When What Jesus Would Do Clearly Won't

I recently involved myself in a Facebook discussion on the subject of "Happy Holidays" overtaking "Merry Christmas" as a standard yuletide greeting in the United States. The owner of the profile sent us packing just as I thought things were really getting interesting. I could just make out on the horizon the meeting place of minds, after arriving at which the various posters might actually start understanding one another's points. Mine was that you shouldn't allow yourself to be pressured into issuing homogonized compromise salutations, but that you also shouldn't be upset about the greetings you receive from others—especially if they are sincere wishes for your happiness, as the sentiment should trump the wording.

Also, I was angling for some acknowledgment that it wasn't my fault, as at one point I felt things were heading in a blame the filthy atheists direction. The filthy atheists as one pointed the finger at capitalism. See last year's Christmas post.

While banging out a scathing rebuttal of something or another, I struck upon the idea of applying the "What Would Jesus Do?" test to the question of choice of holiday greeting. It seemed to me that, for Jesus, "Merry Christmas" would be a really weird thing to say to people. From him, it seems a tad self-centered, somewhat comparable, perhaps, to people who go around wishing others "Happy My Birthday!"

Clearly, then, there is a point at which what Jesus would do is too personal to do anyone seeking to emulate his behavior any good. For example, if I was in Heaven and met the Virgin Mary, I wouldn't want to look to Jesus for what to do. It might not be good form to say "Hi Mom!" and give her a big hug when it's only the first time we've met.

And Another Thing...

I placed a request on the new Hitchhiker's novel. Check out my initial position in the hold queue!

The thing that has made me happiest about this book so far (we'll see if that changes after reading it) is a last minute change to the cover design that demonstrates the level of respect the folks behind this volume have for Hitchhiker's creator Douglas Adams: the pre-release images of the cover art say "Douglas Adams'" at the top; someone caught this and had it changed to "Adams's" before the books hit shelves.

Secret Grafitti [sic]

I love secrets, don't you? Does anybody else think the double T could actually be the Greek letter Pi?

In Order to Forge More Unions (Possibly Perfect, but I Doubt It)

Gay marriage seems like a pretty straightforward proposition to me: the only argument against it is religious and therefore should not be imposed on anyone who happens to believe differently (if we're keeping the state out of religion and vice versa and we believe in allowing everyone the freedom to believe what they will). It's not a particularly exciting or emotionally charged issue for me, as from my perspective it boils down largely to a matter of income tax filing statuses. You can save quite a bit of dough by filing a joint return, though; it almost amounts to a tax on homosexual cohabitation.

It's clear to me that taxpayers should be able to mark the box that best corresponds to their living arrangements, regardless of sexual orientation or religious affiliation. The question is, if they were, would it make it any less possible for the people who say that they shouldn't to carry on living their lives in the manner that they believe they are meant to? My immediate reaction is no, as it is vital to the preservation of religious freedom that the government not recognize an argument that would force it to endorse a particular view of God. It occurs to me, however, that as mainstream acceptance of homosexual unions develops, religious organizations that do not recognize gay marriage may find themselves under enormous societal pressure to bring themselves up to date.

My first thought is, "Well, thank God for that!" and wouldn't it be nice if mainstream acceptance of rationality could elbow religion out altogether while we're at it. While I have no sympathy with those who desire to impose their views on others, I still occasionally (erm, fine, OK—often) find myself wishing that some group with views antithetical to my own would just wake up and smell things my way. It's no good, however, to use the cause of religious freedom to negate the argument against gay marriage and then to turn a blind eye (or even a jubilant one) to the collapse of a religious tradition simply because it is at odds with one's own (obviously much more enlightened and, well, better) views.

It's a neat trick to ensure that everyone's rights, both religious and civil, are respected. One problem is that some people get it into their heads that religious freedom means that they can belong to any church they might choose; it doesn't. Religious freedom means that people with similar beliefs can organize into groups and gather publicly to celebrate those beliefs, even if said beliefs run counter to common sense, societal norms, or the law (though religious affiliation doesn't allow, in most cases, the ability to actually break the laws that are found objectionable). Protecting religious freedom means protecting the rights of churches to exclude homosexuals (and any others they might find undesirable). Marriage laws of any kind restrict a religious group's freedom to practice their beliefs. While the movement against gay marriage has religious roots, I suspect that quite a number of churches would very happily provide such services (the ones with gay clergy seem like an obvious bet, but you can never be too sure with religion).

If the desired end result is to maximize religious freedom, government needs to get out of the marriage business altogether. This could either mean no special tax statuses for couples at all, or it could mean that only government licensed civil unions, available to any couple, would be recognized for such purposes; marriage would be between a couple and their God and of no concern to Uncle Sam. While some sort of age-of-consent laws would likely still be necessary, churches would be free to marry (or refuse to marry) any couple (or larger group) they pleased to. Being married would be like being baptized or confirmed: of great significance within ones own religious community but of absolutely no (or at least considerably less) significance to society as a whole. Existing marriages would be grandfathered in as civil unions, probably with an option to opt-out in writing within a certain time frame. Homosexuals would be free to marry in any church open to marrying them; they would also be able to claim any government mandated benefits granted to committed couples (doing both would probably entail two separate trips, though). The right of religion to exclude all those it deems unfit must, however, be upheld.

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I came across this while writing the above post: Dobrich: The Growing Subculture of Religious Exclusion and Prejudice in Public Schools. I thought it was quite interesting; that's why I'm putting up the link.

Poll Results

I am emphatically in favor of Pay Period 21. I hope that answers the question. Where are the checks?

No Memory of Success

I interviewed for a new position in the library system about a fortnight ago. They asked me if I could remember an instance when I had resolved an issue with a patron in such a way that everyone involved walked away happy. It didn't seem wise to answer no, so I sat there blankly for a bit too long before launching into a rambling story that contained little that would impress anyone and possibly convinced my interviewers that I couldn't operate our RFID system. I spent a fair amount of time trying to come up with a better customer service story that I could tell the next time I went in for an interview; instead, I came up with an explanation of my inability to remember any of my most accomplished customer interactions (which I emailed to the interviewers—a good move?):

After interviewing with you yesterday, I was struck by how difficult it was for me to recall in detail any instance when I had smoothly resolved a prickly patron issue though I know that I have on several occasions. I first put this memory trouble down to the fact that I was in a job interview, but began to wonder if there was something else at work when, hours later, I still hadn’t dredged up anything worth relating. The memories vivid enough to function as relatable narratives tended to have some aspect that would nix any notion of their presentation during a job interview. This led me to realize a significant connection between a memorable encounter and poor customer service: allowing oneself to become emotionally invested in the problem rather than the patron. The surest commitment to excellent customer service is investment in the patrons. Problems must be addressed, but in service to the patron (rather than the patron being addressed in service to the problem, as this tends to upset the patron and the problem is rarely bothered either way). So it seems possible that the reason I can't bring to mind what I'm doing to handle an upset patron's problem, is that when I do it right I'm not focused on solving the problem as much as I am on caring for the patron. Because I'm purposefully centering my emotional involvement away from the details, I don't remember them and, as a result, don't have any compelling good customer service stories.

The email didn't include my assessment that I was both better at and far more interested in solving problems than serving patrons; that thought, however, is what finally led me to what, hopefully, will be a usable answer for next time: if another, more empathic coworker is present, she could be given the task of talking to the patron while I determine the root of the problem and set all to rights. That sounds like good management to me: putting staff where their talents are best utilized. And, even though I may be happier sorting out problems, I have stepped in to calm patrons when a coworker less empathic than I am has threatened to speak to them; I can, when the need arises, keep a calm and friendly demeanor toward the customer and either find my fellow most suited to solving the problem or tackle it myself.

The Whole Four-Dimensional Enchilada

I've been thinking about God's relationship to time. This is thought experiment stuff, not anything to do with anybody's (mine, yours, your neighbor's cats) beliefs, though you can certainly believe it if you want to. I started out thinking about Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen and his relationship to time. I found myself wondering, if God can comprehend, all at once, everything that will ever happen, what, if anything, does that imply about free will?

If you think of time as linear, if the end of the line is predetermined then there can be no free will. A line, however, is one-dimensional and time is supposed to be the fourth dimension. Even a two-dimensional representation of time, like the one I seem to remember Doc Brown drawing on a chalkboard in Back to the Future, Part II (refresh your memory—someone's printed it on a T-shirt), allows for choice. From line to plane to space, there are more and more directions to wander off in; time, therefore, must be so full of possible directions that there aren't even words (up, down, right, left, north, east, south, west) for all of them.

Dr. Manhattan seems to his human fellows to perceive all of time simultaneously; but, as he observes, he is no God, merely "a puppet who can see the strings." He is locked into a single line of time and has no sense of how making a different choice at a given moment might impact the future.

A proper God should be able to see the whole four-dimensional enchilada: every possible choice and every possible outcome all simultaneously apparent and all of it fully absorbed and understood (someone who can see it all but just thinks it's a bewildering mess probably still is a god, albeit a sad and pathetic, lower-end of the pantheon sort of god). From a vantage point outside existence as we understand it, none of these choices or outcomes would be any more real than any other. To a God with the view I'm imagining, the things I did today wouldn't be any more real than the things I chose not to do. Every time I've made a choice, I've done the right thing and the wrong thing across an infinite number of parallel moments, none of which is the real moment, because there isn't one.

If that is how God sees us, it would seem to render superfluous quite a few of the more popular notions of the world's religions. There would be no need of a multi-level Heaven/Hell system to sort people into; the best version of everyone could be taken from the segments of time in which they had made the most of their lives. Everyone would be saved, no one left behind (though this obviously depends on one's point of view and the numbers would dictate that the vast majority of available views would tend to disagree). It's more like infinite reincarnation until you get it right than Heaven if you're good, Hell if you're bad. It's more like Groundhog Day than reincarnation, except we don't get to be aware of what's going on or learn from our mistakes.

But if we're not learning from our mistakes, what's different each time? Does it make any kind of sense that confronted with exactly the same situation I can make an infinite number of different choices? Why don't I do the same thing consistently? Can I steer my own course, or am I at the mercy of blind luck? What makes me think I have free will?

Perhaps that doesn't matter so much, though; it may be enough that I do think that I have free will. Like the idea of a quantum event that can only occur if it is observed to occur, perhaps free will is only possessed by those who believe they possess it. To contemplate free will is to begin to understand the spider's web of time as a tangled mass of possibilities rather than a single thread spinning toward the future. To choose one must first perceive the choice.

Often I find myself frightened to make a choice because the outcome of any action is hidden from me. It is an attribute of God to understand all that any given choice means, but I take a stab at making them anyway. Perhaps that is what most separates humans from other animals: we aspire to be Gods. Maybe someone is looking in at us from outside, maybe not; maybe someday (maybe now, as time hardly matters once your standing outside of it) it'll be me.