When I first saw the headline on the Guardian online, "Castro Blogs," I thought for a moment that I was still at The Onion. But no, there -- in all its glory -- is a CiF blog by none other than Fidel Castro. I have to admit I kinda like the guy. He's not the worst dictator you could have, anyway. Here's his post, if you're interested. (And I see Tim Footman managed to get his comment in at the top of the list!)
So here's our question for the day: Can you kill an idea, or are they immortal, as Castro suggests?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
The other side
Recently while giving a talk at some small college or other in Virginia (or was it North Carolina? anyway...) Prof. Richard Dawkins was asked by a student "What if you're wrong?"
It's actually an interesting question, but one that shouldn't just be directed at scientists. Why not consider what we believe from the perspective of the other side? Why not examine the other possiblities?
So I put it to you: tell us what you believe, and then tell us what happens if you're wrong.
It's actually an interesting question, but one that shouldn't just be directed at scientists. Why not consider what we believe from the perspective of the other side? Why not examine the other possiblities?
So I put it to you: tell us what you believe, and then tell us what happens if you're wrong.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Why is no one ever wrong anymore?
Tonight I was listening to two people I know well, respect, and care about have an in-depth discussion on the economics of ecological sustainability. Both of these men are intelligent and informed, but disagreed vehemently on a particular point. They went in circles for 30 minutes while I cleaned the kitchen around them. Eventually the discussion was ended, but it was never concluded. Neither one could see the other's point of view, and neither one's position had shifted one iota.
This got me thinking: how come no one is ever wrong any more? I can't remember the last time I heard someone say "Gee, that's a good point; I hadn't thought of it that way," or "You know, you're right. I'm going to have to reconsider my position on that." Have we completely lost the ability to change our minds (assuming it's an ability we ever had)? Or do we always approach every topic with out minds made up, no matter how little information we actually have?
So here's today's question: When was the last time someone changed your mind about something by presenting you with information you previously lacked or through the pursuasiveness of their logic?
This got me thinking: how come no one is ever wrong any more? I can't remember the last time I heard someone say "Gee, that's a good point; I hadn't thought of it that way," or "You know, you're right. I'm going to have to reconsider my position on that." Have we completely lost the ability to change our minds (assuming it's an ability we ever had)? Or do we always approach every topic with out minds made up, no matter how little information we actually have?
So here's today's question: When was the last time someone changed your mind about something by presenting you with information you previously lacked or through the pursuasiveness of their logic?
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Short Hiatus
Hi all. I'm heading back to the States for a short time to deliver a paper at a conference. I'll be back on the 16th of May, at which time we'll contiune on, so watch this space. In the meantime, feel free to leave some questions in the comments box that you would like to discuss when I return. Ta!
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Spiritual Sojourn, part III: The Politics of the Church
And then I was birthed from the womb of academia and not allowed back in. They sent me forth into the world, and I ended up in a town called Westborough in Massachusetts. It was a pretty little New England town, lots of colonial architecture, pretty gardens, very upper middle class, and very politically conservative.
I was out on my own for the first time, financially independent, supporting myself. It was good, but also slightly intimidating, as I'm sure it is for everyone. I wanted to meet people, make connections, make friends. I turned once again to the best social club in the land, the church.
The nearest Catholic church was just down the street from me. I went one Sunday morning. It was about like you expect. I asked one of the stewards about the choir, and he told me when practice was. The following Wednesday evening I turned up, said hello, introduced myself, said I was new in town and looking for a parish, and might they allow me to join their choir?
I expected a warm welcome. I expected them to be delighted to have a new member. What I got was handed, almost without a word, a stack of sheet music. I took a seat next to an elderly woman who looked at me and said, "That's Doris's seat." Not even a "Hello, my name is." I got a reception colder than a headstone in the churchyard. I didn't go back.
After that I spent my weekends at Wally and Vi's house. They were my best friends, my family, and all the community I needed. And I found that after I no longer needed the church for community or a sense of belonging, I had no need for it at all, and I didn't miss it. I still went back to college to celebrate major holidays (espeically Easter) with Vi and Fr. L, and that filled my need for ritual and rhythm. I did miss the music, but not too much, as Vi and I spent loads of time singing together.
The backdrop to all this was the political side of the RC church.
I was raised in a very politically active household. My mom held several elected offices, and then worked as an independent political consultant and campaign manager for many years. I should add that mine was a very, very liberal household in a very, very conservative town. This did not win me many friends.
In particular we (my family) took serious exception to the church's stance on abortion, birth control, women's rights, and gay rights. I remember times as a child at Mass when the priest would go on about the evils of contraception during the homily (sermon) and mom would just get up and walk out. Just like that. Stand up and walk out during the homily. I was mortified to be so conspicuous (especially as we always sat near the front, and everybody knew who we were, mom being something of a local celebrity).
All my life I struggled with this. How could I be a member of an organization with whose principles I disagreed so strongly? I was often accused of being a "cafeterial catholic," someone who picks and choses what they want and what they don't want. It was a fair critique.
Because of my political views I was often taunted, mocked, teased, bullied, picked on, beat up, and harassed at school. I was called "baby killer" almost every day for 4 years in high school, despite the fact that I have never had an abortion. I was abused regularly by people who claimed, quite vocally, to be better Christians that me. ??? I don't think the hypocrisy of their statements ever registered with them.
So there I was, living in Westborough, Mass, trying to make friends and fit in at church. All the while this was happening the story was breaking about Cardinal Law of the Archdioces of Boston and how he moved dozens of paedophile priests around from parish to parish to protect the preists and sheltered them from the law, acting as an accessory to their perverted and heinous behavior. Since I was living so near Boston, this story was big news and everyone was up in arms about it. And then one morning I broke my toe.
I was getting ready for work, stubling around in the dark, and I stubbed my pinky toe on a kitchen chair. I knew it was broken. Fortunately it was my left foot and my car was an automatic, so I was able to scoot down the two flights of stairs from my flat and drive myself to the nearest hospital.
When I arrived at the hospital I hobbled in to the Emergency Room, which was (thankfully) empty. I addressed myself to the nurse at the reception desk and explained my injury. She began asking me all the relevant personal details about general health, meds I was on, etc. And then she got to the question of my religion.
This is standard practice in American hospitals, because just in case it all goes horribly wrong they want to know which chaplain to send to you and your family. She asked me this question, and at that moment the TV in the corner was blaring a news report about Cardinal Law. And I couldn't bring myself to say I was Catholic. I thought "I don't want to be associated with this organization, with these people. We have nothing in common. I want no part of this." And I told the nurse to mark down "none" under 'religion.' That was the day I left.
I was out on my own for the first time, financially independent, supporting myself. It was good, but also slightly intimidating, as I'm sure it is for everyone. I wanted to meet people, make connections, make friends. I turned once again to the best social club in the land, the church.
The nearest Catholic church was just down the street from me. I went one Sunday morning. It was about like you expect. I asked one of the stewards about the choir, and he told me when practice was. The following Wednesday evening I turned up, said hello, introduced myself, said I was new in town and looking for a parish, and might they allow me to join their choir?
I expected a warm welcome. I expected them to be delighted to have a new member. What I got was handed, almost without a word, a stack of sheet music. I took a seat next to an elderly woman who looked at me and said, "That's Doris's seat." Not even a "Hello, my name is." I got a reception colder than a headstone in the churchyard. I didn't go back.
After that I spent my weekends at Wally and Vi's house. They were my best friends, my family, and all the community I needed. And I found that after I no longer needed the church for community or a sense of belonging, I had no need for it at all, and I didn't miss it. I still went back to college to celebrate major holidays (espeically Easter) with Vi and Fr. L, and that filled my need for ritual and rhythm. I did miss the music, but not too much, as Vi and I spent loads of time singing together.
The backdrop to all this was the political side of the RC church.
I was raised in a very politically active household. My mom held several elected offices, and then worked as an independent political consultant and campaign manager for many years. I should add that mine was a very, very liberal household in a very, very conservative town. This did not win me many friends.
In particular we (my family) took serious exception to the church's stance on abortion, birth control, women's rights, and gay rights. I remember times as a child at Mass when the priest would go on about the evils of contraception during the homily (sermon) and mom would just get up and walk out. Just like that. Stand up and walk out during the homily. I was mortified to be so conspicuous (especially as we always sat near the front, and everybody knew who we were, mom being something of a local celebrity).
All my life I struggled with this. How could I be a member of an organization with whose principles I disagreed so strongly? I was often accused of being a "cafeterial catholic," someone who picks and choses what they want and what they don't want. It was a fair critique.
Because of my political views I was often taunted, mocked, teased, bullied, picked on, beat up, and harassed at school. I was called "baby killer" almost every day for 4 years in high school, despite the fact that I have never had an abortion. I was abused regularly by people who claimed, quite vocally, to be better Christians that me. ??? I don't think the hypocrisy of their statements ever registered with them.
So there I was, living in Westborough, Mass, trying to make friends and fit in at church. All the while this was happening the story was breaking about Cardinal Law of the Archdioces of Boston and how he moved dozens of paedophile priests around from parish to parish to protect the preists and sheltered them from the law, acting as an accessory to their perverted and heinous behavior. Since I was living so near Boston, this story was big news and everyone was up in arms about it. And then one morning I broke my toe.
I was getting ready for work, stubling around in the dark, and I stubbed my pinky toe on a kitchen chair. I knew it was broken. Fortunately it was my left foot and my car was an automatic, so I was able to scoot down the two flights of stairs from my flat and drive myself to the nearest hospital.
When I arrived at the hospital I hobbled in to the Emergency Room, which was (thankfully) empty. I addressed myself to the nurse at the reception desk and explained my injury. She began asking me all the relevant personal details about general health, meds I was on, etc. And then she got to the question of my religion.
This is standard practice in American hospitals, because just in case it all goes horribly wrong they want to know which chaplain to send to you and your family. She asked me this question, and at that moment the TV in the corner was blaring a news report about Cardinal Law. And I couldn't bring myself to say I was Catholic. I thought "I don't want to be associated with this organization, with these people. We have nothing in common. I want no part of this." And I told the nurse to mark down "none" under 'religion.' That was the day I left.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Spiritual Sojourn, part II: The College Years
Music was always a big part of my life. I can remember going to sunday school as a wee tot and singing singing singing! I loved the singing! I can still remember some of the songs we sang, and Mrs. L. with her long, brown hair in silver barettes that she would flick over her shoulder to keep out of the way of the guitar strings while she played. We all sat in a circle and held hands and swung our arms back and forth carolling, "I've got a friend and you've got a friend!"
Sunday school was the first place I learned about music, and my whole life music has been intimately connected with the church. I joined the youth choir when I was 8 and the regular choir when I was 15. When I was singing, I was happy. But the only place I sang was in church, so church = singing = happy. If A = B and B = C, than A = C; thus, church = happy.
When I was 18 I moved away and went to college out of state, at a distance of 800 miles from where I grew up. I wasn't prepared for it, but there was definately culture shock moving from a small town in the midwest to a posh, east-coast private college. Like anyone experiencing culture shock, I looked for things that were familiar and therefore comforting.
Church was familiar and comforting. The Mass is the same everywhere you go. And the Catholic chaplain, Fr. L, was accostomed to dealing with kids away from home for the first time and looked after me as I settled in to my new surroundings. He's a wonderful man, and I still have great respect and affection for him. (He's also a druid at heart, but don't tell him I told you.) After a couple weeks I got up the nerve to join the choir, and I made some of my best friends in the choir. Every Saturday at 5:00 for 4 years. JA, the organist, was also a wonderful man. Everyone was wonderful. Everyone was welcoming and warm and actually cared when they asked "How are you today?" Most people ask to be polite, and get very nervous if you respond with anything other than "I'm fine, how are you?" These people actually cared.
My college was a very protective, insulating, in many ways coddling environment. It was easy to stick your head in the sand, forget about the rest of the world, and enjoy your pampered, idyllic existence. So although I strenuously disagreed with much of the Catholic church's politics and policies, it was easy to forget about them, to distance myself from them, to think they didn't reach me or affect me in that warm, wet womb of academia.
So I went every saturday, helped set up, did readings, belted out harmonies to Amazing Graze with Vi at my side, tidied up afterwards, and went to dinner with Vi and Fr. L afterwards. It was a social club, and god had nothing to do with it.
Sunday school was the first place I learned about music, and my whole life music has been intimately connected with the church. I joined the youth choir when I was 8 and the regular choir when I was 15. When I was singing, I was happy. But the only place I sang was in church, so church = singing = happy. If A = B and B = C, than A = C; thus, church = happy.
When I was 18 I moved away and went to college out of state, at a distance of 800 miles from where I grew up. I wasn't prepared for it, but there was definately culture shock moving from a small town in the midwest to a posh, east-coast private college. Like anyone experiencing culture shock, I looked for things that were familiar and therefore comforting.
Church was familiar and comforting. The Mass is the same everywhere you go. And the Catholic chaplain, Fr. L, was accostomed to dealing with kids away from home for the first time and looked after me as I settled in to my new surroundings. He's a wonderful man, and I still have great respect and affection for him. (He's also a druid at heart, but don't tell him I told you.) After a couple weeks I got up the nerve to join the choir, and I made some of my best friends in the choir. Every Saturday at 5:00 for 4 years. JA, the organist, was also a wonderful man. Everyone was wonderful. Everyone was welcoming and warm and actually cared when they asked "How are you today?" Most people ask to be polite, and get very nervous if you respond with anything other than "I'm fine, how are you?" These people actually cared.
My college was a very protective, insulating, in many ways coddling environment. It was easy to stick your head in the sand, forget about the rest of the world, and enjoy your pampered, idyllic existence. So although I strenuously disagreed with much of the Catholic church's politics and policies, it was easy to forget about them, to distance myself from them, to think they didn't reach me or affect me in that warm, wet womb of academia.
So I went every saturday, helped set up, did readings, belted out harmonies to Amazing Graze with Vi at my side, tidied up afterwards, and went to dinner with Vi and Fr. L afterwards. It was a social club, and god had nothing to do with it.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Spiritual Sojourn, part I: When Church Was Good
I was raised Roman Catholic. My mom's family is Polish, and she grew up in a Polish Catholic enclave of Detroit, Michigan. My dad's family is German, and though he was raised Lutheran, he left the church when he was 13. By the time he married mom on September 1st, 1972 (and no, that date is not a coincidence) he was a sworn atheist. Mom wanted to be married in the Catholic church, and the rules of the church say that if a Catholic wants to marry a godless heathen that's ok so long as they promise to raise the tadpoles RC. Dad was fine with this as long as mom assured him that we wouldn't be taught creationist, anti-evolution crap in school. This wasn't a problem since they really didn't teach us much of anything in school.
The thing is, I never really believed in God. I can remember as a child of 8, preparing for my first communion (3rd sacrament and major rite of passage in Catholic families), being told that Jesus was up in Heaven watching me all the time, and I thought that was silly.
Maybe it's a side-effect of my Asperger's Syndrome. Aspergers kids are rubbish at creative play, and I was no exception. When my friends wanted to 'play house' or school or doctor or play with dolls and make up stories for them to act out, I just got up and left. Such things struck me as pointless and rediculous. Maybe I simply lack the imaginative capability that other people have that makes the concept of 'god' make sense in their brains. It just never jived with me.
But for all that, I liked church. I joined the youth choir as soon as I was old enough (right after my first communion, which was the pre-requisite to joining), and stayed there until they threw me out because I was too old. I took a year off, missed it terribly, and joined the regular choir, where I was welcomed with open arms. (I couldn't sing all that well, but they were thrilled to have a member who wasn't collecting social security.)
These were my teen years, and I struggled socially in high school. I had few friends, and my definition of a friend was anyone who didn't dump my lunch on the floor when I sat down next to them in the caffeteria. Even with these low standards I could count my friends (out of a class of 140 students in a school of 700) on one hand. The choir at church was the only place I could go where I felt genuinely welcomed and wanted. When I arrived people smiled and and said "How nice to see you! We're glad you're here," and they meant it. No where else did that happen for me.
So you can see why I kept going. One of the roles of the church is to be a community and provide a place where all are welcome, and in this aspect I have to say that my home parish succeeded brilliantly. It never really had anything to do with god. It was like "Cheers," the bar; it was the place where everybody knew my name.
The thing is, I never really believed in God. I can remember as a child of 8, preparing for my first communion (3rd sacrament and major rite of passage in Catholic families), being told that Jesus was up in Heaven watching me all the time, and I thought that was silly.
Maybe it's a side-effect of my Asperger's Syndrome. Aspergers kids are rubbish at creative play, and I was no exception. When my friends wanted to 'play house' or school or doctor or play with dolls and make up stories for them to act out, I just got up and left. Such things struck me as pointless and rediculous. Maybe I simply lack the imaginative capability that other people have that makes the concept of 'god' make sense in their brains. It just never jived with me.
But for all that, I liked church. I joined the youth choir as soon as I was old enough (right after my first communion, which was the pre-requisite to joining), and stayed there until they threw me out because I was too old. I took a year off, missed it terribly, and joined the regular choir, where I was welcomed with open arms. (I couldn't sing all that well, but they were thrilled to have a member who wasn't collecting social security.)
These were my teen years, and I struggled socially in high school. I had few friends, and my definition of a friend was anyone who didn't dump my lunch on the floor when I sat down next to them in the caffeteria. Even with these low standards I could count my friends (out of a class of 140 students in a school of 700) on one hand. The choir at church was the only place I could go where I felt genuinely welcomed and wanted. When I arrived people smiled and and said "How nice to see you! We're glad you're here," and they meant it. No where else did that happen for me.
So you can see why I kept going. One of the roles of the church is to be a community and provide a place where all are welcome, and in this aspect I have to say that my home parish succeeded brilliantly. It never really had anything to do with god. It was like "Cheers," the bar; it was the place where everybody knew my name.
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