Sunday, March 27, 2011
At the Ocean's Edge
The Melbourne Sunday Age has published my faith reflection today. You can read it here.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Of Broken Promises
Politicians break promises. Not much news there. We’ve had the ‘L-A-W’ tax cuts. We’ve learned the difference between core and non-core promises. We’ve enjoyed a ‘never-ever’ GST for ten years now. There have been workplace laws arise unannounced from the mist. And we know that “No child will ever have to live in poverty again.” Both sides of politics have a long history of doing other than they promised during an election campaign. And there are times when there is good reason to do so. Circumstances, understandings and beliefs do change. So why is there such angst about the present PM’s direction on carbon pollution? Her position – both at the election and at the present moment – have never been entirely unequivocal. At the election she promised no carbon tax, but expressed a commitment to a price on carbon. Now we have movement towards a price on carbon, and there is legitimate debate about whether the approach is a tax or a precursor to an ETS. There is genuine reason to believe that the anger about broken promises is confected. How else do we explain the lack of outrage which followed broken promises in this same area after the 2007 election – when both parties went to the election promising a price on carbon, only to walk away afterwards? Where the hue and cry about political integrity then? Both the present leaders were complicit – even openly supportive – in those promises.
Broken promises are primarily about trust. Each promise that is not kept erodes at the base of the relationship we share. It is a challenge faced regularly by parents in the negotiating space which young children bring to the family environment. As a parent, I was always careful in answering children’s questions not to breach that trust. This can be quite tricky at times. “Is there a Santa?” is but one of those questions which places the parent in a difficult position. I preferred to be honest with my children. “Of course there’s a Santa!” I would reply, “…I’m Santa!” Delivered with the appropriate sense of irony and robustness, the children would laugh and decry my claim. When the truth dawned on them and the challenge of integrity was raised, I was able to remind them of my honesty. At other times it was better to reflect back the question with another, or offer an explanation of an apparent injustice, seeking to help the child grow in understanding and maturity. To admit that I blew it, and explain why I haven’t delivered on a promise might not make all things right, but often serves to strengthen the relationship.
However, keeping promises isn’t always easy, or even possible. There are times when circumstances have intervened to stymie the keeping of a promise to a family member. And then there were some promises which should never have been made – those blanket, romantic assertions which are beyond the capability of anyone to deliver. “I’ll never let anything happen to you…” “I’ll always be here to protect you…” It is part of the growth of parents and children that the discovery of human limitations reveals the fallacy on which such promises are made. As idealistic as it might be to believe that all promises must be kept, we recognise that there are times when promises need to be broken, and even that there are times when promises are made in order to be broken. While we might readily debate the ethical principles at work, we all operate at some level or another in complicity with such an understanding.
In any case, it would deeply disturb me if we simply elected leaders to be automatons who simply and only implemented the promises they made during an election campaign. We elect our leaders on the strength of their promises and for their ability to lead. These two often exist in creative tension. Ought we have expected the Rudd government to maintain budget surpluses when the Global Financial Crisis hit? To do so would have been an abrogation of leadership, sacrificing responsible leadership on the altar of purity, and we all would have been losers. And how would we have expected leaders to respond in the wake of September 11, given that no promise had been made at the previous election about such an event. We simply cannot afford to restrict leaders to do that and only that which they had promised at the last election. Our representatives owe us their judgment, and we ought to not only expect it of them, but demand it. An opportunity to deliver our assessment will follow at the next election. Arguably the electorate did so in 2010, turning on a government lead by a person who declared climate change to be “the greatest moral challenge of our time,” and then backing away from acting. But the electorate at the time did not embrace the alternate position either.
I can appreciate those who protest the government’s commitment to a price of carbon when they argue the merits of the approach, but not on the basis of some confabulated sense of broken promises. The question at hand is not whether the promise delivered at the time of the election was broken – a debate which could last for years without resolution or agreement – but whether the approach adopted towards the delivery of an ETS is both needed and appropriate. The former response is at best unproductive and at worst potentially divisive. The latter allows all to air their perspective and concern and allow the community to reach some form of agreement or acceptance about the way forward. Banners of the ilk represented at yesterday’s Canberra gathering are neither witty nor constructive, serving only to demean the spirit and integrity of their protest rather than to further debate or understanding, and are ill-befitting those who seek to claim the high moral ground.
Broken promises are primarily about trust. Each promise that is not kept erodes at the base of the relationship we share. It is a challenge faced regularly by parents in the negotiating space which young children bring to the family environment. As a parent, I was always careful in answering children’s questions not to breach that trust. This can be quite tricky at times. “Is there a Santa?” is but one of those questions which places the parent in a difficult position. I preferred to be honest with my children. “Of course there’s a Santa!” I would reply, “…I’m Santa!” Delivered with the appropriate sense of irony and robustness, the children would laugh and decry my claim. When the truth dawned on them and the challenge of integrity was raised, I was able to remind them of my honesty. At other times it was better to reflect back the question with another, or offer an explanation of an apparent injustice, seeking to help the child grow in understanding and maturity. To admit that I blew it, and explain why I haven’t delivered on a promise might not make all things right, but often serves to strengthen the relationship.
However, keeping promises isn’t always easy, or even possible. There are times when circumstances have intervened to stymie the keeping of a promise to a family member. And then there were some promises which should never have been made – those blanket, romantic assertions which are beyond the capability of anyone to deliver. “I’ll never let anything happen to you…” “I’ll always be here to protect you…” It is part of the growth of parents and children that the discovery of human limitations reveals the fallacy on which such promises are made. As idealistic as it might be to believe that all promises must be kept, we recognise that there are times when promises need to be broken, and even that there are times when promises are made in order to be broken. While we might readily debate the ethical principles at work, we all operate at some level or another in complicity with such an understanding.
In any case, it would deeply disturb me if we simply elected leaders to be automatons who simply and only implemented the promises they made during an election campaign. We elect our leaders on the strength of their promises and for their ability to lead. These two often exist in creative tension. Ought we have expected the Rudd government to maintain budget surpluses when the Global Financial Crisis hit? To do so would have been an abrogation of leadership, sacrificing responsible leadership on the altar of purity, and we all would have been losers. And how would we have expected leaders to respond in the wake of September 11, given that no promise had been made at the previous election about such an event. We simply cannot afford to restrict leaders to do that and only that which they had promised at the last election. Our representatives owe us their judgment, and we ought to not only expect it of them, but demand it. An opportunity to deliver our assessment will follow at the next election. Arguably the electorate did so in 2010, turning on a government lead by a person who declared climate change to be “the greatest moral challenge of our time,” and then backing away from acting. But the electorate at the time did not embrace the alternate position either.
I can appreciate those who protest the government’s commitment to a price of carbon when they argue the merits of the approach, but not on the basis of some confabulated sense of broken promises. The question at hand is not whether the promise delivered at the time of the election was broken – a debate which could last for years without resolution or agreement – but whether the approach adopted towards the delivery of an ETS is both needed and appropriate. The former response is at best unproductive and at worst potentially divisive. The latter allows all to air their perspective and concern and allow the community to reach some form of agreement or acceptance about the way forward. Banners of the ilk represented at yesterday’s Canberra gathering are neither witty nor constructive, serving only to demean the spirit and integrity of their protest rather than to further debate or understanding, and are ill-befitting those who seek to claim the high moral ground.
Friday, March 25, 2011
'Unproductive burdens' still have a right to live
Here's a perspective on euthanasia that deserves to be circulated as widely as possible. It appears in today's edition of The Australian, and is written by David van Gend
THERE was a moment during the last national debate on euthanasia that deserves to be revisited by a new generation of legislators, a moment that crystallised fears that the so-called right to die would come to be felt by the frailest among us more as a "duty to die".
It was 1995 and our then governor-general, Bill Hayden, was addressing the College of Physicians during debate on the Northern Territory's euthanasia laws. The scene was significant, since the dual concern with euthanasia is the corruption of the relationship between the state and its most vulnerable citizens, and between doctors and their most vulnerable patients.
Our head of state urged doctors to support euthanasia not only as a right, but also as a positive duty towards society. He reflected on past cultures where the elderly would take their lives when their usefulness had passed, and declared of our own culture: "There is a point when the succeeding generations deserve to be disencumbered of some unproductive burdens."
The next day a retired state governor, Mark Oliphant, publicly supported Hayden's astonishing message to "unproductive burdens" that they should do the right thing by society. This is the callousing of social attitudes, the insidious pressure on the frail and demoralised, that we could expect within a culture of mercy-killing.
A year earlier in Britain, a House of Lords select committee on medical ethics completed the most thorough enquiry into euthanasia ever undertaken, and concluded in stark contrast to Hayden: "The message which society sends to vulnerable and disadvantaged people should not, however obliquely, encourage them to seek death, but should assure them of our care and support in life."
This committee began with a majority in favour of euthanasia, but ended by rejecting it as unsafe and corrupting public policy:
"It would be next to impossible to ensure that every act of euthanasia was truly voluntary. We are concerned that vulnerable people - the elderly, lonely, sick or distressed - would feel pressure, whether real or imagined, to seek early death."
Doctors have no illusions about the pressures that can be felt by vulnerable people.
One patient of mine, a woman with disabilities and minimal self-confidence, received a cruel letter from a close relative effectively telling her she should be dead, and demanding certain arrangements in her will. She then developed cancer.
Consider such family dynamics in a setting of legalised euthanasia, and ask what the "right to die" would mean to a cancer patient so isolated and intimidated.
And the public should have no illusions about the corruptibility of doctors if they are given authority to take life.
According to the Dutch government's own data, doctors in The Netherlands put to death several hundred patients a year without any explicit request, even where the patient is competent to give or withhold consent.
The Dutch officially legalised voluntary euthanasia in 2002 and some claimed that bringing euthanasia "out into the open" in this way would reduce such abuses. Not at all. The Netherlands' 2007 report on euthanasia states that the rate of patients killed "without explicit request" since legalisation in 2002 is "not significantly different from those in previous years".
And why would we expect a reduction?
Doctors who treated the law with contempt when euthanasia was illegal would be even more comfortable and relaxed about abusing the practice once it was socially approved.
Professors of psychiatry in Brisbane, Frank Varghese and Brian Kelly, warned of the impossibility of protecting patients from "the doctor's unconscious and indeed sometimes conscious wishes for the patient to die" once doctors run the state machinery of mercy-killing.
Even the assertion by euthanasia advocates that psychiatric assessment will protect patients by detecting any depression that might be marring the patient's judgment is shown to be a sham, on the available evidence from the US State of Oregon and the Northern Territory.
In Oregon, for instance, of the 49 patients who died by physician-assisted suicide in 2007 not a single patient was referred for psychiatric assessment prior to taking their lethal drug. In the NT during the period of legal euthanasia (July 1996 to March 1997) there were four deaths, all presided over by euthanasia advocate Philip Nitschke.
Psychiatrist and palliative care specialist David Kissane reviewed Nitschke's cases and made this assessment of the so-called "safeguard" of compulsory psychiatric assessment:
"Nitschke reported that all patients saw this step as a hurdle to be overcome. Alarmingly, these patients went untreated by a system preoccupied with meeting the requirements of the act's schedules rather than delivering competent medical care to depressed patients."
More than once I have urged Nitschke to study palliative medicine, to broaden his awareness of what can be done for people with advanced disease. When we look after such patients well, thoughts of euthanasia often fade. Then, in the words of one hospice patient who had asked me for euthanasia only the day before, but was now pain-free, "It's a different world, doc."
However, I would not use the argument against euthanasia that "palliative care can ease all suffering". We cannot ease all suffering in dying any more than we can ease all suffering in childbirth, even though we have made enormous progress.
Rejection of euthanasia is not dependent on perfecting palliative care for all patients.
Its rejection is on the grounds of injustice to the weak, as Kevin Andrews made clear on presenting his Euthanasia Laws Bill 1996, which overturned the NT's legislation: "The people who are most at risk are the most vulnerable, and a law which fails to protect vulnerable people will always be a bad law."
We must reject euthanasia both as a corruption of the doctor-patient relationship and as an insidious oppression of society's "unproductive burdens".
And parliament must reject the Greens' trivialisation of such a momentous issue, their proposal that five politicians on Norfolk Island or nine in the ACT assembly should have authority to transform national culture on a matter of life and death.
David van Gend is a Toowoomba GP and a senior lecturer in palliative medicine at the University of Queensland. (This article does not purport to represent the view, if any, of the university.)
THERE was a moment during the last national debate on euthanasia that deserves to be revisited by a new generation of legislators, a moment that crystallised fears that the so-called right to die would come to be felt by the frailest among us more as a "duty to die".
It was 1995 and our then governor-general, Bill Hayden, was addressing the College of Physicians during debate on the Northern Territory's euthanasia laws. The scene was significant, since the dual concern with euthanasia is the corruption of the relationship between the state and its most vulnerable citizens, and between doctors and their most vulnerable patients.
Our head of state urged doctors to support euthanasia not only as a right, but also as a positive duty towards society. He reflected on past cultures where the elderly would take their lives when their usefulness had passed, and declared of our own culture: "There is a point when the succeeding generations deserve to be disencumbered of some unproductive burdens."
The next day a retired state governor, Mark Oliphant, publicly supported Hayden's astonishing message to "unproductive burdens" that they should do the right thing by society. This is the callousing of social attitudes, the insidious pressure on the frail and demoralised, that we could expect within a culture of mercy-killing.
A year earlier in Britain, a House of Lords select committee on medical ethics completed the most thorough enquiry into euthanasia ever undertaken, and concluded in stark contrast to Hayden: "The message which society sends to vulnerable and disadvantaged people should not, however obliquely, encourage them to seek death, but should assure them of our care and support in life."
This committee began with a majority in favour of euthanasia, but ended by rejecting it as unsafe and corrupting public policy:
"It would be next to impossible to ensure that every act of euthanasia was truly voluntary. We are concerned that vulnerable people - the elderly, lonely, sick or distressed - would feel pressure, whether real or imagined, to seek early death."
Doctors have no illusions about the pressures that can be felt by vulnerable people.
One patient of mine, a woman with disabilities and minimal self-confidence, received a cruel letter from a close relative effectively telling her she should be dead, and demanding certain arrangements in her will. She then developed cancer.
Consider such family dynamics in a setting of legalised euthanasia, and ask what the "right to die" would mean to a cancer patient so isolated and intimidated.
And the public should have no illusions about the corruptibility of doctors if they are given authority to take life.
According to the Dutch government's own data, doctors in The Netherlands put to death several hundred patients a year without any explicit request, even where the patient is competent to give or withhold consent.
The Dutch officially legalised voluntary euthanasia in 2002 and some claimed that bringing euthanasia "out into the open" in this way would reduce such abuses. Not at all. The Netherlands' 2007 report on euthanasia states that the rate of patients killed "without explicit request" since legalisation in 2002 is "not significantly different from those in previous years".
And why would we expect a reduction?
Doctors who treated the law with contempt when euthanasia was illegal would be even more comfortable and relaxed about abusing the practice once it was socially approved.
Professors of psychiatry in Brisbane, Frank Varghese and Brian Kelly, warned of the impossibility of protecting patients from "the doctor's unconscious and indeed sometimes conscious wishes for the patient to die" once doctors run the state machinery of mercy-killing.
Even the assertion by euthanasia advocates that psychiatric assessment will protect patients by detecting any depression that might be marring the patient's judgment is shown to be a sham, on the available evidence from the US State of Oregon and the Northern Territory.
In Oregon, for instance, of the 49 patients who died by physician-assisted suicide in 2007 not a single patient was referred for psychiatric assessment prior to taking their lethal drug. In the NT during the period of legal euthanasia (July 1996 to March 1997) there were four deaths, all presided over by euthanasia advocate Philip Nitschke.
Psychiatrist and palliative care specialist David Kissane reviewed Nitschke's cases and made this assessment of the so-called "safeguard" of compulsory psychiatric assessment:
"Nitschke reported that all patients saw this step as a hurdle to be overcome. Alarmingly, these patients went untreated by a system preoccupied with meeting the requirements of the act's schedules rather than delivering competent medical care to depressed patients."
More than once I have urged Nitschke to study palliative medicine, to broaden his awareness of what can be done for people with advanced disease. When we look after such patients well, thoughts of euthanasia often fade. Then, in the words of one hospice patient who had asked me for euthanasia only the day before, but was now pain-free, "It's a different world, doc."
However, I would not use the argument against euthanasia that "palliative care can ease all suffering". We cannot ease all suffering in dying any more than we can ease all suffering in childbirth, even though we have made enormous progress.
Rejection of euthanasia is not dependent on perfecting palliative care for all patients.
Its rejection is on the grounds of injustice to the weak, as Kevin Andrews made clear on presenting his Euthanasia Laws Bill 1996, which overturned the NT's legislation: "The people who are most at risk are the most vulnerable, and a law which fails to protect vulnerable people will always be a bad law."
We must reject euthanasia both as a corruption of the doctor-patient relationship and as an insidious oppression of society's "unproductive burdens".
And parliament must reject the Greens' trivialisation of such a momentous issue, their proposal that five politicians on Norfolk Island or nine in the ACT assembly should have authority to transform national culture on a matter of life and death.
David van Gend is a Toowoomba GP and a senior lecturer in palliative medicine at the University of Queensland. (This article does not purport to represent the view, if any, of the university.)
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Melbourne Environment Warning!
Unconstrained Energy Leak Engulfing City
While residents on the north coast of Japan watch and wait as the environmental impacts of the damage to its Fukushima nuclear power generators in the wake of the devastating earthquake and tsunami, and communities along the Gulf of Mexico continue their cleaning efforts after the sustained release of oil energy from the disabled drilling platform, Melburnians today are being warned of a major energy disaster engulfing the city. Energy many times the capacity of either the reactors in Japan or the oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico is being released across the city in an unrestrained way, impacting the lives of every resident of and visitor to the city. Daily reports of this leak fill our news media, with papers regularly reporting the times in which its release begins and ends, often indicating when the peak impact will occur during the day. Radio programs punctuate the hour with updates, often reinforced across the hour. Yet in their typically laconic Aussie style, Melbourne’s residents seem to take it in their stride.
Far from being concerned about this release of energy into the atmosphere, Melbourne’s citizens seem to revel in it. Though extreme circumstances can cause severe damage to the skin, and often lead to a significant reduction in productivity, marked by a surge in residents leaving the city and heading to the shores, shedding work responsibilities and, incredibly, soaking up its rays, for the most part the atmospheric presence of this unrestrained energy source is taken for granted, with little pressure being exerted upon governments and industry to take action to curb this waste.
A variety of symptoms of exposure have been reported, including in its mild forms, increased consumption of liquids, and the shedding of external clothing by humans, and at extreme levels increased risk of skin cancers. But its release can also lift sombre moods, stimulate the playful twitter of bird life, and the encourage the blossoming of flowers and flourishing of gardens. Oddly enough, a common response when this energy release is at its peak is for Melburnians to increase demand for and consumption of coal and gas-fired energy sources which have even more adverse effects on the atmosphere and the broader environment, intensifying its impact in the atmosphere. Some of Melbourne’s citizens have consequently been pressing for investment in the nuclear generation technology which has Japanese residents presently in a heightened state of alert. In spite of the abundance of this energy source, few Melburnians seem concerned enough to harness and utilise solar resources in the overall generation of power through its infrastructure. This terrible and unconstrained wastage passes daily with little concern by the average citizen, save to occasionally retreat when at its most intense or, paradoxically, also when it is at its least intensity. In stark contrast to the citizens of Japan and the Gulf Coast, Melburnians seems strangely relaxed about this unconstrained release into the environment and the accompanying wasted opportunity, yet at the same time apparently concerned that we move to harness and deploythe very sources of energy which have paralyses these other places for extended periods.
Interestingly, were such unconstrained release of energy of the kind we see each day be of any other form of energy being consumed around the world, the death toll would be enormous and the environment damaged to the extent that it would be uninhabitable. Conversely, harnessing this power source for our daily conduct of life will do nothing to diminish the enjoyment of it in other ways by others, and may even provide benefits in other ways to our communal well-being, without the risks which most alternatives bring. It almost beggars belief.
So every time you hear a weather report today and revel in the sun’s rays, take a moment to remember and perhaps pray for our sisters and brothers in Japan, and contemplate the waste we tolerate every day.
Monday, March 21, 2011
A Game-Change in Libya?
The intervention of the United Nations into the Libyan struggle, while welcome at one level, and a game-changer at another, will also change the nature of any victory which ensues. The struggle for change in Libya commenced as an internal struggle, not unlike others seen in recent weeks in the Middle East, most recently Egypt, where the victory was won by non-violent revolution within the powers of the people. True democratic reform has taken place because it was the voice – and actions – of the people which prevailed. Libyan citizens, encouraged by what they had seen in the neighbouring country, took up the struggle for change. The time seemed right to bring the long rule of Colonel Gaddafi to an end. However, Gaddafi not only resisted the voices, he responded with force against his people, and the people were threatened.
At one level the response of the United Nations to sanction military intervention by other nations is understandable. Gaddafi was not going to go quietly, if at all, and the cost in terms of lives was set to escalate. Having stood by and watched such brutality in other countries unfold without intervention, and with an escalating and tragic cost in lives – both in terms of number of deaths and in the number of refugees created, the argument for intervention was made, and accepted. But in so doing, the nature of the struggle has changed.
The use of such a powerful force against the Gaddafi regime, nominally in enforcement of a “no-fly zone” changed the game significantly. No longer is this simply a battle for political transformation rooted in the power of the Libyan people, it has become a battle of forces far greater. Any victory is no longer an ideological victory based in arguments for a freer and fairer Libyan society, it has been shifted into a battle based on who can unleash the greatest force for the longest time. Paradoxically, an act taken to empower the Libyan people may well undermine the very case they are trying to make – that true political power is rooted in the voice of the people, not in the tyrannical exercise of force.
If Gaddafi manages to survive this assault, his position will be strengthened, and an argument can be made that the coalition has effectively undermined the moral authority of the arguments made by the Libyan people in their rebellion. If the UN coalition succeeds in removing Gaddafi from power, there consequently exists a moral claim upon whoever assumes power in his stead, one which has laid a foundation of power which still rests upon violence. The game will have been won, but a far different game than envisaged at the outset. It is no longer only the struggle of the Libyan people, it is now a battle between Gaddafi and the world. Any victory will thus create a power vacuum, echoing problems we have seen in Iraq and Afghanistan. And with the additional factor in the equation – Libya’s oil reserves – at the heart of Western interests, a new power struggle emerges in the wake of any regime collapse.
We may well ask about the alternatives. Should we have let this struggle play itself out as an internal struggle, just as the world allowed to happen in Cairo? Do we not believe in the power of the people’s voice – democracy – enough to let this struggle continue? Is the presence of oil the real catalyst for action, or a genuine and altruistic commitment to protect the Libyan people who began this uprising and were struggling to see it through? These are complex questions. But it is of concern that we turn so readily to the use of force to solve such problems… if such actions really do solve them at all. Is the ultimate answer to all tyrants only that we have the bigger weapons? What happens if they manage to gain this upper hand?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Living in Community
While reading Parker Palmer's "The Company of Strangers" I came across this provocative quote:
"Community is that place where the person you least want to live with always lives!"
Palmer adds a corollary:"And when that person moves away, someone else arises to take his or her place!"
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The State of the Planet
The first part of 2011 has been remarkable for the number of catastrophic events which have been on our screens and in our newspapers. Floods, cyclones, bushfires, earthquakes, and tsunamis have appeared almost in sequence within this region of the world, prompting many to pause and ask “what is going on?” The ever-present and continuous news presentations providing blanket coverage of these events has, to some extent, heightened awareness and – possibly – the sense of trauma being felt within the community. The distance from our lounge-room chairs to the flood-devastated residents of Brisbane and North Queensland, to the bushfire threatened residents of Perth, to the shaken and shattered residents of Christchurch or to the inundated residents of Japan has been greatly reduced by the wonders of telecommunication technology and the conspicuous presence of 24-hour news coverage. It is hard to avoid being drawn into these dramatic events. It is equally difficult to escape their presence. The trauma being experienced by the residents is encroaching upon our daily lives.
At one level, the sense of disaster we feel is heightened by our proximity to the events, both in vision and experience. Who can but help to be shaken by the images of waves destroying everything in their path which have saturated our screens in recent nights? How can we not be shaken to the core as we witness first-hand the distress of residents standing outside collapsed buildings wondering whether friends and loved ones are trapped inside? We experience these things in their raw state, entering ever more deeply into the experience of the residents. Not for us any longer the capacity to wait for news to reach us, often processed with the benefit of passing time. It is raw. It is filled with anguish. And the very screen which brings us into this drama also cuts us off from resources to help us process it. Aid and support workers are on the ground helping residents deal with their shock and grief, but not in our lounge rooms. We find ourselves either immersed in the trauma, or conceptually reducing it to a form of entertainment. (Remember the reminders during the events of September 11? Newscasters had to remind audiences that this was real. Note that we no longer find the need to do so.)
At another level, we seem to have been hit by an uninterrupted sequence of catastrophic events of an extreme nature. This sequence also gives rise to the question – is there something unusual about this sequence? Have we tripped off events by human action? While I resonate with Boris Johnson’s decrying of those who search for simplistic answers to this situation, I hesitate to rule out the need to ask ourselves whether our actions have somehow disturbed the delicate balance in creation to a point where the frequency of events has been accelerated and their ferocity intensified. Is it realistic to assume that we can extract billions of litres of crude oil from below the earth’s crust and replace it with seawater without upsetting the balance? Is it naïve to believe that setting off nuclear explosions beneath the earth’s surface has no impact on the stability of the tectonic plates? We are already pondering the impact of our carbon emissions on the planet… ought we not extend our considerations to other aspects below the surface? Of course the earth is not a person who “exacts revenge.” It is, however, a system in balance – an ever-shifting balance with tremendous capacity to adapt to changes – but one which does have limits to its flexibility. We can no longer presume on human capacity to treat creation as its plaything without some consideration of the potential consequences. Whilst I would agree that it is only human stupidity which seeks to ascribe simple or singular causes to such events, I would also suggest that it is only human arrogance that can allow us to continue as though these things were entirely matters of chance.
Yet when we hear the question, “What is going on?” echoing through ordinary conversation, we recognise the conversation being turned towards discussion of meta-narratives – is there a bigger picture of which this is part? The search for meaning is a basic human trait – that sense of purpose in life which explains who we are and why we live in a certain way. Although some might suggest that the idea of the meta-narrative has gone the way of the dodo, its resurrection at times such as this (and not only at this time) indicates that questions of meaning are still very much alive. This is why some find it irresistible to offer simplistic explanations: “It’s the judgment of God,” or “It’s the earth fighting back.” These are as helpful as Johnson’s suggestion that “we don't have to treat this as any kind of verdict on mankind's activities,” or to borrow a phrase from another politician, “shit happens.” An inappropriate response – at either end – does not invalidate the question. There is a middle ground where some thoughtful reflection needs to be undertaken about the impact of our lifestyle on the planet while we pour our efforts and resources into aid and support for the devastated regions (and not just those in the West!)
We do need to contemplate where our lifestyle is leading us, and whether these events are indicators, or simply isolated episodes consistent with the inherent volatility of our planet. Failure to even ask the question might allow us to journey into even deeper troubles.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Facebook and Faith
The proliferation of communication technologies in our day cannot be disputed, both in terms of the breadth of take-up and in terms of its penetration into almost every aspect of our social lives. Those born in the last two decades are on native turf. They have not known an unwired world, and have accepted that developing a relationship does not require physical proximity in the way previous generations formed their bonds. The presence of the telephone in every home in Australia took until the late 1960s or early 1970s, and streets were still littered with public telephones, whose purpose shifted from providing universal telephone access to a place where conversations could take place in a somewhat uninterrupted space. Public telephones have all but disappeared thanks to mobile telecommunications, first the mobile phone, then the advent of mobile internet devices.
To those who have adapted to these technologies, or who have seen their children or grandchildren take to them with alacrity, this can cause some consternation, particularly when reading about the perils of the internet, access to unfiltered information and images, and the capacity to create cyber-identities for purposes which might be regarded as malign. The information about oneself on line, particularly through social networking sites like Facebook, causes generations reared on privacy to wince.
How are we to adapt to this (un)wired world?
We need to recognise that this world is more than a communications medium – it is the harbinger of a new way of understanding our world, as well as interacting with it. It brings with it a new set of values, a new paradigm, and new language. Nowhere is this more clear than in the ways in which we understand our bodies. Whereas once we defined the body in mechanical terms, we now define it in technological terms. Health check-ups were once referred to as a tune-up, and transplants akin to replacing new parts in an engine. Now we recognise the systemic nature of our body. With developing knowledge of DNA, we talk of re-programming. Brain chemistry now speaks of neural pathways and connections. These are just two of the ways in which computer technology has shaped the ways in which we see ourselves, let alone our world.
Those who seek to adapt to this new world may make the mistake of thinking it is merely a matter of adopting new technology: create a web site, join Facebook, send an email (perhaps more appropriately, a tweet!) But this is only part of the challenge to be faced. We do not embrace the new ways of being and thinking simply by bringing a computer into the office, or joining the internet-connected generation. We need to learn a new language, a new etiquette, a new way of interacting. Reading an email requires a different set of eyes than reading a hand-written letter. A facebook status update must be read with different eyes again. We need a different judgment, a different skill set.
Much of the fear surrounding the impact of these technologies is not unlike the cross-cultural experience: not understanding the symbols, cues and language which is on the surface familiar, but substantially different. The value points, communication signals and relational cues are different.
The gospel speaks to each generation with different voices, conveying a time-honoured, eternal message. The job of translating the message into this environment, requires a rethinking, a reimagining, of the import of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, and the overall work of God in the world. God who is the word, whose word became flesh, would enter the digital world in a creative and unique way. So should we.
To those who have adapted to these technologies, or who have seen their children or grandchildren take to them with alacrity, this can cause some consternation, particularly when reading about the perils of the internet, access to unfiltered information and images, and the capacity to create cyber-identities for purposes which might be regarded as malign. The information about oneself on line, particularly through social networking sites like Facebook, causes generations reared on privacy to wince.
How are we to adapt to this (un)wired world?
We need to recognise that this world is more than a communications medium – it is the harbinger of a new way of understanding our world, as well as interacting with it. It brings with it a new set of values, a new paradigm, and new language. Nowhere is this more clear than in the ways in which we understand our bodies. Whereas once we defined the body in mechanical terms, we now define it in technological terms. Health check-ups were once referred to as a tune-up, and transplants akin to replacing new parts in an engine. Now we recognise the systemic nature of our body. With developing knowledge of DNA, we talk of re-programming. Brain chemistry now speaks of neural pathways and connections. These are just two of the ways in which computer technology has shaped the ways in which we see ourselves, let alone our world.
Those who seek to adapt to this new world may make the mistake of thinking it is merely a matter of adopting new technology: create a web site, join Facebook, send an email (perhaps more appropriately, a tweet!) But this is only part of the challenge to be faced. We do not embrace the new ways of being and thinking simply by bringing a computer into the office, or joining the internet-connected generation. We need to learn a new language, a new etiquette, a new way of interacting. Reading an email requires a different set of eyes than reading a hand-written letter. A facebook status update must be read with different eyes again. We need a different judgment, a different skill set.
Much of the fear surrounding the impact of these technologies is not unlike the cross-cultural experience: not understanding the symbols, cues and language which is on the surface familiar, but substantially different. The value points, communication signals and relational cues are different.
The gospel speaks to each generation with different voices, conveying a time-honoured, eternal message. The job of translating the message into this environment, requires a rethinking, a reimagining, of the import of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, and the overall work of God in the world. God who is the word, whose word became flesh, would enter the digital world in a creative and unique way. So should we.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Life is Messy
Life is messy. It is an illusion of childhood and adolescence that attaining adulthood means acquisition of control over one’s life. Our adult life often represents the struggle to maintain this illusion in the face of a variety of events which threaten our equilibrium and prompt periodic adjustments to our plans. Some of them are ultimately welcomed and embraced, others less so.
In pastoral work I regularly encounter people in life moments where all semblance of control is lost: standing with a parent outside a surgical unit while her teenage son is undergoing surgery after an horrific car accident; sitting with family whose loved one has suffered a stroke wondering what the next few hours will hold; weeping with a woman who has been learned that breast cancer has returned and metastasised; staring into space with parents of a premature infant struggling for life; sharing parental anger when a child is diagnosed with a terminal illness. In these places any sense of control is shattered, and one’s human limitations are laid bare.
It has not only been in pastoral work that I have encountered these limitations. I have watched my emaciated grandmother lying in a bed wasting away; struggled with infertility for ten years; watched my own parents battle cancer; sat by a warming tray as my 600 gram son struggle for each breath and fought against the constraints which the tubes inserted into his body represented. How I wanted their struggles to end, feeling acutely the helplessness which comes in the face of such circumstances. Something deep within me yearned for some semblance of control, an ability to step in to reduce suffering, to find a constructive way forward. To sit as one engaged in these struggles was often excruciating, but there was no escape; no place to dodge the pain. Even when not present with them, I carried the pain pulsating within.
I understand the impetus which drives the call for the legalisation of euthanasia. These are very difficult places to be – to watch someone ebbing away before our eyes, seeing our relationship dissolve as the progress of insidious disease gradually tears our loved ones away from us, stripping them of much of what we consider to be components of human dignity in adults – down to the very basics such as control of bodily functions, and ability to communicate. To sit with and speak to someone without response, all the while watching them slowly slip away from life, tears at the very fabric of our being. When final hours linger into days, sometimes stretching into weeks or excruciating months, the pain becomes more than we can bear, both for our loved one, and for ourselves. Words fail to articulate what such journeys involve, let alone mean, for those who are pressed into them. The desire to ‘take control’ in the face of life’s last enemy offers the opportunity of at least a pyrrhic victory – a final declaration that we are in control of our own destiny. But it remains an illusion.
Early in pastoral ministry I learned an important and sobering lesson. A member of my congregation had suffered a debilitating stroke and lay uncommunicative in a hospital bed for a number of days. When she made an unexpected recovery, she expressed one of her frustrations during that time – that she had been able to hear and understand all conversations that took place around her, but was unable to respond. She was locked inside a non-responsive body. Although from the outside her humanity appeared to have been stripped away, it remained, locked away, oblivious to those around her. Her expressed fear was not that she had lost some control over her bodily functions, but that she found herself being ignored –the greatest indignity for her, to have others pretend that she was no longer there, even in her diminished and somewhat emaciated state.
The equation of euthanasia with ‘dying with dignity’ is a distortion. As the life cycle turns, we recognise that the ageing years can often bring a shift in relationship balance, where the child becomes the parent and the parent needing the guidance and support of their children. We feel the discomfort which comes when we find ourselves taking a parental role with our own parents, and seek to do it in the most caring and dignified ways we can. When cancer or dementia begins to overtake, the nature of such parental care can even mimic that of caring for our infant children, particularly when it comes to hygiene and cleanliness. But we do not such acts to be undignified towards our infant children. We talk with them and relate to them in the process in order to build and maintain the relationship. I have seen the expert and gracious care of many palliative care nurses towards aged patients in a similar manner – actions which maintain dignity even where the body makes it more difficult without assistance.
I do not judge or condemn those find it difficult to remain present when the last days drag on. It is confronting at times to journey those last hours and days with someone we love; to know that the person shrinking before our eyes was once hale and robust, full of life and energy. To talk to someone without eliciting a response where once their witty repartee brought raucous laughter or punctured the tension evokes a deep grief which cannot be readily expressed while they still live, even less so while we are in their presence.
Ranjana Srivastana’s column in The Age on Wednesday was refreshing for its honesty and humanity. As are her reported comments of the son. That death has its own timetable pushes us into uncomfortable and apparently inhuman spaces, spaces and experiences which we do not talk about enough, either about death or grief, or our own human limitations. Yet to gain the illusion of control may be to lose something at the very fabric of our being, something of our deepest selves.
I find myself asking what I would fear about a lingering death such as Sanjana describes? I identify pain levels which can only be known by those who experience them, much of which can be controlled or ameliorated with medication. I note the loss of control of bodily functions which threaten one’s dignity, but which can be cared for both physically and emotionally. Then there is the slow decimation of the body, slipping into being a shadow of my (former) self. But I realise that one has to learn that by degrees as one ages in any case. And then there is the sense of being left alone to die. I realise that it is the relationships that make me who I am; the people around me who give meaning, purpose and joy to life. These are those who celebrate success with me, who chide me when I fail, who urge me on to other things, and with whom I share a similar privilege. To be human is to be remembered, to be re-membered as part of a community. This is perhaps the greatest fear to be faced, particularly for those who believe that there is no comfort in death, and no company with us through the shadow of death’s valley.
There is a need to be there with a loved one in those difficult last moments not because they have anything to give to us as such, but so that we can be with them, showing that we remember, and that we care. This is the greatest gift anyone can give and receive in life. I fear that an acceptance of euthanasia may serve to undermine that gift, and therefore undermine our very humanity.
Life is messy. Let’s not make it clinical.
In pastoral work I regularly encounter people in life moments where all semblance of control is lost: standing with a parent outside a surgical unit while her teenage son is undergoing surgery after an horrific car accident; sitting with family whose loved one has suffered a stroke wondering what the next few hours will hold; weeping with a woman who has been learned that breast cancer has returned and metastasised; staring into space with parents of a premature infant struggling for life; sharing parental anger when a child is diagnosed with a terminal illness. In these places any sense of control is shattered, and one’s human limitations are laid bare.
It has not only been in pastoral work that I have encountered these limitations. I have watched my emaciated grandmother lying in a bed wasting away; struggled with infertility for ten years; watched my own parents battle cancer; sat by a warming tray as my 600 gram son struggle for each breath and fought against the constraints which the tubes inserted into his body represented. How I wanted their struggles to end, feeling acutely the helplessness which comes in the face of such circumstances. Something deep within me yearned for some semblance of control, an ability to step in to reduce suffering, to find a constructive way forward. To sit as one engaged in these struggles was often excruciating, but there was no escape; no place to dodge the pain. Even when not present with them, I carried the pain pulsating within.
I understand the impetus which drives the call for the legalisation of euthanasia. These are very difficult places to be – to watch someone ebbing away before our eyes, seeing our relationship dissolve as the progress of insidious disease gradually tears our loved ones away from us, stripping them of much of what we consider to be components of human dignity in adults – down to the very basics such as control of bodily functions, and ability to communicate. To sit with and speak to someone without response, all the while watching them slowly slip away from life, tears at the very fabric of our being. When final hours linger into days, sometimes stretching into weeks or excruciating months, the pain becomes more than we can bear, both for our loved one, and for ourselves. Words fail to articulate what such journeys involve, let alone mean, for those who are pressed into them. The desire to ‘take control’ in the face of life’s last enemy offers the opportunity of at least a pyrrhic victory – a final declaration that we are in control of our own destiny. But it remains an illusion.
Early in pastoral ministry I learned an important and sobering lesson. A member of my congregation had suffered a debilitating stroke and lay uncommunicative in a hospital bed for a number of days. When she made an unexpected recovery, she expressed one of her frustrations during that time – that she had been able to hear and understand all conversations that took place around her, but was unable to respond. She was locked inside a non-responsive body. Although from the outside her humanity appeared to have been stripped away, it remained, locked away, oblivious to those around her. Her expressed fear was not that she had lost some control over her bodily functions, but that she found herself being ignored –the greatest indignity for her, to have others pretend that she was no longer there, even in her diminished and somewhat emaciated state.
The equation of euthanasia with ‘dying with dignity’ is a distortion. As the life cycle turns, we recognise that the ageing years can often bring a shift in relationship balance, where the child becomes the parent and the parent needing the guidance and support of their children. We feel the discomfort which comes when we find ourselves taking a parental role with our own parents, and seek to do it in the most caring and dignified ways we can. When cancer or dementia begins to overtake, the nature of such parental care can even mimic that of caring for our infant children, particularly when it comes to hygiene and cleanliness. But we do not such acts to be undignified towards our infant children. We talk with them and relate to them in the process in order to build and maintain the relationship. I have seen the expert and gracious care of many palliative care nurses towards aged patients in a similar manner – actions which maintain dignity even where the body makes it more difficult without assistance.
I do not judge or condemn those find it difficult to remain present when the last days drag on. It is confronting at times to journey those last hours and days with someone we love; to know that the person shrinking before our eyes was once hale and robust, full of life and energy. To talk to someone without eliciting a response where once their witty repartee brought raucous laughter or punctured the tension evokes a deep grief which cannot be readily expressed while they still live, even less so while we are in their presence.
Ranjana Srivastana’s column in The Age on Wednesday was refreshing for its honesty and humanity. As are her reported comments of the son. That death has its own timetable pushes us into uncomfortable and apparently inhuman spaces, spaces and experiences which we do not talk about enough, either about death or grief, or our own human limitations. Yet to gain the illusion of control may be to lose something at the very fabric of our being, something of our deepest selves.
I find myself asking what I would fear about a lingering death such as Sanjana describes? I identify pain levels which can only be known by those who experience them, much of which can be controlled or ameliorated with medication. I note the loss of control of bodily functions which threaten one’s dignity, but which can be cared for both physically and emotionally. Then there is the slow decimation of the body, slipping into being a shadow of my (former) self. But I realise that one has to learn that by degrees as one ages in any case. And then there is the sense of being left alone to die. I realise that it is the relationships that make me who I am; the people around me who give meaning, purpose and joy to life. These are those who celebrate success with me, who chide me when I fail, who urge me on to other things, and with whom I share a similar privilege. To be human is to be remembered, to be re-membered as part of a community. This is perhaps the greatest fear to be faced, particularly for those who believe that there is no comfort in death, and no company with us through the shadow of death’s valley.
There is a need to be there with a loved one in those difficult last moments not because they have anything to give to us as such, but so that we can be with them, showing that we remember, and that we care. This is the greatest gift anyone can give and receive in life. I fear that an acceptance of euthanasia may serve to undermine that gift, and therefore undermine our very humanity.
Life is messy. Let’s not make it clinical.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Beyond Ground Zero
The call by an American pastor to mark the September 11 anniversary by burning a copy of the Koran is not only an inflammatory gesture, but represents a misunderstanding of not only the gospel which the pastor seeks to represent, but of the events of September 11 themselves. It has become acceptable to link the September 11 attacks with either an attack on American religious freedom (more particularly its Christian heritage) or an attack on American culture and prominence itself. A closer examination of the events of that day demonstrate a far more simple statement was being made in a rather more complex manner than the pastor suggests.
American dominance throughout the second half of the twentieth century was rooted in a combination of its economic power, its military might, and its political power. It is hard to separate these from one another, so interlinked have they been. As we move into the second decade of the twenty-first century, each of these three pillars has lost some of its sheen, and the gap between the USA and the rest is reducing. US budget deficits are measured in the trillions, trade deficits continue to grow, and the might of the US military machine has been tested and stretched significantly on the Iraq and Afghanistan stages, where not only its expertise has been exposed as insufficient to bring out the desired outcomes, but the overall cost has significantly impacted the local economy’s capabilities in responding to the financial crisis. All of these, together with the shambolic outcomes of some presidential elections as far as the integrity of the voting process is concerned, have combined to undermine the political authority of the USA, particularly when further taking into account issues of diplomacy and in addressing global concerns such as Climate Change and the Millennium Development Goals in addressing global poverty. Whilst still the preeminent nation on the planet, there are reasons to question where the present directions of the US might lead, and what the pecking order on the list of countries might be like at the end of this century.
An arguable turning point can be anchored in the events of September 11, 2001. The events of that day are deeply entrenched in American culture and in global perspectives on American responses. The images of the World Trade Centre Towers collapsing are burned upon the minds of all who lived through those days. The residual anger in the community makes analysis of the events problematic and prone to misunderstanding. But rather than regarding these atrocities as random or completely senseless acts, we should look more closely to examine the import of the events of that day. Of course, one does so with a sense of trepidation, realising the tremendous cost, both in terms of lives lost on the day, but also its damage to American pride. The tragedy of that day and the deep grief which continues for a nation, and many individuals within it needs to be respected.
The visual imagery conveyed in the events of September 11 wield a coherent narrative, seeking to challenge the very structure of power which facilitated and underpins American dominance. In fact, in spite of the apparent wanton and random nature of the devastation it caused, the combination of events on that day exhibit something far more strategic. Consider the three targets: the World Trade Centre, the Pentagon, and the White House.
The World Trade Centre has remained the single enduring memorial image of the events, thereby masking the overall imagery of the day. It stood for decades as a symbol of America’s dominance in the world economy and of its engineering capabilities. It supplied 15% of the available office space on the island, and housed major multinational corporations. Billions of dollars of transactions passed through its offices annually. Its size related not only to its importance architecturally, economically and culturally to New York, but to America’s economic influence internationally.
The other two targets are remembered only in passing, perhaps because the impact was much less obvious – the symbolic skyline of New York being reshaped far more dramatically – and the loss of life in those other places less so. One of the airliners crashed into the Pentagon, causing not only the loss of life of passengers and some on the ground, but also significant damage at the point of impact – yet not enough to change the shape or the functioning of the buildings in any significant way. Similarly, Flight 93 was brought down by the courageous act of its passengers over fields in Pennsylvania, well short of its intended target, the Whitehouse, which continues to stand physically unscarred by the events of 9/11. In light of these outcomes one might suggest that the overall effect marked as a failure for its perpetrators, failing to significantly scar the three pillars of American dominance on that day, and allowing the reframing of the story by the victims for their own purposes.
However, a long-term analysis suggests that the damage might be more significant to Pentagon and Whitehouse than the scars of the day itself. The US response was to send its troops into Afghanistan and then to Iraq, ostensibly as revenge for these attacks, and as a pre-emptive response to any future acts of terrorism. Convinced that the Taliban and Saddam Hussein were involved and complicit in the 9/11 attacks, a massive commitment of troops succeeded in overthrowing both regimes in reasonably brief time frames. However, due to inability to establish a lasting peace or a stable government, the troop commitments are nearing the end of their first decade, involving significant loss of human life, with over 4000 US troops alone killed in action, and thousands more civilians and enemy combatants added to this number. In addition, the economic cost to the US economy of the two wars already exceeds $1 trillion dollars, with no end in sight to US involvement in both theatres. While these significant costs related to the conduct of action in Afghanistan and Iraq escalated, a new threat on the home front emerged – the global financial crisis. Already under significant budget stress, the financial cost of these wars has severely hamstrung the US administration in its ability to formulate meaningful and significant responses to the economic downturn which has pushed unemployment levels in the USA to double figures and created significant pain for its people. Economically and militarily, America’s vulnerabilities have been exposed, and any belief that the economic and military might of the US could shape the world as it pleased has been undermined. While only the World Trade Centre was brought down on the day – and is on the brink of re-emerging in a new form, the military and economic scars may well endure for many years to come.
And along the way, we have seen the gradual undermining of America’s moral authority on the international stage. There is no doubt that the practices of rendition, the images of Abu Graib, and the existence of Guantanamo Bay, where “enemy combatants” have been held indefinitely without charge or trial have done America’s reputation no favours. When you consider the restrictions placed on American citizens in order to “preserve America’s freedom,” including “no-fly” lists, wire-tapping, and other intrusions into privacy, the emergent paradox is how far one’s freedoms being removed in order to protect one’s freedoms can be justifiable and morally sustainable. While we may well understand the strength of commitment to ensure that US citizens are protected on their own soil, many of the legislative responses to increase homeland security have caused heartache for many innocent citizens.
The World Trade Centre (symbol of American economic power), the Pentagon (symbol of her military power), and the Whitehouse (symbol of political power) were all attacked by commercial aircraft – itself another symbol of American freedom and ingenuity – on a date which translates as the same telephone number as Americans dial in an emergency – 911. Can we really claim this was a random act of wanton destruction? Can we really simplify this event as an attack by one religion on another? Is the call to “burn the Koran” merely a reflection of the type of stereotypical ignorance which prompted the attacks in the first place?
We do well to hear the pain of the American people as they remember these events, for the wounds and the scars run deep. These attacks were callous and calculated, and designed to send a message. But if the only response is to “burn the Koran,” we have to ask whether anyone was really prepared to face up to the full implications of this day, let alone the call of the gospel to love one’s enemies and to pray for those who persecute you. But to use one’s power to trample on the beliefs of another is to continue to pour fuel on the fires which stoke such acts of violence. At the same time we need to remember that this attack was on much more than the area called "Ground Zero" today...
American dominance throughout the second half of the twentieth century was rooted in a combination of its economic power, its military might, and its political power. It is hard to separate these from one another, so interlinked have they been. As we move into the second decade of the twenty-first century, each of these three pillars has lost some of its sheen, and the gap between the USA and the rest is reducing. US budget deficits are measured in the trillions, trade deficits continue to grow, and the might of the US military machine has been tested and stretched significantly on the Iraq and Afghanistan stages, where not only its expertise has been exposed as insufficient to bring out the desired outcomes, but the overall cost has significantly impacted the local economy’s capabilities in responding to the financial crisis. All of these, together with the shambolic outcomes of some presidential elections as far as the integrity of the voting process is concerned, have combined to undermine the political authority of the USA, particularly when further taking into account issues of diplomacy and in addressing global concerns such as Climate Change and the Millennium Development Goals in addressing global poverty. Whilst still the preeminent nation on the planet, there are reasons to question where the present directions of the US might lead, and what the pecking order on the list of countries might be like at the end of this century.
An arguable turning point can be anchored in the events of September 11, 2001. The events of that day are deeply entrenched in American culture and in global perspectives on American responses. The images of the World Trade Centre Towers collapsing are burned upon the minds of all who lived through those days. The residual anger in the community makes analysis of the events problematic and prone to misunderstanding. But rather than regarding these atrocities as random or completely senseless acts, we should look more closely to examine the import of the events of that day. Of course, one does so with a sense of trepidation, realising the tremendous cost, both in terms of lives lost on the day, but also its damage to American pride. The tragedy of that day and the deep grief which continues for a nation, and many individuals within it needs to be respected.
The visual imagery conveyed in the events of September 11 wield a coherent narrative, seeking to challenge the very structure of power which facilitated and underpins American dominance. In fact, in spite of the apparent wanton and random nature of the devastation it caused, the combination of events on that day exhibit something far more strategic. Consider the three targets: the World Trade Centre, the Pentagon, and the White House.
The World Trade Centre has remained the single enduring memorial image of the events, thereby masking the overall imagery of the day. It stood for decades as a symbol of America’s dominance in the world economy and of its engineering capabilities. It supplied 15% of the available office space on the island, and housed major multinational corporations. Billions of dollars of transactions passed through its offices annually. Its size related not only to its importance architecturally, economically and culturally to New York, but to America’s economic influence internationally.
The other two targets are remembered only in passing, perhaps because the impact was much less obvious – the symbolic skyline of New York being reshaped far more dramatically – and the loss of life in those other places less so. One of the airliners crashed into the Pentagon, causing not only the loss of life of passengers and some on the ground, but also significant damage at the point of impact – yet not enough to change the shape or the functioning of the buildings in any significant way. Similarly, Flight 93 was brought down by the courageous act of its passengers over fields in Pennsylvania, well short of its intended target, the Whitehouse, which continues to stand physically unscarred by the events of 9/11. In light of these outcomes one might suggest that the overall effect marked as a failure for its perpetrators, failing to significantly scar the three pillars of American dominance on that day, and allowing the reframing of the story by the victims for their own purposes.
However, a long-term analysis suggests that the damage might be more significant to Pentagon and Whitehouse than the scars of the day itself. The US response was to send its troops into Afghanistan and then to Iraq, ostensibly as revenge for these attacks, and as a pre-emptive response to any future acts of terrorism. Convinced that the Taliban and Saddam Hussein were involved and complicit in the 9/11 attacks, a massive commitment of troops succeeded in overthrowing both regimes in reasonably brief time frames. However, due to inability to establish a lasting peace or a stable government, the troop commitments are nearing the end of their first decade, involving significant loss of human life, with over 4000 US troops alone killed in action, and thousands more civilians and enemy combatants added to this number. In addition, the economic cost to the US economy of the two wars already exceeds $1 trillion dollars, with no end in sight to US involvement in both theatres. While these significant costs related to the conduct of action in Afghanistan and Iraq escalated, a new threat on the home front emerged – the global financial crisis. Already under significant budget stress, the financial cost of these wars has severely hamstrung the US administration in its ability to formulate meaningful and significant responses to the economic downturn which has pushed unemployment levels in the USA to double figures and created significant pain for its people. Economically and militarily, America’s vulnerabilities have been exposed, and any belief that the economic and military might of the US could shape the world as it pleased has been undermined. While only the World Trade Centre was brought down on the day – and is on the brink of re-emerging in a new form, the military and economic scars may well endure for many years to come.
And along the way, we have seen the gradual undermining of America’s moral authority on the international stage. There is no doubt that the practices of rendition, the images of Abu Graib, and the existence of Guantanamo Bay, where “enemy combatants” have been held indefinitely without charge or trial have done America’s reputation no favours. When you consider the restrictions placed on American citizens in order to “preserve America’s freedom,” including “no-fly” lists, wire-tapping, and other intrusions into privacy, the emergent paradox is how far one’s freedoms being removed in order to protect one’s freedoms can be justifiable and morally sustainable. While we may well understand the strength of commitment to ensure that US citizens are protected on their own soil, many of the legislative responses to increase homeland security have caused heartache for many innocent citizens.
The World Trade Centre (symbol of American economic power), the Pentagon (symbol of her military power), and the Whitehouse (symbol of political power) were all attacked by commercial aircraft – itself another symbol of American freedom and ingenuity – on a date which translates as the same telephone number as Americans dial in an emergency – 911. Can we really claim this was a random act of wanton destruction? Can we really simplify this event as an attack by one religion on another? Is the call to “burn the Koran” merely a reflection of the type of stereotypical ignorance which prompted the attacks in the first place?
We do well to hear the pain of the American people as they remember these events, for the wounds and the scars run deep. These attacks were callous and calculated, and designed to send a message. But if the only response is to “burn the Koran,” we have to ask whether anyone was really prepared to face up to the full implications of this day, let alone the call of the gospel to love one’s enemies and to pray for those who persecute you. But to use one’s power to trample on the beliefs of another is to continue to pour fuel on the fires which stoke such acts of violence. At the same time we need to remember that this attack was on much more than the area called "Ground Zero" today...
Monday, August 23, 2010
This is Just Weird
Talk about a strange coalition of events. Try this one.
But reality is often stranger than fiction. Consider the political situation presently being faced in Australia. A national election on Saturday has failed to deliver any party with an outright majority. Granted, that is de rigeur for Italian politics, but rather unusual in an Australian climate. The situation is made more complex by the fact that balance of power in the two houses of parliament are held by different ends of the political spectrum. The lower house, which forms the government of the day, has three independents from the political right who will ultimately determine who has the first opportunity to form government. These rural politicians are generally conservative in their views. In the Upper House, on the other hand, the balance of power falls to the Greens, who are at the left of the political spectrum (arguably the only party in Australia - with seats in parliament - who is on the left). Consider the challenge to be faced by a minority government: to have legislation which meets the demands of the three independent right-leaning MHRs on the one hand, and the Green left-leaning Senators on the other.
Sounds like a recipe for healthy government. Goodbye slogans, hello meaningful debate!
Sometimes the weird outcomes are the most productive~! (but time will tell...)
But reality is often stranger than fiction. Consider the political situation presently being faced in Australia. A national election on Saturday has failed to deliver any party with an outright majority. Granted, that is de rigeur for Italian politics, but rather unusual in an Australian climate. The situation is made more complex by the fact that balance of power in the two houses of parliament are held by different ends of the political spectrum. The lower house, which forms the government of the day, has three independents from the political right who will ultimately determine who has the first opportunity to form government. These rural politicians are generally conservative in their views. In the Upper House, on the other hand, the balance of power falls to the Greens, who are at the left of the political spectrum (arguably the only party in Australia - with seats in parliament - who is on the left). Consider the challenge to be faced by a minority government: to have legislation which meets the demands of the three independent right-leaning MHRs on the one hand, and the Green left-leaning Senators on the other.
Sounds like a recipe for healthy government. Goodbye slogans, hello meaningful debate!
Sometimes the weird outcomes are the most productive~! (but time will tell...)
Thursday, June 24, 2010
What would Jesus do about economic growth?
Article from Ross Gittins printed in Fairfax papers on the weekend. Refreshing.
Should Christians support capitalism? According to a leading English layman, despite all its material benefits, capitalism as we know it contains moral flaws with serious social consequences.
I'm in no position to preach to Christians, but I'm happy to pass on the views of Dr Michael Schluter, founder of Britain's Relationships Foundation, which will be of interest to a wider audience (and can be found here).
Schluter's beef is against the failings of capitalism that arise from corporations, which have developed as its primary engine.
His starting point is the belief that God is a relational being, whose priority is not economic growth, but right relationships between humanity and himself and between human beings. Christ's injunction to ''love God and love your neighbour'' points to the priority of relational wealth over financial wealth because love is a quality of relationships.
Corporate capitalism's first moral flaw, he says, is its exclusively materialistic vision. It rests on the pursuit of business profit and personal gain. It promotes the idolising of money, which Jesus calls ''Mammon''.
''People are regarded by companies as a resource, or as a cost in the profit and loss account, devoid of relational or environmental context. So capitalism constantly has to be restrained from destroying the social capital on which it depends for its future existence,'' he says.
This focus on capital lends itself to the idolatry of wealth at a personal level, and the idolatry of economic growth at a corporate and national level. Shareholders pursue personal wealth with little knowledge of how it is generated, and senior management with scant regard for pay structures at lower levels of the company, while customers are persuaded by advertising to pursue self-gratification in its many forms.
Corporate capitalism's second moral flaw is that it offers reward without responsibility. In the Parable of the Talents, Jesus implies that gaining money through interest on a loan is ''reaping where you haven't sown''. Lenders may accept some small risk, but they accept no responsibility for how or where the money is used.
Debt finance generally results in relational distance rather than relational ''proximity'' because the lender generally has no incentive to remain engaged with, or even in regular contact with, the borrower.
In the workings of large corporations, shareholders generally have little say in decision-making. Most investors provide share capital through a financial intermediary, such as a pension fund. Often they don't know or care in which companies they hold shares. Even the financial intermediaries generally do little to influence company policy.
Perhaps, Schluter says, instead of ''no taxation without representation'' we should adopt the slogan ''no reward without responsibility, no profit without participation''.
Corporate capitalism's third moral failing arises from the limited liability of shareholders, which allows debts to be left unpaid where the company becomes insolvent. Worse, the unpaid creditors are often employees, consumers and smaller companies supplying goods and services.
Because the downside risks of borrowing are capped, while the upside risks aren't, management has been willing to borrow huge sums relative to the company's share capital and thus expand companies at a frantic pace.
In the finance sector, incentive schemes often reward risk-taking excessively on the upside with no downside penalties, reflecting the risk position of shareholders. Consequent mega-losses have to be financed by taxpayers to limit wider economic fallout.
Schluter's fourth charge against corporate capitalism is that it disconnects people from place. In the Old Testament, the jubilee laws required all rural property to be returned free to its original family owners every 50th year.
This ensured long-term rootedness in a particular place for every extended family. A byproduct was to ensure a measure of equity in the distribution of property, which ensured a broad distribution of political power.
By contrast, capitalism regards land and property as assets without relational significance. This greater flexibility and mobility undoubtedly bring material benefits. But as extended family members move away from one another, and communities become more transient, they can no longer fulfil welfare roles.
Grandparents can no longer help look after grandchildren, and responsibility for care of older people and those with disabilities falls on the state, with the costs having to be met from tax revenues.
Schluter's final charge is that corporate capitalism provides inadequate social safeguards. It has no concept of protecting the vulnerable through constraints on the market. Deregulation limits constraints on consumer credit although the devastating consequences of debt for personal health and family relationships are well known.
Deregulation ensures labour is available for hire 24 hours a day, seven days a week, whereas biblical law protected a day a week for non-work priorities including rest, worship and family.
The adverse consequences of these flaws start with family and community breakdown. ''The greater wealth of some sections of society in capitalist nations has to be set against the greater 'relational poverty' which extends to an ever greater proportion of the population. The danger is that over time these relational problems become self-reinforcing and self-replicating,'' Schluter says.
Another consequence of capitalism's failings over the longer term is a huge growth in government spending. As the number of damaged households increases, so does the size of the bureaucracy.
Government spending on welfare has reached a level many regard as unsustainable, Schluter argues, yet without it many vulnerable people would have little or no physical or emotional support.
As state agencies take over many of the roles of family and local community, they undermine the reasons why these institutions exist and thus further lower people's loyalty and commitment to them.
Schluter's conclusion is that Christians need to search urgently for a new economic order based on biblical revelation.
Ross Gittins is the economics editor at The Sydney Morning Herald and correspondent for The Age. Original source
Should Christians support capitalism? According to a leading English layman, despite all its material benefits, capitalism as we know it contains moral flaws with serious social consequences.
I'm in no position to preach to Christians, but I'm happy to pass on the views of Dr Michael Schluter, founder of Britain's Relationships Foundation, which will be of interest to a wider audience (and can be found here).
Schluter's beef is against the failings of capitalism that arise from corporations, which have developed as its primary engine.
His starting point is the belief that God is a relational being, whose priority is not economic growth, but right relationships between humanity and himself and between human beings. Christ's injunction to ''love God and love your neighbour'' points to the priority of relational wealth over financial wealth because love is a quality of relationships.
Corporate capitalism's first moral flaw, he says, is its exclusively materialistic vision. It rests on the pursuit of business profit and personal gain. It promotes the idolising of money, which Jesus calls ''Mammon''.
''People are regarded by companies as a resource, or as a cost in the profit and loss account, devoid of relational or environmental context. So capitalism constantly has to be restrained from destroying the social capital on which it depends for its future existence,'' he says.
This focus on capital lends itself to the idolatry of wealth at a personal level, and the idolatry of economic growth at a corporate and national level. Shareholders pursue personal wealth with little knowledge of how it is generated, and senior management with scant regard for pay structures at lower levels of the company, while customers are persuaded by advertising to pursue self-gratification in its many forms.
Corporate capitalism's second moral flaw is that it offers reward without responsibility. In the Parable of the Talents, Jesus implies that gaining money through interest on a loan is ''reaping where you haven't sown''. Lenders may accept some small risk, but they accept no responsibility for how or where the money is used.
Debt finance generally results in relational distance rather than relational ''proximity'' because the lender generally has no incentive to remain engaged with, or even in regular contact with, the borrower.
In the workings of large corporations, shareholders generally have little say in decision-making. Most investors provide share capital through a financial intermediary, such as a pension fund. Often they don't know or care in which companies they hold shares. Even the financial intermediaries generally do little to influence company policy.
Perhaps, Schluter says, instead of ''no taxation without representation'' we should adopt the slogan ''no reward without responsibility, no profit without participation''.
Corporate capitalism's third moral failing arises from the limited liability of shareholders, which allows debts to be left unpaid where the company becomes insolvent. Worse, the unpaid creditors are often employees, consumers and smaller companies supplying goods and services.
Because the downside risks of borrowing are capped, while the upside risks aren't, management has been willing to borrow huge sums relative to the company's share capital and thus expand companies at a frantic pace.
In the finance sector, incentive schemes often reward risk-taking excessively on the upside with no downside penalties, reflecting the risk position of shareholders. Consequent mega-losses have to be financed by taxpayers to limit wider economic fallout.
Schluter's fourth charge against corporate capitalism is that it disconnects people from place. In the Old Testament, the jubilee laws required all rural property to be returned free to its original family owners every 50th year.
This ensured long-term rootedness in a particular place for every extended family. A byproduct was to ensure a measure of equity in the distribution of property, which ensured a broad distribution of political power.
By contrast, capitalism regards land and property as assets without relational significance. This greater flexibility and mobility undoubtedly bring material benefits. But as extended family members move away from one another, and communities become more transient, they can no longer fulfil welfare roles.
Grandparents can no longer help look after grandchildren, and responsibility for care of older people and those with disabilities falls on the state, with the costs having to be met from tax revenues.
Schluter's final charge is that corporate capitalism provides inadequate social safeguards. It has no concept of protecting the vulnerable through constraints on the market. Deregulation limits constraints on consumer credit although the devastating consequences of debt for personal health and family relationships are well known.
Deregulation ensures labour is available for hire 24 hours a day, seven days a week, whereas biblical law protected a day a week for non-work priorities including rest, worship and family.
The adverse consequences of these flaws start with family and community breakdown. ''The greater wealth of some sections of society in capitalist nations has to be set against the greater 'relational poverty' which extends to an ever greater proportion of the population. The danger is that over time these relational problems become self-reinforcing and self-replicating,'' Schluter says.
Another consequence of capitalism's failings over the longer term is a huge growth in government spending. As the number of damaged households increases, so does the size of the bureaucracy.
Government spending on welfare has reached a level many regard as unsustainable, Schluter argues, yet without it many vulnerable people would have little or no physical or emotional support.
As state agencies take over many of the roles of family and local community, they undermine the reasons why these institutions exist and thus further lower people's loyalty and commitment to them.
Schluter's conclusion is that Christians need to search urgently for a new economic order based on biblical revelation.
Ross Gittins is the economics editor at The Sydney Morning Herald and correspondent for The Age. Original source
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
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