” way, as they’ve developed bad habits. I had no excuse, and poor eyesight is partly to blame. However, I’ve improved over the years tremendously.

Religion is an interesting thing at basic training. Everyone and their dog want to attend a religious service, especially the Protestant worship hour, because it gives soldiers a break from the drill sergeants in an air-conditioned space. They could be the most depraved reprobates known to man, but by golly they’ll be singing the praise songs and praying with everyone else. As someone from an evangelical background, I concede that I have a certain notion of what Christianity should mean, but I was taken aback by a number of soldiers who saw no disconnect between cursing and promiscuity, on the one hand, and dutifully reading their Bible and praying, on the other. I’m not just talking about the religious service. I mean, I’d see guys praying and reading the Bible at night in their bunks; later they’d talk about their sexual activities with no compunction.

I’m not letting guys off the hook, far from it, but the young women in uniform were as a rule not the most moral animals themselves. I love the Army and I’ll support my daughters in just about any endeavor; however, joining the Army is not an option for them. I don’t want to paint this experience with too broad a brush. Some of the soldiers were moral, if not Christian, and had a good head on their shoulders. Depending on their age some of the guys and gals looked to me as a big brother or father figure. I tried to balance my responsibility as an “adult” with my goofy and immature side.

Let me address nomenclature and jargon for a moment.  I became acquainted with Army phrases like "good to go" and "get squared away."  The drill sergeants liked to refer to soldiers as "f-sticks," not exactly the most polite form of address.  And everything was frickin' this and frickin' that.  I was frickin' freakin' out with all these new expressions.  If you weren't pulling your own weight, you were a "blue falcon," the exact meaning of which is too obscene to explicate here.  A soldier who had his act together would be called "high speed."  Once high speeds and blue falcons were "good to go," then we would roll.  One objection I had was the term "latrine."  Must we really use a French term for a restroom?

Speaking of the French, what's with the beret?  I still hate wearing that thing.  You had to coddle it, cut out the cardboard part, take a lighter to the plastic band in the back, shave the fuzz off, talk to it, shower with it,  sleep in it wet, have a torrid elicit affair with it–all of these tasks just to get it the right shape on your frickin' head.  I'm fine with the kevlar helmet and field cap, but the beret?  I used to joke with the guys about having zealously joined the Army under the mistaken belief that we were actually fighting the French.  And now they make me wear a beret?  I heard that some general who had nothing better to do decided about 10 or 15 years ago that soldiers would wear black berets.  The Special Forces already wore berets, but he wanted everyone in this thing.  And black felt?  Can you pick a worse choice for standing out in the sun for long hours?  To add insult to injury (and this is my other grievance) soldiers must wear their "cover" when they're outside in uniform.

Throughout basic training I was a good boy. I never complained and I never talked myself in to going to sick bay like many soldiers did.  Despite my age and education, I came into this experience in full humility. I could have entered the officer program, but for whatever reason I wanted to start from the bottom up. I entered at the mere rank of Specialist, the highest enlisted rank for a recruit with a college education. My only act resistance, perhaps, came during the photo shoot. In my platoon photo I’m the only soldier out of 55 or so who is smiling. The drill sergeants ordered us to look fierce. But I was having a grand time and wanted to register my happiness for posterity.

At the top of August I left Fort Leonard Wood on a bus toward Arizona for AIT—Advance Individual Training. My 17 weeks at the U.S. Army Intelligence Center Fort Huachuca, where I received instruction as an intelligence analyst, formed one of the great recent experiences of my life.