This is a great song for a Sunday, kids. It’s not about religion (read: greed and violence). This is a song about love, yo. Yeah, imagine that!

Image from the Library of Congress 9/11/01 exhibition.

remember
honor
grow
love
stand
share
work
move
appreciate
experience
talk
pray
meditate
forgive

9/11 is so not about religion.

I walked in with a six-pack. “Oh, yeah,” my mom said.

After an hour of chit-chat, potato chips and two MGDs (my parents were still nursing their first), there was a lull in the conversation and I jumped in. “So…I wanted to talk to you guys about religion.” My dad’s eyes somehow perked up and lowered simultaneously.

I had left the religion of my upbringing (Jehovah’s Witnesses) several years prior to this talk with my parents, but it never seemed quite official, and wouldn’t be official until I had told them my decision. Of course they knew, but it was never discussed. No one had the guts to bring it up. In this religion, you can’t just leave the faith behind, you must also leave family and friends.

“We’ve never really talked about it and I think it’s important that you know how I feel about God and religion.” My dad nodded ever so slightly and squinted. I’d love to know what was going through his head at that moment.

“I have a hard time believing that any one religion holds a monopoly on truth. How do you know what to accept and what to reject? I believe it’s impossible to really know.” I was relieved that the conversation was finally going to take place after 10 years.

Dad nodded. Mom shifted in her chair.

“How do you know you have the truth?” I asked.

“Its good that you don’t accept anything blindly,” dad said. “I know we have the truth because we do the preaching work. It’s in the Bible.”

“But lots of Christians evangelize,” I countered.

“Every one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses preach. You won’t find that in other religions. But if you don’t believe in the Bible we have a different problem.”

“I don’t.” I glanced over at mom. She looked concerned and supportive, the corner of her mouth smiling. She’s mom, that’s what she does.

I explained to them that I don’t believe the Bible is God’s direct word. I think it is inspired by God, much in the way that a sunset or a beautiful woman inspire a poem. The sunset didn’t write the poem, but there would be no poem with the sunset. I was proud of that example.

I also said that I believe the book of Genesis is simply a way of explaining the origins of the earth in such a way that could be understood by a particular people at a particular time, and that I can’t believe the earth is only 6,000 years old.

“The earth isn’t 6,000 years old, it is eons old,” my dad said. “The six days of creation aren’t literally six days, they are time periods. It is man that is 6,000 years old.”

“But according to the Bible, animals were created after man,” I said. “How do you explain dinosaur fossils that are dated millions of years ago, not to mention pre-homosapian fossils?”

Just then the next door neighbor, also a JW, knocked on the door. Apparently it was official congregation business, because my dad and the neighbor took off to talk in private.

Just me and my mom. I told her that I never really believed; only to the extent that you believe what your parents teach you. I never owned it, I never felt it.

My mom told me that for years she just went along with the belief system, going through the motions. Then one day she was going through a rough time with her Multiple Sclerosis, and my brother was having some serious problems with his Epilepsy. She got down on her knees and said, “now is the time, Jehovah. If you are there, I need you now.” She felt a warm feeling come over her. For the first time in her life she was sure. It was like she was born again, in her 50s.

When she told me that it blew my mind. I thought she was a rock of faith, but she was a skeptic most of her life. It’s a common story, I suppose. Hard times cause people to find God, or create him.

“That’s exactly what I want to feel,” I said. “I’ve prayed in the past. I don’t know if anyone is listening but I ask God to show himself to me. I want to feel what you felt. I don’t have that kind of faith. I don’t think I ever will.”

Dad came back and said, “I don’t,” referring to how do you explain pre-homosapien fossils. “Sure there are irregularities, but there are so many holes in evolution. If you believe in evolution, I would say that you have more faith than I do. It is much easier to believe that God created everything than to believe in evolution.”

It’s easier, sure, I wanted to say. But I would call it intellectual laziness.

“What else, besides the preaching work sets Witnesses apart from other Christians?” I asked.

“Jehovah’s name,” he said right away.
“You mean the tetragrammaton?” I said.
How did you know about the tetragrammaton?”
“I study religion. I read a lot. But his name is not necessarily Jehovah. Wouldn’t it be more like Yahweh?”

He went on to talk about the global brotherhood of JWs that you won’t find in other religions. It’s kind of hard to argue with that.

I would have liked to explore more theological topics with my dad, but at this point I was just avoiding the main reason I had come to visit.

“What is the purpose of disfellowshipping?” I asked. “Is it a punishment, or is it a way to keep the congregation clean?”

“It’s to keep the congregation clean, but we hope it is also a wake-up call.”

When one is disfellowshipped from the congregation, you are cut off from associating with current members, family included.

“Disfellowshipped persons made a commitment and rejected it,” my dad continued. “It’s like someone who gravely disrespected his father. His brothers and sisters would not want to have anything to do with him.”

“But people change their minds. People grow,” I said. “I was baptized at 14 years old. How am I supposed to make a life long commitment at that age?”

My dad didn’t really know what to say to that. I continued:

“So do you view me as tantamount to being disfellowshipped?” I hadn’t been officially disfellowshipped from the congregation at this point.

My dad paused, this was what I have been waiting for. I offered, “because if you do I would welcome it. It is only fair.”

“If you live a life that warrants disfellowshipping, then Jehovah has already disfellowshipped you,” he said.

“I’m out then,” I said. “And it’s too bad. How is disfellowshipping a wake-up call? If I was disfellowshipped I would totally denounce this evil organization that rips family and friends apart. It wouldn’t make me want to come back. It would push me further away. How is cutting someone off helping them?”

“Well it is scriptural,” he said. “But regardless, you are my son and although I won’t be inviting you over for a meal or anything like that. I will always be here for you if need anything.”

I looked at my watch and it was time to go. It was good that we finally talked. I think they understood me. I hugged them both and walked out the door. I’m sure they prayed for me when I left. I’m out. I’m free. It feels good.

The future is here, kids. A novel is no longer limited to printed words on paper. We have the technology! In addition to the old-fashioned book, a novel can include rock and roll music, film, and even a youtube playlist. Almost like a Sunday service at your local mega-church.

Jesús Ángel García’s transmedia novel is badbadbad (that’s the title). The idea of the transmedia novel infatuates me to no end. My review follows, but first:

Full disclosure: I normally sip tea while reading. Darjeeling or sometimes green tea for popular nonfiction. A stronger black tea for more scholarly works. For fiction, I like Earl Grey or occasionally a nice sweet chai latte, which is what I had in hand as I picked up badbadbad, García’s novel that I’m about to review below. It wasn’t long though, as I delved into the pulp-style novel, that I realized the tea perhaps wasn’t the appropriate beverage for the book in hand. True story: I put down the book 75 pages in, walked down to the corner and picked up a bottle of Kentucky’s finest, Jim Beam, a two liter of ginger ale as well. I’m not normally a bourbon drinker, but for this occasion it just seemed right.

Now, on with the review. But first:

Full disclosure #2: As you know, my readers, I’m a religion junkie. Any story that treats religious themes with openness and honesty, I’ll devour like a consecrated wafer at first communtion. So naturally, my opinion of badbadbad will be skewed to the positive due to it’s religious nature. Our hero of the book, JAG, sees himself as a messiah, a savior, a healer. By day, JAG is a faithful Sunday churchgoer and webmaster for the First Church of the Church Before Church. The pastor of the church is your everyday perfect hair and teeth charismatic religious-right type of pastor from the south. Jesús Ángel García portays him with such spot on reality that you can see the beads of sweat roll down his nose as he preaches, “you have to get naked to be clothed in the lord.”

By night, JAG hangs with the pastor’s disfellowshipped son, Cyrus, who bond over their shared passion for music. Neither have any real belief in the Judea-Christian-Muslim god. Their deity and savior comes in the form of notes, rhythms, melodies and lyrics. JAG calls it “A Love Supreme,” referencing the Coltrane masterpiece.

Cyrus introduces JAG to an online sexual fetish community called fallenangels. This is where JAG finds his calling. He was sent to be healer, a sexual healer.

I longed to be of service in whatever way I could. It was my calling to do unto others. I should note this impulse came from outside myself, from something bigger than me alone.

He eventually gets administrative privileges to the fetish website. That’s when he truly sees himself as God.

FD #3: Before I begin with the actual review I must disclose that I don’t condone pornography. This book is full of it, I tell you. Of course, I don’t condemn it either. JAG practices his sexual healing on a lot of girls, in explicit detail. But a lot of the sexy situations in badbadbad are not too sexy, so that makes it okay. There is cellulite, pubic stubble, and even possible STDs! I should mention that some of the sex is actually quite sexy. But when I read those parts I quickly shut the book and picked up the Bible.* Beware when you read the book. Have your KJV handy!

FD #4: As well as being a religion junky, I’m also a music junky. I’m the guy in my circle of friends ready to answer any question about any obscure band who ever existed. I’m also ready to give out can’t miss music recommendations for any mood or occasion. I’m willing to bet García is that guy too. The novel is full of excellent music references, subtle or otherwise. So, naturally I’d be drawn to give it a favorable review based on that fact alone. My favorite:

She came into view…bare shoulder, bra strap, choker, shy smile, wide raccoon eyes, tired and wary, hopeful, thick makeup, hair piled high on top of her head, eighties-style, the Bangles. She walked like an Egyptian.

FD#5: Back in college as a Media Studies major, I actually conceived the idea to write a book that included music and a film. Lacking inspiration or fortitude, I put the idea on hold. Now, I’m not saying Mr. García stole my idea, I’m just saying. Just throwin’ that out there.

Of course, he approaches the transmedia novel concept a bit differently than I would have. Truth be told, mine probably would have been bloated, pretentious and self indulgent (like this book review). With badbadbad, the book is front and center. It stands on its own quite well. The writing is top-notch, smart and carefully playful, transcending it’s pulp-fiction clothing. Any author that can write the line: “we embraced like lovers at the threshold of the void,” and have it sound like the perfect words at the perfect time, is doing something right.

Then there is an original soundtrack of songs taken from the narrative of the book, country-punk style and catchy as hell. “Bed o’ Cornbread Crumbs” will be embedded in my head for days.

The film is a five-part documentary that explores the book’s themes of fear,
hypocrisy, sexual morality, e-intimacy & self-destruction, done in a man-on-the-street interview style. I was able to watch 3 of the 5 parts of the film. Nothing groundbreaking or mind-blowing, but surely engaging.

Rounding out the transmedia experience is the youtube playlist consisting of the songs or artists referenced in the book. It’s a great deal of fun going through the dozens of gems and a few duds, well-know and obscure songs from all genres.

It’s a lot of media to behold for one novel, but somehow it seems like García’s transmedia experience was almost too subtle. Like he could have gone further in some way, taken it to another level. The badbadbad project is a book with supplemental material. I wonder what badbadbad would have looked like if film, music, and literature were dependent on each other; each with equal ranks, not able to survive without the others.
—
My apologies. I’ve run out of space for the book review. Visit the official badbadbad website for text, film, and audio excerpts, as well as links to actual reviews.

*This sentence is a lie.

What I believe isn’t important. The fact that I can put order to my thoughts, sort them into opinions and fan them into beliefs is hardly impressive. In fact, such thinking is unavoidable. It’s what our highly evolved human brains do. They compare and contrast and judge in an endless attempt to make sense of the world around us. Believing is as automatic as walking or talking or sneezing, and about as noteworthy.

There was a time when I considered my beliefs to be something more than just an assemblage of thoughts. I mistook them for something much more important. I thought they were me.

At various times in my life I believed I was a Catholic, a Unitarian, an agnostic and a secular humanist. I was a liberal, a feminist, an environmentalist and a pacifist. I took on new identities in search of a higher self and, down deep, I think, to distance myself from certain vulgarities that characterize the human condition – qualities like greed and aggression. By connecting certain thoughts, by cobbling together new identities, I convinced myself and others that those unwholesome human traits couldn’t possibly define me. They defined thieves and rapists and murderers. I was above all that, and had a portfolio of beliefs to prove it.

I was not alone in my quest adopt a new identity. Everyone in the world was doing it right along with me. Hindus, Muslims and Buddhists. Socialists, Communists and Greens. Progressive Unionists, Christian Democrats – some crafting identities the way college freshmen craft double majors. We were all attempting to rise above our inherited animal nature, but rising above it didn’t make it go away. We were still greedy and aggressive despite our deeply held beliefs. We were walking contradictions, projecting our inner conflicts onto the world; in fact, we were the world, and that’s why it was such a bloody mess.

Having wandered from one belief system to another, I thought I had explored life’s biggest questions, but I was only asking questions for which my beliefs had provided me pat answers. I had yet to ask myself the most radical questions, the ones that would eventually smash my beliefs to bits. They were questions no one seemed to be asking, questions like:

If a clash of beliefs can be found at the root of all the violence in the world, then shouldn’t we question their validity – not the validity of any particular belief, but belief itself?

Separated from our beliefs, would we lose our moral bearing? Would we fall prey to our baser instincts and rock the world with depraved acts of violence? Or is this precisely the behavior we exhibit under the hypnotic spell our beliefs?

Imagine a city whose buildings have been leveled by an earthquake. That’s the image I had of my mind after my beliefs had been toppled. I felt like I could see forever in every direction. The towering thought structures that stood as my beliefs no longer blocked my view of the world. I felt a disorienting sense of freedom. Liberated from the beliefs that had conferred my identity, I felt blissfully anonymous. I was a person without a suffix, without an –ist to affirm my existence. I had unwittingly joined the only club that matters. It numbers in the billions, doesn’t charge dues and welcomes career criminals. It’s called the human race.

It’s been years since I disposed of my beliefs, and I have yet to turn into a sociopathic killer. On the contrary, I’ve developed a deep affection for my planet mates now that I’m not measuring them by the yardstick of my beliefs. Gone are the walls of thought that prevented me from seeing who they really are. Gone are the lectures I’d give in an attempt to raise their consciousness. And gone, mercifully, is my compulsion to cast them as evil so that I can appear virtuous.

However sacred or profound, a belief is nothing more than a thought, and thought is never the thing it describes. It can only hint at the wonders it attempts to touch. Sermons about love garble love’s ineffable beauty. Speeches about unity clank after the first syllable. Courting belief is a prescription for a virtual, not a virtuous life.

I never expected the world renowned evolutionary biologist and superstar atheist Richard Dawkins to write a book aimed at children. But, alas, The Magic of Reality: How We Know What’s Really True is slated for an October release.

The book will explain scientific question that many young people have. Questions that kids might get a vastly different answer for from their Sunday schools.

• Why do bad things happen
• Are we alone?
• What are things made of?
• What is the sun?
• Why is there night and day?
• What is an earthquake?
• What is a rainbow?
• Who were the first man and woman?
• When did everything begin?

Looks good! Though a book aimed at the younger crowd, I know many adults that would benefit a great deal from this book, including myself.

But what makes news of this book even more exiting is that it is illustrated by Dave McKean. Advanced images are hard to come by this early, but they are sure to be as fantastic as McKean’s other work.

Dawkins is always best when he writes about what he knows: evolutionary biology. When he tries to be an expert on religion he comes off as a smarmy sophomore. This book looks very promising. Hopefully he sticks to the former and leaves the latter alone.

From the back cover of The Magic of Reality.

I want to show you that the real world, as understood scientifically has magic of its own – the kind I call poetic magic: an inspiring beauty which is all the more magical because it is real and because we can understand how it works…The magic of reality is – quite simply-wonderful. Wonderful, and real. Wonderful because real.

Though not being released until fall, you can preorder The Magic of Reality: How We Know What’s Really True from Amazon.

*Update: The book photo above is for the UK version of the book. Here is the US version, which is set to be released on October 4th. By the way, I think Americans got the inferior cover. Agree?

We got our man. U.S. special forces found and killed Osama Bin Laden. Americans are rejoicing in the streets. And why shouldn’t they be? Bin Laden was a mass murderer of epic proportions, and, through his Al Qaeda network, he will continue to be an accessory and an inspiration to murder for many years to come.

I woke up this morning to radio sound clips of rejoicing in Washington, D.C. and ground zero. “Osama, Osama, hey hey hey, good bye!” they sang. The New York Post cover read: “Vengeance at last! US nails the Bastard.” New York’s Daily News front page read, “Rot in Hell!” Not the most professional headlines, but it gets the point across.

Evangelical Christian politician Mike Huckabee declared, “It is unusual to celebrate a death, but today Americans and decent people the world over cheer the news that madman, murderer and terrorist Osama Bin Laden is dead. …It has taken a long time for this monster to be brought to justice. Welcome to hell, bin Laden.” Not a very Christian thing to say, but I suppose Huck can get a free pass due to the circumstances.

Everybody is talking, tweeting, and blogging in jubilation over the news of Bin Laden’s death. It’s been 10 years in the making, and i have to agree that the world is a little better without him.

But all of the celebratory goings on leaves me a bit sick in the stomach. An unnamed blogger who will remain unlinked to suggested an alternative method of burying Bin Laden: “We should sew up the body in a pigskin suit, dump it in a vat of pig entrails, and then give all the people who lost loved ones in 9/11 an opportunity to relieve themselves on it.”

I understand the anger people felt toward Bin Laden, and I certainly understand the vindication they get from him death. It makes us feel good and it gives us a sense of accomplishment. Justice has been served.

I just hope people aren’t confusing their celebration with a victory march. This was one man, the founder of Al Qaeda. Although the spiritual head and the figurehead of the extremist movement, Bin Laden was no longer carrying out much of an active role. Things will get worse before they get better, if they get better at all.

When Al Qaeda carries out it’s next attack, the celebrations will quell. Perhaps we will focus on what is more important: remembering the loss and celebrating the lives of our loved ones, not basking in the glory of one dead terrorist.

It is an Islamic tradition to recite the opening chapter of the Qur’an upon the death of anyone, friend or foe, in remembrance:

Bismi-Llahi-r-Rahmani-r-Rahim
Al-hamdu-li-Llahi Rabbi-l-`alamin
Ar-Rahmani-r-Rahim
Maliki yawmi-d-din
Iyyaka na`budu wa ‘iyyaka nasta`in
Ihdina-s-sirata-l-mustaqima
Sirat alladhina ‘an `amta `alayhim
Ghayri-l-maghdubi `alayhim wa la-d-daallin
Amin

Church is closed today for renovations and a nice sage cleansing, or something like that. Come back next week.

But I would like to direct you over to Leo Batauba’s Zen Habits blog. You probably already read Zen Habits, but if you don’t, you should. It’s a nice, quiet, and refreshing read.

For Leo’s 38th birthday, he has compiled a list of 38 life lessons he has learned for those starting out in life, specifically his 6 kids.

There is nothing revolutionary or mind-blowing in Leo’s 38 nuggets of wisdom, but each serves as a much-welcomed reminder for anyone, really, who lives, breaths, works, eats, etc.

So have a great Saturday, and head on over to 38 Life Lessons I’ve learned in 38 Years. If you have time, poke around the rest of the blog

I think a misconception a lot of us in the west have about Islam is that it is one dimensional; that it’s a rigid set of beliefs and practices with no wiggle room for personal interpretation. 1.5 billion Muslims moving in strict unison.

The Taqwacores, a movie based on Michael Muhammad Knight’s modern cult classic novel
of the same name, shows a very different Islam. A very American Islam; a punk rock Islam.

The story is set in a punk-rock crash pad in Buffalo, New York. Yusef, a ridiculously naive good boy Muslim engineering student moves in, thinking a house of Muslims would be a more wholesome environment than the college dorm. What he finds is a group of Muslims who practice Islam each in his or her own distinctive way: prayers during the day, booze fueled parties and punk music by night.

The movie has the look and feel of a Muslim version of MTV’s Real World. The first person Yusef meets upon moving in is Umar, a straight edged, black and white, halal and haram Muslim. The type of Muslim us ignorant westerners would immediately paint a picture of.

But Jehangir (pronounced like John Gear) is the de facto head of the house. Actor Dominic Rains portrayal of the mohawked Sufi mystic is the highlight of the film. He drinks, smokes, and has premarital sex, but he loves all people and he loves Allah. For him, that’s enough to be the most sincere Muslim in the world. “Allah is too big and too open for my Islam to be so closed,” he says.

Others in the house include a burqa-wearing feminist who scribbles out passages of the Qur’an that she has no use for, a skater who preaches pot must be holy because Allah created it, and a shirtless goof-off punk, who is, well..a punk in every meaning of the word.

Unfortunately, most of these characters, with the exception of Jehangir, are extremely one-dimensional stereotypes. The movie clocks in at less than 90 minutes, not nearly enough time to develop these characters in a way that makes me care. They are textbook cliches of punks with no personality. The way that they are portrayed, the fact that they are Muslim is irrelevant. They could have easily been Catholics, or atheists.

Despite this damning flaw, the message of the novel pokes through this gritty, low-budget (punk) production of a movie. Or is there a message?

What is a punk? What is a Muslim? What is Taqwacore? The answer to these questions, according to The Taqwacores, is simply whatever the hell you say it is. It’s not the label that matters. “Muslim” and “punk,” are just words. It’s the sincerity that matters. Knight’s novel brings this out beautifully. I’m not so sure the movie does.

The Kominas-”Sharia Law in the U.S.A” featured in The Taqwacores

It’s true what they say about smiling. A simple smile, even a forced one, can change one’s mood. I tried it and the effects were instant and undeniable.

Hold up one second. I know what you’re thinking: damned new age hippie. I don’t blame you. Before writing this post I thought long and hard about whether I really wanted to go down this road. Do I really want to taint my image by writing a hippie-dippy personal anecdote?

I’m in my 33rd year of life and I just discovered the power of a forced smile. It’s possibly a life-changer for me. I feel it too important to go unshared.

I’m the type of person that has a hard time letting go of those little annoying things that people do, especially if it’s in my immediate domain (my desk, my car, my kitchen, etc.) Something as silly as placing a spatula on the side of the sink as opposed to hanging it up where it belongs can make my blood boil. Of course I don’t normally lash out at the offender because that would be silly.

The other morning, several annoyances seemed to happen in rapid succession. It was the beginning of a long day and I didn’t want to start it off by being angry, so I forced myself to smile. It’s not something I had planned on doing. There had never been a point where I said to myself: OK, the next time you get upset, try smiling. See if that works. The idea just presented itself without any expectations. I went with it.

Immediately after deciding to smile, the light in the room seemed to get a bit brighter, literally. I felt a little kick of energy that wasn’t there before. I felt pleasant; I didn’t feel angry or even slightly annoyed.

It’s important to note that the smile that kicked this off wasn’t a half-assed smile but a full, eye-squinting smile. At that moment, I was focused on the smile, and nothing else.

The feeling I got from the spontaneous smile exited me. I know that there is medical evidence that smiling releases endorphins that improve mood, but I never expected the feeling to be so profound. I went from pissed off to pleasant in seconds. It was the first time I had smiled simply for the sake of smiling.

When I got home later that day I shared my profundity with my family. My nine year old made fun of me and called me a hippie. Her loss. Since that first forced smile I have pulled that trick out on several occasions. It works unflinchingly every time.

Science suggests that the use of the specific muscles involved in smiling is part of how the brain evaluates mood. Charles Darwin was one of the first to suggest that facial expressions actually intensify our mood, as apposed to our mood dictating our facial expressions. In other words, when you smile, you’re tricking your brain into thinking that you are happy. This theory is known as the ‘feedback loop’ or ‘facial feedback hypothesis’. Fascinating!

Science aside, I feel that the intense feeling I get from smiling has a lot to do with being present in the moment. When I smile for the sake of smiling, I am only thinking about the smile. I’m concentrating on how my mouth moves, and in turn my cheeks and my eyes. For that moment I’m not thinking about the annoyances that present themselves. I’ve never studied meditation, but I suppose this is a simple form.

Granted, the overwhelming smile-effect only lasts a minute or two. You really can’t go around with a permanent smile. But it is something you can pull out at opportune times. Like now.

Did it work? I thought so. Who’s the hippie now?

Image by Alan Cleaver