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I got invited by the charming Simone to visit her parish for Stations and a parish Lenten dinner last night, 27 February 2004. Only when I got there did I truly recall how different my Catholic life has been these past few years. I'm registered at Calvert House, which has a pretty fixed clientele. A little under half the people are undergraduates, maybe half graduate students, with a few young professors, babies, professionals usually associated with the University, and the occasional older person mixed in. By older person, here I mean someone over 30. Maybe 35. Then I enter the Stations at St Gregory on the North Side, and things are so radically different. Children between 2 and 17! Families! People older than me! People much older than me! Very very different. Perhaps some other time I'll talk about the gender gap of American Christianity, or the age composition, or that the parish lists the preferred donation for marriages and funerals on their Web site. This is a personal night.
St Gregory's was a foreign territory. I've never had a real parish as an adult. Between Harvard and Chicago, I attended church routinely at St Andrew the Apostle and St Timothy in the Arlington Diocese, but you could hardly call me a community member. I think I attended one function in four years, and less than a dozen Masses outside Sundays and holy days. The parishes contributed to my minimalism; large poorly designed spaces, bad to nonexistant greeters, defensive focus, little quality liturgy, and inability to plan anything appealing to a single adult were all quite present. I do not absolve myself, though; work devotion, travel, introversion, and an intellectual focus all pulled me to the books and readings and away from activity.
Thus, foreign it was to sit in a school hall and have soup and bread. I still don't know how to talk to families. Not really knowing anyone didn't help much, though people were very polite. Several people asked me if I worked at the Medieval Institute. (Simone pursues a doctorate in Medieval Studies.) That made me smile, given that I'm currently trying to program something very far from the time of Aquinas.
The most interesting part was trying to explain just exactly what I do, particularly to the nice lady Nancy. When she went through school, statistics didn't exist as a discipline. This is a small exaggeration, since departments of statistics did exist in the 1950s. None were large, though, and would not have been mentioned in a secondary school curriculum. Standard deviation is a pretty big step to even my parents' generation, even at the college level. By now, I know enough not to give any mathematical words. Instead, I say I have a seven year old's dream job. Seven was the age of Tinkertoys and dollhouses and sandcastles, worlds from things. They're toys, sure, but seven is when a young boy or girl creates. Then the discipline of school takes that away, off to a segmented world of rote and memorization, and most people never go back. Except for me. I still build models, now with numbers instead of Lego blocks or dolls, but I get to create, make order, staunch chaos, get lost in a world not quite real.
That explanation appeals to people - though not Nancy, for which I went with the practical result approach. Typically, though, if I look closely, I can see the eyes of my conversant; they flash briefly, back to that general joy. Just for a second, there's a wish, a wistfulness, that instead of packing vegetable bins or writing reports, they could do that. They often say that I'm very lucky to do something so fun and I love, and that part, at least as much as I get to here, is true. It's nice to be reminded of the difference in perception between my Gothic tower and the high rises of nonacademic life.
I wrote up some notes on church seating, which moved to a separate page to be better searchable.
It's about 7:45 PM on March 18, First-Round Thursday, perhaps America's finest day. I was assisting my boss in grading from 10 AM to 6:30 PM, so I'm eating leftover pizza from lunch and running through the basketball from this afternoon. TiVo is wonderful, as I get to jump right to the good parts of each game, the last four minutes. I watched Maryland escape, Southern Illinois come oh-so-close, and now VCU is 1 ahead of Wake with 1:45 left. It's a little tricky, having to avoid the scores beforehand, but this is totally the way to go. Then I can roll right through commercials and clock malfunctions. Ack, VCU doesn't deserve the win with their terrible clock management; Wake made their free throws and won to advance in the Northeast regional, or East Rutherford, or whatever they're calling it. Corporate naming is only a matter of time. The main topic, though, is why I called this America's finest day.
Right now, I'm watching Duke about to tip off against Alabama State in the Cialis Bracket. Duke's a number 1 seed for the sixth time out of the last 7 seasons, and Alabama State's been in the tourney once before. It's interesting to hear fan reaction. Well, except for the shameful quarter of seats that are empty. Plus, there are some Devil fans, who cheer politely when Duke scores. That happens a lot, as Duke leads 26-14 halfway through the first half, when the Chicago station switches over to Michigan State-Nevada in the Microsoft sub-regional. I'd rather see Princeton, myself, which when working well is beautiful to watch. Onto to Duke and the crowd. The secret of America, and perhaps its best feature, is this: Nobody Roots for Duke. Every other person in that arena, except maybe the officials, wants Alabama State to do well. They scream when a Hornet basket goes in, or Duke loses the ball, or the referees ignore the seemingly blatant thuggery of the bigger, stronger team in white jerseys. There's a lot of that, as Duke is ahead by 21 at the half. On the other hand, Princeton leads Texas by 3, though they fall behind to start the second half. Two for 18 behind the arc will win no games. Duke wins by 35 and Princeton loses by 17. Oh well. Nevada beats a Big Ten team, not really an upset, and now I get to watch DePaul. It's an ugly game, which in the last four minutes becomes a free throw contest, and neither team can shoot them. At one point in overtime, free throw counts are 9 of 19 and 8 of 22. Both teams play so poorly that they get another five minutes of pain, and I'm back to live action. Ow. Depaul manages to not lose, though if I were commissioner I would disqualify both of them and advance somebody exciting like VCU. Back to our story.
Why does America root for the underdog? It really makes no sense, particularly in America, where joining the bandwagon is seemingly mandatory, and a lot of awards, like for movies and music, are chosen on ticket sales and popularity. We like the strong; we like being strong, and expect things to bend to our will. It's not just "extremists", like foreigners call our President. Even the more cosmopolitian of this nation prefer Starbucks, American English, automatic transmission, and the power of green Benjamins.
Nevertheless, there's tension between power and the dislike of it. Everyone wants to be the underdog, and support that concept. Sometimes, this might be considered pernicious, like hope in the alternate Pandora's Box. Who was it, Horatio Alger perhaps, that wrote the stories of orphans who seemingly always wound up with Upper East Side apartments, solely because of "hard work"? That misconception is pernicious. Don't get me wrong; class movement in the United States today is much more flexible than most other places. But there's always help in stories of self achievement. Look at me. I am trailer trash, and now seriously talk about building an eight figure net worth. There are so many helpers along the way, though; the doctor who properly diagosed my leg, the speech therapist that taught me proper enunciation, my parents as schoolteachers who bought a computer instead of a vacation, many teachers, the blind preacher who interviewed me for Harvard, and so forth. If that's why people root for Liberty, a false sense of liberty, that's not good.
Instead, I like to think of the preferential option for the poor, the belief that all are equal under the Lord, and thus the weaker need assistance from the strong. It's dangerous to ascribe providential qualities to sports, particularly the NCAA. Perhaps I go too far, which wouldn't be the first or last time. But where else do enough people look? Fox News? Rooting for the weak, the Vermonts and Utahs of the world, certainly doesn't go far enough, but I'll take any step. Maybe it's the spark that brings people closer to something elegantly stated by Oscar Romero in September 1979:
"Let us take seriously the cause of the poor as though it were our own - indeed, as what it really is, the cause of Jesus Christ, who on the final judgment day will call to salvation those who treated the poor with faith in him: Whatever you did to one of these poor ones - the neglected, blind, lame, deaf, mute - you did to me."
There's this undergraduate I know, Patrick. He's a third year at the University of Chicago, occasionally posts to his blog, prefers traditionalist liturgy, and most importantly likes theoretical mathematics. We actually took Math 207-208-209 together two years ago, him as a freshman (my blog gets to use this term, as it is quite appropriate) and myself as a second year doctoral student in Statistics. We didn't know each other, though, until we recognized each other around Easter. Patrick sat in the front and was diligent; I sat in the back and was lackluster, though a large part of that was due to health reasons. At one point last school year, we got to talking in the lounge. I wondered about his academic intentions. With the hubris of a teenager, he touted the wonders of the mysterious field, group, and topological space. I countered with the joy of searching the numbers of applied statistics. Like most theoreticians, admittedly including me when I was 17, he found the messiness unattractive. I think his actual phrasing was like "statistics is mathematics without honor." My rejoinder translated an old political saying, "Statisticians are Mathematicians Mugged by Reality." (Substitute Republicans for Stats, and Democrats for Maths.) Another quip from Patrick's mouth is that "Statistics is Mathematics after original sin." Unlike his first one - my strong sense of personal dignity really does not appreciate a challenge to honor - this one has potential. I like it. A lot.
For those of you not intimate with Genesis, let's review original sin. To begin Chapter 3, Eve and Adam are just hanging out in the Garden of Eden, naked in a pleasure park. Earlier, the Lord told Adam not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, on pain of death, and Eve knows too. The cunning serpent stops by, just to chat. He mentions that if they eat the fruit, they will not die, rather "your eyes will be opened and you will be like God who knows what is good and what is bad." Eve eats the fruit and gives some to the man, who also feasts. The serpent's statement is true, and they realize a lot of things, including nudity, shame, and evil. When God next stops by, they hide, and God realizes what they've done. The man blames it on "the woman you put here with me", and the woman claims trickery on the serpent's part; neither gender comes out well. The Lord is kind enough to make them leather garments before booting them from Eden. The term original sin is used to apply to this act, the loss of trust in the Lord, the need to search for seeming wisdom. The consequences are dire, as Adam and Eve lose the state of original holiness, and fall into decay and death. The story is in some ways allegorical, but the fundamental fact of the search for individual glory is true. After all, a friend once noted that the only doctrine of faith that can be empirically proven is original sin.
How do we respond and organize our thought? I don't recall much from my Catholic theology elective as an undergraduate, but I remember a discussion on "from Below" and "from Above". The terms are applied to Christ and Church. The Catholic belief is that Jesus is both human and divine. Early church history contains many false beliefs and starts away from this path; most of the false paths denied one of Christ's two natures. (The Arians with logos denied both, but this site is not designed to expand on Nicaea and Chalcedon.) If one looks only at divinity, one looks at Jesus from Above, and denial of divinity means looking from Below. It's not that hard to extend the concepts of Above and Below to the world. Patrick's preferred study, theoretical mathematics, is world from Above; he creates structures irrespective of what humans perceive, then assigns the world into those structures. My preferred study, model development, is world from Below; I examine the rhythms and patterns that humans perceive, then create structures that attempt to contain those data elements. At extremes, both Above and Below are problematic. Mathematical theorists can receive doctorates without considering a set that exists on earth. That denies one of the two natures of the world. It presumes a pure divinity, one without decay, death, or uncertainty. Theologically, it's Gnostic, wanting only the symbolic. On the other side, applied statisticians grab hip waders and jump into the streams of despair. This has its problems; focusing so much on collection and optimization can form no structure, and grasp no sense on the underlying unity. Model builders become fully human; theologically, it's A-Gnostic, wanting none of the symbolic.
To break this impasse, I go back to Original Sin. In Eden, my namesake had no knowledge of good and bad; his world was clean. After the fall, humanity was booted into a world with good and evil, and more importantly the knowledge of such. Becoming like gods means that we perceive, interact, and change the world. That requires investment in the causes and actions of earth. Running away from that, as some mathematicians do, fails in our humanity. It also denies the God on earth, the Spirit promised and delivered. I can't see how it can be ignored.
Thus, when Patrick calls me a "Mathematician After the Fall", I take it as a compliment. We all should be. I've even thought about a new title for this site, "Mathematics in a Fallen Land". Given my consulting on foster care systems this year, it feels even closer. The image is appealing; walking the country, a long black coat flapping in the breeze, saddlebag and laptop computer on my back. I come into town, find the problem, put together the model, take the payment, and ride out on the sunset. Maybe that's why I like consulting; I even have the soundtrack.
I was rereading Fahrenheit 451, for at least the tenth time, because I wanted to add a little exposition on my books page about the mostest bestest story I know. The full exposition on the tale of a Guy I'll write up soon, but there's a little side note worth mentioning. That's my crush on a literary heroine, Clarisse McClellan. When I was almost 17 and crazy, reading the tale for the first time, Clarisse was not important. Sure, her portrayal is quite positive, but Montag and Beatty and even Faber were more compelling characters. She stayed to the side; it wasn't until the third reading that I even saw Mildred's casual mention of her death, generally jumping to Beatty. Also, in my aloneness, I was more concerned with high school and college and my personal soul. This time through, though, I thought more about Clarisse, and how attractive she would be. Well, if she were twelve years older, aging like me. Also, if she was a real person. Umm, let's just move on and summarize qualities. Nothing says cute like bullet points!
I'm watching a Beyonce video right now, called Naughty Girl, and Miss Knowles is extremely physically attractive. Don't get me wrong. But Miss McClellan, only briefly physically described as a milk-white phase, is so much more beautiful. As I walk the corridors and roads of this fallen land, I'm wistfully searching for my Clarisse. If you know, well, you know how to reach me.
I got assigned to the first reading on Good Friday. At first, I thought my friend Klara had a wicked sense of humor. We had talked Sunday night about my current mood. She didn't know that the passage is the fourth and greatest of the Suffering Servant songs, and is often mentioned by people in pain and depression. Perhaps her seemingly random assignment was Providence. I've been preparing since then. Reading on Sunday, reading last night, pronunciation tonight, Thursday night. I'll be in Bond Chapel, so I'll drop in and listen to my cadence and pace tomorrow before the show. Twice I've been in tears while reading it, so this could become catastrophic (and I've arranged a backup just in case). On the other hand, I'm professional enough to hold it together, I think, and then it should be marvellous.
Back when I was an undergraduate, this was one of my favorite passages, on both a theological and personal level. I actually stated this was my favorite at a Christian Fellowship meeting back in 1994 or 1995. I think it's a positive sign that my foundational passage has changed now, to the first reading at the Chrism Mass, verses 1-3 of a different part of the Book of Consolation. It's still important, though.
I'm typing this now on Holy Saturday, after the service. [You can consider this a special daytime edition of Musings After Midnight.] I don't think it was my best; I mangled three words, and toned down my full range of emotion. My friend Lisa said that I did a good job, but she is my friend. She did notice that I read verse 10 very forcefully:
But the LORD was pleased
to crush him in infirmity.
It's such an interesting verse. It's very non-American, particularly the American television evangelical strain. That Christianity is very positive.
I've called it shiny and bubbly. In this world, Christ fixes problems, makes one happy, and I don't know, makes my teeth whiter. I once got this advertising flyer: "I already feel bad. Why do I have to go to Church?" Intervarsity, at least from my experience, was like that. Their service on Good Friday didn't read Isaiah. This year, I've seen signs for the Intervarsity Easter breakfast, but nothing for Friday. That doesn't surprise me; the current Passion movie has shifted focus a little, but this is still a Resurrection nation.
At least for one day, though, everyone ponders the Cross. I'll start with the Gospel, which was chanted in the Calvert service this year. This was unfortunate, because it contributes to a general atmosphere of ephemeralness. [I do NOT like chanting, Latin, violins, and so forth at Mass. Since this won't go unchallenged, I'll comment more fully soon.] In specific, though, it means that we parishioners do not condemn the King of the Jews; we do not chant "Crucify Him!" The community loses out, and I lose out. For that is the most challenging part; it disturbs me every year, because it's true. Verse 5 of Isaiah even tells us that: he was pierced for our offenses, crushed for our sins. And, just to make it clear, by "he" I stand with Christian thought in referring to Christ as Messiah. It's interesting that some Jewish thought on this passage has changed. Older tradition points to a Messiah, but as Zionism took hold, the suffering servant become the nation of Israel. I'll hew to the older line.
Now, I return to the older passage, and specifically to verse 10, "But the Lord was pleased to crush him in infirmity." Why was the Lord pleased? How could the Lord be pleased? My version of the New American Bible finds this verse disturbing enough that it adds an explanatory note: "Because he fulfilled the divine will by suffering for the sins of others, the Servant will be rewarded by the Lord." I'm still confused.
I'd like to scream about hope, and the taking of our suffering and afflications, but I can't right now. Most of the pieces I post reach a conclusion. This is not one of them.
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Written Lent 2004. Clarifications in July 2004. Links fixed March 2005.
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