The Inquisition: Logos

In my post on the subject of faith, I talk about the definition of the word faith and that ultimately I believe it pertains to all of life; and not merely religion. I won't go into all that again, for it'd be redundant, but a while later a friend of mine shared some of his objections to my conclusions concerning faith—especially where I talk about faith being something we put even in science. He shared his own definition of faith: that faith is unexamined, blind, and heeds only to its own course in spite of evidence and, especially, evidence to the contrary. With this definition he went on to point out that my claims fall apart as pertains to atheism. As not to remove the context, he then went on to share with me how faith relates to him (i.e., how he does not need it in his philosophies), that religion is unnatural, absurd, and, socially and otherwise, destructive; he then shared an Old Testament example which he feels is ridiculous, and finally summarizes that religion does carry some intrinsic truth of humanity, but ultimately that religion and ritual are no way of forming an organic thought.

I must say that when I concluded my reading of his response I agreed almost entirely with him. So I do not regard what he said as stupid in any way, but rather very honest and intelligent. He began with his own definition of faith, and from there showed how such faith would be wholly destructive within the religions that adopted such faith. The question then raises, is that really the sort of faith which all religions are based off of? I believe it's a bit cynical of a definition, and a generalization, really: like asserting that all children are 'needy', and adding that to be 'needy' means being pathetic and inhuman (due to a lack of independence). It's difficult to argue the idea since children are needy, but does that really mean they're pathetic and inhuman? Some would say yes. I'm reluctant even to give that example as I think it could be too distracting, so I'll move onto my main thought and hope my train of thought is followed.

In the book of John (fourth book within the New Testament of the Bible) one finds a rather curious start: "In the beginning was the Word." It goes on to explain how this is God, but I don't actually want to focus on that. I want to simply consider the final word within the verse—'Word'—and what that means. To understand this one must first realize that the New Testament is written in Greek, and what we read in English is actually a translation of this. Years ago, back when words meant more, this phrase made a bit more sense, but even then it was somewhat confusing. The Greek word for 'Word' comes from the Greek word Logos—which was far more meaningful for the Greeks than to us. (The word logic receives its root from this word.)I have heard it said that a better contemporary translation of this verse would be, "In the beginning was the definition." So it wasn't that in the beginning, before space and time, lingered some method of communication; rather that before all such anything was the very thing which defined: sort of like saying that before there was a wooden rocking horse there was the idea (which Christian's believe to have been within the Carpenter's mind). That's by no means a perfect example, but what the Greeks were trying to get across in this word is a difficult but powerful concept that even they, the ancient philosophers, couldn't quite understand and therefore used a single word to contain; much like the words infinity or universe.

As I thought about my friend's objections, I realized that there was absolutely no way I could refute him on his own terms: there was no where to go: no possible direction the conversation could progress because we were talking about a subject using the same words, but entirely different definitions. There was no Logos—no definition we were agreeing on—so how could I reply when, by his own definition, he was correct?

I am realizing more and more as time goes on how incredibly important it is to realize that words are not an end in themselves, but a means by which to communicate. This statement may seem unnecessary, but I will explain what I mean. I speak English, and presently I am in a country which speaks Tamil (locally) and Hindi (nationally). So when I go up to someone on the street and ask them how they are in English, they stare at me and usually mutter a few uncertain words in their own language. It isn't that I had no meaning behind my words, and in fact if they understood me it would have shaped the beginning of a conversation, but as the words I shared were meaningless to them, the whole message was lost. It goes both ways. The exact same result occurs when they start talking to me in Tamil: I stare at them for a moment, then give them that clueless grin I have had months to perfect. What's happening is that we're both saying words which are quite meaningful to us, but which the other person has not agreed on the definition of. This is quite obvious as relates to entirely different languages, but becomes less obvious (and therefore less assumed) within a single language; but it is just as prevalent and often more confusing: in India we assume to know nothing of what is being said, but in America we assume to understand almost all words—especially those we've heard the most. A simple example would be the word 'cool': "That's cool," we say. Americans understand per use and context, that what's really being said is "I like that." If we use this word around someone that only learned English in the classroom, then they would most likely find themselves confused by the use of the term 'cool'; their mind would try and figure how or why the temperature of the situation is cool, and may make some sort of conclusion which satisfies them.

I'll give another example, more close to my point. Let's say I were to read a piece of old American literature, such as Mark Twain or Emily Dickinson. Throughout the book I noticed a number of characters describing themselves as 'gay'. By the end of the book I might suppose that nearly every character, accept the more miserable ones, were all homosexual. By a single word, I would have effectively misunderstood most characters and figured them to be something they weren't. Most of us, however, remember that traditionally the word 'gay' meant 'happy'; so when someone in an old television show would sit up in the morning, stretch and exclaim, "I feel gay today," they weren't joyfully remarking the disposition of their sexual preference for that day; they were expressing a feeling of happiness. This is that's called an equivocal word—a word without a singular, univocal meaning, wherein the word itself (sound; pronunciation) does not alter, but the definition does. Now the assumption, within this example, would be that if I were confused about the word and someone corrected me, that I would then say something like, "Ohh! Now I get it! That makes a lot more sense!" But what if someone told me and I were to retort that the author was wrong and I am right: either their characters are homosexual, or they were incorrect in the use of the word. Now at times the latter possibility may be correct and the author truly did misuse a word, but the question then arises: 'What's more important? That the story is understood, or that the infallible diction of the reader is established?' More often than not, as well, it's not so much that the word was used incorrectly, but that the use by modern definition would be incorrect.

One philosopher I appreciate greatly, Dr. Ravi Zacharias, remarked at a university presentation that it's easy for philosophers to become "doodlers with words." My own father, in fact, helps me quite a bit by letting me know when I begin to "wax on philosophical." I know what he means. He's saying that I'm doodling with words and not actually getting anywhere, or else getting there painfully. I very much appreciate this, and have realized that the modern notion of a philosopher is one that says too much and means too little (which is also believed, often jovially, for most politicians). After much thought, the reason I believe philosophers do this is because before we doodled with words, we doodled with definitions. It's not too uncommon for me to be listening to some philosophical debate, and begin rolling my eyes as I hear one or two grown men refusing to understand what the other is trying to say: they're much more interested in how they're saying it and that, by their own definition, their words are incorrect. I found myself in this horrid context—wherein you finally realize that nothing you can say is correct, because the very words you say won't be accepted—and try to catch myself from doing this to others. These days one can use certain expletives as every form of a word (noun, adjective, verb, etc...); love ice cream, people, mountains and a movie with equal distancing and passion; and argue as to whether or not truth is true. As we put it, it's a 'word game': At times we learn new languages in order to understand other cultures, and other times we refuse to understand our own by refute of word use.

Recently I read the book Miracles by the famous twentieth-century philosopher C.S. Lewis. In the beginning of the second chapter he begins with a definition: "I use the word Miracle to mean an interference with Nature by supernatural power." This is all right and well, but while going through the chapter I realized that he relies heavily on his definition, and even states in a note that it is a definition which most theologians would not use but he chose it based on the context of his readers. If one were to read the chapter and miss that definition, then the entire chapter would be incredibly easy to debunk: the word wouldn't fit the context and he would be seen as contradicting himself. On the other hand, what if, like the old American novel, the reader simply refused to accept the definition of the word, and read the chapter based on their own 'more correct' definition? One might then ask the reader why they're even reading the book, as they clearly assume to know more on the subject than anyone else, but that would be a bit harsh. I should rather like to point out to the reader that just because one accepts a word for a context, does not mean they have effectively compromised the whole of their philosophy by choosing to understand what someone means by a word. To sum up, words are but vessels of definition, they are not the definition themselves.

So what of my friend as he considered faith? Well, though I would not use the word as he did, I appreciated that he gave me a definition by which to understand his thoughts. Indeed, if when I used the word faith I meant something blind and frankly stupid, I would be as far from it as possibl as well. So if he merely wanted to inform me that we ought to avoid such faith, I would agree with him wholeheartedly. But, and not to pick on my friend, I do not believe when we say such things we are merely speaking on our own behalf, for he was informing me that faith according to all religions is blind and unexamined. Perhaps he did not mean this, and so I shall move onto a more generic reference. I have heard that if by a single line of reasoning we felt that we could debunk an entire religion, we have likely not understood it. Indeed I am not nearly so intelligent as to assume that I have accumulative knowledge of every religion in order to make such a claim, and I understand that what my friend was really saying was that ultimately religion led to such blind faith. I have limited knowledge of all religions, and as I know Christianity best I will at least provide a short apologetic on its behalf. Please understand, however, that I am not trying to begin a debate, as much as I am attempting to create the pretext for even a conversation.

According to the Bible—considered the ultimate reference to Christians—in chapter eleven of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament, faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (NAS) Or in another translation, "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (KJV) It's important to understand that the latter part—talking about 'things not seen'—is not a description of 'blind faith.' It is actually much more literal: it's a Greek term referring to the literal sensory: evidence not being limited to what we immediately can detect with our five sense. This is sensible. If it were not then I would not be able to talk about the heat of fire without first placing my hand in it as to assure myself that it is still quite hot. I attempted to explain this within my post concerning faith itself, and will thus leave its elaboration therein. But I challenge all such biblical critics to consider whether or not they're considering the Bible on the coherence of its own definitions as relate to reality, or if they're merely refuting it on word use: like the American novel or Lewis' book examples.

I will conclude with this, however. In my essay on faith I regarded the dictionary definition as being 'untrue' or 'false'. Quite frankly I cannot make that claim as a whole, and I therefore write this as to explain what I meant but poorly expressed. More accurately, I was talking about faith as described by the Christian faith, and that according to this definition it would even be legitimate to describe science as being a form of faith. No doubt, however, that if one despised the very use of the word 'faith' then my thought could be refuted on the grounds of the improper use of a word. But really, that isn't to refute the ground of my logic, but my communication thereof.

This was a rather difficult essay to write, and I truly hope I have not caused more confusion than understanding. If, after reading, you feel as though what I said had absolutely no relevance to you, then completely disregard this essay as something which simply doesn't having anything to do with you at the present time. Disregard it entirely. On the other hand, if you managed to track with my thinking through this and believe there is something to it, then I hope you will understand better the phrase, 'please don't listen to what I'm saying; listen to what I'm trying to say.' No one of us has the corner market on philology: even Webster, as there have been countless revisions to his initial 72,000 word nineteenth-century release. Speak and listen, therefore, with humility and understanding.

The Inquisition: Confessions

This has been a rather difficult series to continue: I have multiple drafts saved of posts that I began, and some that I even wrote straight to a finish; but invariably I get to a certain point where I'm just not satisfied with what I've written. Sometimes I feel as though I gave a series of stock answers, rather than what I know: a bunch of knowledge which I've accumulated, but very little of which that I actually understand. Other times I simply find myself unhappy with the quality of the expression of my thinking: not that I wrote anything untrue or the like, but what I'm thinking and the product of what's written just don't align enough for my satisfaction. Finally, at times, I get so far then more or less forget where I was trying to go with my thought. I probably could finish, but it would be forced.

The purpose of this post is the heart behind the previous paragraph: to confess where I am not merely in my knowledge, but in my understanding— which is a good place to start.

Confession #1: Knowledge

Throughout my life I have been accused of a number of things. Some of these accusations were true, others were slightly true, and a blessed few had absolutely no truth at all to them. I remember working at one company when I was eighteen with my girlfriend at the time, Danielle, and her mother. I worked in the field as a Rodman, Danielle was a secretary, and her mother was the vice-president. We would drive to work in the morning, to save gas, and because of this I would get there the time they needed to, which was earlier than I needed to be there. Consequently I would join them in the office area doing random bits of work off the clock. I figured if I was to be there, then I might as well help. At eight o'clock everyday I would finish, wave to her mom, give Danielle a quick kiss, and head down to the docking area. I recall one day when I was informed I couldn't help in the office area anymore, but wasn't told why. Then, when I left for the day, I was informed that a rumor was going around that I had made out with Danielle in a supply room. This was news to me, and I felt rather cheated: if I were to be accused of something like that I'd just as soon have done it. But it wasn't true—not in the slightest.

I recall another time working in a gas station, Speedway, winter the same year. It was a simple job—show up, work the register, smile, change out the coffee and hot dogs, etc... As such I looked forward to chatting with my fellow workers—as to keep my mind from rotting from tedium—and got to know many different people. After a time, I really began to love and enjoy all of them, and looked forward to seeing them at work. One day in particular I was working with a young man in his late twenties named Ryan. For being so young, Ryan had accumulated himself a great deal of complication in his life; and, frankly, really needed a friend. I wanted to be that friend, so I enjoyed talking with him and hoped to help him. My intentions were fine, but the problem periodically raised that I had a bad habit of offering suggestions to situations of which I couldn't understand in the slightest. On this day, the issue was silently raising again, and finally, Ryan put words to it and demanded to know why I acted like I thought everything. This completely threw me. I retorted that I didn't actually think that, but couldn't escape within my own mind that clearly my actions and thoughts didn't cohere; I came off as an ignorant, arrogant jerk who thought he knew every answer to life.

That is my confession, and I'll add this. I think many times I still give off that impression. During the third month of my present trip in Asia, Jerry also brought up the issue— he wanted to think with me, and I was doing nothing but throwing answers at him. To be honest, in my mind I wasn't doing that, but for me to go around expecting the world to perceive me differently would be, well, vain. It doesn't exactly happen every week, but once or twice a year I find myself in a disturbingly similar circumstance. I suspect if some of my old friends were to see this post they would jump on the opportunity of reminding me of all the things I've said without understanding; of all the times I ought to have empathized, but instead responded to an emotional issue with an intellectual answer. Allow me to add this also, for I think it's worse than some know. Many times it isn't just that I respond poorly to a situation, for everyone does that one time or another, but all too often I find myself attempting to propose an answer which I actually don't understand myself. There, then, is my confession: I have much knowledge, but much of that knowledge I don't really understand. I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this arrogance in me, and ask your forgiveness.

Confession #2: Morality

This is my confession, not another's, so the premise behind the story I'm going to tell now is a true one, but I'm going to change a few details in order to protect the identity of the person involved. Please rest assured that I will not change anything which would either release or alleviate my involvement. When I was younger, I had a guest over for a bit who I very much enjoyed—we shall call him Roger. A promising young man with energy, Roger told me all about his friends and relationships, then asked about mine. We chatted for a good while and enjoyed one another's company, and I found that Roger really looked up to me. At the time I was in a relationship as well. He thought it was great that I was in a relationship as well and of the apparent happiness of our relationship. A bit later, Roger asked a rather vulnerable question concerning sex: a decently moral fellow, Roger wanted to wait until marriage to have sex with his girlfriend, but wasn't sure 'how far' he could go prior to marriage; he wanted to know how far was too far. Looking back on the question I realize the problem with asking such a question, for invariably the answer is going to be tested, so the whole heart behind the question is not what it at first seems to be. At the time I had been long since thoroughly testing out such a question in my own relationship, and wasn't about to allow this circumstance to make me feel guilty: after all, pleasure is really quite pleasurable. I gave him an answer. Even as I spoke it and years since, I knew I was telling him a lie: I didn't tell him what I thought the answer was: I told him what I wanted the answer to be. I told him that he could go so far as he wanted until he felt the temptation for sex too strong to resist. Sort of like telling someone to err on the side of speeding while driving around a mountain, but not to go so fast as to fall off the cliff during a turn. I don't mention this story for the purpose of proposing my own thoughts on sex, but to admit my own moral hypocrisy in the matter.

So here is my confession. I have told far too many people lies to justify my own moral deficiency. Don't get me wrong, there is morality, and if anyone agrees that I have been a hypocrite but deny morality, then I would ask them in what way am I a hypocrite? In fact it is much worse because I am aware of the moral code within me; I am aware that there is a God to help me with this moral code. So my confession then isn't so much that I make mistakes, for I'm not perfect and neither is anyone else on this planet; my confession is that not only do I not live up to the morality which Jesus has made possible, but I also have lead others astray in order to justify my own guilt. I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this hypocrisy me, and ask your forgiveness.

Confession #3: Girlfriends

I don't like to think about it all that much, but by this point I have had seven girlfriends. That's not easy for me to say, and I'm tempted to get rid of that and rule it out as an unimportant detail; but for the sake of honesty I'll leave it. It's not as though it's one heartbreak after another, and I'm aware that people often hurt each other in life within their pursuit of happiness: it's a cruel irony of life. Most times, I tend to believe, when someone hurts another they're rarely doing it out of pure evil: more often they have somehow contorted in their own minds that something will be set right by what they're doing, or 'they'll thank me in the end,' or 'I need this.' Other times, like my first three girlfriends, it's a silly high school boy trying to figure out life and why happiness seems to involve a woman in one's life. The psychology, theology, etc... behind this I'll leave for more qualified authors and thinkers; I'm merely stating that, although the relationships didn't work out, I honestly didn't know any better and neither did they: so I don't really feel bad for my initial relationships: It's kids trying to figure things out. By the fourth, I would say, is when I began to get the idea that perhaps I wasn't going about things the right way; but I didn't know any other way.

I feel like I should explain this, as it could sound as though I'm off-handedly insulting my fourth girlfriend. I'm not. What I mean is that in retrospect I'm quite certain I hadn't the faintest idea what I should do when a young woman offers me her heart; but I liked it, so I continued anyway. I can't speak for the young women, but I think much of my concept for dating relationships were very Hollywood instructed. In fact, I recall with shame one time driving down the road, getting into a heated argument with my fifth girlfriend—my longest lasting relationship of around three years. As we were driving I couldn't figure out what in God's name she was going on about, but I wanted her to shut up so things would go on being perfectly happy. I then recalled a moment in some movie with Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts: where they loved each other a lot but were driving down the road—like us—and having a heated argument—like us. In the movie, Brad Pitt tells her that if she doesn't stop yelling at him, that he would drive into the back of the car in front of him (or something like that). She didn't believe him and didn't stop, so he sped off towards the car with no indication of stopping. They don't hit the car, but they fly off the road and miraculously stop without any major damage; but nerves are shocked and it had just the effect on Julia Robert's character to make her realize she had pushed him too far and shouldn't do that. Yes, I tried this. But instead of hitting the car and going off the road (we were on an expressway), I slammed on my brakes and quickly changed lanes. It worked in that she was very shocked, but instead of realizing the error of her ways—as worked in the movie—she got even more pissed off and told me I was acting like a stupid child. I was.

Back to the concept of holding another's heart in my hand. I get this phrase from a preacher I remember hearing give a talk on dating from the Song of Solomon—an Old Testament book in the Bible. It was a really good sermon: very honest, sober, and realistic. Many times when I listen to such sermons, the preacher basically demands perfection or celibacy, which made me very nervous until I realized that's not true. This guy, among other things, hammered at one point for guys not to simply get into a relationship because it makes them feel good; and not court, especially, until the young man is willing and (more importantly) capable of holding a young woman's heart in his hands. It's sad: even as I think about that phrase I know so many young women who would advise other women to never make themselves so vulnerable to men. Men aren't then devil, but I do think in this culture we've made quite a habit of thinking about how women can satisfy our needs, and how we can appease them for it. It's disgusting, and I think I have added to this. I look back over my last four relationships and see that at first I was clueless, and clueless of how clueless I was. Then, after awhile, I became more aware of my cluelessness: I realized I wasn't able to hold a young woman's heart in my hands, but I kept trying; kept going out with women because of the emotional sense of purpose it gave me. And when it came time to love them as they needed to be loved, I found I wasn't capable of giving such love. Not yet anyway: I'm young, but I don't like to admit it sometimes. There's so much more I could say on the matter, but I really just want to confess that I have held hearts like diamonds in my hands, and as I was ignorant of what to do, I have hurt those hearts in the end. So this confession especially, I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this foolishness in me, and ask your forgiveness.

Confession #4: Christianity

I remember when I was nineteen or so, a friend came to me with an honest dilemma. It was a rather rough situation which really doesn't need to be explained, but rest assured it was a very serious circumstance to think through. More than anything he needed someone to listen to him: to hear what he had to say, nod, remark at how tough it is, encourage him, see if there's anything he would like me to do, etc...—which I did not do. Initially it wasn't a total car wreck, but honestly I wasn't listening—i.e., not like I should have been—as much as I was waiting for my turn to speak. Eventually we got in the car and went for a drive, then after a long pause I launched into a massive speech of pure prescriptivism: I had an answer to his problems, and it was God, period. It wasn't so much that what I said was entirely untrue, but my timing was terrible and rather insensitive; later I would learn that the right answer at the wrong time is always wrong. In retrospect, I believe was right in the sense that my friend needed Jesus, but what I ought to have done was be Jesus to him; I ought to have done what I am called to do as a Christian—literally, a 'little Christ'—and be there for my friend. That's what Christians mean when they talk about 'being Jesus" to someone. And that's my confession.

Gandhi, the famous Indian liberator, is sometimes quoted for saying the about the Christian faith, "I like their Christ. I don't like their Christians." I really appreciate Gandhi for having the clarity to look through individuals like myself and see the awesome man that we're trying to be. But that's just it: I'm amazed that, as we Christians believe, Jesus left it up to us Christians to be the 'Body of Christ' after he left; to be Jesus to the people. Whether or not someone agrees with Christianity is another issue, and quite possibly I'll go over some of the apologetic material behind Christianity in the future of my inquisition, but right now I just want to admit that I don't live up to the very standard by which I try to live. I blow it all the time. By this point, it's not so much that I try to possess every answer of Christianity and, in a sense, become Christianity—put another way, I don't try to possess every answer of God and, in a sense, become God—as much as I try and be transparent so that people can see Jesus in me. Jesus is in me, and enables me to be like him; it's not he that fails at it, I do. But I'm not a great representative, yet I vow that I shall try harder to be: to get out of the way so others can see God in my life, and not be some fool standing in front of Jesus trying to tell others that he exists; let him prove himself through me. I confess, then, that I have not done this; I shall try—for God and my love for him, for you, and for me—to be a better representative of what it is to be a Christian. It's a privilege. I apologize to all who may have been hurt by this short-coming in me, and ask your forgiveness.

Epilogue:

I think the question lingers by this point, why did I write this and what does it have to do with 'The Inquisition'? I'll answer the second question first. The Inquisition is a rather personal process for me: I'm not trying to solve all the philosophical questions of the world in a single series by a young adult male; my purpose is merely to reflect upon my own life and philosophies, and make sure what I believe and live by actually adheres to reality; i.e., truth. Sometimes I hear the philosophy that we ought to cast off our past, and what's really meant by that is to deny it and make a pact with ourselves never to look behind us and, if we do, to not care two cents about it. In the long run, I have never observed this to truly be effective, as ultimately, we say that 'the past catches up with you': that is to say, we realize that our past is a part of who we are, and that we cannot run from: we could be ten-thousand miles from that person, but what they did to us (or we to them) still lingers within us. Reconciliation, then, is the generally accepted alternative to amnesia; and this, I believe, begins with humility. So as the result of self-reflection and consideration, I realized the next step would be to confess my sins that I may move forward—I'll reflect on these choice of words in a moment. As to why I wrote it at all, I believe will take two answers:

(1) As I reflect on my life, I realize that there are many such people whom I have hurt along the way. Usually it is not so much that I meant to hurt them, but quite often I did not mean not to. At times, as well, I reflect on people that have hurt me, and I realize that the wounds inflicted by another can at times be a wound so long unreconciled with that it eventually begins to define us. I recall one famous playwright that wrote and autobiographical play, and in one of the scenes his mother is reflecting on pain and life and says (to paraphrase): "We cannot help what life does to us, but then we find ourselves attempting to fix what happened to us; and, eventually, we find we have spent our whole lives trying to simply undo what has kept us from being ourselves." Hurt another or not, I never want to be the reason why someone cannot grow, mature, and become who they want to be in life—whoever it is they want to be. We may differ on philosophy, politics and the rest, but I never want anyone to feel bound by wounds I have inflicted upon them; nor do I want to be bound or defined by the wounds I have given.

(2) One of my greatest fears would be to get to heaven and find out that someone did not get there on my account (i.e., in a way: I am certain God does not give such awesome, ultimate power to us as to be the sole reason for another's ultimatum): that someone looked to me as the token Christian, and when I inevitably let them down they felt as though Christianity must therefore be a fluke, a lie. As Christians we are told in the Bible to confess our sins and seek forgiveness. I apologize that I must use the word sin, but only in the sense that I do not have enough time, knowledge, or understanding to really explain sin from the ground up. One day I wish to be able to do this, but have yet to feel as though I can truly accomplish this in a way that would be properly thorough. If someone reading this does have an honest question concerning what the devil I mean by sin, and not just 'share' with me their opinion; then I'd be more than happy to direct you to more qualified thinkers who have written excellent material on the subject. But as for me, I do believe in sin: I have fought it my whole life—i.e., the sin in me. I believe very much the phrase that came somewhere from Africa: "The problem at the heart of humanity is the problem with the human heart." So I want to confess my sins, when I spot them, and hopefully in doing so help people who are distracted by me and my shortcomings to see past me to Jesus—another excellent subject worth researching if you don't know who or what in God's name I mean when I say 'Jesus'. So my conclusion is this: I want to become more, and I want others to be come more as well; and I believe at times that begins with confession. Please feel free to notify me of another category you believe I ought to consider for confession.