This is the first installment of what will be a multi-part series on the issue of infant baptism. As everyone knows, the ground must be tilled before the seeds can be sown, so, to get things going, here is a parable.
Once, there were two flowers who were planted into a garden. This garden was the only place that received water for many miles around. Both flowers were told many things by the Gardener, and one in particular. “If you wish for your seeds to be watered and grow,” He said, “then they must be planted in this garden. If you drop a seed into the earth, I will water it, and that will tell you that it will live. If you do as I command, your offspring will multiply and fill the garden.”
The first flower, when it was ready to seed, dropped its seeds into the ground around itself. Soon enough, the Gardener came with His can, and watered the seeds. They began to sprout. While they were growing, the first flower told them what it had been told about the garden. Soon, they were mature flowers, even more beautiful than the first, and there were many of them.
Now, the second flower heard the gardener’s instructions, but had a strange interpretation. It thought that it had to let its seeds decide for themselves whether they wanted to grow or not. So, it grew up alongside a wooden fence, and when it was time to seed, dropped every last seed onto the hard wood. Then, the flower sat and waited to see if they would fall into the garden or not. But the very next day, the sun came and beat down on the seeds, and they withered. The following day, a hot wind came and blew most of the seeds off of the ledge, into the dry hard earth outside the garden. Those seeds were never watered, and died. Some fell into the garden: but these were few.
Which flower was wiser?
My apologies for taking so long to get part II up, but here it is. In this section, I examined any and all exceptions that Islam allows to their no-abortion policy.
With this restriction in place, are there any exceptions to the prohibition of abortion? All Muslims agree upon the point that ensoulment occurs around one-hundred and twenty days into the pregnancy. Hanafi scholars, however, whose views are predominant in Turkey, the Middle East, and Central Asia[1], “permi[t] abortion until the end of the fourth month… but [the mother] should have reasonable grounds for this act”[2]—example reasons being the presence of another child who still requires a wet nurse[3], while a majority of past Malki jurists described abortion as “completely forbidden.”[4] But even among those groups which expressly forbid abortion, all agree that it is allowed in cases where the mother’s life is put in danger because of the pregnancy —or if the pregnancy would cause difficulties prior to ensoulment, according to Ayatullah Sane’i[5]—due to the principles of the lesser of two evils[6] and the alleviation of distress[7].
And so the world continues to spin on its axis…
Little yellow millet seeds slipped through clutched fingers, and the hens cackled and clucked around Aida’s bare feet, leaving little red lines where their talons scratched her. A long sigh wheezed down, and she let all the grain fall at once. A flurry of wings erupted, and she reached into the bag for more millet. It trickled down to the chickens.
“My goodness,” said Aida suddenly, “I don’t even know who he is. He must be a west sider.” She dumped the whole bag on the crowd at her feet and stomped out of the coop, leaving the indignant chickens to shake the millet out of their feathers. She muttered to herself as she stalked to the weaving shed. “What do I do. What do I do? This disastrous oaf is going to ruin everything. How in the world do I get rid of him?” She put her hand on the handle of the door and bit the insides of her cheeks. “Creep,” she said, and went in.
You are great, O God, and greatly to be praised.
And my stereotypical soul praises you,
Stereotypically, using the words –
Casually unrhymed — prose in poetry’s clothing –
Sentiments as worn as platitudes –
Not mine. Not anybody’s.
Common, dime-a-dozen words –
And common souls too! Make no mistake:
Irrelevant, mediocre, worthless.
Accept, therefore, my sentiments,
Pitilessly plagiarized from other burdens to the ploughland.
I remember there was post on PAN around Reformation Day, asking whether such a divisional event should be celebrated. I’d like to explore this a bit, with the help of my good friend Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy.
To begin with, I think we have to ask what a holiday is? Is it essentially just a big celebration or party? If so, then maybe Reformation Day as a holiday should be carefully considered before we make it an institution. A day to say “Yay us!” and “Crush the RCs!” and whatnot might be counter-productive if you take the long view. (although it might be a lot of fun) The same argument could be made about lots of holidays, though. Take US Independence day. We’re celebrating a war with the British, who have been our allies ever since, essentially. Hm. What are we trying to do?
Well, the thing about Independence day is that we commemorate an event that happened “once for all time” as ERH might put it. That is, before that the US did not exist, but on account of that war it came into existence and exists to this day. It is what makes us Americans, and therefore must exist for us in the form of a holiday in order that we may enter into the event too, so that it becomes part of our lives and experience.
Such things are lost if not commemorated. If we don’t celebrate the holiday, we say the thing is unimportant to us, that it may as well have not happened. It doesn’t touch our lives. That was then, this is now. And we may even be lesser men because of this attitude.
Nature cycles endlessly. Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter-Spring. Over and over and over. One day or month or year may be different from another but it won’t really be remembered. Perhaps you have a hurricane or earthquake, but doesn’t lastingly change anything; it happens and is forgotten. But we men don’t have to be merely natural, we have a surprising chance to be supernatural by making landmarks in time. If something happens that changes us, we make a holiday and in this way the thing is passed on to our children and becomes a part of their lives too.
So back to Reformation Day. The question should be whether something was gained or recovered then that is worth keeping. If so, it is not only okay, but fitting and right for it to be commemorated with a holiday so that what was hard fought for does not become an event belonging to nature, to be forgotten in the past. Of course, it can be argued about what should be passed on, but when deciding whether a thing should be commemorated by a holiday the biggest question should be whether this event belongs to your age or to the ages. And if it is the second, then you’d better do something about it.
Disclaimer: I only referenced Reformation Day because the post that inspired me was on that subject and because it offers a good excuse to think about the nature of holidays. This post is not about the Protestant Reformation, so please discuss only the topic at hand.
John Ahern scribbles deliriously,
Some storm-tossed sailors have just landed on some coast outside Africa. They’ve just been saved from a gale sent by Juno, who has a thing with these Trojans. Venus, who has a different thing with these Trojans (Aeneas happens to be her son), comes whining to Zeus, calling him out for not keeping his promises to the poor, destitute Trojans. Not particularly worried about pandering to the special interests of lobbyists—he is a somewhat partisan figure himself—Jove consoles Venus, telling her that, in fact, the Trojans’ luck will turn. They’ll settle in Latium and someday have an empire. Bigger than anybody else’s. An imperium sine fine.
Ella Hansen writes:
I began this poem on New Year’s Eve and finished slightly after midnight. Although the solar year is now nearly two months along, the lunar year, to which the lunar imagery seems fitting, has just begun. In this poem, I was particularly reflecting on my survival of the previous year’s difficulties and trying to look forward with hope.
Once in a blue moon, I look down and see
Around my heart this flesh, pallid and cold
In fear, but living still: So let it be
Tonight, while the full moon is red as gold.
Smoothly and still in safety runs so red
The river’s streams, pulsed, quickened by Your will,
O You the Living Light who ever led
Heart from its wilful darkness, and lead still.
Let me not live unless to seek Your face.
Let me have strength to say: I shall yet live.
Let me not fall save, Lord, upon Your grace.
Let me not doubt You that Your hand will give
Both in Your sovereign wisdom peace and pain.
Let me so trust that life is not in vain.
Victoria Blake is impatient to continue…
For some reason, Aida was just standing there. She had gone late, empty handed, to the priest, and the smell of his house was still making its way up her nostrils. Now she was about ten paces from his door, hesitating. For some reason.
She wasn’t looking for an excuse; she was a professional excuse maker now. At first her family had been suspicious: they knew she liked to be alone, but they also knew her mortal fear of the priest. So they thought her sudden propensity toward going late was odd. At first she too thought it was odd. Somehow, though, once she realized the priest was deceivable, she was no longer afraid of him. She had thought him omniscient; now she knew he was just a man like anyone else. It was only heredity that gave him the job. Anyone can be born.
Carson Spratt theorizes…
I’ve been thinking about the relation between language, self-knowledge, and power over the physical world. While this might seem a little erudite at first, it can actually be fascinating.
My thoughts on this started when my family began to attend a new church when I was ten years old. I walked in the doors, and was presented with an entirely unfamiliar phenomenon: everyone was blurred. No, not in the visual sense, but in the mental sense: I could not see anyone. A large, jostling crowd flowed around me as I tried to comprehend this. Why did everything look so strange? View Full Post
H. G. Roorda apologizes,
I normally wouldn’t do this, but it’s year three; and I’d hate to disappoint him now.
This isn’t a normal poem; I only wrote two words. The rest are stolen from John Donne, Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Robert Frost. Is this a valid form of poetry? No, probably not. But perhaps it will broaden your knowledge. Before using Google, you might try your hand at discerning who wrote what: View Full Post
