Why I Hate (and Love) Postmodernity: A Lesson in Cynicism

Dear Dan,

Here I sit, typing on one of the finest pieces of machinery every created, the Intel-powered, iLife equipped, 24″ Apple iMac. The knowledge of good and evil never tasted so good, Apple would lead us to believe, and I would be hard pressed to argue with them. The computer is equipped with its own recording studio, Garage Band, and also with its own built-in camera, Photo Booth, which allows you to stare at yourself in a small window while you surf the Internet and listen to your customized playlist on iTunes. Truly the 21st century is all about “i” and not about “me”. Perhaps Apple doesn’t capitalize the “I” in their products because they wish to appear “inConspicuous” about marketing their hip, personalized electronics to egomaniacs.

As advanced as this brave new world that we live in is, still (as you know), postmodernism has it’s drawbacks. Personally, I believe we tend to get lost in our own little “iLives”, and frankly, it’s a pet peeve of mine to see people walk down the street, ear buds in and completely oblivious to your “Hello’s” or “Hey, watch it’s!” Pretty soon we will have plotted out and customized our trivial little lives from beginning to end and the mystery of life that we postmoderns are so hip on will have shriveled to the size of a little latte-soaked microchip. My friend Mike commented the other day that we are slowly turning into a Star Trek civilisation, equipped with little pieces of electronics that stick out our ears and eyes like the Borg (ironically, he said this as he talked to me with a Bluetooth headset obliviously planted in his ear). If that is the case, then here’s to that old Vulcan adage, “Live long and prosper.”

If I sound pessimistic it’s not because I am. It’s just that I suppose I’m what could be called a “Biblical realist”. In the last days men will be lovers of themselves, says the beloved Paul, and no doubt the iLife lifestyle is propelling us into such a communal-less existence. Funny how we postmoderns are so hip on community and yet even hipper on individuality. This occurred to me as I was sitting in a posh Oregon District (Dayton) coffee bar, the pub and tavern of our day. Many people were sitting just inches from one another, drinking their coffee or imported beer (I with the latter), and at the same time were completely oblivious to the outside world, so engulfed in their books, plugged into their computers, and tuned into their iPods were they. I couldn’t help but feel as though what was once considered a haven for community (the pub/tavern) had now been robbed of it’s warmth and cordiality and was now, in fact, more of a brothel than a community table. With each dime and in each cup, our generation buys a false sense of intimacy. We buy community, we engage in some sort of intellectual whoredom like a man who wants to feel a warm body but stay far away in his mind. Pleasure, it seems, is still found in the companionship that is purchased solely for one’s selfish gratification. It seems that no amount of ritz could warm the cold-heartedness and the rash of individualism that that coffee bar is now frequented with. The pub is dead. Long live the pub.

This was very sad to me, the condition of this “generation lost in space” (to quote Don McLean’s American Pie), who find in themselves a great desire to dwell in community and an even greater desire to isolate themselves. Musicians and artists always seem to recognize the trends 30-40 years before they become a concrete reality and doesn’t Paul Simon speak so prophetically of your and my generation? “I have my books and my poetry to protect me; I am shielded in my armor, hiding in my room, safe within my womb. I touch no one and no one touches me. I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain; And an island never cries.”

I suppose it’s not that bad everywhere (certainly not in the rural culture), but the post-modern urban landscape seems so gray. Perhaps I myself am too postmodern in my assessment of the matter, but I know that our dear Mark Palmer (a vanguard in the Emergent movement) described this brave new world as “edgy”. I’m glad to see that the Emergents were the first to notice this culture shift and have taken the lead in bringing some gaiety back into the lives of the “iLifers”. Life is full of color. We white people don’t tend to understand that very well. If the postmodern generation is the bleakest, most self-absorbed generation the world has seen in quite some time, then we eagerly wait for the manifestation and revelation of a vivid, selfless God. And above all Jesus, His cross, His death and resurrection, and His Life (present tense) reflect this. It was the message of the Apostle John: We have come to know not an iLife, but The Life.

Switching gears a bit, I’ve been diving into McLaren’s A Generous Orthodoxy, which I couldn’t help but notice was being critiqued so heavily in Becoming Conversant With The Emerging Church by Carson. Both of these books are mentioned in the article that I passed on to you from Christianity Today. I found it quite beneficial and am now beginning to understand that the Emergents are somewhat of a reform group not unlike the Anabaptists of the 15th-16th centuries. Strong on community, strong on orthopraxy, and anti-creedal for the same reason the Anabaptists found that systematic theology tended to be too narrow of an expression of the Life. And yes, among every reform group, there are the extreme left-wingers (like the Zwickau Prophets and Muentzer who fueled The Peasant’s War), but wisdom has always been known by her children. The Emergent Church has even come full-circle (or so I think) and is now embracing the Catholic and Orthodox side of the faith, the latter expression having piqued my interest as of late.

We Evangelicals (if I don’t consider myself one, at least I call them my associates), so deeply trenched in our fundamental modernity have become too postmodern for our own good; Hiding in our rooms, safe within our wombs, touching no one and letting none touch us. We’ve all done such a fine job of labeling organisations heretical that we’ve broken our contact within those groups supposing anyone who might be associated with them shares their same damning heresy. Perhaps I shouldn’t speak for “we”, but I don’t feel as though I speak alone. I hope and pray that if the Emergents only bring about a breakdown of denominationalism they will have served their role in the story as prophetic breakers. I don’t see the U.S. and U.K. Emergent movement as an end in itself (hence “emergent”), but I certainly believe they are going to help propel our white culture into the story that is rapidly becoming global Christianity. Do we believe in the holy catholic church like we affirm in our Apostle’s Creed? I hope we do.

These are my musings. I pray for a brave new world where we as Christians can come together and lay our fears aside and realize the prayer that Jesus prayed right before He was betrayed and crucified, “Father, I pray that they might be one, even as You and I are one.”

Best,

Nate

American Cuisine

Just some quick thoughts at 2:43 AM after a long night working in broadcast radio and after three beers at Piqua’s premier spot, Z’s (which really isn’t anything to write home about). So here you have it, my whimsical attempt at breaking down regional diets:

Northeast – Clam chowder, Boston baked beans, lager beer. We also love lobsters because their red, just like the Red Sox! Wicked awesome! The winters in New England can be harsh, and thus the dietary predilections of us folks in the Nor’East tend towards meals that are hearty, warm, and generally thick. Thick… like our accents… and our skulls.

Midwest – The turkey pot pie. The green bean casserole. The vegetable beef soup. The The utilitarian spirit of the Midwest lives on through our food. This thought graces the mind of each cook as she prepares the evening cuisine: “I don’t care how it looks, the real question is if it’s edible.” There aren’t any presentation points to be gained here; can it feed eight people and a dog? Can the leftovers be used to decorate the Christmas tree?

The South – Our diet is like cigarettes: Addicting and resulting in heart-disease. Our motto down here is, “If it ain’t be fryin’, we be cryin’!” Country-fried steak. Fried chicken. Fried potatoes. Fried fish. Fried corn fritters. Fried chittlins. And then there’s gravy, that famous Southern staple. Everyone in the South loves it, just like NASCAR. Rice and gravy. Biscuits and gravy. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Apple Jacks and gravy. And I could spend even more time on grits. Mmm! A Big! Buttery! Bowl! of Grits! They say the South will rise again. Well, we will… as soon as we can get our fat ass up from the table.

The West – We’re progressive out here on the Left Coast. We know that the rest of America is inferior and grossly ignorant when it comes to a proper dietary supplements. What most American’s don’t know is that God really designed humans to eat organic food, like soy beans. Sure, it tastes like spackling, but at least we’re not going to burn in hell! We also love sushi and tacos, and if we really feel like whipping up a culinary treat… fish tacos. If it comes from Japan or Mexico, it’s okay with us, kemo sabe, er, compadre.

An Unfinished Draft

The beer always loses it’s taste when you resume drinking after brushing your teeth. “Minty freshness” and “choice hops” are two phrases that are never marketed on the same package for obvious reasons.

I had what can only be described as a “hankerin’”. It wasn’t really rational, but I steered my car away from the city and redirected it on a northwestern course that I only assumed would take me in the direction I wanted to go. Usually I am pretty skitterish when choosing a restaurant, always afraid that I’ll walk in and won’t be in the right neighborhood, or will need to have a collar, or that they won’t serve my kind.
I thought of Grandpa, living the last few years of his life on this lake, eating at greasy little bars like this one,
I was totally alone on the road heading towards the setting sun, talking to an imaginary friend from some distant land who was sitting silently in my passenger seat as I explained to them, “This is central Shelby County.” Sometimes it’s a dead president, sometimes I’m catching Thomas Edison up to speed on the advances of the 21st century, sometimes it’s the apostle Paul, but mostly it’s a girl from England that I’ve brought home and who is discovering the Midwestern countryside for the fist time. Today it was her.
She doesn’t have a name or a face, and she never says anything back, but I go on nonetheless and tell her how certain roads, narrow and winding, cool and full of tall grasses and an unusual amount of fragrant pines, remind me of summers spent in northern Michigan. It’s her only reference point to what northern Michigan might be like, and I know that it’s not totally foreign to United Kingdom, but I hope she gets that sense of “this is like that” that I experience on roads such as the like.
And so it goes, being alone and being lonely, driving through beautiful summer evenings and being overwhelmed with feelings of wistfulness and sentiment, and at the same time needing to invent someone inside my mind to share them with.

I think the fact that she was making such small talk made me a bit nervous, and I drank my beer faster than usual and was already done with it before my food came.

“We’re talking about hamburgers. Are we really talking about the difference between a mom-and-pop hamburger and a fast food hamburger? Is she really looking me in the eye and talking about the wholesomeness of their hamburgers?” Because it seemed like she was as nervous as I was, otherwise we wouldn’t have been smiling at each talking about hamburgers.

Was I being flirted with, because it felt an awful lot like flirting. It seemed a world away from where I’ve been and it was rather surreal, considering the way I was looking, dressed

I curiously looked under the bill, politely placed face down under my beer bottle, and gave it a quick glance looking for a phone number I wouldn’t know what to do with anyway. But it wasn’t there.

She told me her name was Angel, and though I couldn’t immediately explain it, I was disappointed that she was given that name by her parents or whoever named her. She

She was attractive, like many girls in that area, who are of French and German descent. She had shoulder length blonde hair, that looked genuinely blonde, but I am usually a poor judge of hair character. She was wearing a small blue polo shirt, tight enough that it revealed that she possessed a less than buxom figure. But everything about her was very pleasant and I thought her to possess a certain charm

I have come to accept the fact that my progenitors, the Britons, are a fairly plain and common looking people, unimpressive in the face and blotchy in the skin. By God’s choice, for better or for worse, I am ¼ Scottish, ¼ Irish, ¼ English, and my surname is Welsh, though I think by ancestry I would legitimately be ¼ German, but none of this pertains to the story, except for the fact that I am rather plain looking man who

As I reached my billfold, pulled at ten and a few extra ones, I almost said out loud, “You are really crafty and you got me!”

Yet call me crazy for thinking it more than an extortion for a few extra dollars. People who are trying to pull money out of you say things like, “That’s a really nice shirt you have on,” or, “You have really pretty eyes,” not, “I have a few degrees that I want to put to work.”