Confessions

I remember that everything was so much simpler then. A time when all of life's uncertainty and ambiguity was washed away by the childlike faith that renders no obstacle insurmountable. I remember feeling safe. I remember being surrounded by all of my friends. All of the people whose meandering paths intertwined with mine for just a moment before the tepid business of life severed each relationship far more cleanly than any determination ever could. There was another relationship in my life then too, the particulars of which I can barely recall. It was a relationship born from the uncertainty of an unfamiliar path and the knowledge that I was walking it alone. I wanted a partner on this path whose guidance and wisdom would teach me what I did not yet understand, whose kindness and empathy would comfort me in times of pain, and whose unfailing loyalty would never waiver in its complete devotion to me. And so I did what so many people have done before me. On a warm Spring day in my freshman year of college, I drove out to that secluded hill, watched the setting sun disappear behind a think forest of pines, and asked Jesus into my heart. I remember that moment as vividly today as when it was happening. I wept, walked back to my car, and drove home down deserted back country roads in complete darkness.

That was nine years ago. When I asked Jesus into my heart I was an eighteen year old boy with little understanding of the world apart from my own preconceptions and a rudimentary grasp of reality. A maturing mind will sample countless ideas before finally settling on a set of beliefs that seems to best explain the numerous mysteries and uncertainties of everyday life. For many people, this belief is in Christianity as it was for me for a number of years. I doubt that anyone could have clung more rigidly to his beliefs or possessed a greater desire to unravel the mysteries of the Christian faith than I had during my collegiate years. Countless hours were spent alone in the library endlessly poring over ancient texts and apologetics in a effort to constantly grow in my understanding of an idea that for me had no rival. I felt as if I were an Olympic athlete training for some great event and the more time and energy I expended learning and reflecting on God the more prepared I would be for whatever challenge assuredly awaited. And it was lovely. It was a joy to me and I took no greater pleasure than answering the call that was so eloquently put forth to all believers in the unmistakable command of 1 Peter 3:15. I would answer that call. I would give a reason for why I believed.

Reason. Oh Reason, that most formidable of foes. That viceroy of the Devil sent to test our faith in things unseen and lead us astray by such temptations as logic and rationale. But what had I to fear? I knew that by using my God given faculties of Reason and critical thinking I would be able to not only justify my own belief, but lead others down the same path of righteousness that I was assuredly on. For years I studied. For years I read myriad apologetical works all confirming the Christian truths that my heart knew to be true long before my mind had time to confirm. I felt more secure than ever in my faith, but realized that no apologist should go into battle without first discovering what weapons his enemy might use against him. For this reason, I decided to study not only Christian apologetics, but also atheistic views as well so that I might discover how utterly dismal their claims must be by comparison. I embarked on a quest of sorts, sampling writings from renowned stalwarts of secularism such as Dawkins and Hitchens while applying the same methods of critical thinking to their arguments that had presumably been a trademark of my apologetic study as well. While I considered their ideas well-conceived and eloquently delivered, I still clung mightily to my belief that such notions were no more provable than my faith in God. After all, what evidence could they produce beyond mere hypotheses that were no more reliable than the errant minds who produced them. As such, I saw no reason to abandon my Christian faith in exchange for a world view that offered nothing more than perceived materialism and uninspired banality. 

But then something strange happened. I discovered that once I began applying critical thought to atheistic claims, it was not a process that I could simply turn off. Unbeknownst to me, I had unleashed a rational monster whose appetite for skeptical inquiry could only be satisfied by devouring every preconceived world view I clung to. It mercilessly skewered all unfounded beliefs I had, chewing through the soft notions of faith and belief until it was finally stopped by a rock hard kernel of truth that it could not sink its teeth into. The truth was solid in its design due to the many layers of rational thought that provided its framework, while things like faith were easily ripped apart since they could appeal not to reasons, but only authority. My rational monster destroyed in just a moment all of the faith that had for years overgrown truth and completely hidden it from my view. And when my eyes were opened, I was determined to never close them again.

I realized that the same critical thinking that applied to every other aspect of my life must also have authority over my religious beliefs as well. Nothing was exempt. Almost immediately, the foundation of my Christian faith slowly began chipping away as seemingly every argument advocating its validity was found to be misguided or patently absurd. Still, I remained confident that at least some rational arguments would hold firm against this torrent of skepticism now flooding over the banks of religious doctrine. But as more time passed, I slowly began to realize that my justifications for believing what I had been taught was true were no more valid that the countless claims made by any number of other religions, all of which I summarily rejected without qualm. I realized that while I had been quietly scoffing at the credulity of others for believing the myths of their own various religions, I was guilty of the same offense within my own. And that is when it all fell apart. My faith had enabled me to accept claims that in any other context would be immediately cast aside. Far from being a virtue, faith is perhaps the most cunningly deceptive vice because it demands a suspension of rational thought, the very thing that separates man from beast. For a person to submit to another's authority on the basis of faith is tantamount to a tacit approval of totalitarianism. These allegations are shocking considering that faith is universally regarded as one of the noblest of traits, but I contend that this acclaim is unwarranted and derives not from authenticity but instead from the reluctance to examine its implications without bias. In any other context, a person demanding that another confer allegiance to them based solely on authority would be judged for what they truly are: evil. Yet when this exact demand is made upon man by God, His actions pass without reproach. If an action committed by me is wrong towards my fellow man, then so must it be when committed by God. Euthyphro would be delighted that we have solved his dilemma so succinctly and have done so not by faith, but through the noble act of refusing to surrender our Reason. Any god that demands faith over Reason is not a god I will submit to...the implications of doing otherwise are simply too horrifying.

My complete transformation from Christian to atheist was not a journey that I intended to undertake. It was a journey that started with the intention of strengthening my walk with God, but only served to convince me of His absence. Many atheists have said that the day they relinquished their faith was one of the happiest of their lives, a moment when the veil of uncertainty and fear was lifted from their face and the world in all its beauty was finally revealed before them. My conversion was anything but. I can say unequivocally that I was happier when I was a Christian. It is an admission that I will not deny or attempt to downplay. But it was the same happiness a drunkard might feel when all his fleeting cares are scattered in the chaotic winds of the moment's euphoria. Such a man is unwilling or unable to accept reality on its own terms and live his life accordingly, preferring instead to rely on religion as an anesthetic to make sense out of an otherwise very uncertain world. It is a crutch. It is a narcotic. And because of its insistence on placing a moral restriction on what one is allowed to believe, Christianity declares itself an enemy of truth and the faculty by which man arrives at truth--reason.

These words are as difficult for me to write as they assuredly are for anyone who knows me to read. They almost seem to be the product of an imposter penman who has sought to besmirch my good name and destroy an entire identity that I spent a lifetime cultivating. But I assure you that this is not the case. Rather, they are the result of years of careful and deliberate study, tempered by serious reflection and a genuine desire to know the truth. I have only ever desired to know the truth. It was that simple prayer that first led me down the path of Christianity, and it was that simple realization that finally allowed me to let go.

Oh What a Magical City: Part 2 of 2

As with most football stadiums, Legion Field is not located in the most prestigious section of town. In fact, I have a fairly strong suspicion that a group of Auburn engineers was behind the site selection for this stadium due to its fairly frightening surroundings. Driving through a ghetto is always an unnerving experience, but perhaps even more disturbing than the temporary suspension of one's safety is the realization that countless people actually have to live in such sordid conditions. For some, this is all they know. My limited knowledge of such a world has only been gleaned from behind the favorable side of a car window and precludes me from making judgments beyond what my sensibilities can provide. It simply makes me wonder if those confined to this dismal world ever dream of breaking free from this misery of poverty, or if they even know how.

After spending so much time aimlessly wandering through Birmingham's ghetto, I decided that it was time to leave and began making my way back to more welcoming parts of the city. Unfortunately, the ghetto can be easy to get lost in as crippling poverty has the tendency to cast all of the houses in bleak uniformity. Somewhere in my efforts to leave this area I inadvertently came across a curious enterprise featuring women engaged in exotic services. Though I was initially apprehensive about frequenting such an establishment, the prominent sign out front assured me that this club was strictly for gentleman. Relieved by this reassurance, I reasoned that since I am a gentleman it would only make sense to visit a gentleman's club. While the complete retelling of my gentlemanly exploits would undoubtedly make for a rousing yarn, in the interest of keeping the post suitable for all age groups I have decided to censor all but the most innocuous references of my sordid affair. Suffice it to say that throughout my wanton exaggeration and unnecessarily "verbose prose" I remain, as always, a gentleman.

 

Somewhere in the middle of the reckless hedonism consuming my very soul at the Foxx Trap Gentleman's Club, I heard the unmistakable whispers of my conscious telling me to flee this place and cast aside the binding chains of debauchery. I fled as fast as my feet would carry me, knowing not where to turn to lift my soul from the trappings of such fleshly temptations. Just then, an oasis greeted my eyes as the spiritual light from a bonefied Malcolm X approved Nation of Islam salvation station nearly blinded me with its unmistakable rays of holiness. To those unfamiliar with the good work of the Nation of Islam, they boast a membership that includes such upstanding role models as Louis Farrakhan, Mohammed Ali, and Snoop Doggy Dog. Of course, any other notable members they might have is irrelevant...they had me at Snoop Dog.  They quickly welcomed me with open arms and introduced me to some fairly eye-opening truths that began leading me down a path of enlightenment. Most importantly, after my time at the Nation of Islam, I learned that all of the world's problems are in fact caused by "whitey" and that as a cracker myself I should immediately repent. But repentance without transformation is worthless. I must become a new man. I therefore cast away my former slave name and am reborn today! From now on, I will be known as Mohammed al Mohammed...al Mohammed al Mohammed al Mohammed...ok, there are actually about a dozen more "al Mohammed"s that follow this but in the interest of time we'll just cut it short for now.

Armed with my newfound distrust for the white man, I left the ghetto and made my way to Birmingham's most famous magnet for hoity toity white people. The Club is where Birmingham's elite come to socialize, light cigars with hundred dollar bills, and undoubtedly talk about how much they enjoy looking down on everyone else. I mean that quite literally in that The Club is actually located on top of Red Mountain and overlooks the rest of the city. Unfortunately, it has a gated entrance so I was only able to take pictures outside like some sort of amateur paparazzi. Since I couldn't get to the white man at his favorite watering hole, I decided to go directly to the source and confront him at his home.

                                                                           Actual Mt. Vernon                          

                                                   Rich White Guy's Mid-life Crisis/Delusions of Grandeur

One of the most interesting things about Birmingham is the huge discrepancy of wealth that exists within this city. Those that are poor barely have enough to eat while those who are wealthy can scarcely find enough outlets for their money. One such outlet that they have been able to find, however, is in the construction of grandiose homes. I suppose that if I had millions of dollars just lying around, I might also fancy myself worthy of living in a home built in the image of George Washington's abode. I would awaken each morning, stare out over the river behind my house that constituted my own private Potomac and greet the day, knowing that not only was my money well spent in this Manor of mine, but that all the world shall know that a man possessed of such great abilities has neglected to squander his talents on anything less than the noblest of pursuits. Ah yes, my own Mt. Vernon right here in Birmingham...living the dream my friend, living the dream. 

After witnessing the spectacular ways in which the white man has spent his money, I decided to cool down for a bit by visiting Birmingham's Botanical Gardens. While this unusual structure might look like the sort of place a Bond villain might reside, it is actually a giant greenhouse filled with all sorts of tropical plants. This is only its temporary purpose though. Once the Mayan predictions prove true and the world ends in 2012, this is where I will start my cult as I barricade my followers (aka my 30 wives) in and utilize the greenhouse's unique thermal properties as a means to increase food production. We will grow squash, tomatoes, and plenty of grapes....I love grapes. Once word spreads of my plentiful harvest, new followers will come from miles around seeking to join my heavenly procession. What's that I hear? You want to join my cult/family of holiness once the apocalypse begins? Sure, I'll give you some lima beans...but as sure as my name is Mohammed al Mohammed you will become wife #31!!!

The Botanical Gardens also feature a Japanese exhibit that showcases not only several different types of oriental plants, but also this unique torii gate that I'm pretty sure was concealing at least fifteen ninjas. Although I enjoyed walking through this Japanese garden's peaceful trails and lush gardens very much, I was terribly disappointed that in all my searching I could not find at least one bonsai tree in the entire exhibit. How is this possible? How can it be that one would be so culturally unaware as to not include a single, solitary bonsai tree somewhere in the park? If I was the Alpha Botanical Gardner (surely such a position must exist) I would cover the entire Japanese exhibit in bonsai trees just to prove that here in Alabama we take our cultural awareness seriously. Although, I would also design tiny houses, cars, and skyscrapers in the image of Tokyo as a human sized recreation of Godzilla stomped his way through the metropolis too so perhaps it is best that my gardener status remains Beta.

 

Although my unequivocal hatred of the white man was now well within its third hour, the prudent teachings of the venerable Malcolm X were starting to wane a bit. After all, if the worst that the supposed white devils could do was gather in social clubs to talk about golf or construct homes designed to resemble mansions of past presidents, I'm not sure that I could completely justify their devilish status. Still, my inner rage was not completely extinguished. In my heart I knew that it would take more than a leisurely stroll through oriental gardens or a complete lack of justification to curtail my hatred. Just then, somewhere deep within the Japanese Gardens, I saw a tiny little statue smiling up at me from behind the underbrush. He was nearly hidden away, and yet his smile shone with the joviality of a man without a care in the world. Perhaps he was meant to represent a tiny little Buddha meditating on how the world can be a very silly place sometimes. I like to think so. I like to think that he was laughing at the realization that although people divide themselves into unnecessary groups, in our heart we are all still the same. And with that realization, my intense disdain of the white man abated and a calm resided in my heart once more. It took a statue of an Asian man for me to let go of my hatred for whitey...I suppose a mirror could have done the same.

 

And so my day of exploration in Birmingham has come to an end. In just a few hours I managed to experience the hallmarks of this city's tumultuous past, yet still witness all the progress we've made along the way. It is a city like no other. A jewel of the south. No other city has more staunchly clung to its southern roots while still embracing the notion that change is inevitable, our spirit is often tempered because of it. We are not the city of Bull Connor, of firehoses and police dogs turned loose on our citizens as the rest of the nation slowly shakes its head. We are a city embracing a newfound identity. An identity hewn from the rocks of Red Mountain and forged in the furnaces of the countless steel mills that still echo of this city's industrial past. And out of those furnaces arises a burgeoning skyline that soars far higher than the billowing smokestacks that were once Birmingham's pride. For what this city was has helped shape it into what it is. And just as the silent smokestacks of the Sloss furnace slowly retreat behind the overarching shadows cast by numerous skyscrapers, so too has the bigotry of a bygone era given way to the pursuit of happiness that is every man's right. The early morning sun of a new day rising casts its first rays upon the highest skyscrapers in this fair city and ushers in a new era. From high atop my perch I witness it all as I open my window each morning and am greeted by the urban landscape before me. Oh what a time to call this place home...oh what a magical city.

Oh What a Magical City: Part 1 of 2

With my recent move to Birmingham, I have been tasked with the responsibility of once again learning my way around a completely new city. Every object of consideration, from finding a local grocery store to determining the easiest route to work, has been a new adventure in both exploration and miscues alike. More than once have I taken a wrong turn that has not only cost me time, but has occasionally stranded me in some less desirable neighborhoods as well. Although this would undoubtedly elicit feelings of anxiety in those not so adept to handle the perils of gang warfare, my obviously intimidating demeanor ensures that no overzealous street tough dares to throw down with yours truly. Still, my frequent excursions into unscheduled detours require that I familiarize myself with this city's layout. I therefore decided to spend the day exploring my new hometown to discover not only my way around, but also what unseen treasures it may hold. Who knows that The Magic City may be hiding just under its rosy gilded facade...

As I open the blinds in my bedroom to greet the new day, the Birmingham skyline meets my eyes for the first time each morning. My apartment sits atop Red Mountain and overlooks the entire city all the way out into the horizon. A million lives are unfolding down there and on this day I think I will venture down from my lofty abode to join them.

 

Right next to my apartment a small outcrop of cleared rock known as Vulcan Park sits high atop Red Mountain. This park is home to Birmingham's all-seeing protector...The Vulcan Statue. A tribute to the Roman god of fire and forge, this aptly named stature pays homage to the city's steel producing past as its right arms extends mightily to the heavens whilst holding a cast iron spearhead. While its bearded face and proclivity towards weapons undoubtedly cast an imposing figuring, a short stroll behind the statue reveals that its backside remains curiously unclothed as he appears to actually be mooning the surrounding neighborhood of Homewood.

A curious bit of monolithic pornography has found its way into our fair city it would seem...

Birmingham boasts more than mere scantily clad statues to remind us of its steel producing past. The Sloss Furnaces are a local landmark that once churned out steel and iron at a pace rivaled only by Pittsburg. Though the furnaces have long since closed, rumors of spooky happenings at the site have caused many to believe that the furnaces are haunted. Yearly ghost tours around Halloween help stir the spirits up, though the skeptical observer would wonder why a being capable of invisibility and teleportation would spend his days pacing around a rusted furnace rather than exploring the far more exciting destinations that other ghosts seem to have gotten wise to. Perhaps I should get the Sloss Furnace ghost the phone number of The White House ghost so he can know what he's missing out on.

After visiting some of Birmingham's sites that pay homage to the distant past, I decided to head downtown to experience some of the city's modern flare. Several skyscrapers loom large over me as I approach the city and make me wonder what sorts of adventures await me on the streets below.

Birmingham's skyscrapers give panoramic views of the surrounding area and form the hub of the city's business district. Many of Birmingham's most affluent citizens work in these towering shrines to high finance and can frequently be seen jabbering away on their cell phones as they disappear into its illustrious corridors to undoubtedly conduct some manner of important business. I once spent an entire afternoon shouting random business buzzwords into a broken cell phone in an effort to trick/impress these businessmen with my supposed business acumen. I recommend this strategy for any aspiring young professional.

In stark contrast to the pageantry of Italian cut business suits and imported sports cars that grace these streets, a far more somber spectacle plays itself out daily in the shadows of these soaring towers. Birmingham's homeless gather in neighboring Linn Park to rest on its many benches or receive a free meal courtesy of one of the area's local churches. For some reason, homeless people have always caused me great anxiety whenever I have been near them. After feeling guilty about this sentiment for quite some time, I finally realized that it was not the people themselves but the occasional unpredictability of their actions that arouses my discomfort. Considering that this unpredictability is often times due to a mental disorder, I suspect that my unease lies not with the people themselves but with the knowledge that for a moment I am at the whims of madness. Though my guilt is still justified, hopefully my condemnation is not.

A few blocks away from Linn Park resides one of Birmingham's most troubling landmarks. A small street corner church marks the spot of perhaps the most tragic event to ever befall this city. On September 15th, 1963 a bomb was detonated by white supremacists in an effort to destroy the civil rights movement and envelope Birmingham's black population in a blanket of fear. This bomb exploded just before the Sunday morning services and killed four young black girls. I cannot imagine an individual being so depraved that he would even consider such an act, let alone actually see it to completion. Despite such bleak reminders of humanity's darkest nature, I am convinced that the good in mankind ultimately prevails.

A park dedicated to the memory of the civil rights movement is located just across the street from the church. As I was walking down its cemented walkway, I came across several monuments meant to signify several of the most important events in the Birmingham race riots. One such monument shows the police dogs that were turned loose on many helpless black protesters. It shows snarling dogs on leashes as they lunge forth to attack those innocent souls. A homeless black man happened to be passed out on a nearby bench and from my vantage point he lined up perfectly centered between the snapping jaws of the memorialized police dogs. He looked completely helpless as he lay prostrate on that park bench, a living testament to the bygone indignities that he was now unwittingly a part of.

After observing some of Birmingham's more somber relics, I decided to visit one that has a bit more storied history. Legion Field played host to countless Alabama football games and was the sole home for the Iron Bowl throughout most of its history. Although Alabama football has long since outgrown its former home, this field still serves as a shrine to some of the university's greatest athletic triumphs. Curiously enough, Legion Field was technically considered a neutral field despite the fact that Alabama played all of its home games there. Further adding to the confusion regarding its neutrality is a conspicuously placed statue of Bear Bryant within its gates. Although the statue is meant to memorialize Coach Bryant, I suspect that something far more insidious is afoot here. I maintain that the statue is no mere statue at all, but is instead the actual body of Coach Bear Bryant frozen in liquid carbonite in some sort of Hans Solo inspired attempt to preserve his coaching genius, only to be reanimated during Alabama football's darkest hour (Which was arguably this past season's Iron Bowl...Hi-Oh!!!). What I am suggesting is nothing short of a perverted amalgam of Star Wars and King Arthur lore that seems to have progressed to its unspeakable conclusion! Such is the depravity that is Alabama football to have sunk to such lowly depths. Have you no shame Bammers? Has your Shintoist themed ancestor worship finally pushed you to play God...

 ***Part 2 Coming Soon***