Imagine a better world

This is ultimately going to be a reflection on money. But to get there, we’re going to look at Propaganda’s Terraform, particularly the difference between empire and community, by way of Middle-earth. Trust me. It’s all going to fit together.

If you’ve read any of my entries up ‘til now, you probably know that I’m rarely reading one thing at a time. And I’m often reading a variety of things that make me think new thoughts and engage with the world in different ways. And I almost always see connections between them.

So, in Terraform, Propaganda got me thinking about empire vs. community. One is the way this world typically works and the other is based on ideas of “institutional neighborliness.” No surprise here; they’re radically different.

Empire sees the world with eyes of personal gain. Instead of seeing diversity, it sees otherness and wants to squash it. Instead of seeing the land as sacred, it sees it as a resource to be bought, sold, and exploited. It doesn’t see people as sacred, it sees them as pieces that can either be used or that need to be removed.

Community has a totally different set of lenses.

It’s kind of like the difference between Saruman and Gandalf.

Saruman has, in Treebeard’s famous words, “A mind of metal and wheels.” He doesn’t care for growing things beyond how they can serve his purposes. He plunders the land to feed the fires of his industry and turns this good, good earth to his advantage. He hasn’t yet reached Morgoth or Sauron’s nihilistic desire to destroy simply for destruction’s sake, but he’s well on his way. He functions with the mentality of scarcity. The resources are limited so I better get mine. If I don’t, they’ll get it instead and that means less for me.

Gandalf, on the other hand, is so willing to see the beauty in the mundane that he spends the bulk of his time with hobbits! Not the elves of Rivendell or Lothlorien (though he’s not unheard of in those parts) or with the mighty in Rohan or Gondor. No. He frequents the Shire – a place many in Middle-earth had probably never heard of before Bilbo’s famous exploits. Even hobbits, the smallest and least of those born of the earth, are not beneath his notice because they are not without their own inherent dignity that demands respect. They are not pieces to be sacrificed in anyone’s chess game. Just as the trees of Fangorn are more than just potential fuel.

Gandalf sees this because he sees with the eyes of community. He sees that no one truly thrives and flourishes unless we all do. He sees that unless everyone works against Sauron, all will be lost. He sees that if Sauron regained the Ring, even Tom Bombadil (upon whom the Ring has no power) would fall. And rather than seeking his own safety or to enhance his own reputation and standing among the great and powerful in the world, he seeks the joys and pleasures of true friendship among the least and lowest. He doesn’t make value judgments about who is more or less worthy because he sees and knows that all are worthy.

And we all know how things work out for Saruman and Sauron, don’t we.

You see, money as we know it was birthed out of empire. I mean, whose face is on the cash? Whether Ceasar or Washington or Queen Elizabeth, the money bears the stamp of empire. That’s why, rather than creating common good and benefitting the many, it accumulates in the hands of the few. That’s why the ground that none of us made and none of us can live without is bought and sold and exploited. And that’s why people who are sacred, each and every one of us, are bought and sold and exploited. Because money was born of empire. It was birthed from a colonialist mindset of scarcity that cannot recognize the good in difference, only the opportunity to exploit that difference.

But let’s follow Prop’s example and imagine a better world. Let’s imagine the now that could have been and the tomorrow that still might be. Let’s tell a better story than the one we’ve been saddled with.

What if money was born of community instead of empire?

What if money, by its very nature, lifted people out of extreme poverty and worked for equity rather than exclusion? What if money couldn’t help but contribute to the flourishing of the neglected and marginalized? And what if money didn’t function from zero sum economics (i.e. what if the poorest of the poor got paid while the balance in my account stayed the same)?

Whose image would this money bear? Would we choose to use it, or would we opt for empire’s status quo instead?

If it’s in my power, I’ll choose community over empire every time. I’ll choose to flourish with you, rather than at your expense.

And you want to know something? Some folks are building this dream, this better tomorrow, as we speak. A small team of people is working to create something radical, something they’re calling Glo. It’s the “anti-poverty dollar” and it looks an awful lot like money born of community rather than empire. Check it out for yourself.

Untitled

Like a cancer, we spread across the land,
stretching ourselves to the furthest extent,
crowding out
and devouring
all else
in our beautiful, mysterious home.

It doesn’t have to be this way.
There’s a better way of living:
one that doesn’t exploit
or ravage
or waste.

We can live
and move
simply,
slowly,
graciously,
intentionally
upon the land:

This good gift from the God
who loves us even though
we are bent toward wreckage,
who sees us in our quiet and our despair,
who knows us in our ugly and sublime,
who calls us to be filled
and live
as new creations
within Creation.

That is our only hope.
That is our only path forward.
As a new kind of humanity.

The ink is for me

I can’t quite remember when it first began,
but I’ve returned to the practice again and again.
I write out my prayers in ink on a page,
but I simply write over the previous days.

Words cover words, and colors collide.
But God sees and He knows all the meaning inside.
I can never go back to recover what’s written,
can’t gather the words or take back what I’ve given.
The Trustworthy One reads sense in this riot
of thinking and inking, of words in the quiet.

Even when all of my ink pots are empty,
and despair has arisen in darkness to tempt me,
my God will still hear me and read what I’ve penned
though no marks are made with the pen in my hand.

Holes

Holes pierce me
mostly through.
Each goes deep,
loosing what’s within.
It pours from me,
rich and thick and beautiful.
It cuts through the haze
and whirl around me,
setting off each shade
of the brand new sky.
These holes, you see,
expose the me,
that no one else
can grasp or see:
the me
that is made
entirely
of light.

The Sound of Stillness

This.
This is where I belong:
Amongst the birds
and streams
and skittish squirrels.
Out here where wind
through leaves is more 
common than human voices,
where the noise is a susurrus
that does not break
the quiet, 
but amplifies it,
and makes it more
complete.
This quiet is not silent,
and is better for being filled.

I wonder if the quiet of God’s voice might flow from non-coercion. God will not force our hand, and so he will not shout. God will not demand our attention, will not force himself upon us.

And noise is a kind of force. It demands attention, distracts us, and forces its way through our defenses. God speaks for all who would hear, but does not draw attention to it.

The speech of God is no assault.

We Sow Echoes

I am limited.
Finite.
Closed and constrained by many things:
entropy,
the “law” of diminishing returns,
embodiment.

And yet,
I am bounded by abundance.
A world spun out in space
with all it needs for everyone to thrive.
There is more than enough to go around,
if only we could see it so.
If only we would see it so.

And so, these words fall
from open hands.
My small share.
These few seeds cast
in faith and hope and love
into the dirt
to see what grows.
Words sown like those
that spoke forth everything
in a concussion of sound
splitting the silence like an atom
to irradiate the nothing
with all this abundant gratuity
we call
Life.

Words, small as seeds,
sown in good soil
can change everything.
They have before
and will again.

So,
sow generously,
abundantly,
gratuitously!
There will always be more
to give,
to receive.

We sow echoes
that somehow bring new things.

In Progress

This post is a little glimpse into the way my mind works. Not intentionally so, but more as a natural side-effect of me sitting down with a pen and paper to record my thoughts in the moment.

So, I’m reading a few books right now, and one thing I love about doing that is seeing connections between them in ways that feel immediate and fresh, unforced and natural in ways that prolonged, intentional reflection can’t achieve. Don’t get me wrong. I love prolonged and intentional reflection. It’s where some of my best and most transformative thoughts have come from. But there’s something powerful about immediacy and spontaneity.

So, I want to pay attention right now to how captivated I am by the books I’m reading (particularly Nona the Ninth and The Citadel of the Autarch) and see where that leads me.

The first thing I see is the use across both stories (and their predecessors) is the term, lictor, which makes me pause to look up the word. What does it mean? Essentially, a lictor was a Roman bodyguard, a specially-selected civil servant with the right to carry out capital punishment. This makes sense for Severian. That’s his job. But what about the lictors in Nona’s (and Gideon’s and Harrow’s) world? Since I’m not done with Nona and so much of the book is told in flashbacks to John’s early days (or at least dreams in which he tells the story of those early days to Harrowhark), I think I’ll get there.

But the prevalence and importance of death to the stories is the next thing that stands out to me. In neither story is death a thing to be avoided at all costs like it is for most of us in 21st century America. It reminds me of my PhD research and the beautiful train of thought that sees death as a mercy, rather than a punishment, as a good part of a good universe. As hard and painful as it is for those left behind, it is a profoundly natural and necessary part of the world we live in.

After all, life comes from death. New growth from destruction. And this connects to a third thing I’ve been reading: Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman. I have in mind the prodigal, Destruction, also known as Olethros, which has the connotation of destruction that leads to regrowth or rebirth. Not wanton, but targeted with future flourishing in mind. It’s the same idea as that of pruning the vine so the remaining branches will bear more fruit. Destruction with a positive connotation. Destruction which precedes renewal.

What a thought.

And it’s a thought that feels especially appropriate given the state of the world today. How much in our world needs to be destroyed so renewal can occur? How much must crumble, be torn down and destroyed, so that what is good and true and beautiful can emerge? So much. So much.

Olethros is hard, but it is needed. It will hurt, but sometimes pain is required for healing to take place. And that is what the world needs today: healing. But the boils must be lanced so the infection can be cleansed. The festering rot of racism and systemic injustice must be healed. The strip-mining of creation must be stopped and salved. The inequities of capitalism run amok must cease so that a new and better world can emerge.

We need to dream better dreams. Dreams of a world made whole, where everybody belongs and peace (which is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of justice) prevails. We need to imagine the world as it could be. One that allows everyone to flourish and thrive, bearing good fruit that feeds us all.

The Tomb

There is a grief beyond words,
a finality
found in this tomb.

The Giver of Life
and Defeater of Death
has died
and lies here
shrouded and buried.

The hillside’s open maw
has swallowed not just my Lord’s body –
broken and bloodied by senseless torture –
but also every last scrap of my hope.
Nothing remains.

So here I’ll sit
in the dark outside His tomb,
and weep
for the loss of his light
and the death of my dreams.

What else can I do?

Who can do for my Lord
what he did for others?
Who but he can reach
down into death
and raise him up to life again?
Who but he?