The Professor's Bayonet

Jason Dew

Book reviews and social commentary

  1. 5d ago

    Episode 140 - Ghosts

    In a 1990 interview on NPR's "Fresh Air," Anne Rice, author of Interview with the Vampire shared that she had never experienced anything supernatural.  She believed that the claims that others had experienced the supernatural were valid; however, she herself could not be counted among them.  I found this strange, dear listeners, that Rice would make this claim, given the fact that she was raised Catholic and surely received Holy Communion during Mass.  What is transubstantiation – the turning of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ -- but supernatural?  In this same interview, Rice said that she had lost her faith.  In 1998, she would reenter the Catholic Church.  As a Catholic, I understand that there are two realms – the physical and the spiritual – and that they regularly blend as when we ask saints to intercede for us or when we ask Saint Michael the Archangel to "defend us in battle."  On the subject of ghosts, however, Church teaching seems to suggest that these are individuals who somewhere in between the world as we know it at present and the world to come: the afterlife.  In fact, I often wonder if this is what purgatory is.  Purgatory, after all, is that place some souls go in order to be cleansed of or "purged" of any lingering impurities. Ghosts, in this light, may be the souls of those who, upon dying, still had some leftover issues to work through.  These issues prevent the soul from seeing the "light" of God's face, so they stick around for a spell to smooth out the wrinkles of their lives.  The very heart posture of a practicing Catholic is such that the lines are open between the two realms.  One night, aunt Nelly put a pot of water on the stove for it to boil.  She left the kitchen for a moment, but on her return, she found the pot on the floor, water spilled everywhere.  Strange, she must have thought.  So she filled the pot again and placed it back on the stove.  She left the kitchen again and came back to find the same messy scene.  This happened so often that the wooden floorboards in front of the stove got damaged, so uncle Gerald had to replace them.  He pulled up the water-soaked boards, but before he installed the new boards, he spotted something white in the hole he had made.  He reached down and pulled out an object wrapped in white linen, and when he peeled back the cloth, he discovered something horrific: the skeletal remains of a baby.  The previous owner had a daughter who got pregnant out of wedlock.  Not wanting the baby, she became desperate, so when it was born, she boiled it to death and hid her crime beneath the floorboards.  Or the time my grandmother had a dream that her brother, Alvin, was staying in a pretty little cabin at the base of a hill but was not allowed to leave.  He was not ready.  He had to wait.  But why?  He shot himself and died leaning against the trunk of a great tree.  His reasons were straightforward.  His wife had left him, and he had cancer.  He was also tired of the nightmares.  Alvin had fought at the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Alvin was a man who shouldered a lot of pain, and while his actions can never be justified, it might explain why he had to stay in a pretty little cabin until he was better.  Purgatory?  Perhaps.  One would hope that God's grace was extended to him.  You, dear listeners, likely have your own unexplainable tales of the supernatural: disembodied spirits manifesting in the physical world.  Remember, though, that you yourself are spirit, though embodied, which means that the spiritual realm is a part of you and you apart of it.  So Anne Rice, great writer though she was, was myopic in her thinking about the supernatural.  What she claims not to have experienced was all around her, was, indeed, inside her.  How much more bold would we be if we simply embraced this fact?  The physical is brief; the spiritual is eternal.  Practically speaking, then, which language is better for us to invest in learning?

  2. Oct 20

    Episode 139 - I Pity the Fool

    Picture this, dear listeners: Hulk Hogan and Mr. T are training in New York City's Central Park.  They are running up hills, doing pull ups, shadow boxing, getting ready for the big fight otherwise known as Wrestle Mania.  They are pumped up and doing all they can to get the crowd just as excited.  In the gym they take turns on the punching bag.  Hulk Hogan gives it a few good hits.  Mr. T all but tackles it.  And all around them, the crowd cheers, runs up the hill, too.  Does some pull ups.  They are getting ready as well.  But the interesting fact about the crowd is that it is made up entirely of children.  We are not talking about adults.  No.  Middle schoolers and even younger.  Two enormous men, wearing muscle shirts and sweat bands are leading a crowd of children, getting them pumped, excited.  I recall watching this spectacle in the 1980s when I was the very age of most of the members of the crowd and feeling the excitement at home in rural Pennsylvania.  I was particularly drawn to Mr. T.  He was also, after all, B.A. Baracas from the A-Team.  On the playground at Youngsville Elementary, I was Faceman.  A bulkier friend was always B.A. Baracas, and he did well enough being afraid of flying.  If you know that detail about the character, then you know.  If not, do some research.  As a father looking back on that training sequence for Wrestle Mania, I am struck by how dad-like Hulk Hogan and Mr. T really were.  I can see what they were up to.  They were playing with the kids, having loads of fun, even.  They were modeling what manhood looked like albeit in an over-the-top caricaturist way.  They were strong and motivated.  They were no pushovers.  They were ready for battle.  Motivated.  Resilient.  How come on their heels we see the likes of Homer Simpson who debuted in the late 80s/early 90s?  He was and remains a laughingstock, a clown.  And then Peter Griffin from Family Guy.  Dim-witted, fat and foolish.  Remember Al Bundy from Married with Children?  Also fat and foolish.  Dimwitted.  A dolt.  Why did fatherhood come under such synchronized attack?  How do we explain this emerging trope in fatherhood that has the supposed head of the household look so pitifully stupid?  Ideas that begin in the academy eventually make their way to popular culture.  I have spoken before on the significance of the Frankfurt School in shaping Western culture in that proponents saw everything through either a Marxist lens – have and have nots – or a Freudian lens where everything is sexualized.  What we see as an end result of that way of looking at and understanding the world is the breakdown of the nuclear family beginning with the father.  Remove him from the equation, and everything falls like a row of dominos.  If he can't be removed, just make him look like an incompetent idiot, put him on a public stage – i.e. television – and mock him collectively.  In the end, power and influence is concentrated with the state, and the Marxists win.  But I wonder if we might be seeing a pivot in our culture toward Mr. T and men of his ilk.  And it is germinating in the vocation of fatherhood.  Men are taking a stand.  They have had enough of the mockery.  If this is the case, then I suppose we really are getting ready for a big contest.  We might not be running up hills in Central Park or pummeling a punching bag will all our strength, but we are moving the conversation onto the sports fields as coaches, into schools as mentors, and into homes as dads who refuse to give up their posts.  They are in it for the long haul.  Quitting is not in their vocabulary.  They are guys who got no time for jibber jabber.

  3. Oct 13

    Episode 138 - Curious Parallels at an Ed Sheeran Concert

    I certainly do not aim to be a killjoy.  A good friend had two extra tickets to an Ed Sheeran concert, so my wife and I rused home from a Homecoming event for two of our daughters, ordered an Uber, and made our way to the Mercedes Benz Stadium in downtown Atlanta.  Seconds after we sat down, Ed Sheeran appeared on stage and began to perform for thousands of fans.  I simply took it all in, made some observations. h A machine spewed smoke over the fans and the stage.  During the slower songs, hundreds of fans turned on their phone’s flashlight and waved it back and forth.  Those who knew the lyrics sang along with Ed Sheeran, and at times, Ed Sheeran would ask the large crowd to engage in a little call and response: he said one thing, the audience said another.  On another occasion, he asked the crowd to jump at a certain part of the song, and at the end of the show, he took a long bow before the lights came up.  No beer was thrown.  At the concert my youngest attended the night before, there was.  The crowd was doused in it.  Sitting at the Ed Sheeran concert, I could not help but consider other parallels, specifically between rock concerts and the celebration of the Mass.  At Mass, the altar is oftentimes incensed.  Incense or smoke is distributed around the altar and the worshipers.  Just like the smoke machine at the concert.  Were the fans and the stage being incensed?  Candles are also lit during Mass, and for special occasions such as baptisms, other candles are lit.  Very similar to flashlights on cellphones being waved back and forth.  During Mass, the priest says things, and the worshipers respond in kind.  At my parish, the Our Father is actually sung, and those who “know the lyrics” sing along.  This is not much different than what happens at concerts.  When Ed Sheeran asked his fans to jump during a particular part of a song, I thought of the times when we kneel and stand during the Mass.  Physical movement, for both, is part of the experience.  And, in the end, he bowed.  Is not bowing also a part of the Holy Mass?  As for the beer, none was thrown during the Ed Sheeran concert, but plenty was thrown at the concert my daughter attended.  On some occasions, Holy water is thrown onto the worshipers during Mass as a reminder of their baptism and a blessing for spiritual protection.  What was going on at the concert my daughter attended?  Naturally, I tested my theory on my wife and daughter, and if I am being honest, the theory was not well-received.  Folks are just having fun.  Ed Sheeran in all likelihood has no idea such parallels exist.  The notion that he might is simply ludicrous.  I am overthinking this way too much.  Perhaps.  But the behaviors and accoutrements at the concerts are eerily the same as the behaviors and accoutrements at Mass.  Surely, this is more than a coincidence.  The dots connect.  But are we comfortable with the picture?  I am not saying that the fans and the performers alike are willingly participating in some weird inversion of the Mass, but I do wonder why it is that thousands upon thousands of individuals enjoy music in a particular way – a way that mirrors what happens at a Catholic Mass.  How did it come to be this way?  What is more, isn’t it interesting that nobody seems to be talking about it – that even devout Catholics deny that there exists a parallel at all?  It is likely, dear listeners, that discussing it here in this episode of The Professor’s Bayonet will not win me any more invitations to attend concerts, and this is fine.  I can enjoy music in other ways.  However, if the aim of this project called The Professor’s Bayonet is to pursue what is true then I have to accept the consequences of that posture.  Even if it means quizzical looks, shaking heads, and at least one “Oh, dad” from a teenage girl.

  4. Oct 6

    Episode 137 - Schwarzer Humor

    In Episode 51 of The Professor's Bayonet, I explored Shirley Jackson's famous short story, "The Lottery," for how it points toward humanity's shared concupiscence or tendency to sin.  The story takes place in an orderly small town populated by orderly citizens who, once a year, stone to death one of their peers.  Violence is built into their community.  It is what keeps their society stable.  The yearly murder is a safety valve to let off steam. Naturally, this short story lends itself to a conversation about the place of violence in our society.  It is in the movies we watch, the teams we support.  It is in our music and politics, the television series we binge, the sometimes attitudes we take with the others, the outsiders, the strangers we feel are trying to cut in on our resources. When I teach Jackson's "The Lottery," I sometimes pair that discussion with a discussion on a popular Saturday Night Live parody of the famous scene at the end of the film, "Dead Poet's Society."  You, dear listeners, might know it.  Mr. Keating, played by Robin Williams, is an English teacher at an elite prep school for boys.  His teaching style is not appreciated, so the administrations sacks him, tells him he must leave.  While gathering his belongings from his former classroom, his students, swept up in a spirit of rebellion, express their disapproval by standing on their desks and proclaiming, "O captain, my captain!"  The SNL writers offer a much darker version.  The canned English teacher is Mr. Bunting, and while he is collecting his personals from the classroom, his students also choose to express their disapproval.  Instead of saying, "O captain, my captain," they proclaim, "I sing my song for all to hear."  The live studio audience begins to giggle.  One after another student stands on their desk, proclaiming the same words until one hapless student stands on his desk, and immediately gets decapitated by the ceiling fan above. Blood spurts everywhere as the student's head is clumsily passed from one horror-stricken person to another until it is tossed outside where a lawnmower chews it to bits, splattering what is left on the window. What is notable, dear listeners, is the reaction of the audience.  They are roaring with laughter.  They love the dark humor or what the Germans call schwarzer humor: something that should not by any account be funny yet still tickles the funny bone nevertheless. Why is this display of gore and death so hilarious?  Why did the community in Jackson's short story have a lottery at all – this once-a-year stoning to death of a randomly-chosen person?   I have had numerous discussions on this very topic, but it occurred to me while working out at the Y that, perhaps, dark humor is the only thing that can satisfy the itch we all have concerning our own mortality.  Allow me to explain:  We are all going to die.  We all know this, and the sheer weight of this knowledge can be extraordinary.  What if the only way to deal with this reality is to laugh?  Reasoning with it won't make it change.  Indeed, reasoning with it might tip us toward insanity.  It cannot be negotiated with.  We might deny it for a while, but life has a way of reminding us of its presence.  What can we do with the reality of our common mortality but have a laugh?    The Absurdists of the 20th century certainly had this in mind when they decided that the universe was indifferent and that trying to find meaning out of it was a fool's errand.  But how are we to look at schwarzer humor if we believe that the universe is not indifferent?  Perhaps we might see dark humor as a way to take ourselves with all of our deep and complex questions less seriously.  This might seem to be a tall mental order, but our emotions clearly have another response.  Laughter.  What cannot be beat or negotiated or denied can only be laughed at, for, in truth, it is the only response we really have.  It is all that is left after we wear ourselves down.

  5. Sep 29

    Episode 136 - The Sunset on Malibu

    In Episode 2 of The Professor's Bayonet, I explored the significance of Plato's "Allegory of the Cave" in terms of both the learning and teaching process.  Plato writes about a dark cave in which there are individuals shackled in place and forced to watch a bunch of shadows on the wall.  They believe those shadows are true; however, the opposite, as it were, is true.  The shadows are false.  The shackled individuals are being manipulated. But one individual escapes and makes his way out of the cave and into the light. At first, the light makes him uncomfortable, but he soon adjusts. Does he go on his way?  No.  By moral imperative, he returns and leads other out into the light.  He leads them to the truth.  He makes it his mission to enlighten everybody. Samantha Jones Darling shares in this mission. Her book, The Sunset on Malibu, is an open meditation on leading others out of the dark cave of addiction and into the light of freedom and self-awareness.  Her candid thoughts on the reality of addiction should be welcomed to those who are experiencing or have experienced a similar battle. Darling writes, "[t]here isn't anything wrong with doings things differently that your peers, whether you are in treatment or in the outside world.  We all have a pace, we all have a unique path, and we all have a learning curve that is perfect for us.  It's the challenge of living like others inauthentically that gets us into these rooms in the first place." In effect, while we should all recognize that we are contending with our own shadows – those false things presented to us as real – the process of becoming enlightened looks different for us all. To be authentic is to embrace that true process; otherwise, we risk copying others in hopes of finding our way only to be disappointed when one size truly does not fit all. I was having a conversation with my students about this very thing. Leading others to the truth is a good and noble thing, but the path might be different; indeed, there may be less leading, per se, and more accompanying. The process of enlightenment may require a companion and not a teacher, in other words. Consider the root word of companion, dear listeners.  In "companion" we see the word "pan," which comes from the Latin word "panem" or bread.  To be a companion to someone, to put it another way, is to break bread with them.  It is to sit at the same table across from one another.  My students suggested that one way – perhaps a better way – to lead someone into the light was to walk with that person, not ahead of that person. Darling seems to be doing just that.  Her honesty is direct and her vulnerability, disarming. She shares details about her journey and, in doing so, invites readers to consider naming the details in their own journeys.  Darling writes about waking up from "terrifying nightmares ... dripping with sweat and screaming to escape the hell in my dreams and shaking for hours afterward." Later, she offers this about loneliness: "Solitude has been painted as loneliness, but loneliness isn't the same same as solitude. We experience loneliness when we don't have a relationship with ourselves." And she also writes that "universal love is God."  This is the truth she seeks; indeed, this is the truth she points to. The Sunset on Malibu reads like other books about the road to recovery.  Readers see what rock bottom looked like for the author and then bear witness to how the author climbed out to be in a position to help others. That rock bottom was Darling's cave; the shadows, the manacles were the lies she told herself and the lies she chose to believe.  But in finally discovering the sunset – Darling's position that endings may really be beautiful beginnings – she begins her ascent into what is true and good about life. The book is short, but the message is resounding. There is hope. There is a bright future.  It begins as all journeys begin by placing one foot in front of the other.  www.samanthajonesdarling.com

  6. Sep 22

    Episode 135 - Water Under the Bridge

    Over seventeen years ago, the husband of one of my colleagues passed away.  My response was less than appropriate.  I loaned her a book on the afterlife written, if memory serves me correctly, by N.T. Wright, an Anglican bishop.  While she accepted the book with grace, I have carried with me the guilt of responding to someone's loss with academic coldness.  She lost her husband.  He was in his thirties, and they had just adopted a child.  So I loaned her a book.  Cringeworthy?  Absolutely.  It was only after she stopped by my office to chat recently that I summoned the courage to ask for her forgiveness.  She said it was unnecessary – that many folks responded similarly.  She never thought anything about my clumsy gesture.  I appreciated the words but still felt better for unloading the shame I had been carrying for seventeen years.  I said I was sorry.  To her it was water under the bridge.    What exactly does this term mean ... water under the bridge?  Clearly, it denotes the passing of time, the fact that we can't get it back, but it also means that we should let bygones be bygones.  Let what happened in the past stay there.  There is no cause to resurrect past hurts and, in doing so, taint the present, muddy the waters of now.  Why do we sometimes tend to do the opposite?  What I am getting at is this:    As I get older, I continue to reflect on my past with an eye toward sticking the landing.  I want to learn from my mistakes so that the latter part of my life is more wholesome than the former.  There is no harm in wanting to become a better version of myself; however, I find that many of my past sins are less mistakes to learn from and more instruments of self-flagellation.  I beat myself up.  I cringe at what I had done, what I had said, what I had left undone.  The same sins I had taken to the confessional continue to haunt me, though I know that I have been absolved of them.    So why the self-abuse?    I contend, dear listeners, is that part of my struggle comes down to the fact that I have been blessed with many years and a handful of very important roles, namely husband and father.  I remember some dumb thing I said to a past girlfriend, and I wince.  I recall some dumb action I took, and I try to wish it away.  As I grow older, I find that I am becoming more empathetic; I see in others what their moms or dads see: vulnerable folks just trying to do their best in an oftentimes unforgiving world.  We are children of God, after all.  Children.  Little ones.  And the numbers attached to us – our age – do not matter in the least bit.    I suppose, then, that I am obliged to extend that same grace to myself.  I once heard it said that God takes into consideration the failings of a person when He assigns them some task or puts them in some situation.  Seventeen years ago, God knew my accidental insensitivity.  And He forgave me.  Others I have wronged will not likely stop at my office door and give me a chance to apologize, but that is how life is.  The water moves, rushes by.  It does not stop.  It comes to the bridge and just like that goes under it, and to think anybody can reverse that act is foolishness.  And, I hasten to add, dear listeners, self-destructive: a recipe for discouragement.  Perhaps, then, the real battle is with the accuser.  Many of us have heard the saying: The devil knows your name but calls you by your sin while God knows your sin but calls you by your name.    To those who struggle with regret, remember, therefore, how the One who created you knows you. Loves you.  Gave everything for you.  Not just a book, the Holy Bible.  But His Son.  His only Son.  Who made a way for my colleague to see her husband again.

  7. Sep 15

    Episode 134 - In Due Season

    The Book of Sirach, which is also known as Ben Sira or Ecclesiasticus, is not found in the Protestant Bible.  It is one of seven books that shares this dubious distinction.  Written sometime between 196 and 177 BCE by Yeshua ben Eleazar ben Sira, a Hellenistic Jewish scribe, the Book of Sirach is a compilation of wise sayings, much like the Book of Proverbs, and can be found in the Roman Catholic Bible, the Eastern Orthodox Bible, the Oriental Orthodox Bible, and Assyrian Church of the East Bible.  Most denominations consider it a part of the Apocrypha.  Despite all this, a reading of The Book of Sirach can yield a wealth of insight.  Its single author had a plethora of astute observations on society and his fellow man.  Simply put, he offers good advice.  It is his final words, dear listeners, that I would like to focus on.    In Chapter 51, verse 30, he concludes the book by sharing the following: "Work at your tasks in due season, and in his own time God will give you your reward."  Put another way, do what you need to do today, and when God is ready, he will give you what you deserve.    As I studied this verse in the wee morning hours before the sun had come up, it occurred to me that this is the frame of mind many of us likely need to ward off anxiety and maybe even depression.  It does not take a sage to see that the world is an anxious place with individuals flitting from place to place, doing their very best to remain distracted.  Not to be distracted would mean having to lock eyes with impossible questions: What is the meaning of my life?  Why am I here?  What happens when I am not?  What is time but a thief?  What is the value of those cherished seasons in my life next to eternity?  Where is my life going?  What do I do with all the love that I have?  What do I do with all the love I was given?    Oftentimes, even coming up with the words for the question is a challenge, but that in and of itself points to the sheer enormity of the existential crises we all face.  It begins with a heavy feeling in the gut.  Sometimes, it remains a heavy feeling in the gut, and the words remain scarce or nonexistent.  We simply feel the heaviness of it all.    At fifty-one years old, I am feeling the weight.  My memories compete with my visions of what the future might hold, leaving me to wrestle with the disbelief that I have accumulated so many  years and that it is likely that those years, unless I live into my hundreds, constitute the bulk of my life.    I no longer live in theory.  Time and age are real.  Is this the mark of middle age?  Indeed, is this the beginning of wisdom?    Time is for none of us to control.  Celebrities of all types try to tell us otherwise with the surgeries they undergo and the lifestyles they lead or, at least, pretend to lead.  The lie is all around us.  You can beat time.  You can circumnavigate its effects.  But this is simply false.  We are all caught up in its momentum.  That is why time marches.  Time marches because soldiers march, and good soldiers are singular in mind and aim.    But Chapter 51, verse 30 gives us perspective.  In each season, we have a job.  We merely have to do it.  Go to school.  Start a family.  Raise children.  See them off.  Work at a career.  Love your spouse.  Be a good neighbor.  The clock will tick, and there is nothing we can do about it.  But God stands outside of time, which makes the phrase "in his own time" all the more mysterious.  The human mind cannot explain it.  The human heart cannot fathom it.  We, the poor banished children of Eve, can only experience it with serenity, we hope, accepting the fact that we do not have access to all the answers we seek.  The questions will come.  Pray, let us only be distracted by the work set before us now.

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Book reviews and social commentary