The Practicality and Subjectivity of Language: (why Derrida was right, and why I’m happy about it)

Over the past few years, I’ve taught a lesson, slightly varied, on the subjective nature of language. Before the rambunctious youth enter the classroom, I write on the whiteboard: “I told you I didn’t take your money.” As the children file in, they notice the sentence; some ask questions, which I don’t answer. As the bell rings, I tell the students to look at the sentence on the board, and answer this question: What was the sentence/question, stated by a different second person, that spurred this response? In other words, why did our speaker say, “I told you I didn’t take your money”?

The students tend to stare at me blankly, not really understanding the point of the exercise. I prompt them to take out a pen and answer the questions in writing. They are confused because they find the statement innocuously clear. What they don’t understand is that their reading of the statement is actually only a single interpretation of at least five; but their minds take the first interpretation as the sole version.

The first few answers are usually like this: “Did you take the money?” or “Did you say you didn’t take the money?” These seem like obvious answers. Both of these could very well be proceeded by: “I told you I didn’t take your money.” I then inform these students that they unconsciously emphasized a word in the original sentence. They read the sentence as follows: a) “I told you I didn’t take your money,” as if the speaker is annoyed at having to repeat himself. I then proceed to underline a different word in the sentence, so it reads now: b) “I told you I didn’t take your money.” This reading of the sentence has a different meaning altogether, as if the speaker is implying that he took a different person’s money: the implication is that money was taken.

We continue the process, and by this time the students themselves start emphasizing different words out loud. They usually get boisterously excited, as if they are discovering their own intellectual prowess. Here are other ways of viewing the sentence: c) “I told you I didn’t take your money.” This sentence implies that the speaker has taken something of the second person, just not his money. d) “I told you I didn’t take your money.” This implies that the speaker may have told someone else a different story. e) “I told you I didn’t take your money.” This implies that the speaker hasn’t taken the money, but that he probably knows the person who has.

The moral of the lesson: The same sentence can mean five (at least) very different things. Some of the readings contradict one another, while others simply emphasize different things. I’ve used this lesson for two different purposes: 1) To show the importance of tone in reading. We need to recognize the general tone of a writer or character, as well as the context of the words, if we want to truly understand the meaning of a text. 2) To show how performance can and does affect the written word: a Shakespeare actor can play the character Iago different ways, perhaps contradicting a different interpretation, by simply choosing a specific tone of voice.

As I completed this lesson a few weeks ago, and my students paraded out of my room (already forgetting anything I ever taught) my mind drifted to the ideas of Derrida. The infamous linguist deconstructionist explored and explained the meaningless of language. I thought of my sentence, still in blue marker on my board. Here was what seemed to be a simple eight-word sentence: it’s clarity seemed obvious. However, it could mean at least five different things; and without anything but the words themselves, how is one to know to prefer one interpretation to another? I imagined Derrida in his legendary public debate, who approached the podium after his opponent presented his argument, and simply crowed like a bird. He said something to the effect of: “My words have as much meaning as my crowing, so what’s the point?” Then he stepped down from the podium, and left the room.

I thought of Derrida, the legend, and my sentence: How poor of a conduit of meaning is language! Even without shades of meaning, variations of connotations, and obscure grammar issues, I cannot write an eight-word sentence that really means one thing! But then I thought of Derrida’s words after the crowing. I understand them. I know how they apply to the situation.

As much as linguistic deconstructionists want to show the meaningless of language, it still retains its practical use. True, language is not objectively true, for it is not objective. Truth does not reside in language; instead, language does its best to act as a mouthpiece for truth. It is a means by which we can come to and learn truth – to communicate and debate truth. But like every tool, it has its limits. Not all truth can be expressed linguistically; and even the truth that we can express linguistically is not expressed in its fullness or entirety in words.

Far from making me depressed, this realization gives me peace. There are a few reasons for this. First, I think a certain amount of philosophic problems we deal with are simply linguistic problems, for reality and Truth necessarily cannot be broken down into the same categories as language is. For example, the Trinity. To simply say the God is three in one – that He is three Persons in one God – doesn’t make much linguistic sense. A secularist without Faith may validly call this nonsense. But Christians recognize that the reality and Truth of the Trinity resides outside of the statement “three in one.” The statement, while subjective and limited, points us to an important Truth: God does not exist alone. Even this linguistic construction does not capture the reality of it, for that is impossible.

Second, as much as I love language, I am glad that reality, truth, and beauty cannot be captured by it. I tell my students that poetry uses indirect language – metaphors, similes, imagery, etc. – because certain things and experiences, and often the greatest and most powerful of these, cannot be captured by language; and the closest we can come to capturing the reality of these things is through indirect language. For example, the simple metaphor “my anger is a volcano” is more apt to convey my experiential reality than a direct explanation of what is occurring in my brain when I am very angry. But the point is that even the metaphor can’t truly explain the experience of being extremely angry. And although this may have made me sad in the past, I am somehow very pleased that the reality of my experience, and the reality of God and the world around me, cannot be fully explained by the finite words of the English language – or any language for that matter.

Is True Demoncracy Open to the Duty of the True Catholic? (a study in the present homosexual-marriage debate)

This post is bound to be extremely and haphazardly unscientific, illogical, and just plain confusing. Bear with me, and do your best trying to decipher the important and meaning sentences or questions. Then, please, let me know what they are, for I’ve forgotten.

On a few occasions, I have voiced my concern that it is potentially impossible to be a good Catholic AND a good, democratic American simultaneously. When articulating this problem, I have been met with solid answers – answers that don’t make the two categories seem distinct. Therefore, I have recently been wracking my brain, trying to get at the root of my insistence on seeing Catholicism and democracy as, at least, complicated bedfellows.

For a while, I supposed my feelings were just that: feelings, and not based on any sort of objective argument. But I had a minor epiphany the other day. My problem arises from a very specific way of viewing democracy. I don’t know if my view of the sociopolitical system is correct or incorrect, but I am sure other people maintain it; and perhaps this is one of the reasons why a lot of secularists dislike anyone appealing to specific religious beliefs when considering our countries policies.

Here is the constructed version of a healthy democratic nation at work – the version I often uphold, right or wrong: If we could amicably discuss issues with one another, and lay out arguments as objectively and dispassionately as possible, we would come to similar conclusions about most issues, especially the moral ones. The problems and arguments arise from impassioned ignorance or illogical bigotry. Implied in this premise is the idea that we don’t need to appeal to specific religious beliefs.

Example, Abortion: If everyone understood the basic facts about abortion, we would agree that abortion should be illegal. And I stand by this: I think most pro-choice Americans, if they conceded the fact that abortion is actually killing a living human life, would be against it. There is no need to appeal to religious conviction or theological dogma. I’m sure you can apply this one argument to many others, and come to similar conclusions: When we lay out arguments side-by-side, with a disimpassioned desire to seek the most right decision, we would agree. Importantly, with abortion and other moral decisions, there is no need to appeal to religion.

As a man who structures his life on his faith, I often take this sort of sociopolitical stance because I believe in the ultimate truth of Christian-Catholicism; and I (naively?) think that sustained, honest thought and searching for truth will eventually lead to Truth, as expressed in the Person of Jesus Christ – even if it isn’t expressed as such.

But this line of thought falls apart with the gay-marriage issue. When I empathetically take the stance of a secular non-Christian man who is genuinely attracted to other men, I find the “natural law” reasons to sound empty and shallow. I couldn’t imagine seeing these reasons as anything but ignorant or bigoted. To truly understand why same-sex marriage is ultimately flawed, the foundational theology of the human person, as found in the Catholic Church, needs to be understood and believed. Perhaps it’s a lack of faith, but I don’t find that this foundational theology is easily accessible outside of true Faith. And I think the political scene backs up my point.

I think that most people that are against gay-marriage fall in 2 categories: 1) those, like me, who base their beliefs on theological grounds; and 2) truly bigoted people, who find the idea repulsive – but repulsive in the same way that they would have, 50 years ago, found interracial marriage repulsive. I’m not sure how many people are truth-seeking non-Christians, who simply find the idea of homosexuality, or homosexual marriage, intrinsically wrong, apart from pure emotional, sexual responses.

I know one problem with my reasoning is the fact that all moral issues need foundational theologies, including murder. So a person can say, “Yes, you need to understand Catholicism in order to understand the true backwardness of homosexuality; but you also need to understand Catholicism in order to understand the true backwardness of murder.” However, I guess my point is that murder is recognized by the majority (democracy is rule by the majority) as revolting, while homosexuality is not.

Of course, this entire argument is based on the presumption that we should not have important political positions based on specific religious beliefs; and I have, in the past, been OK with this idea, simply because I felt we should arrive at the important political positions that are semi-Christian because a search for truth is always a search for the Truth.

If I discard this presumption, I am met with eerily suggestion conclusions. For example, should I be fine with a Muslim basing all of his political decisions on his faith? Isn’t this what a lot of Christians are up-in-arms about in Europe and elsewhere? What if a good, well-meaning Muslim makes a political decision to try and remove certain rights of women, basing his decision on his faith? I think a lot of people would be upset about this. However, in many secularists’ viewpoints, that is exactly what Christians are doing by trying to deny homosexuals the right to marry. The Christian may say to the Muslim, “I’m fine with you using your faith in the ballot box, but not when your opinions take away rights from others.” Well, the secularist can say right back, “Your faith-based reasons against homosexual marriage also take away people’s rights.”

This deconstructive mess is giving me a headache. Let me end with two conclusions (even though they aren’t “conclusive”). 1) Should I not care at all that it seems impossible to convince a homosexual secular man that America, as a country, should be against his getting married to a man? If so, 2) doesn’t this take us places we don’t want to go? Example: a Muslim man voting against giving women the right to vote because he doesn’t see it as an intrinsic right, like we don’t see marriage to someone of the same sex as an intrinsic right? Or: A secular man voting for something he simply “believes,” such as voting against inter-racial marriage? Aren’t their foundations, according to American law, as solid as the Christian man’s appeal to theology to argue against homosexuality?

The mess ends here.

It seems to me that your last two posts both dealt with the same idea, that we comfortably live in the world of senses, utilizing and interacting with our spiritual nature, but accepting its reality only in the abstractest of ways. This is connected with an idea I've been kicking around for a while in connection with my history thesis. I find a common theme in my experience with Americans today: it seems there are a few groups. The faithful educated (ideal Catholics, but including other denominations, faiths and even the rare atheist like Camus): learns about human nature and God and the human experience through reason and history/tradition, which includes art and literature and religious scriptures (these obviously have more meaning to Catholics). The faithful uneducated: I don't want to use the term "uneducated" but it fits the matrix here; I mean uneducated about religious belief- people who accept Truth apart from reason. Such people can be very smart and terrific debaters, but I just don't get their goal (who cares if God made the world in 7x24 hours or 10 billion years?). The unfaithful educated: a small group of committed atheists. I don't know if I've really met any of these, but this group would include maybe Desmond Morris (The Naked Ape), scientists who believe in mere forces. The unfaithful uneducated: this is a popular group in universities; these people tend to collect in or near urban areas for their high density of Starbucks locations, where they can sip tall lattes and talk passionately about problems of human rights violations, global issues, religious bigotry and the US empire. This is the group I think that irritates me the most (they end up on TV commentary shows); they hijack the scientific work of the unfaithful educated, but accept the pleasant aspects of the educated faithful's anthropology. Then they whine.

I forget why I got onto this; Oh yeah! I think the unfaithful uneducated group are the ones pushing the materialistic worldview, thinking that their values and abhorrence for genocide comes out of science. They refuse to accept (or even look at) the monstrous results of a-morality, and decry religion as a stewpot of bigotry and violence.

To them I offer Camus, an atheist who was honest enough to recognize atheism's results: “In more ingenuous times, when the tyrant razed cities for his own greater glory, when the slave chained to the conqueror’s chariot was dragged through the rejoicing streets, when enemies were thrown to the wild beasts in front of the assembled people, the mind did not reel before such unabashed crimes, and judgment remained unclouded. But slave camps under the flag of freedom, massacres justified by philanthropy or by a taste for the superhuman, in one sense cripple judgment.”

The spiritual life is most important for personal growth and Love of the Lord and the full life, but even from an impersonal philosophical point of view, it is necessary for preserving human civilization.

The Practicality of the Supernatural: Why Getting to “The State of Grace” Takes Action and Actually Means Something

I do not spend enough quality time reflecting on and rejecting the lies I come to believe everyday simply living in the world. I don’t intend to expound upon “the whole world is an evil place” dogma trumpeted by certain well-meaning Catholics. Instead, I want to point out simply that we are bombarded by ideas and theories everyday; some are necessarily incorrect, for many of them contradict each other. They aren’t all evil; they are simply insufficient or incomplete. I watch movies, enjoy TV, read the news, read novels, etc – and beliefs about life, God, the world, and our purpose on this earth are expressed implicitly and explicitly throughout much of these.

I do not spend the necessary time weeding out and recognizing the falsity of much of these secular beliefs. Our prayer, relationships, the sacraments, and service are tools by which we realign ourselves with the Truth that is Christ. Regardless, I find myself accepting many beliefs unconsciously, and spending much time untangling the mess I consider my intellectual foundation.

Here is one example that stuck me as I was tiling the floor in the bathroom of my soon-to-be addition. The preface to this thought is my recent reading of Thomas Merton’s “7 Storey Mountain,” a fantastically brilliant read, one I recommend to everyone. In this autobiography, Merton discusses the spiritual life in such concrete and real terms, with such a belief in its reality. It is Merton’s clear-minded reflection on how his spiritual life affected and affects his physical and psychological life that has left such an impact on me. It was as I was tiling the bathroom floor, my hands raw and covered in grout, that I realized a serious untruth that I often maintain unconsciously: the idea that the spiritual life is somehow not as real or practical as physical life – or that is shouldn’t act in a similar fashion as the physical world – especially in relation to certain Catholic teachings.

For example, I find certain ideas to be extremely hard to grapple with, like “being in the state of grace” vs. “not being in the state of grace.” How is it that a person admitting his guilt and a priest saying a few prayers drastically affects reality? More to the point, if there is a difference, why does the change take a person performing formulaic rituals? Doesn’t God know everyone’s hearts? Why would He wait till you go to confession to forgive you and put you in the “state of grace?” Can’t he snap his fingers and make everything good?

What this line of thought presupposes is (besides the possible idea that “supernatural reality” is a silly idea) the belief that the supernatural order of existence exists completely on its own, with no relation to the physical world. Now I accept that my physical state of being – for simplicity’s sake, let me simply use the terms “being sick” and “healthy” – is real; and I accept that I need to do something in order to go from one state to the other. Or, if I get better without doing anything, then my body was fighting the sickness. Either way, I recognize that certain things need to be done in order for me to become well. So why don’t I believe that something needs to be done, perhaps even physically, for me to go to a different spiritual state of being.

Spending as much time as I do in the world that I inhabit, it is no wonder I have subconsciously accepted two interrelated beliefs: a) it’s nice and OK to talk about supernatural reality, but it isn’t as “real” as the physical world; b) if supernatural reality exists, then it can’t be connected at to physical reality. How much of what I watch, read, and discuss contradicts these lies?

But these beliefs are purported by people who spend their time consumed with the physical world – people who never look up or beyond what lies physically in their paths. It is no wonder they hold these beliefs to be self-evident; but what is my excuse? I guess my excuse is my desire not to be over-spiritual. I don’t want to consult Jesus on what flavor of ice cream I will have for dessert. But in my hasty longing to avoid super-spirituality, I have lost much of my grasp on spirituality in general.

Why is it crazy to think that there are spiritual states of being, such as there are states of water or other physical matter? If anything, the spiritual life is more real than the physical life (although I write this with a suspicious look of confusion on my face). Furthermore, why is crazy for me to think that aspects of spiritual life are affected by the physical life? Continuing, why is it crazy to think that the Creator of all intended for the two to interact in real and awesome ways? So it isn’t a stretch to think that there is a real physical and spiritual purpose in the act of confessing your sins and the prayers of the confessor afterwards.

I need to remind myself continually to reflect upon the beliefs I unconsciously absorb through my daily life.

The Loss of Philosophical Language in the Modern World: Why We Need to Relearn Aquinas

The other day, as I hopped in my car and flipped on the radio, I was introduced to four of five people amicably discussing the Proposition Eight in California debate on NPR. In their intellectual (and often nasal) tones of voice, they were outlining the present court case. They were diligently exploring the prosecution’s argument, while rather blithely rejecting the defense’s foundation. (Thank you, NPR.) Two things struck me as the speakers droned on. I will take this post to outline the first.

One of the speakers brought up the “procreative” argument against gay-marriage. Of course, she brought it up simply so she could mock it roundly. She began by paraphrasing the judge on the case as saying something to the extent of: “the last couple I married were both between the ages of 84 and 91; I don’t think there is going to be much procreation going on there.” (Mental image: Delete. Empty Recycle Bin. Thank you.) This is the common rebuttal to the “procreative” argument that states that gay couples can’t have kids: well, sterile couples and old couples can’t have children; and therefore, they have the same procreative potential as a gay couple. We allow sterile couples to marry; why don’t we allow gay couples?

I’ll admit that this rebuttal often has me scratching my head. There’s a simplicity to it that seems difficult to overcome, and as I was listening to the radio, I tried hard to find the proper response. My mind went immediately to the idea of a heterosexual couple being “ordered toward procreation,” even if they can’t or won’t have children. I directly cast this thought from my head for two reasons: 1) It would be scoffed at by supporters of gay-marriage, labeled as pointless intellectual obfuscation. 2) I wasn’t exactly sure how “practical” this abstract idea was. Then I had a mini-revelation: We distrust philosophical concepts that seem abstract because we think the abstract is somehow disconnected from reality. Well, this just isn’t the case.

To say that a heterosexual marriage is ordered toward procreation – independent of sterility, conjugal relations, intention, or age – does in fact hold meaning. But much of the modern world seems to be completely ignorant of philosophic terms – and, as such, cannot grasp this reality. “Being ordered toward procreation” becomes a meaningless term, since anything stated conceptually is misunderstood. And much of the rest of the modern world that isn’t ignorant is suspicious of these philosophic terms; to them, it rings too much of medievalism scholasticism: it’s too pre-Enlightenment and Descartes. And to others, a term like this is simply an abstract concept used to justify bigoted beliefs already held. Last, it can be argued that abstract concepts have no real place in practical, physical life.

However, my study of Thomism (and it is so little it is laughable) at the very least allows me to remember that, like Aristotle, Aquinas believed in the connection of body and soul. They perhaps can be discussed as separate terms, but they coexist. Therefore, abstract philosophic universals – like “heterosexual marriage is ordered toward procreation” – exists both in theory, but also in physical reality.

There is a physical procreative difference between the elderly couple the judge mentioned and a gay couple. In the same sense, there is a procreative similarity between the elderly couple that cannot have children and a heterosexual couple that is actively procreating.

I realize that I am not exploring fully the term “ordered toward procreation,” but that’s not the point of my revelation. The point I realized in my car the other day as the NPR speaker scoffed at “procreative argument” against gay-marriage, was that our modern world is sorely missing its education in philosophy. Most of the world is ignorant or suspicious of its relevance to physical life; and this is an awful fact. Perhaps it is only when we begin to understand the practicality, relevance, beauty, and importance of understanding the purpose and truth of philosophy that we will be able to understand the reality behind certain politic arguments.

Can God have NOT created the universe?

I’m not sure the answer to this question can be or is known; nor am I sure it is important. But perhaps it is known; perhaps it is important.

Can God have NOT created the universe? Isn’t it his very essence to be self-giving? Can He be anything but what His essence requires?

Abortion, Interconnectedness, Freedom, and Egalitarianism

The full, true pro-life argument rests on the interconnectedness of humanity (Basil’s communion theology); in the process, it rejects the radical freedom and complete egalitarianism that the modern world holds in such high esteem.

The pro-lifer usually stands by the (good) argument “no one has a right to kill,” while the pro-choicer’s go-to statement is “no one has a right to tell me what to do with my body.” Attempting to be as empathetic as possible, I truly entered the argument of the pro-choicer. From that perspective, the woman is not choosing to kill the child, even if we accept that it is a child. The woman is instead choosing to treat her body in such a way that may lead to the death of the embryo/child. In ethics, we can make these sorts of distinctions. Now, I know that there is a difference between an action that directly leads to a person’s death and one that indirectly does so, and that there is a moral difference between the two. However, it could be argued that the pregnant woman is NOT choosing to kill the child, but to treat her body in such a way that she has a right to – and that the death of the embryo/child is secondary. If you immerse yourself in this side of the argument, it doesn’t matter whether or not the embryo is a child or not, for there is no direct killing involved.

Stay with this mindset for a moment more: If abortion is illegal, then you are requiring a woman to give up 9 months of her life for the sake of someone else, someone she doesn’t have any duty toward. Accepting this reality would be preposterous.

I have come to this conclusion of late, and I’m not a 100% sure I believe it yet: What is behind the pro-life debate is not as much whether or not the embryo is alive – although I think this would help the legal side of the battle, as well as many or most peoples’ reaction to the act of abortion – but instead the fact that human life is interconnected. I can have a duty to a human being without choosing it. I do not have the supreme, extreme freedom that the modern world so desperately assigns to the human individual.

Coupled with this ideal of freedom is the ideal of egalitarianism. For if we accept the pro-life argument, we are (according to one way of thinking) saying “men are more free than women.” And in one sense, we are.

Until the interconnectedness of human life can be established, and the myths of hyper-freedom and hyper-egalitarianism dispelled, the pro-life argument can’t reach the ears of the pro-choicer.

I can't wait for tomorrow! I'm gonna get to bed early, so it comes sooner!

PAUSE!! [still-frame of a churl, arrayed in pajamas, midway through a leap into his luxurious matted rushes] To an observer (moving at the same constant velocity as the churl--and I don't know why our subject is a twelfth century peasant) who stays up all night to check, morning does NOT come sooner. BUT, to the churl ... well, does it? It seems the moment he lays his dear unwashed cap onto the straw the rooster's cock-a-doodle and the movements of the livestock lying next to him wake him up: the new day has arrived!

What on earth is going on here? What absurd amnesia! To our observer, its as though the peasant had said, "In five minutes, the goodwife is going to bring me some hot cider 'n' brandy; I want it now, so I shall close my eyes and travel to the future" and closed his eyes for five minutes, opened them, and declared "Oh good, it worked! [In sooth, it hath surely worketh!]." What should our observer think? He sees one continuous person (body?) the whole time.

Does the sleeper experience the normal course of time, and then retro-actively experience the time-warp? How closely is my wakeful consciousness tied to my person? Without memory, my own actions might not seem to be 'mine' at least in the present. Consciousness seems very closely tied, for it is in wakefulness that I relate with other persons...I think. On the other hand, maybe this slumbering personhood is a deeper window into what a person is, or maybe the waking perception of time is too narrow.

I'm drifting now, because I actually am heading to bed, so I leave off this incoherent rambling in the hopes I may have sparked the interest of a mind better held together.