Home | Writings | Resume | Links | RSS Feed
A Proud Member of the Reality-Based Community
About Me :
I'm a grownup nerd living in the Boston burbs. I write computer programs for a living and plays for fun.
I'm married to a wonderful woman, and we share a nice little house with our daughter and our cats.
I'm a humanist, a technologist, an artist, and an idealist. I believe in reason, freedom, love, equality,
and democracy. (Did I mention that I'm
an idealist? I did, OK.)
I'm also a pragmatist and an empiricist. I reject ideology and dogma, especially when they conflict with
practical facts (i.e., pretty much always). I particularly hate willful ignorance, which tends to go hand-in-hand
with ideology and dogma.
Like the alignment of the planets, this blog gets updated as I have the time, inspiration, and inclination to do so.
Like the alignment of the planets, this blog gets updated as I have the time, inspiration, and inclination to do so.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
A Shameful Gambit
When I was in college, I was a naive and somewhat obnoxious skeptic, agnostic, and freethinker, and I was all too happy to debate the Big Questions with anyone who could stand to listen. I was pretty upfront about it, though, and I really was interested in what other people had to say. (Hey, I was young, I was idealistic, and I was in college, which I foolishly thought had something to do with learning.)
Being open and receptive, I made the mistake of actually -- yes, I know now this was dumb and naive -- I actually invited some evangelical Christians into my apartment one weekend afternoon when they came knocking at my door. It only took one such experience for me to learn my lesson, though, because not only were they impervious to reason, not only were they so earnest, and so convinced of their righteousness, and so completely boring, but they were really, really hard to get rid of. They must have thought that I was waffling, on the edge, that maybe with a little more needling, they could get me to come over to their side, and then they could go home with another notch in their Bible or something. ("Another soul saved!" indeed.) I was really glad, and relieved, when they gave up, and the door finally, finally closed shut behind them.
The next Monday morning was perfectly ordinary -- until I checked my mailbox. On this day, I found a small envelope with my name and box number on it, and inside the envelope, there was a small plain card. And inside the card was a signed message from one of the evangelicals:
Well, there you go. That's what I get.
This card stands out in my memory as -- ironically -- the single most shameful gambit I have ever seen employed by evangelicals. They were trying to play any sense of shame I might possibly have, over anything I might have done -- even things nobody else knows about -- and exploit it. What secret sins could I have been hiding? Imagine your own here. Now imagine the effect a card like this has on someone who isn't very emotionally mature. Somebody like a repressed, naive college freshman. How many cards like this did they send out? I'll bet a few of them worked.
Of course I never responded to the card. I had a good, if bitter, laugh over it, and shelved it. I never actually saw the evangelicals again. I kept the card for a few years as a memento of sorts, but I don't have it any more. I'm awfully glad Jesus isn't ashamed of me, but these people ought to have been ashamed of themselves.
0 comments
When I was in college, I was a naive and somewhat obnoxious skeptic, agnostic, and freethinker, and I was all too happy to debate the Big Questions with anyone who could stand to listen. I was pretty upfront about it, though, and I really was interested in what other people had to say. (Hey, I was young, I was idealistic, and I was in college, which I foolishly thought had something to do with learning.)
Being open and receptive, I made the mistake of actually -- yes, I know now this was dumb and naive -- I actually invited some evangelical Christians into my apartment one weekend afternoon when they came knocking at my door. It only took one such experience for me to learn my lesson, though, because not only were they impervious to reason, not only were they so earnest, and so convinced of their righteousness, and so completely boring, but they were really, really hard to get rid of. They must have thought that I was waffling, on the edge, that maybe with a little more needling, they could get me to come over to their side, and then they could go home with another notch in their Bible or something. ("Another soul saved!" indeed.) I was really glad, and relieved, when they gave up, and the door finally, finally closed shut behind them.
The next Monday morning was perfectly ordinary -- until I checked my mailbox. On this day, I found a small envelope with my name and box number on it, and inside the envelope, there was a small plain card. And inside the card was a signed message from one of the evangelicals:
"Jesus knows about everything you've done, and he isn't ashamed of you."
Well, there you go. That's what I get.
"Jesus knows about everything you've done, and he isn't ashamed of you."
This card stands out in my memory as -- ironically -- the single most shameful gambit I have ever seen employed by evangelicals. They were trying to play any sense of shame I might possibly have, over anything I might have done -- even things nobody else knows about -- and exploit it. What secret sins could I have been hiding? Imagine your own here. Now imagine the effect a card like this has on someone who isn't very emotionally mature. Somebody like a repressed, naive college freshman. How many cards like this did they send out? I'll bet a few of them worked.
Of course I never responded to the card. I had a good, if bitter, laugh over it, and shelved it. I never actually saw the evangelicals again. I kept the card for a few years as a memento of sorts, but I don't have it any more. I'm awfully glad Jesus isn't ashamed of me, but these people ought to have been ashamed of themselves.