Friday, May 29, 2015

A Pacifist Atheist Reflects Upon ...

Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Heretic: Why Islam Needs a Reformation Now (New York: Harper Collins 2015)

© Edward Moore 2015

patristics@gmail.com

The notion that Islam started out as a Judaeo-Christian sect is not only not surprising to me, but makes perfect theological sense -- especially if one places the religion of Allah in a Gnosticizing milieu. In her outstanding new book Heretic: Why Islam Needs A Reformation Now, Ayaan Hirsi Ali alludes briefly to some studies published in the 1970s by John Wansbrough that argue for Islam's derivation from a pre-existing Jewish-Christian sect or sects (p. 95, and note 19). The Christological and Trinitarian debates that raged throughout the Christian world, from the earliest times through the ascension of Constantine and only settled into an uneasy consensus after the seventh ecumenical council in the eighth century, produced innumerable sects, the vague beginnings of some of which are traceable to the second century when Gnosticism flourished. It is not hard to imagine Allah -- the God "beyond being" to whom Christ and all other divine or semi-divine beings are subordinate -- finally being elevated to the status of the only God, and all other entities in the Christian pantheon demoted to angels or prophets -- blessed and / or human, but in no way divine, that attribute belonging to Allah alone. Indeed, to this day, most Christians -- even those teaching in seminaries -- are incapable of providing a coherent theological definition of the Holy Trinity. The early Muslims simply said, no such thing. There is one God, Allah, and Muhammad is His prophet. Jesus and the rest were prophets teaching at an appointed time in history, but in no way bearing eternal authority. While Islamic theology is elegant in its simplicity, this elegance has settled into a rigidity that ignores human progress and remains, as Hirsi Ali makes clear, rooted firmly in the seventh century. By contrast, the rather confused theology of Christianity -- the more mainstream sects adhering to the conciliar definition of Christ as fully human and fully divine (yet still without a clear demarcation between Monophysitism, Monothelitism, and 'orthodox' Duophysitism); the fringe offshoots describing Christ as a demi-god of sorts, or else as a human man adopted by God (rejuvenating an ancient heresy) -- has allowed that religion to modify its approach to dogma in light of unfolding human history. For example, while most Christian denominations condemn homosexuality as a sin, there is not a single recognized branch of that religion that calls for the death sentence for homosexuals. Shariah law does. And the sentence is often carried out.

To this day, Christianity is given little or no credit for advancing the concept of the person (hupostasis) as a "unique, unrepeatable entity," carrying dignity and auctoritas by the mere fact of existence. This definition was formulated and clarified in the great Trinitarian debates, and came to be applied not just to the uncreated and eternal persons of the Trinity, but to all persons creating in the "image and likeness" of God. On the practical, social level, this development had an immense impact. The ditch-digger and the centurion were seen as equal in the eyes of God, and therefore treated (at least theoretically, and for the most part practically) as equal before the law. The great codex of Roman law compiled during the reign of Justinian is a direct result of this re-thinking of the person as having value in his or her own right, by the simple fact of existence, and not solely in relation to family and state. In a chilling recounting of a contemporary shariah murder, Hirsi Ali tells of a Muslim father living in Phoenix, AZ, who crushed his twenty year-old daughter beneath the wheels of his jeep as punishment for the "sin" of wearing makeup, liking boys, and listening to Western music. This young woman did not die instantly; she suffered horrifically as her crushed body slowly suffocated her. Later, a woman in her thirties, praying at a local mosque, told a Time magazine interviewer that the man's murder of his daughter was "right," for what she had done is not permitted in "our religion" (p. 167). Totally subordinated to the religion of submission, this poor girl had no value as a person, in the eyes of her fellow Muslims. An Arizona jury sentenced the loving dad to thirty-four years in prison. Any rational person will consider this sentence to be far too light.

Lest anyone think that I am championing Christianity over Islam, let it be known that I am an atheist who believes that all religion is superstitious foolishness at best -- at worst, wilfull murderous ignorance. I only bring up the historical reality of Christianity's great contribution to humanist philosophy -- the concept of the person -- in order to show how a religion grounded in ancient, outmoded styles of thought and discourse has been able, over the centuries, to accommodate itself to the advancement of free thinking humanity and the ever more tolerant and humane societies that we are attempting, especially here in the West, to develop and maintain. Tolerance and humanitarian concern and, yes, anger is what motivated the protesters who marched and, yes, looted and destroyed, in outrage against police brutality and what amounts to state-sanctioned murder. It would be wonderful if the zeal of shariah law could be applied to our dealing with so-called law enforcement officers. Shariah law, based on the Koran and the examples set by Muhammad in the hadith, goes back to the eighth century and prescribes "punishments" such as crucifixion, burning alive, amputations, and beheadings. The "crimes" that lead to these punishments are usually "moral" in nature: apostasy, adultery, theft. Yet crimes of a vastly more serious nature, here in the West, such as police officers -- men and women entrusted by tax-paying citizens with the task of maintaining a safe environment for all -- shooting unarmed persons, and then receiving little or no real punishment, seem to me to demand a shariah-like application of emotional justice. There is rational justice -- impersonal weighing of evidence and application of predetermined sentences -- which has gone off the rails in favor of uniformed murderers, and to the detriment of the genuinely poor, neglected, and persecuted members of our society. The lack of emotional justice -- the drawing upon compassion for the helpless, and a clear understanding of the mental decay that is the result of a life of desperate struggle for survival -- is what has led to the riotous outbursts in Baltimore and other cities in our nation. A young Muslim woman getting a rim job from her boyfriend not only does not deserve to die, she deserves a hearty congratulations. A police officer who has shot to death an unarmed man deserves far more than a prison sentence. I shall leave it at that.

My disgust at Western systems of governance is highly personal; my disgust at Islam and its terrorist stormtroopers is more ... academic. Perhaps that is why I am able, in my less emotionally stable moments, to see some hearty reason in shariah, and even in the terrorism that has so shaken the West since 9/11. Quite frankly, there are people in the United States who are simply too dumb to live; there is no way to have a real debate with self-satisfied consumers of "whatever," and it is impossible to change the minds of those whose mantra in the face of our dehumanizing world is "It is what it is." Such people have already made up their minds to accept unquestioningly whatever falls in their way, and only to take up arms -- literally or metaphorically -- when ordered to do so by those in power. These passive appendages of society then berate those who have the conviction and courage to stand for an ideal. They call the Islamist fighters "whackos" and "monsters" and with an unreflecting sense of superiority feel themselves worthy of a society that they had no part in shaping. The young men and women who run off to join the Islamic State are not lunatics nor are they less-than-human (although some of their actions are indeed monstrous); they are brave human beings fighting for an ideal. We may not wish to embrace that ideal, but it is there. While I can agree to an extent with Hirsi Ali's analysis of the religious -- as opposed to economic -- basis for the jihadi movement, I feel that it is left to the genuine thinkers among us to look at both the East and the West with clear critical eyes. In a nation (the USA) in which a promising young African-American student -- if he manages to make it to adulthood without getting shot in the back by a cop -- can see his hopes for higher education and a successful career go up in smoke if he is caught with a small amount of weed, is it any wonder that hatred of the enforcers of asinine laws are hated and made into targets? The police have done it to themselves. This is not to say that violence is an acceptable method for achieving and maintaining civil rights. Dr. King taught us well that peace is the answer. (I know this sounds like lip service, but anyone who knows me well can attest that I am a dedicated pacifist.) But it is difficult for one who has lost everything, and is alone in a friendless world, to look kindly upon the peaceniks who seem more like apologists for the status quo than true defenders of the oppressed.

Commanding right and forbidding wrong. Western political systems attempt to do the latter, but refrain -- in the lofty name of freedom -- from attempting the former. Which is as it shoud be. Yet we know that there are segments of our society that find comfort and even, in extreme cases, a certain sexual gratification, in being told what to do. Men, and occasionally women, who enjoy being dominated usually do not allow that bedroom practice to spill over into their practical lives -- yet the deep-seated desire to let go and permit another to hold of the wheel is a strong psychological motivator and must be kept at the forefront of consciousness, where it can be checked -- for the sake of one's self and the larger society. "Every woman adores a fascist," wrote Sylvia Plath. Indeed, and Sylvia's serrated blade sarcasm in "Daddy" makes it quite clear that she felt that women who get turned on by violence-besotted uniformed men deserve to have their identities violently torn from them. I know a certain woman -- we dated several times in my uproarious youth -- who to this day allows her socio-political views to be shaped by her sexual attraction to high-and-tight-headed men in scrotum-squeezing uniforms. One of our last conversations before what is now, it seems, a permanent estrangement, was about Snowden and the NSA. She took the side of our government, and I, of course, that of Snowden. I sat and attempted to hold back my vomit as this otherwise well-educated and competent professional woman degenerated into a teeny-bopper cheerleader for the good ol' US of A and its barrel-chested angels of death. At the larger societal level the constant (and dreadfully tiring) celebration of our "heroes" fighting and killing overseas sets in a gentle pleasing light the horrors of war, and downplays the primitive -- indeed primordial -- brutality that is always seething below the thin encrustation of "civilization." Many people in the United States of Amnesia (to borrow Gore Vidal's apt phrase) are a mere executive order away from shedding their cloak of humanity and returning to the state of predatory beasts. The real heroes are and have always been the pacifists. We (male pacifists) have less luck wooing the ladies than the shaven-headed killing machines, but the ladies we manage to successfully court are often the most eligible bachelorettes -- or the most desirable of barflies. Pacifists lament the inability of a rational form of government to command right, while at the same time opposing efforts to command anything. The paradox is that most liberals are convinced of the moral and ethical rightness of our positions, yet we paradoxically attempt to impose our views on society through political and "grass roots" actions, monitoring of "hate speech," et cetera, while at the same time demanding limits on government intervention in our private lives, such as wire taps and cameras in public spaces. I would love to be able to effectively command police officers to use restraint when making arrests, but I oppose the proliferation of cameras, which would aid in monitoring police behavior.

Inconsistency should not worry us. As Emerson wrote, in Self-Reliance: "With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do ... if you would be a man, speak what you think to-day in words as hard as cannon-balls, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day." Life is not static, and any religion that refuses to change with the times is doomed to become a monument to a dead past. One need not persecute, with war or words, such a religion; for such a religion is already doomed. Concern for consistency, a belief that God created human beings to think, believe, and do the same things from the beginning to the end of time, is indeed a belief for small minds. Small minds are dangerously seductive, for they pose no discernible challenge. They seem easily controllable, when they are actually the ones doing the controlling by virtue of their constant need for oversight and attention. Strong persons often enjoy bossing around weak, stupid persons. But we need only recall Hegel's master-slave dialectic to understand who is really in control here. I know a very attractive (physically and intellectually) woman who is attracted to very dumb men. The smallness of the minds of her lovers is more or less balanced by the largeness of something else, and that is all she cares about. I know a certain man who is attracted to immature women, and he doesn't mind insulting his own intelligence with stupid conversations if it means gaining access to something else. I know several people with tiny minds who love the lofty spaciousness of a church, and find comfort therein. I know a man with a large and expansive mind who lives in a tiny apartment and is content, so long as he learns something new every day, and retains the ability to change his mind. "The will to a system is a lack of integrity," as Nietzsche wrote. Silly people love systems, and systems support the meager aspirations of silly and inconsequential people. This includes our so-called democracy -- for the rulers of this country are as much concerned with maintaining the status quo as so-called radical Islamists are concerned with maintaining a seventh-century interpretation of the Koran.

The ancient Gnostics had a valuable insight into human existence. They divided humanity into three main types: the "spirituals" (those having a direct connect and line of descent from the highest spiritual or intellectual reality); the "soulish" (those divided between the intellectual reality and the lower, material realm); and the "materials" (those of the lowest order, living only in and through base matter). Islam divides humanity into three types as well: the Muslims (receivers and followers of the final revelation of Allah); the "people of the book" (Jews and Christians who still cling to the old prophecies, but are nevertheless "children of Abraham"); and the infidels (those who do not submit, in any way, to the commands of Allah). The main difference is that the Gnostic division of humanity proceeds from the largest-minded people to the smallest; in Islam it is the reverse. For the Gnostics were the most liberal of ancient Christians, admitting all manner of "revelation" (including pagan philosophy, mythology, Mystery cults, astrology, and alchemy); they created an inclusive environment in which no knowledge was deemed unworthy of the "spiritual" person, all experience was valid and nothing, they maintained, is harmful to the person who is aware of his or her home on high -- and this includes liking boys and music, and wearing makeup. It was only the "materials," those who are aware of nothing but the olfactory organs and the glands, that the Gnostics considered as beyond hope. Even the "soulish" people had a chance, if only they managed to turn their attention from worldly to eternal, intellectual things. In our day and age, it is the "materials" who accomplish the great things, like healing and preventing disease, and inventing new ways to lessen the impact of human proliferation on our shared environment. In the eyes of Islam, however, the truly holy are those who maintain their lives in a seventh-century style, and see everything through the lens of an ancient text which, although composed in the early 600s of the Common Era, actually has its roots in the Bronze Age. Until the small-minded ones at the "top" develop the humility to attend to the rational critique of their religion offered by those large-minded ones at the "bottom" -- the infidels! -- Islam will remain a monument to a dead past. Unless, of course, ISIS manages to restore the Caliphate -- which is looking increasingly likely.

Ayaan Hirsi Ali reveals herself as a person with a large mind, more than capable of admitting change. She also comes across as a patient person, especially when she recounts her Harvard seminar and the Islamic fundamentalists who disrupted her as she tried to conduct a Western-style, open and rational dialogue. The book, Heretic, is a worthwhile read. It is very serious, lacking some of the comic relief that one usually expects in self-reflections on a weighty topic. So the book is definitely as heavy as its topic. Well-researched and cited, this volume will appeal to academics and the educated layperson alike.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

An Unstable Buffet

© Edward Moore 2015

It is unhappily your disposition to consider what you have as worthless -- what you have lost as invaluable.

~ Lady Byron to Lord Byron

Pardon, at the outset, the titular pun, and self-conscious allusion to Hemingway's A Moveable Feast -- unless, of course, you find these sufficiently charming or amusing to motivate your reading of this little piece. And the quote from one of Lady Byron's letters to her unstable and destabilizing husband, while not especially profound, is, I think, a gentle and valuable reminder to attend to what is on one's plate or -- to use a phrase from Burroughs -- to see what is on the end of one's fork. The present is, however, the worst place to remain. Brief attention to the moment is necessary for the success of any project, such as writing or sex, for without an unimpeded view of the words or the body in front of you, nonfelicitous accidents revise the past and splinter the future into innumerable and unmanageable possibilities. Which is why I feel that everyone aspiring to be a writer or a lover, or both, should see to it that he acquires an addiction (preferably booze) and spends at least a little bit of time in prison. Allow me to explain.

When one is pleasantly buzzed -- not dead drunk -- re-interpretation of the past becomes a duty, to one's emotional and intellectual health, as well as a pleasant and nearly effortless act of private creativity. When one is sailing gently the wine-dark sea, every port of call is a return to a place that is instantly recognizable yet bustling in the midst of a rejuvenation project. One is then as young as one's memories and, despite the haze of noontide and the shifting outlines of the "external" world, as clear-thinking and capable an agent as one could possibly hope to be. To change metaphors, when one is sufficiently enspirited, with the deftness of a virtuoso pianist improvising a cadenza, one trusts in the foundation of the composed piece to lend stability to the unpredictably emerging variations, and in one's own inspiration (courtesy of true down-to-earth spirits) to weave any false notes subtly into the musical texture, to produce a drama of unintended consequences which, when the last note is struck, will strike the listener as wholly intentional. (This last cumbersome sentence is an example of a cadenza-like approach to writing that is not, perhaps, pleasing to the reader, but certainly fun for the hung-over writer.) In other words, then, the past can be a source of personal myth-making, a sort of ur-text of one's life that can be endlessly glossed, allegorized, emended, deconstructed, or expanded into seemingly endless tema con variazioni. For the person who experiences, in the face of his past, a profound and complex depression born of missed or squandered opportunities, self-sabotaged loves, public and private humiliations, et cetera, the ability to re-craft and re-interpret -- like an Alexandrian commentator on Aristotle -- these dark damning lines into epic or romantic monuments of a life that is, in any case, inescapable, becomes a bulwark against the buffetings brought on by that charred imp of the pit known as Conscience.

So much for the past. Like a good buzz, one cannot remain with it forever. Eventually, a brief oblivion ensues, followed by a re-emergence into a blighted dawn where one is welcomed by the precise, predictable, and implacable torturer known as delirium tremens. Every time I fall victim to DT, I wonder if it will be my last; for with every alcohol-fueled, revisionary sojourn into my past, I re-enter the present aged if not wholly sobered, exhausted with the effort of demiurgic struggle with nearly chaotic mental matter, and fated to watch my effortlessly reinvented past and self assume once again their true form. In an essay on "Late Works," John Updike wrote that "The past in one sense recedes but in another gains in interest as the writer ages and the stage of the present empties of decisive action." This is true if the writer -- or indeed anyone -- is permitted to recollect the past in tranquility, and is not subjected to continual buffetings produced by, and productive of, actions both decisive and indecisive. But how many of us are ever afforded that luxury which Wordsworth considered the source of the finest poetry? In this era of ceaseless and inescapable talk, text, and web -- and now of wrist watches that literally zap us to attention -- tranquility and its attendant daydreams seems to be no longer in demand. The past -- as a nice place to visit for a few, a source of pain and regret for many, and a mine of material for the exquisitely rare type of person known as creative -- is consequently failing to receive its proper share of attention. Few seem to notice that insalubrious dwelling in the present is akin to the DTs. When I am suffering from that dreadful extreme of withdrawal, all of my senses are sharpened -- painfully so. My nerves are taut and I am ready to spring at the least possible stimulus. Time virtually stands still as I await a maddening cycle of waiting for the possibility of waiting for something that is nothing but a Blanchot-esque waiting for the wait itself. The physical sickness goes virtually unnoticed as the gentle seductive fingers of insanity begin to stroke me into a morbid, hallucinatory "little death" during which I lose both past and future in an ecstatically static present. But postmodern stylistics aside, and to put it in plain prose, people who live in the present are very often nervous wrecks, for they have no point of reference, no ability to "ground" themselves with the aid of temporal place markers. I knew a certain woman, for example, who simply could not handle a wasted day. If she and I happened to spend a morning and a greater part of the afternoon in love's embrace, you could be assured that the evening and a good part of the night would be burned away in a frantic effort to "catch up." She would fire up the computer, send off hurried and harried emails, blaze through the house on a cleaning spree like Durtal's housekeeper in Là-Bas, and finally collapse exhausted, the pleasant afterglow of lovemaking a distant memory. Living with the conviction that every waking moment must be crammed tight with purposeful activity is almost a guarantee of an early death -- it is most definitely a guarantee that people will find you insufferable, impossible ... unloveable.

Now in prison one is forced to accept wasted days -- many of them. But there is a saying: "Do the time, don't let the time do you." Anyone who has spent even a small amount of time in the pokey knows exactly what that means. A person who is already used to self-reflection will fare rather well in an environment of pointless activities (cards, chess, dominoes, television re-runs, circumambulation during yard time, et cetera), for the real activity for the introspective person will always be the quest for personal meaning. Prison acts as a buffer against the onslaught of the outside world, and provides one -- whether one wants it or not -- with the essential solitude for a sojourn into one's past. The person who has a rich and varied past -- equal parts (almost) joy and suffering, love and hate, sickness and health, and so on -- will emerge from the big house with a determination to "arise, or be for ever fallen." I am writing here of myself. Remembrance of past happiness -- triumphs, loves, discoveries -- kept me sane in prison, and motivated me, upon my release, to venture into unknown territory for the purpose of adding new material to my future past. Poignantly, I sought to distance myself from certain memories that I shared -- and share -- with a woman for whom I will always feel the deepest love by creating new memories of a vastly different type. This involved, initially, a restorative return to earlier, youthful passions that were not shared with my beloved, and in the pursuit of which she had no part and, therefore, no tainting effect upon those memories. Building upon memories of a time before my beloved had entered my life, I was able to re-enter the "free" world rejuvenated and prepared -- so I thought -- for brand new experiences that I would work into the ongoing narrative of my life without any painful references or flashbacks to the one who abandoned me. So my past, purged of pain, became entangled intimately with my present. The bafflingly wide diastêma or caesura created by the selective Lethe-draught, the attempt to exorcise the mnemonic phantom of my beloved, became a scene of playful experiments with alterity.

A good friend asked me one afternoon, as we strolled down a quiet residential street in Philadelphia (bad memories, brownstones, brittle stuff everywhere), why I like Hemingway. Not the novels so much, I explained, but some of the short stories, and especially the flowing, jubilant, and non-condemnatory reminiscence entitled A Moveable Feast. In the tiny preface, Ernest wrote: "If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact." No characters emerge as "real people" in this reminiscence (I won't call it an autobiography), rather they are depicted as agents of certain actions and carriers of atmosphere. Ezra Pound (one of my faovrite poets) is written up in absolute terms. "Ezra was the most generous writer I have ever known and the most disinterested." Knowing what I know of Pound, "disinterested" is a strange adjective. Perhaps Ernest meant that Pound's devotion to an American literary renaissance, a rejuvenation of the bristling hot-wired spirit of conquest that motivated Poe, Emily Brontë, Lovecraft and some select others, led him to separate his emotional life from his escriturial life. Tripartite Pound -- the lover (he loved deeply two women: his wife, Dorothy, and his life-long mistress, Olga Rudge), the linguistic virtuoso, and the thinker of things ideal (the fascist) -- outdid Hemingway in the arena of moving, shaking, and getting arrested. Hemingway was easily frightened, as the memoir makes clear. Pound was as sure of himself as a child is of getting dinner (to use Emerson's cutesy analogy). Ernest bragged and killed animals, got a hard-on watching a bull fight, never really satisifed a woman (I know this because he who boasts is he who cannot make the lady moan) and wrote prose so bad it is good. Pound made the ladies swoon, tasted the gift that only a woman can offer, never did any real violence to anyone. Sure, he was a bit of a loon, but he captured his own mind in the epic Cantos. He takes his place on the eternal shelf. Hemingway, old Ernest (with his kitties and shotgun), wrote with a sense of duty, a job getting done, no tossed-off phrases for the sake of a good line. Describing Wyndham Lewis, Ernest simply stated that Lewis's eyes are those of "an unsuccesful rapist." I don't want to write like Hemingway, but I wish I could if I wanted to.

Philadelphia is a place for loose-limbed artists. If you get hit, you let the punch roll off of you, your body swings and flops from side to side during the buffeting, usually because you are drunk. Walnut Street where we kissed passionately on a blazing July afternoon ... the Reading Market, where I placed my hand below and brought it up scenting of promise and a long night ... the Museum, explaining to the heroined she-devil that a triptych is part of an altar, et cetera -- hard and wild the whole time. What have I written? Works about Church Fathers, some petty panache stilted stuff about Heidegger to please my ex-wife (who hates me with a pitchfork type torture brutality hatred), some poems, and more than a few essays to pack off the day and let sleep roll over me without regret. Prison and alcoholism. On my table stands a large bottle of gin. Some cigars. To drink and smoke and hope that this rambling prose work will be read by someone capable of granting a dinky wish: tweet it. Why? The absurdity of existence is expressed well here. I am kind of crazy about a certain lady I've recently met. She has dark hair and dark eyes, a smile that emits centuries of femininity in a flashing moment. A laugh that invites, hands that throw warmth to the center of my body, ears peeking out from luscious black hair, demanding gentle nibbling.

Will I ask her to go to the Whitney with me? Or maybe just for a lunchtime bite? Of course not. I will continue to tap words onto this screen. And regret everything, from the embrace, the farewell kick, the razzle-dazzle shedding of self that is HOPE (such a sadistic lascerating rusty knife wielder) only to see her again on Monday. Smile. Recite a line from Tennyson. Hell, snort a line. It's only 11:41.

Monday, May 11, 2015

Invitation to guest bloggers

Greetings Readers (assuming I have any):
I believe it is time for me to branch out from the dilettante, "art for art's sake" pose, and engage with contemporary issue in politics, social justice, ethics, and yes, art. Ayaan Hirsi Ali recently published a fine book, Heretic: Why Islam Needs a Reformation Now (2015). A review of this volume might be a great place to start. Of course, in this age of police shootings of unarmed men (invariably black), state-sanctioned spying and even murder, to name just the most disgusting American pastimes, the possible topic(s) for the would-be guest blogger are well-nigh inexhaustible. Now here is the rub: One need not agree with my bleeding heart, liberal self to get published in The Aristocrat. One must simply write an intelligent, well-argued, and hopefully provocative piece. If this new format works out, we might soon be talking dollars and cents -- as in royalties. So, if you are interested, contact me with your proposal and a brief biographical cover letter (optional). Send all proposals, queries, and suggestions to: patristics@gmail.com. Regards, Edward Moore, S.T.L., Ph.D. Editor-in-chief