20 June 2016

Clueless Clown Blames Others for his own Ignorance of English


S
ome clown writing for something called the Daily Caller (shouldn’t that be the Daily Howler?) is so ignorant of the English language that he thought the common expression for good meant for the better rather than forever. I know English is hard, but I’d have a lot more respect for the guy if he simply admitted that he’d screwed up, rather than attack the people who pointed out his idiotic mistake.
Let me just say this to this Peter Hasson guy—look, I don’t know how long you’ve been in this country, or where you’re getting your English-as-a-second-language instruction from, but you need to work harder at it, especially if you intend to continue writing in our language. Don’t blow your top when you make a dumbass mistake, but rather make an effort to learn from others who actually know how the language is spoken. And don’t attack people who point out your stupidity—it just makes you look like even more of an idiot that you did already.
Oh, yeah—you owe the person you attacked based on your own fucking error a heartfelt and abject apology. That’s just for your credibility, by the bye. Always assuming you give a shit how you look, of course.

15 June 2016

A Look Ahead to 1973


[The following piece appeared in the San Francisco Post on 8 April 1873. This is the only installment to appear in the extant issues.]
“C
an you come and dine with me?”
“Impossible, I assure you. I have an engagement in Fifth avenue at 5 o’clock, sharp, and it is now close on 3 by the electric clock of the floating tabernacle.”
The above conversation took place at the World Exchange, California street, in the month of May, in the year 1973. The youth who required his friend’s presence at the dinner table was one of those gay sons of fortune, who owned half a dozen balloons of various patterns, steam and air, and who one day speculating in the mining stocks of the newly discovered mines of Japan, and the next buying easily into aerial navigation shares in New York, and the double speed howitzer Postal Transfer Stock, the central depot of which was located in the Floating Sea Bathing and Resuscitation Resort, just half way between London and New York, and situated in a sequestered quarter of the Atlantic ocean, found himself in a few months a millionaire.
Augustus Henry Cacklton, however, consented to neglect his engagement at the house of a wealthy Knickerbocker to enjoy a quiet dinner, five thousand feet above the land level, with his friend Charles Spoonwell.
The fathers of both young men had speculated in the Flash Package Express Company’s shares, which sent ore, baggage and other light articles to European ports by submarine Atlantic stations.
Young Cacklton, when quite a boy, and just having graduated from the General information and foreign Historical Acquisition College, entered into the business of his parent with enthusiasm, and soon became an expert in submarine surveys. His chum Spoonwell was often invited to join in the favorite pastime of the period, namely, discharging iron bolts at the bellies of the leviathans that frequently came so near to the submarine stations as to endanger the safety of the freight that was passing and repassing on the rolling tracks of the company.
It was a gala day in San Francisco. For many hundred yards above the city, floated balloons of various colors and patterns, and the air was dense with the forms of flying traders, who, laden with burdens of wine and sweetmeats, proffered their dainties at every poised dining palace. Occasionally an Asiatic or European mass of holiday seekers floated by, many miles above the ordinary level, and sometimes the occupants of those gorgeous resorts recognizing an acquaintance, dropped down parachutically to exchange a few words of greeting with their California friends. Sometimes, one of the many beautiful island kingdoms of the period, changing its resting place from tropical seas to a more temporate clime, glided by in the soft evening air, supported by thousands of willing winged subjects, and followed by the careless idlers from all quarters of the globe, who had dined, or who were endeavoring by this exercise to acquire a good appetite for the principal meal of the day.
As Cacklton and his friend sat together, enjoying a course of tonno, which had come a few moments before from the Adriatic, the latter seemed to be under the influence of a profound melancholy.
“What is the matter?” asked Harry, carelessly shaking the ashes of a cigarette into St. George’s Channel; for the young men, having been caught in a strong current of air, had imperceptibly floated some five miles above those waters.
“I could hardly explain it to you, my dear fellow,” rejoined the other; “but I assure you, it is nothing serious—merely one of those unaccountable affections of the heart which proceed from unknown sources. Well, to be candid, a few months ago I became enamored of—now I know you will smile—of a mermaid waiting girl in an eating saloon on the submarine route, just fifteen hundred miles from New York. Of course, my dear boy, I was careful not to make any demonstrative display of my affection; but then, you know how a fellow will trip sometimes. I brought with me to the station a fancy submarine Patent Floater and Water Foamer, and as society was very flat down there, why we often had a quiet ride together.”
“So, so,” laughed the auditor of this romance. “I can imagine the rest. She accompanied you on the shark hunts, of course, and together you looked for pearls in oysters.”
“Well, something of that sort,” acknowledged Spoonwell; “but the climax of the affair came to pass when one day, while I was spearing sword fish, my air pipe, which you know was always connected with the main reservoir, broke; and, I assure you, my friend, I would have been inevitably smothered but for the presence of mind of my companion. She connected the broken portions at once, and carried me on her tail fin, half fainting, to the depot.”
“Quite a romance, indeed,” laughed the other; “but, hallo! who have we here?”
At that moment an elegantly constructed air chariot drew up by the veranda of the dining saloon, where the two young men were seated. Both vehicles were at this time immediately over the Sea of Galilee, and the white walls of Jerusalem gleamed in the distance. A lady in the prime of life, and with a parachute attached to her ankles, in case of accident, stood up on a beautifully embroidered cushion and said, in a clear and liquid voice:
“Your pardon, gentlemen, but having several hours ago departed from a broken arch of London bridge, from which I was engaged in sketching the ruins of St. Paul’s, and having in the meantime been overcome by sleep, I am completely bewildered as to my whereabouts. May I inquire if that sheet of water some miles below us is the lower lake of Killarney, as I am inclined to believe, or the Mediterranean, as some of my attendants would persuade me?”
The young men, bowing gracefully, informed her that it was the Sea of Galilee, and the gorgeous balloon pursued its way.
“Suppose,” said Cacklton, after a long pause, “we change our course, and run into yonder cloud. My supply of electricity is running rather short, and I want to get this tube charged in case we should run across an eagle.”
“As you like,” responded his friend, and in a moment they were in the center of a dark nebulous mass, from which the active attendants of the youths, rapidly extracted a large supply of sheet lightning for the popular sport of eagle shooting, a common amusement of the young bloods of the day.
 As they passed from the gloom, the sun was just setting over the imposing minarets of Constantinople.
 “In an hour,” remarked Spoonwell, “we shall be in San Francisco. But, hallo?” he added, as a newsboy, with the clipper constructed wings of the period, flew by, flinging dexterously into their car, as he passed them, the last edition of the evening paper.
 “I am anxious to see that sparring match between the wives of two of our excellent townsmen. They tell me Mrs. Judkin has been a long time in training.”
 “Dear me, and what an excellent muscle she has. Her husband is one of the best milliners in town, too.”
 As the gorgeous dining car hovered over San Francisco, Cacklton settled the bill, and the young men, arranging their parachutes, dropped swiftly down through the several thousand feet of space between them and the earth. Already the citizens of that gay town were preparing to enjoy the delicious moonlight. Some on gayly colored wings with silken lanterns pendant on each side, poised themselves on the housetops, or found amusement in making descents through skylights into the dwellings of their familiar friends. Others, in hired air cars or fancy balloons of their own, awaited impatiently the coming forth of the damsel whose presence was to make the ride so agreeable. And then as the evening wore on and the air cars shot upward, the sky seemed traversed by innumerable comets, and the whole scene was one of wonderful splendor and vivacity.
 As Cacklton and his friend picked their way through the ropes that held the swelling balloon to earth, a city messenger flew up and descended by the side of the former gentleman.
 “Mr. Spoonwell?” he inquired, with a respectful shake of his rear steering tail.
 “The same; what is it?”
 “Just by the shores of Goat Island Cemetery, where all the great monopolists of antiquity lie buried, a lady who just arrived from the Gulf of Tartary, awaits your presence.”
 “A sea lady, I understand you to say?”
 “Yes sir; but,” added the messenger, knowingly, “with the most beautiful eyes and scales I ever beheld.”
 Spoonwell scowled at this impertinence, and stopped to take leave of his friend.
 “Can you believe,” he said, on parting, “that our ancestors were so lamentably ignorant, as to consider the glimmering of truth then beginning to dawn on them as the grossest superstition, and to regard the idea of submarine beings with almost similar forms and similar tastes to ours, as the wildest of myths? But, farewell. If my suspicions are correct about this rendezvous, I shall have to travel all night in order to breakfast on the banks of the Amour river. Adieu!”
 What befel him shall be made the subject of the next chapter.

15 May 2016

Recycled Apologetics: Brant Pitre's The Case for Jesus


I
’d intended to review Brant Pitre’s The Case for Jesus: The Biblical and Historical Evidence for Christ (Image, 2016) here at Rational Rant, but I’ve run out of time, and I’m not really that interested as things turn out. I had thought from the title that Dr. Pitre would be dealing with the inanities of the mythicists—those nuts who think that a reasonable case can be made for Jesus as a purely fictional character—but it turns out not so much. He is asking, rather, “Did Jesus of Nazareth claim to be God?”
Dr. Pitre’s answer is yes. To make his case he recycles the arguments of Paley and McIlvaine yet another time—the gospels are reliable because they were written either by eyewitnesses (Matthew, John) or by people who had followed the apostles (Mark, Luke), and so it’s all just a matter of reading what they say and applying it, and so on and so forth ad nauseam. And yes, Dr. Pitre does hold an actual doctorate from a real university, which makes it all the more puzzling that he writes like a clever undergrad who has just discovered J. A. T. Robinson’s Redating the New Testament and thinks the Bishop of Woolworth’s has a point. Yes, the book is that bad, or that good, depending I suppose on how you look at it.
Looking at this particular glass as being half full, Dr. Pitre conducts his flimflam with flair, and the casual reader may not notice the bait-and-switch tactics he employs against his straw men. On the half-empty side, none of this is particularly new, and Dr. Pitre has the annoying habit of simply asserting things when he ought to be laying out evidence for them—for example that the titles of the gospels necessarily imply authorship claims, or that legendary material about Jesus was taught formally, rather than transmitted informally.
One of the historical puzzles about the gospels—bear with me here, this is a digression but a necessary one—is the failure of first and second century writers to mention them by name even when apparently quoting from them. Justin Martyr (middle of the second century) refers to them vaguely as the memoirs of the apostles, but it is not until the end of the second century that Irenaeus refers to them by their present names—and his description makes it clear that he is referring to our extant gospels. This fairly significant gap caused a number of nineteenth-century writers to infer that the gospels themselves did not exist until late in the second century—but manuscript discoveries, examination of the text of the gospels, and close analysis of second century writers seem to rule that out.
Assuming these conclusions are warranted, how then do we account for the discrepancy? One explanation is that when the gospels circulated individually they were without distinctive titles, perhaps being called something simple like “The Gospel” or “The Gospel of Jesus Christ” (as in the beginning of Mark). Only when the four were included together in the fourfold gospel canon was it necessary to provide them with clearly distinctive names, and so it is that the first author to clearly attest the fourfold gospel is also the first to clearly refer to them by name.
Now Brant Pitre, for whatever reason, wishes to argue that the gospels never circulated sans title. He seems to imagine that this would be a point in favor of their reliability—although nothing is easier than to add a phony claim of authenticity to a forgery, if that’s what he’s trying to forestall. (Consider, for example, that William Henry Ireland’s Vortigern came complete with a short preface signed by William Shakespeare.) Naturally, you’d expect him to give some alternate explanation for the echoing silence from the first and second centuries.
As my father used to say, you may expect anything, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. And in this case we sure as hell don’t. Instead we’re treated to a little song and dance about how copies of the gospels—the gospels included in the fourfold canon to boot!—all have titles. To bulk up his list he makes a point of including Sinaiticus and Vaticanus four times each, once for each appearance of one of the four. The total irrelevance of this “evidence” doesn’t seem to faze him in the least.
And the pattern continues throughout. Dr. Pitre expends a good many pages on the “traditional” view of the authorship of the four gospels—how Matthew the tax-collector wrote the first of them in Hebrew, and it was translated into Greek later on; how Mark used to follow Peter around writing down whatever he said about Jesus, not necessarily getting it in the right order but trying to neither omit anything or add anything to the account; how Luke was Paul’s travelling-companion and wrote his gospel while Paul was still alive; how John dictated his gospel to somebody or other late in his life.
This is a lot of fun, needless to say, but it is also the rankest kind of hearsay. People like Tertullian, Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, writing a century or more after the gospels are supposed to have been written, are our informants, and none of them tell us how they know. This isn’t just a lame “were you there?” sort of thing; it’s important in evaluating traditions to have some idea of where they came from, and how the original informant came by them.
For two of these attributions we have a relatively early source, sort of. A man named Papias, whose hobby was collecting traditions from people who had known people who had known Jesus and assembling them into a book, recorded (probably at some time during the first half of the second century) that an unnamed elder had told him that he had heard that Matthew had written his account in Hebrew characters, and that Mark had been Peter’s interpreter and written down what he said. This is not especially solid, given that Papias didn’t tell us anything useful about this elder, and this elder gives no authority or source for his claims except a vague tradition, but for antiquity it’s not all that bad. I mean, it’s horrible, but plenty of times we have to hang our historical hats on flimsier hooks than this.
But there are two ways when it comes to evidence concerning authorship: there is the way of relying on the mere word of ancient writers, and there is the way of examining the evidence for ourselves. Ideally these should point us in the same direction—if ancient writers say that The Birds was written by the comic playwright Aristophanes, if collections include the play among his works, then we should find the language, appearance, and historical situation of the piece consistent with his authorship. If instead of a play in ancient Greek we found we were examining a laundry list in Sanskrit, we would have reason to be skeptical—either that the ancient writers didn’t know what they were talking about, or that what we have isn’t what they were looking at.
And that’s the problem with the four canonical gospels. They don’t read like eyewitness accounts, but rather like anonymous compendia of semi-random fragments. This was noted even in antiquity by Faustus of Mileve:
But, besides this, we shall find that it is not Matthew that has imposed upon us, but some one else under his name, as is evident from the indirect style of the narrative. Thus we read: "As Jesus passed by, He saw a man, named Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom, and called him; and he immediately rose up, and followed Him." No one writing of himself would say, “He saw a man, and called him; and he followed Him;” but, “He saw me, and called me, and I followed Him.” Evidently this was written not by Matthew himself, but by some one else under his name. [Augustine, Contra Faustum, XVII 1]
And in fact not only does Matthew not appear to have been written by an eyewitness, it shows no sign of having been written in Hebrew (or even Aramaic). Mark could have had a Petrine source, maybe, but close analysis doesn’t suggest any substantial contribution if so. And John looks like a dialog created by slicing up some treatise by inserting questions, rather in the manner that The Sophia of Jesus Christ was created by slicing up the treatise of Eugnostos the Blessed.
So how does Dr. Pitre deal with this issue? He dismisses the evidence we can actually see for ourselves—at least if we have the patience to actually examine the documents in question—as speculative while elevating the late and remote testimony of the likes of Irenaeus to a primary position.
Very well, then, if we are supposed to accept this out-and-out hearsay from anonymous sources as definitive, what is Dr. Pitre’s explanation for the clear contradiction between the evidence of the documents and the ancient claims? That turns out to be simple: he makes no effort whatsoever. On page 97 he declares that the problem of the interrelationship of the gospels is insoluble, and moves on.
This is the point where I (metaphorically) hurled the book across the room before stamping on it and tossing it into the chipper. I mean, if you have no solution, however tentative, to the synoptic problem then you have no business writing jack about the historical Jesus. No business at all. That solution is the key to writing anything of consequence—no, anything at all—about Jesus and his place in history.
Everything of importance that we can say about the life and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth comes from the synoptic gospels. For us to evaluate the material appropriately we must have some notion of just what the hell we’re looking at. Are they eye-witness accounts, or careful historical narratives based on such accounts, or reminiscences made long after the events, or grab-bags of traditional information, or myth disguised as history, or what?
Dr. Pitre likes to ramble on about how such things as Markan priority or the Q hypothesis are not facts, but one thing that is a fact, no matter how you dance around it, is the close literary relationship between Matthew and Mark. Either Mark is a kind of peculiar reduction of Matthew, as Augustine suggested, or Matthew is an expansion of Mark as practically everybody who has ever tried to come to grips with the problem has concluded. In the first case the traditional claim about Mark following Peter around and writing down what he said goes up in flame like gasoline-soaked newspaper on a hot summer day. In the second case that whole little set-piece about Matthew (an eyewitness) writing down what he remembered in Hebrew gets blown away like a cobweb in a hurricane. And, of course, technically both gospels could be dependent on a hypothetical third document, in which case both of them are dead on arrival.
With a coherent explanation of the relationship among the gospels (such as the classic two-source hypothesis) we can at least make informed decisions about the material. In some cases we can even go behind the extant material, as is the case with Q[1], the hypothetical second source (the first is Mark) behind the sayings common to Matthew and Luke. Without such an explanation, all we can do is throw up our hands in despair, and either retreat into a naïve Mythicism or an abject credulity, the second being apparently Dr. Pitre’s choice.
I tried hard to come up with nice things to say about The Case for Jesus. I really like the writing style and the breezy way he negotiates a difficult topic. And it’s downright nostalgic revisiting these musty arguments, like taking a boat-ride through a Disney version of nineteenth-century apologetics. It’s a useful reminder that there is a conservative case for Jesus to be made, and it would be nice to see a forceful statement of that case. Unfortunately, this book aint it.

[1] Brant Pitre and I seem to have had opposite experiences in the search for Q. He started out as a die-hard believer; I started out as a die-hard skeptic. He was converted on reading Mark Goodacre’s book; I was slowly convinced of its (partial) reality by years of grappling with the texts themselves—though taking Dr. James Robinson’s class in Q back in the early eighties shook me up considerably. In my experience any hypothesis postulating Luke’s dependence on Matthew is a non-starter, anyway.

12 April 2016

Dumbasininity of the Day


[T]
he possession of a penis or, more fundamentally, the inheritance of the XY chromosome, is inalienably connected to maleness. As a statement, this seems to me biologically unexceptional.—Ian McEwan
[Letter to The Guardian, 6 April 2016]

08 April 2016

Dumbasininity of the Day


T
hose of us who realize the value of Christian history in American society are disappointed Governor Otter vetoed SB 1342. This bill validated appropriate use of the Bible as a reference in public schools. Although 81% of Idaho’s legislators supported the bill, and a resolution affirming its content passed the GOP convention with a near unanimous vote, Governor Otter chose to say ‘no’ anyway. A prosperous civilization needs a foundation. People with last names like Washington, Adams, and Madison blatantly identified the Bible as that reference point. They feared not having it would result in corruption and misuse of taxpayer funds. Are they right?— Sheryl Nuxoll
[“ACLU of Idaho commends Governor Otter on veto of SB 1342a,” Clearwater Tribune, 6 April 2016. Sheryl Nuxoll was the sponsor of the bill, which would have encouraged schools to use the bible as a textbook in such irrelevant subjects as music, geography, and (believe it or not) history.]

23 March 2016

Quotation of the Day


I
n his blithe assertions that he can solve any problem just by the sheer might and glory of his presence, Donald Trump is no aberration. He’s the logical culmination of this trend. Really, how is curing diabetes with cinnamon, or building your own solar panels in your garage, any different from building a big, beautiful border wall and making Mexico pay for it? They may differ in scale, but all these ideas trade off the fantasy that there are easy, one-size-fits-all solutions to big, complex problems.
The Republican establishment has worked hard for a generation to foster this way of thinking, teaching their voters to scorn complexity and distrust expertise. Whether it’s ending teen pregnancy and STDs by just telling kids not to have sex, or ending crime and violence by bringing back prayer in schools, or curing poverty by pushing poor people into marriage, or unleashing massive economic growth simply by cutting taxes on the super-rich—all these ideas are conventionally respectable, but they partake of the same mode of magical, unicausal thinking. In exploiting this mindset, Trump is merely walking through a door that generations of GOP leaders have left wide open.—Adam Lee
[“How the Right-Wing Scam Economy Created Donald Trump,” Daylight Atheism, 23 March 2016]

13 February 2016

Antonin Scalia (1936–2016)


A
ntonin Gregory Scalia (1936–2016) has slipped from the realm of life to take his proper place as an irrelevant historical footnote, a man whose blistering dissents will long be quoted as examples of the foolish and demented views held in bygone times. The living embodiment of the crazy old guy yelling at kids to get off his lawn—except that in Scalia’s case the kids were mostly imaginary as well—Scalia celebrated the oppression of minorities, the suppression of unpopular views, and the use of the machinery of government to enforce religious conformity. Finding himself living in a country he no longer recognized, dazed and bewildered by the current of popular opinion sweeping past him, he hissed and struck like a serpent caught in a flash flood. He ranted of sodomy and of the courts usurping the lawmaking power and of how there was just once race in America—and he understood very well which race that was. No minority citizen had any rights that a heterosexual Christian was bound to respect. He and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi would have understood one another well, past their skin-deep theological differences.
So farewell, crazy old guy. Whether as fool or object lesson you will not be forgotten by posterity. You will receive the usual tributes of the position—your words will be cited to show what idiots we all were in these benighted times, and your thoughts will be intermingled with equally inane things you never said. Your face will be the malignant face of our age, and our cultural descendants will spit on it, and us along with it. It’s too bad—but then, we should have known better than to elevate a guy like you to a position of authority. We probably have it coming.
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