What Would a Unicorn Do?

On Got Medieval, there was a 'contest' back in July to see what seven words readers would come up with to describe the Middle Ages. The origin of the idea, which is described here, was a disheartening day in class when the new crop of students was asked to free-associate their way to a picture of the era. They came up with 'knights, knights, knights,' 'other knights,' and 'things about knights,' basically, and the writer of the blog uses the story on social occasions to set others at ease when they start to apologize, upon hearing his profession, for their lack of knowledge about Ye Olde Medieval Tymes.

I don't think it's particularly odd that nobody here knows anything about the Middle Ages, because I would imagine most people at cocktail parties would be equally hard pressed to come up with much about the Renaissance, or the Enlightenment. (...Uh, Luther, yeah, Martin Luther!, em, art! there was lots and lots of art! The Crusades! no, em, no, those big skirts with the hoops in them? no, wait.) I may sound more generally pessimistic than is warranted, perhaps, but I will give him this: I do think the Middle Ages probably are a more complete void in most people's understanding of history than are other periods. Before reading his account, though, I hadn't really thought about how thoroughly jousting, heraldry, and ladies-in-waiting with long pointy hats encapsulated the era for most.

The lazy explanation is that it's down to The Media, since any film set in that time tends to have Chain Mail in the leading role, with horses, maidens, and scrofulous serfs filling in the gaps. But if after watching Le Weekend I don't feel I have a complete understanding of 20th-century French history, is that really Godard's fault?

Still, the reality is that most Americans think that, like, nothing happened in Western civ for ten centuries or so. Other than the Black Plague and jousting, that is. Plato or somebody died, and then everyone went to sleep - in really dirty clothes - until da Vinci, or maybe Martin Luther woke them up. (At which time, of course, they then wore hoop skirts and codpieces and really ugly hats with buckles on them and everyone had syphilis.)

But, although the whole thing makes me sad, as does the idea that his (very hilarious) blog gets lots of hits from people looking for sexy chainmail pictures, I like to think of what my list would be, and it was fun to read other lists, because it shows how unique our own perspectives or prejudices are. I would probably put:
-neo-Platonism
-monasticism/orders
-Norman Conquest
-Sacking of Constantinople
-East/West
-books
-The Church

There's repetition, and there's no form of 'music,' or 'law' or even 'Law,' but I think if you take what themes I do have, you end up with those anyway, and much more besides. I suppose you could just say 'The Church' and come up with my whole list incidentally, not to mention unicorns and guys in chainmail, but with a book-banning vice-presidential candidate, I can only muster so much self-loathing.

The Inerrancy of Internet Quizzes

After taking the 'Which Theologian Are You?' test (well, it was fun for me), I came out as 100% Anselm and 80% Augustine. I guess that makes me 180% Medieval - which is better than 25% Calvinist. I tried to reload the page after after taking a (thankfully still-living) mouse back outside that the neighbor's cat had very generously lain in one of the slippers under my chair (thankfully my feet were no longer inside), but it had timed out. The quiz results, not the mouse. I do not therefore recall how much Luther I am, or how Calvin, just that both were low (one more than the other by a long shot) and that I haven't the vaguest notion who Jonathan Edwards is. Of whom I am 0%; I'm guessing something about sola fide and justification, except that if those were the only things, Luther and Calvin should be lower than they were, too.

Anyway, of course I'm Medieval; I haven't bothered to know anything about Protestant theology other than Calvin, Biblical inerrancy, and those funny folk out in the hollers who somehow manage to integrate snake-handling into the liturgy. I find it as easy to disagree with all these as to find the logic of the Manicheans and Jains in need as well of a good swift kick in the syllogism. And I'm not counting the Friends in my paltry 'Protestant theology' resume, as any Friend worth his oats will tell you that theology and too much cerebration are obstacles, not conduits, to communion with the Divine. And I don't know if Quaker non-theologists Fox and Penn were among my potential 'Which Theologian' matches.

Well, back to my lofty tower, then. All that remains is to find a equally unshocking Internet test that will reveal whether I am truly a pair of squishy wedge-heel 'flip-flops' with large plastic flowers on their tops, black patent buckle-embellished mules, or a ten-year-old pair of scuffed-up Sorel 'Joan of Arctics' a full size too big after having lost their detachable linings.

Happy St. Calvin's Day!

Today we celebrate Thanksgiving here in the US, and along with The Harvest, the fruits of This Great Land, squashes of all sorts and can-shaped cranberry puree, the changing of the seasons, colonialism, imperialism, Manifest Destiny, the Noble Savage and the White Man's Burden, we also pay homage to the undying legacy of John Calvin. He gave us hard work and Blackberrys and fax machines, to be sure, and quite possibly timeshares and cruiseboat holidays, as well, but the full measure of his influence cannot be appreciated without taking into account the Puritans' sumptuary strictures and their enduring significance.

'Original sin, therefore, appears to be an hereditary depravity and corruption of our nature, diffused through all the parts of the soul, rendering us obnoxious to the divine wrath and producing in us those works which the scripture calls "works of the flesh."' - J.C.

I do not mean to imply that I think the whole Reformation was a bad idea initially, or sprang from bad impulses. I would not like to have lived in Burgundy, for example, during a certain period, if I did not happen to be recognized as exactly and precisely orthodox by the Benedictines. I would have preferred not to live in Spain, either, from about 1500 to 1800, regardless of my affiliations or lack thereof. And I am grateful not to have been in the position of attempting to lead a devout life in some of the less-than-devout monasteries that reform and renewal put to right. However, if the end result would have been that no one, ever, centuries later, when I wouldn't even know, except in Heaven, where I could no longer feel pain, would have had to wear polyester masquerading as 'gabardine,' or drink 'white Zinfandel,' or stuff themselves into hideous little rooms on boats the size of cities with thousands of other holiday-makers, only to spend their days gorging on cafeteria food, playing shuffleboard, swimming in chlorinated pools in the midst of the Aegean, and debarking in growling hordes to buy up gilded replicas of Attic treasures and machine-made lace, I would gladly have submitted to whatever tonsure, penitence -- or cloistered aristocratic licentiousness -- were the case in my region.

'You must submit to supreme suffering in order to discover the completion of joy.' -J.C.

But because I didn't, we live in a society that continues to view pleasure as dangerous and the senses as Satan's inbuilt handmaidens. We oscillate between wordless orgiastic feedings of Grande Meals at the Big Hombre and the next day's punishing asceticism. Neither tastes like anything, but one causes self-loathing while the other promises redemption -- and flatter abs. We eat salmon-colored tomatoes in February and think nothing of it; we pump 'cheese' out of an aerosol; we have diabetes and hemorrhoids, cancer of the colon and hypertension, and our only consolation is At least we didn't enjoy ourselves getting to this point...

'Though Satan instills his poison, and fans the flames of our corrupt desires within us, we are yet not carried by any external force to the commission of sin, but our own flesh entices us, and we willingly yield to its allurements.' -J.C.

A handily reductivist version of Calvinism is that Adam screwed it up for all of us, and we're never going to get back to anything close to a prelapsarian state, in spirit or conditions or behavior, but it is our duty nonetheless to try to - even if we're some of the ones God has already decided He's not that keen on letting back into Heaven - with every waking breath, in each act and thought of our lives, and thus anything that distracts us from this is proof of our fallenness, our 'total depravity' (a phrase which came after Calvin himself but is not an unrepresentative distillation of his point of view), our hideous natures which draw us away from, rather than toward, the Good.

'Man's mind is like a store of idolatry and superstition; so much so that if a man believes his own mind it is certain that he will forsake God and forge some idol in his own brain.' -J.C.

This is an exceedingly long leap from the Roman Catholic position of 'don't get so drunk that your judgment will be clouded and you risk making bad choices and ending up in an opium den in Chinatown.' In Calvinism, we've already tied off our arm, flicked the needle, and had sex with the dealer. We are meretricious, deceitful, murderous, lazy, avaricious, gluttonous crackwhores from the start who would sooner kill you than wish you a good day. No wonder, then, that we can't stand the idea of enjoying a good meal in pleasant surroundings: one bite of the medium-rare filet with a delicate shallot beurre blanc and we have paved the way for lechery, idolatry, pederasty, income tax fraud, bestiality, and unbridled killing sprees. Enjoy anything too heartily, and it's only a matter of time before the stakes have to be raised, before the beurre blanc just won't do, it will have to be pounds of some ponderous Norman cream sauce, poured all over the steak and dripping down your chin, and the med-rare will mutate into saignant and before you know it you will be starring in a Bosch painting, eating babies, buggering lobsters, and never combing your hair.

So it arises that we take pains not to have too good a time. When that doesn't work, we endeavor to convince ourselves we are not really enjoying things but doing what we must, such as rampant overspending cloaked as necessary Christmas shopping or renovating yet again what we just discovered to be a hugely outdated living room. Or, we deny our urges so habitually, and in such illogical ways, that they perforce irrupt disguised - that they might for once be satisfied - and we rather than buy one pair of fancy shoes, or get a bit giddy on two glasses of port, or quietly watch the setting sun from the shore of a lake, instead order sixteen shots of whatever, stuff down some onion rings slathered in synthetic 'mayonnaise,' and try to convince the drunk girl next to us to go back to the apartment for anonymous, detached, barely conscious casual sex.

'So indulgent is man towards himself, that, while doing evil, he always endeavours as much as he can to suppress the idea of sin.' - J.C.

And that isn't what the Catholics warned us about, either. It's not the alcohol's fault. The alcohol is there in order that the rest can take place, in order deliberately to renounce judgment sufficiently that we can be as mindless of sin as of either genuine pleasure or redemption, and thus get on with our half-hearted quest for the bad food, the unsatisfying company, the superficial conversation, and the mindless, soulless, fumbling sex. We're no longer worrying about God, or Calvin, or Burgundian excesses. We don't even know where or what Burgundy is, for that matter, since we don't drink nice wines, or read books that aren't assigned, or travel to places where they don't speak American. And we no longer believe we're damned, nor care; we're chained to the ramified legacy of Calvin, without any recollection of how we got here or what the original argument was. We just know we're not supposed to enjoy ourselves. We should be multitasking on our Blackberrys while chasing the four-minute mile and listening to management seminars on our iPods, not idly reading the TLS on a Saturday morning and sipping mimosas in deck chairs amidst birdsong and evergreens.

'Every one of us is, even from his mother's womb, a master craftsman of idols.' -J.C.

So, when the dam breaks and the need for genuine pleasure mutates yet again into a virulent need to consume, we are stuck. It's too late to decide to keep fresh flowers in the house. Gone is our chance to enjoy the walking tour of the Piedmont, or to start wearing clothing that doesn't punish all the senses. And no longer will poetry or color or silky sheets or taking up ikebana or cheesemaking sate our deranged, repressed need for something, anything, that can stimulate a sense of even the most distant, third-order simulacrum of the commodity called 'enjoyment.'

But we've become by that point the crackwhore Calvin warned us about. Now it can no longer be about nuance or joy. We have ground ourselves down to nearly insensate lumps from alternating between compulsive and overarching gravitas surrounding work/'success' and puerile outbursts of mindless grasping that we can no longer just be. We have annihilated our receptivity so thoroughly that our whole outlook reduces not merely things but people, as well, to instruments. I see you for what you can give me, just like the obscenely large truck or the Patek Philippe or the ten numbing, dumbing vodka-and-Red-Bulls. But don't worry; as soon as I've eaten you and the four-pound McNasty and the 'craftsman style' high-end bathroom renovation, I'll spend two hours on the electronic bicycle and commit myself to at least three more memos a week and do a colon cleanse and take a Men's Retreat and swear off booze and find my inner child again and give him the kick in the teeth he so roundly deserves.

'I consider looseness with words no less of a defect than looseness of the bowels.' -J.C.