Smart-Lass

There has been a dearth of blogging, I know. Here’s why:

1. The Little Dude turned one.

2. The Little Princess busted her chin open. Twice.

3. I made a baby quilt. HA! Not sure what possessed me, but I just went uber-domestic and, well, there you have it. A good friend is expecting, so it seemed like a brilliant idea.

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And finally: the Olympics. I am a junkie. Thank goodness it’s over.

First of all, I would like to concede that Kobe Bryant has gone from my “most hated celebrities” list to my “maybe he doesn’t totally suck” list. It’s not just that the American basketball team finally won gold. It’s that they played like a team. Rather than hogging the ball and taking crappy shots (as in every other NBA game I’ve ever seen/watched), they actually worked together and sacrificed personal glory for the sake of the team. And when they won… they all put their hands over their hearts. And Kobe actually mouthed the words to the national anthem. This is not an automatic indication of good character, but it’s more than we got from the women’s 4×400 track team. Throughout the games, our basketball team acted patriotic and overtly expressed their pride in America during interviews. And I didn’t say he was on my “great American heroes” list, but again, he has definitely moved up.

Second, let’s just be done with it and rename the whole stupid thing “the Phelps games.” Enough already. And no, let’s NOT replay the Michael Phelps video montage.

Third… BMX? Seriously? Isn’t this why we have the X-Games? But then, why badminton and table tennis are Olympic “sports” has always eluded me. Let’s have a horseshoes tournament and roll in some pinball machines while we’re at it. Maybe darts with mandatory pints all around first. And of course we are getting rid of baseball and softball. Why? Because, as Jacques Rogge pointed out, America wins too much.

Fourth. Since everyone hates us, let’s engage in some athletic isolationism. How about the athletes train in the countries they represent, rather than coming to America, enjoying our resources, coaches, opportunities, etc., and then acting like they achieved something for their nation, which pretty much gave them birth and then, in some cases, oppressed them and tried to kill them. Ummm… if you are so proud of your home country, then please go live and train there. If you want to come here, fine. But compete for us.

Finally, the commercials. I am so sick of hearing Morgan Freeman’s voice telling us how it’s not about glory or country of origin or personal victory. It’s all about the journey, the humanity, the spirit of sharing.

Um…. no. Actually it’s very much about glory and pride and nationalism. It’s the Olympics, for crying out loud. It’s so very, very Greek. It’s not some leftist, hold-hands-and-chant-kumbayah, build-your-self-esteem-by-not-winning, public-education-funded therapy session. IT’S ABOUT FREAKING WINNING.

On the other hand, I absolutely loved the Nike commercials. The one with The Killers “All These Things That I’ve Done” in the background and the one with the national anthem behind the basketball montage were maybe my favorite sports commercials of all time.

And tonight I’ll watch the closing ceremonies. (Curse you, TiVo!) No doubt it will be another breathtaking spectacle, designed to bedazzle and distract us.

I admit it… I’m looking forward to London. You think the Brits would be in on the darts idea?

I am an Olympics fanatic. I love the Olympics. I have always loved the Olympics. As a kid, I wanted to be a gymnast, a figure skater, a speed skater, a hockey player, a soccer player, and/or a marathoner, depending on what year/season it was.

These days, however, though my appreciation for the games has deepened, so has my frustration. I suppose the nature of the Olympics lends itself to favor the naturally gifted. For example, the only female athletes shorter than 5′11″ seem to be the gymnasts, who are all required to be somewhere around 3′6″ and developmentally stunted. (Just kidding. I, of course, have enormous respect for the gymnasts, but only the ones over 12 who didn’t cheat to get into the games.)

I think we need an Olympics for real people. You know, games for those of us who never grew past 5′3″ but won’t blow away when the wind comes sweepin’ down the planes. So I propose the Parental Olympics. Here are the events (so far).

The Morning(?) Dash. The parental units must be in a deep and exhaustion-induced sleep. At a random time, known only to the participating children, one of said children must say, from a nearby but separate room, “I go pee-pee and poo-poo.” Points will be awarded for the speed of parental levitation, the twisting and contorting necessary to avoid serious parental injury by various, randomly scattered toys, and the calmness/hysteria of the child during the ensuing trip to the potty. Points will be deducted for the waking of non-participatory siblings, injury to parent or child, and cursing.

Booty Duty. The parental units will be required to change a heavily soiled diaper in a filthy public restroom. Points will be garnered based upon speed, thoroughness of the cleansing, and the volume of the child relative to his stage of dirtiness. Points will be deducted for lingering stench upon the child, injury to parent or child, and cursing.

Wild Kingdom. The parental units and their offspring will be taken to a zoo and shown unexpected mating rituals by the child’s favorite animals. Points will be awarded for the creativity of the parents’ explanation and the speed and degree of success with which the child’s attention is diverted. Points will be deducted if the child continues to stare in fascination at the fornicating animals and/or if the child mentions the event either to his grandmother or to his Sunday school teacher.

Toddler Idol. Parents will be required to sing, from memory, incredibly annoying songs, including (but not limited to) the theme from Elmo’s World, the theme from Thomas and Friends, and the theme from Dragon Tales. Points will be garnered for accuracy of lyrics and the ability to repeat the songs until the need to barf becomes overwhelming. Points may also be gained by creating new lyrics, which must rhyme and achieve an appreciative laugh from participating toddlers. Points will be deducted for fudging any lyrics (the toddlers will be responsible for catching these mistakes). Songs that revolve around the toilet and bodily functions will be allowed. Breaking into ACDC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” will only be acceptable if the participating toddler correctly sings along.

Sadly, I think I’d stand a chance in these Olympic events!

The Little Princess is 2 going on 3. ‘Nuff said.

Seriously, she’s a great kid. She likes to wear her pink and white cowgirl boots and her pink Chicago Cubs hat while riding her pink tricycle at breakneck speed through the house, ramming the occasional wall. (She usually only runs into the brick wall, so, as long as she does not hurt herself, I really don’t see the point in stopping her.)

She has also taken up wandering through the house screaming, “Where are you, Mommy?” whenever I leave the room for even a moment. This makes me want to 1. run, 2. hide, or 3. yell back at her. Instead I take a deep breath and calmly but loudly tell her where I am. Usually.

I am also working on the LP’s Christmas stocking. I know, I know… it’s only July. But trust me, these sequined/appliqued felt jobs are INSANE. It takes forever. I learned the hard way last fall with the Little Dude’s stocking, so I’m getting an earlier start this year. I think it will be worth it… it’s a picture of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Of course, I told the LP that she was la fee bonbon, since we are trying to work on our French here and there. I can’t help but smile everytime I pull it out to work on it and I hear her shriek “La fee bonbon! La fee bonbon!” She’s really into her French books lately.

She also shocked me the other night when I went to say prayers with her before bed. We knelt down as usual, but instead of the “Now I lay me down to sleep” rhyme, I told her we were going to learn a grown-up prayer. I was so proud of my parenting… I know my girl can learn the Lord’s prayer… it will just take some work. Imagine my immediate and total humility when she recited the entire thing without my help. We have said it with her occasionally but I believe they are teaching her well in her Sunday school.

The Little Dude is also keeping us on our toes. He is very close to walking… he is cruising, standing alone, and clapping for himself whenever he does the latter. He is also talking up a blue streak. His favorite word is “Mama” which warms my heart.

The LD is also a climber. I have pulled him off of everything from the toilet to the rocking chair to the ottoman. The child is fearless.

Unfortunately he’s not very discerning yet, either. Last night, just prior to bath time, his sister used the potty and did not flush. As we were preparing the bath, I looked over just in time to see the LD standing at the toilet, reaching in and swiping at the “gift” his sister had left behind. I did not freak out too bad, but I had to hold him down to scrub his hands to my satisfaction. He thought the whole thing was hilarious.

Despite his opinion that the toilet is a play thing, the LD is also a ladies’ man. When we are in public, he will make eyes and flirt with any female noticing distance. He also enjoys sucking on the legs of his sister’s naked Barbie doll. “Put down the naked lady and come to dinner!” has been heard in our house long before we thought it would be an issue. It makes his daddy proud.

The LD’s latest interests are Elmo and Thomas. We are probably going to make a Thomas cake for his first birthday.

And I cannot express how much I love the fact that my children love books. The LD will sit, just like his big sister, and flip through books, fascinated. He likes to lift flaps in particular. I have discovered recently, however, that he also likes to tear up flaps and moving parts. That’s okay… his sister did the same, I would expect no less from a little boy, and it gives yours truly an excuse to buy more books.

It is time once again, Ladies and Gentlemen, for the Lass to slaughter and dish up the latest sacred cow to be produced by Hollywood. I just can’t resist. Meat is so yummy.

Today, I give you Atonement.

This film has been critically acclaimed… it was nominated for numerous academy awards and won at least one. It has been billed as epic, clever, and fascinating.

Here are its selling points: the music is brilliant. The use of the typewriter keys, incorporated into the score itself, was a stroke of genius. The underlying story was compelling and had great potential. The cast gave beautiful performances.

(Stop reading now if you intend to watch it and do not want to know what happens.)

Here is the problem: the meaning of the word “atonement” has no bearing on the result of the story.

After a series of tragic events, the movie ends with the elderly Briony (whose lies wrought all the havoc in the first place) sitting before a present day interviewer, explaining that the people she wronged were actually killed in the war. She is promoting her novel, which is largely autobiographical (and is, of course, what the viewer has been watching for the past 2 hours). But Briony basically says that her final gift to the people she wronged is this novel, because she tacks on the happy ending and the redemption that they were denied in real life. Thus she has atoned for her wrongdoing and can go to her grave in peace. She has, of course, developed dementia somewhere along the way. I suppose we are supposed to feel sorry for her and assume that this is a result of her inner struggles during her lifetime.

I would like to scream.

This is not atonement. This is the narcissistic fantasy of artists; somehow writing a great novel or painting a beautiful picture or composing a moving piece has transcendent meaning. Ummmmmm…. nope. Sorry. It does not work that way. Navel gazing, even if done publicly on a blog :-), is no substitute for real people, real life, real suffering. Didn’t these people ever see Shadowlands?

Now, if the intent of the film is to point out that humans are incapable of atoning for their own sins and that the more we try to “fix” things, the more we muck it all up, then fine. The title of the film is ironic and the point is well made. But I rather suspect that I am reading too far into the tale when I suggest this. One is distinctly left with the impression that the artistic endeavor is the end-all, be-all of Briony’s journey, and that the viewer is supposed to accept her preferred ending rather than the one that actually occurred.

This, of course, just reinforces that Briony was and remains a liar.

And I would also like to address the unnecessary profanity in the film. The use of “the worst word you can think of” is not avant garde, folks, it’s adolescent. I am not impressed. There were many ways to make the same point without doing violence either to the film or to the sensibilities of the audience. I am sure that by stating my opinion on this point I have officially ranked myself among the prudes and the crotchety, but I would rather be in the company of adults with standards than with snickering, pimply-faced teenagers whose highest aim in life is to “shock” people like me. Unfortunately such attempts at being clever are quite tiresome and I am neither shocked nor impressed.

Rolling our eyes and moving on…

To sum up: the movie was irritating in the beginning, interesting in the middle, and jumped the shark at the end. There you have it. If your life is too happy to be borne and you are in the mood for a kick in the teeth, by all means, see Atonement.

I’ve got it.

PETA has gone into hysterics over the fact that the Army is shooting live pigs to train soldiers how to treat gunshot wounds on the battlefield. Personally, I’m okay with this for several reasons.

First, contrary to PETA’s propaganda, the lives of our men and women in uniform (heck, the lives of any PEOPLE) are more valuable than the lives of animals. Besides, the animals are anesthetized and under the oversight of vets the entire time. So if busting a cap in a porker saves the lives of even one wounded human, I’m all for it.

Second, bacon tastes good. Pork chops taste good. Ribs taste good.

Third, by PETA’s own hysteria on other fronts, we are facing a “crisis” of animal overpopulation.

So… my conclusion is this:

Let the soldiers shoot the pigs. We can then be sure that our fighting men and women will have sufficient protein in their diets to keep them strong and healthy. And we can curtail the gratuitous breeding that is plaguing the animal kingdom.

Everyone wins!

If you read nothing else today, read this little essay by G. K. Chesterton.

Absolutely brilliant.

I am currently reading a rather expansive history of the Reformation. Quite fascinating, and, so far, theologically neutral. I am thoroughly enjoying it.

But I have one small-ish complaint: BCE and CE.

These are the designations for “Before Common Era” and “Common Era,” which are intended to replace “BC” (Before Christ) and “AD” (Anno Domini), respectively.

Here’s where I get seriously irritated: despite attempts among the intelligentsia to erase all references to Jesus as the Christ, we utterly fail (again). You see, the year 0 is still the measure. We still count according to His birth. So even though we do not say “the year of our Lord,” He is still the marker. It is the typical disingenuous Newspeak that simply assumes the stupidity of the plebs.

I know that this is done in an attempt to be inclusive, but it is utterly ill-conceived. We insult those we are trying to include when we pretend that we are denying Christ as the starting point of our system of counting years.

Finally, I am not a Roman pagan. I don’t worship Caesar, and I find polytheism uncivilized and flat-out wrong. But I’m not going to advocate total revision of the Roman calendar. Admitting that we are currently enjoying the heat of July does not force me to bow to Julius, and when August rolls around, I will not suddenly find myself compelled to hail Caesar Augustus. Be reasonable, people.

Okay. Let’s get into it.

I have debated with myself whether or not even to write this post. But as these are the thoughts (beyond child care, of course) that occupy my mind most consistently, I think it’s worth some writing. Besides, it’s hard to imagine a more important topic.

I recently read two books: A Generous Orthodoxy, by Brian D. McLaren, and The Truth War, by John MacArthur.

First: A Generous Orthodoxy. Those of you who know me well will likely wonder why I read such a book. It is, to say the least, not “my thing.” I am NOT postmodern in my theology.

I read the book because it has been billed by some in my acquaintance as the best and most concise (if such an adjective can even be applied) description of the postmodern approach to faith. There are at least two people whom I love and deeply respect - and who have been professionally theologically trained - who are McLaren adherents. I don’t know that they would go so far as to call themselves “PoMos” (the self-styling of postmoderns), but they have said things such as, “McLaren is theologically right on” and they have recommended this book within our circle of mutual friends.

So, since the emergent movement seems to be taking American evangelicalism by storm (in our own backyards), I thought it worth investigating.

Let me say at the outset that McLaren himself suggests that it is only for mature believers, and I agree, though perhaps for a different reason. The reasoning is seductive. If one takes McLaren at his word, it is quite difficult to disagree with much (if anything) of what he says. Indeed, one of the most insidious aspects of postmodernism is its defiance of rational discussion/argument by its own inherent rejection of objective truth. One cannot effectively argue with a person who denies the possibility of reality or truth external and distinct from any individual perspective, or who cheerfully embraces paradox as an adequate and coherent formulation of belief (see the book’s subtitle).

First, McLaren says some good things. For example, McLaren was an English major in college. So he has a certain affinity for poetry that resonates with people like me. I agree with him that beauty most emphatically should have a place in the life of a Christian. My own tastes run toward Handel’s Messiah and John Milton’s Paradise Lost. These things are indeed exquisite and they have enriched my faith. As has gardening. Something about digging my bare hands into the fresh soil (amended down here, of course) and seeing green life spring forth is rewarding on a primitive, created level. I was indeed created to appreciate such things.

The problem with McLaren, however, is that he attempts to centralize these peripheral experiences. But this is not surprising. I must humbly suggest that this attempt to replace the gospel with experiential mysticism is only to be expected, because McLaren has confused the gospel with the law. He overtly rejects the idea that Christ came to save sinners from our earned damnation and instead embraces the idea that God sent Jesus to save the world, primarily through the good behavior of his disciples. In other words, if we can all just emulate Jesus, the world will be a better place and thus “rescued” from the effects of sin. This is part and parcel of his thesis for the book, which is essentially that we need to focus less on orthodoxy (right doctrine) and worry more about orthopraxy (right practice). It also fits nicely with the emergent tendency toward social and political liberalism: if the primary thrust of the Christian gospel is, as McLaren suggests, loving the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength and loving your neighbor as yourself, then yes. The emergents are probably right. If, on the other hand, the command thus to love the Lord and your neighbor is the summation of the law, and the gospel is the good news that, even though we have utterly failed to keep the law, Christ has fulfilled it for us, then the emergents are dead wrong.

Indeed, John MacArthur takes a rather dim view of the PoMos. His book, The Truth War, felt a bit heavy-handed at first, I must confess. After all, McLaren’s smorgasbord/buffet approach to Christian tradition felt kind of nice. I admit that I’ve always had an affinity for all things “high church.” So I like the idea of embracing the good things in the more ancient traditions. But as MacArthur points out so adeptly, there is one “small” problem with the emergent approach: truth.

The rejection of propositional truth, known more innocuously perhaps as “the collapse of the metanarrative,” is the hallmark of the emergent movement. McLaren says he is not a relativist. He says he is not a universalist. But it is difficult to take him at his word when he rejects such categories as “hell” and “personal salvation,” when he guts the word “evangelical” and redefines it to mean “passionate,” and when he favors “systemic” theology over what he considers the tyranny and “colonialism” of systematic theology. His response to the question whether some people will be saved and others lost is something along the lines of “I’m going to Los Angeles.” He considers the question itself to be utterly beside the point, which is ultimately the here and now.

MacArthur, on the other hand, gives an excellent scriptural exegesis of the appropriate response to apostasy and some of the various heresies faced by the early church. There truly is nothing new under the sun.

As MacArthur points out, the Scriptures do not indicate that Jesus saw tolerance and compromise as the ultimate good. Nor are we told to go into all the world making friends and influencing people to be nicer to one another. Of course, as MacArthur repeatedly emphasizes, we are not to engage in conflict for its own sake, nor are we given free reign to pick fights over trivial and peripheral disagreements. On the other hand, we are ordered to contend earnestly for the faith delivered once and for all to the saints. This is not a polite suggestion: it is an imperative.

Ultimately, the truth is an objective fact, external to ourselves: the historical life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, Son of God and Son of Man. This is not an experience to be pursued, but a truth to be embraced (and, ironically, the more we focus on Christ and less on ourselves the more we will experience Him and find ourselves equipped to do the good works he prepared for us). God condescended to save us when we could not save ourselves. THAT is the good news. Do more, work harder, love better… that is not the gospel, that is the law. It is precisely our failure and inability to do those things that warrants our need for a Savior in the first place.

There is so much more I could say, but I will stop here and let the discussion begin…

Ugh. After another all-nighter, we are finally home again.

I must say, however, that I absolutely love Alabama. It was so beautiful and we had a truly wonderful time. The wedding we attended was one of the most exquisite I have ever seen… I must say that Southerners know how to celebrate.

Here is the church… rebuilt after a hurricane in 1906.

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I love the South!

And on the way home we stopped at the courthouse where the courtroom scenes in “To Kill a Mockingbird” were filmed.

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He did it. Mr. Smart-Lass actually made straight “A”s last semester.

No biggee, you might say. But you’d be wrong.

You see, Mr. S-L does not attend an ivy league school. He doesn’t even attend an ivy-league wanna-be (OU). Rather, he attends an old-school law school: no grade inflation. That’s right, they play by the old rules. They basically let everyone in who applies (and who has a pulse and a willingness to sacrifice their first child to Sallie Mae - sorry Princess), but then they separate the wheat from the chaff in class. You have to earn your grades. A “C” really is the average. (Except that there have recently been some unfortunate additions to the faculty that resulted in final grades appearing nothing like a bell-curve in the odd class every now and again. This screws up the entire ranking system and is inherently absurd.) And if you cannot handle being yelled at and made an ass in front of your peers… well then, you’ve just proven you can’t swim with the sharks.

So in a sink-or-swim situation such as this, my dear, darling husband actually had a straight A semester.

I am so proud of him!

I will also confess that I had a moment of slight annoyance and frustration. My only claim to fame during law school was a semester in which my grades looked like this: A,B,C,D. After the shock of nearly failing ethics - yes, I wear this as a badge of honor - I simply shrugged, figured I had passed and that’s what mattered, and poured another margarita.

But I never, EVER had a straight A term.

So, Mr. Smart-Lass, I concede. You are the far better law student than I ever was.

Now let’s talk about trial records.