Dear Diary

I spent today doing carpentry.

Plan for tomorrow: find some Pharisees; get all up in they grill.

"And ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde."

As something of a follow-up to Sunday's blasphemies, I thought I'd throw a bone to any pious types who may be reading this blog. Yes, I know you're out there, and I know it's been rough. My writings are a spiritual minefield, rife with all manner of execration and godlessness, but just... so... tempting...

Well, I applaud your perseverance in this self-administered test of faith. I'm honored to be the wilderness to your Christ, the Bathsheba to your David, the absolute-shitstorm-of-disasters to your Lot, and the desire-to-avoid-filleting-your-firstborn to your Abraham. Your faith will be rewarded: not in the next life, but in this very post. As a kind of thank-you for wading through all the worldly muck, here's a more celestial post, for people like you, about people like you.

For though you may sometimes feel like a long-lost wayfarer in the firmament, drifting alone from star to cold star, suffocated in the spiritual vacuum but for the life-support system of Christ's love (this bread is my CO2 scrubber, this wine the urine recycled through the catheter of your exposure suit's integrated bioproducts/waste-reclamation system), know that you are not alone. The light of the Lord has penetrated even to the furthest reaches of galaxy! Set phasors to "save" and shout hallelujah, for the Klingons have found Jesus!

That's not just the unreasonable extension of my dumb astronaut metaphor - it's actually true [via TR].

Yes, I kid you not, Klingons for Christ Jesus is not the chromosomally-deficient brainchild of my gravid yet cyclophosphamide-swilling brain. These guys are for real. Well, OK, maybe "for real" is not the best way to put it, but they certainly exist and they seem to take themselves seriously.

Most of their creed seems to involve selectively reading the Bible with an eye toward the more bellicose verses (but hey, that's nothing new: Glenn Beck thinks that beating swords into plowshares is commie propaganda, and the geniuses at Conservapedia are basically doing the same thing, except in a much scarier way). You know, "Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight..." (Psalm 144) - that sort of thing.

But what I find really fascinating, actually, is their take on Jesus. Around the turn of the last millennium, Jesus was basically that hippie Reconstructionist rabbi who's always going on about finding God in the family love of appreciating the warmth of a spring day when life is renewed through the green fuses of the flowers that shine with the divine spark of love like a baby's eyes looking at its mother. OK, Klingons, deal with that.

And they do. I quote, altering neither the color of the text nor the abundance of punctuation marks:

"Indeed, Klingons accept the teachings of Christ as part of a warrior tradition. Christ brings not peace, but a sword. And this batlh'etlh is a sword of honor indeed!

Ka Plah!!!"

Well, I've been told. They also discuss his sufferings on the cross, comparing the unpleasant proceedings to something called the Klingon Rite of Ascension. Something tells me these guys really enjoyed The Passion of the Christ, but not for the reasons Mel Gibson was hoping.

Anyway, what I'm really getting at here is (surprise, surprise) something medieval. While we tend not to mention wrinkly-headed aliens in the same breath as William the Conqueror (Despite the physical resemblance. Oh snap! Alfred's thegns represent!), there are some striking parallels between the Savior of the Klingons and that of the Anglo-Saxons, at least as represented in Wulfstan's eleventh-century "Apostles' Creed."

The Creed was read as part of a short sermon entitled To Eallum Folke given by Wulfstan (bishop of Worcester, archbishop of York). Perhaps it's just my amateurish tendencies, but to me, the text reads quite a bit more rugged and manly than most Christian liturgy. Take a gander:

We believe in one mighty God who shaped and worked all things.
And we believe, and earnestly know, that Christ Godson came to mankind in our need.
And we believe that he was born to a clean maiden, Holy Mary, who never had intercourse with men.
And we believe that he endured much, and fiercely suffered for our every need.
And we believe that man hung him from the cross, and forced him unto death, and he afterwards was buried in the earth.
And we believe that he journeyed to Hell and thereof plundered all that he would.
And we believe that afterwards he rose up from death.
And we believe that afterwards he climbed up to Heaven.
And we believe, and earnestly know, that he on Doom's Day to the great doom cometh.
And we believe that all the dead must then rise up from death and seek their great doom.
And we believe that the sinful must then immediately go to Hell, and there with devils dwell in burning fire and eternal ruin—no end will ever come, not for all time.
And we believe that good, full-Christians, who here in the world well-pleased God, must then immediately go into Heaven, and there afterwards have a dwelling with God Himself, and with his angels, always in eternity. Amen.

(Translation mine)
(Emphasis on the sweet parts also mine)

Yeah, that's right: this is not your Lamb of God. This Jesus is here to kick ass and heal lepers, and it looks like he's all out of lepers. Seriously, I'm not taking all that much poetic license with the language, either: "Hē to helle fērde and ðærof gehergode eal þæt hē wolde." According to Bosworth, "gehergode" means "to harry or ravage," or "to make predatory attacks upon." This is, in two words, Viking Jesus.

The awesomeness of Viking Jesus is apparent, and my guess is that the language used here is intentionally geared toward the warrior culture of the Anglo-Saxons to whom it was being preached. Like a teen pastor who uses Christian rock for his youth ministry, Wulfstan knew his audience and knew what they wanted. The pagan gods were paragons of strength and cunning, warrior gods who ate frost giants for breakfast. Why believe in some Mediterranean pansy who turned the other cheek instead of swinging a battle axe?

The answer is the same for both the grim men of yore and the pimply fanboys of today: in the right light, Jesus was a badass.

As a side note, this interpretation kind of explains Mark 16:8. It's different than the version of the story told in the other gospels, and it's given people some interpretive trouble. Some women come upon the newly-arisen Christ, "And they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid" (KJV). Well, no kidding. Ever seen Serenity? You know the part where the blast doors open to reveal River standing on a pile of massacred Reavers? [1. Spoiler alert! 2. I can't find a version with the original soundtrack, so... buy the DVD]. Now imagine that she's a dude in a tunic who got crucified a couple days before. I know I'd run.

Now, here we could discuss the ways in which religion is multivalent, and its amorphous nature enables it to offer something to all who seek its wisdom. Just as Jesus plundered Hell and took thereof all that he would, so too can anyone plunder the Bible and take from it exactly what he wants. But instead of expostulating any more, I'm just going to revel some more in the idea of Jesus clawing his way out of Hell, punching through the boulder at the cave mouth, and climbing - climbing! - up to Heaven. Ka Plah, indeed, my friends. Ka Plah.

Aye, Laddie

I know the big news of the day is the Nobel Peace Prize, followed by NASA's totally-completely-awesome LCROSS Moon Bomb (Awesome because, while blowing up other parts of the solar system is pretty much the opposite of a Nobel Peace Prize, it's hard to argue with the fact that it was a moon bomb. Moon. Bomb. Just let that roll around for a second, then say it out loud to yourself. Moon Bomb. Now, tell me it's not awesome. Can't do it, can you?).

But, thirdmost in today's newsroll, sneaking in there while nobody was looking, the IOC also decided to include rugby and golf in the Olympics.

From the BBC article: "IOC president Jacques Rogge told delegates: 'Time will show your decision was very wise.'" Rogge was reported to have then passed a pink post-it to the Scottish delegate which read "Do U like Me? Check one: Yes / No."

Honestly, I'm all for rugby and ambivalent about golf, so this is not at all a bad thing. It just means that NBC is going to have to push hammer throw out of the 2:30am slot so it can fit in more sports no one's going to care about. I hope it's golf that gets this treatment, as I'd much rather watch fourteen ravening madmen absolutely wreck each other than one staid gentleman take a leisurely walk in the park, but I don't have high hopes.

An Open Letter

Dear Larry Summers,
Suck it.

Sincerely,
Science

"There's a life about to start when tomorrow comes..."

This item [via The Daily Galaxy] makes my heart pound with excitement, because, in the future, that very phrase may become outmoded. That's right, if you've ever cried out in fear and alarm that science is intent on forging a race of heartless cyborgs... well, you're almost right. Meet Madam Salina Mohamed So'ot, the woman without a heartbeat. This 30-year-old administrative assistant (from Singapore, apparently) has a late-model artificial heart that pumps blood at one continuous flow rate and does not beat. Ergo, she has no pulse.

Now, it's not so much the notion of everyday flat-lining that sets my heart a flutter (but oh, dear lord, are we going to have to change our idioms if this becomes prevalent!), it's the notion that this heart is actually more efficient than the meatbag ticker we've evolved with. I'll grant you, the whole four-chamber, dual-circulation adaptation (pictured below)

was a pretty awesome improvement over the old brackish amphibian salad spinner that was popular for a while, but we can do it better now! Technology 1, Invisible Sky-Beard 0! Wait, what's that you say? How can we be more intelligent designers than the Intelligent Designer? I'm sorry, I just couldn't hear you over the sound of your worldview imploding (metaphorically pictured below).

The exciting possibilities for human-driven human augmentation are starting to be realized now, and I have renewed hope that cyborg technology will really take off within my lifetime (and how cool is it to be able to say that with a straight face?). Perhaps I'm alone in not feeling an undue attachment to the clay from which I was sculpted. The human body is a low-efficiency, poorly-(un)designed machine, perpetually degrading toward decrepitude and demise. Once we can cost-effectively replace parts as they fail, or, better, upgrade them to more durable models, we can transcend our fleshy prisons in a way that would make a Cathar swoon. (Note to self: Second Albigensian Crusade against a sect of Cathar Cyborgs in the cyberpunk future - Montsegur 2144, if you will - is fertile ground for... something.) Of course, we are still light-years away from affordable cybernetics, but the pace of medical technological innovation is quick and, it seems, accelerating - so tolerate my sanguine outlook (pun intended) if you must, and join in if it humours you (two for two!).

That said, I think it would take a long time to get used to not having a heartbeat. And it would be creepy as hell for almost all of that time. But I think knowing that I was one step closer to being an optimized, streamlined Man Of Tomorrow (tm) would go a long way toward easing those reservations.

Present Engagements

1. I'm building a ballista on a $10 budget.
Our physics department is hosting a Punkin' Chunkin' competition, which is both a concept and a phrase that fills my heart with joy. The idea is to see who can attain the greatest range with a homemade, jury-rigged gourd-flinger. Naturally, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to combine my love of ancient technology with the destruction of produce (cf. Halloween 2009, "De Motu Citrus Nitrensis"). As such, I've spent a number of hours rummaging through local dumpsters and junk piles for building materials. The ten dollars went towards a coil of rope, but if I can find any for free I'll use it instead. I'd share my design plan here, but I'm keeping it secret lest any rivals stumble across this blog. If everything works out, I'll try to post pictures or videos.

2. I'm interviewing for medical school.
Tomorrow. It's my first one. Still haven't really processed it. I mean, what? Me? Interviewing for med school? How did that happen? I'm just a humble punkin' chunker from a punkin' chunkin' clan - not doctor material. Don't be silly. (Can you tell I'm a little nervous?)

Granted, part of me is sure I'm going to blow the roof off this thing like a tornado in a trailer park, but that's the same part of me that also says things like "If this medicine thing doesn't work out, you could always be Supreme God-Emperor of the Galaxy," so I'm taking its advice with a grain of salt.

If this last bit seems especially prideful to you, you're right. It's part of my campaign to hit all seven deadlies in one day, because today is 3. International Blasphemy Day. So crowning myself king of the cosmos seems like a decent way to get in pride and offend the Invisible Sky-Beard all at once. Now, I'm off to find a lingerie-clad model baking a chocolate cake she won't let me have, and that should cover another 3 or 4 no problem.

Incendiary

I just saw Buckethead at the Recher in Towson. His opening act was a mohawk-sporting hulk named Wolff (of Drums and Tuba) who, living up to his absent band's moniker, spent the better part of an hour doing unwholesome things with, and to, a tuba. We then stood for another interminable hour with an ever-more-restless crowd, waiting for the virtuoso to appear. Just as we began to ask ourselves "How long would you wait for Buckethead?" he descended upon us. The rest of the evening is a haze of shrill and blinding shredding, the music that Disney plays in its animatronic attractions, Buckethead dispensing gifts from a giant blue sack, an excellent John Williams interlude, and some genuinely solid and meaty metal riffs. The man, it must be said, is a prodigy. At times it was entirely unclear if he was playing the guitar or giving it multiple orgasms. My ears still feel cotton-plugged and my legs ache from standing, but the 90-minute set flew by. Not all of Buckethead's music is gentle on the ears, nor even entirely pleasant, but it is powerful if for nothing other than the immense skill it evinces. And his more melodic tracks can be perfectly sublime.

Did I mention that he wears a KFC bucket over his featureless white mask and does not speak during shows? Well, he's earned the right to be as strange as he wants. When you're that good with a guitar, no one cares what you're wearing on your head.