Professor Huxley introduced me to the fact that theology is a study with no answers because it has no subject matter.
No subject matter? That's right; no subject matter whatever - just coloured water with artificial sweetening. ‘Theo-‘ = ‘God' and ‘-logy' = word(s), i.e., any word ending in ‘-ology' means ‘talk about' or ‘discussion of' or ‘words concerning' or ‘study of' a subject named in the first part of the word, whether it is ‘hippology', or ‘astrology', or ‘proctology', or ‘eschatology', or ‘scatology', or something else. But to discuss any subject, it is first necessary to agree on what it is you are discussing. ‘Hippology' presents no problem; everybody has seen a horse. ‘Proctology' - everybody has seen an arsehole... or, if you have been so carefully brought up that you've never seen one, go down to your city hall; you will find the place full of them. But the subject tagged by the spell-symbol ‘theology' is a horse of another colour.
‘God', or ‘god', or ‘gods' - have you ever seen ‘God'? If so, where and when, how tall was She and what did She weigh? What was Her skin colour? Did She have a belly button and, if so, why? Did She have breasts? For what purpose? How about organs of reproduction and of excretion - did She or didn't She?
(If you think I am making fun of the idea of a God fashioned in Man's image or vice versa, you have much to on.)
I will agree that the notion of an anthropomorphic God went out of fashion some time ago with most professional godsmen... but that doesn't get us any nearer to defining the English spell-symbol ‘God'. Let's consult fundamentalist preachers... because Episcopalians won't even let God into His sanctuary unless He shines His shoes and trims that awful beard... and Unitarians won't let Him in at all.
So let's listen to fundamentalists: ‘God is the Creator. He Created the World. The existence of the World proves that it was created; therefore there is a Creator. That Creator we call "God". Let us all bow down and worship Him, for He is almighty and His works proclaim His might.'
Will someone please page Dr S. I. Hayakawa? Or, if he is busy, any student who received a B-plus or better in Logic 101 ? I'm looking for someone able to discuss the fallacy of circular reasoning and also the concatenative process by which abstract words can be logically defined by building on concrete words. What is a ‘concrete' word? It is a spell-symbol used to tag something you can point to and thereby agree on, e.g. ‘cat', ‘sailboat', ‘ice-skating' - agree with such certainty that when you say ‘sailboat' there is no chance whatever that I will think you mean a furry quadruped with retractile claws.
With the spell-symbol ‘God' there is no way to achieve such agreement because there is nothing to point to. Circular reasoning can't get you out of this dilemma. Pointing to something (the physical world) and asserting that it has to have a Creator and this Creator necessarily has such-and-such attributes proves nothing save that you have made certain assertions without proof. You Nave pointed at a physical thing, the physical world; you have asserted that this physical thing has to have a ‘Creator'. (Who told you that? What's His mailing address? Who told Him?) But to assert that something physical was created out of nothing - not even empty space - by a Thingamajig you can't point to is not to make a philosophical statement or any sort of statement, it is mere noise, amphigory, sound and fury signifying nothing
Jesuits take fourteen years to learn to talk that sort of nonsense. Southern fundamentalist preachers learn to talk it in much shorter time. Either way, it's nonsense.
Pardon me. Attempts to define ‘God' cause one to break out in hives.
Unlike theology, ‘metaphysics' does have a subject, the physical world, the world that you can feel, taste, and see, the world of potholes and beautiful men and railroad tickets and barking dogs and wars and marshmallow sundaes. But, like theology, metaphysics has no answers. Just questions.
But what lovely questions!
Was this world created? If so, when and by whom and why?
How is consciousness (‘Me-ness') hooked to the physical world?
What happens to this ‘Me-ness' when this body I am wearing stops, dies, decays, and the worms eat it?
Why am I here, where did I come from, where am I going?
Why are you here? Are you here? Are you anywhere? Am I all alone?
(And many more.)
Metaphysics has polysyllabic words for all of these ideas but you don't have to use them; Anglo-Saxon monosyllables do just as well for questions that have no answers.
Persons who claim to have answers to these questions invariably are fakers after your money. No exceptions. If you point out their fakery, if you dare to say aloud that the Emperor has no clothes, they will lynch you if possible, always from the highest of motives.
That's the trouble I'm in now. I made the mistake of flapping my loose lower jaw before learning the power structure here... so now I am about to be hanged (I hope it is as gentle as hanging!) for the capital crime of sacrilege.
I should know better. I didn't think anyone would mind (in San Francisco) when I pointed out that the available evidence tended to indicate that Jesus was gay.
But there were cries of rage from two groups: a) gays; b) non-gays. I was lucky to get out of town.
(I do wish Pixel would come back.)
On Friday we got my daughter Nancy and Jonathan Weatheral married. The bride wore white over a peanut-sized embryo that qualified her for Howard Foundation benefits, while the brides mother wore a silly grin that resulted from her private activities that week and the groom's mother wore a quiet smile and a faraway look in her eyes from similar (but not identical) private activities.
I had gone to much trouble to slide Eleanor Weatheral under Sergeant Theodore. To their mutual joy, I know (my husband says that Eleanor is a world-class mattress dancer), but not solely for their amusement. Eleanor is a touchstone, able to detect lies when she is sexually linked and en rapport.
Let's go back two days.
On Wednesday my zoo got home from the circus at 6.05 p.m.; we had a picnic dinner in our back yard at 6.30, the exact timing being possible through Carol's having prepared it in the morning. At sundown Brian lit the garden lights and the younger ones played croquet while we elders - Brian, Father, Theodore, and I - sat in the garden glider swing and talked.
Our talk started on the subject of human female fertility. Brian told Father that he wanted him to hear something Captain Long had said about the matter.
But I must note first that I had gone to Father's room the night before (Tuesday) after the house was quiet, pledging him a King's X, then told him about a strange story Sergeant Theodore had given me earlier that night, after that silly unplanned visit to Electric Park, a story in which he claimed to be Captain Lazarus Long, a Howard from the future.
Despite my promise of King's X, Father left the door ajar. Nancy tapped on it and we invited her in. She perched on the other side of Father's bed and facing me listened soberly to my repetition.
Father said, ‘Maureen, I take it you believe him, time travel and ether ship and all.'
‘Father, he knew Woodrow's birth date. Did you tell him?'
‘No. I know your policy.'
‘He knew your birthday, too, not just the year, but the day and the month. Did you tell him?'
‘No, but it's no secret. I've set it down on all sorts of documents.'
‘But how would he know where to find one? And he knew Mother's birthday - day, year, and month:
‘That's harder. But not impossible. Daughter, as you tell me he pointed out: anyone with access to the Foundation's files in Toledo could look up all of these dates.'