
I'd like to thank all the participants for the exchanges that flowed from Monkey Fundamentalism. When we blog adminstrators get e-notification of a new comment, we can left-click and go directly to the new posting. Tonight I ran through the concatenation of responses beginning to end, and was driven to a chuckle.
We began with a paper and a speech; two guys offering their “thoughts” about fundamentalism and its culture.
In a reaction to the example of Norris we were offered Ketcham as a counterweight, as though he wipes away that blemish off the face of fundamentalism, as though we would have good government if we had one good Republican for every bad Democrat.
We had a defense of Garlock’s artistry. Whether or not he is as useless to us as I maintain, he certainly has no place alongside King David. And we had a plea for the winnowing of time. Folks, time has already winnowed a good deal, and it is that which we are now rejecting. If winnowing were any solution, the 21st Century would flaunt the richest Christian culture of all time.
And, as reason flagged, the self-expression of one is the effusive sentimentality of another.
Within this small group (pastors, assistant pastors, collegians and seminarians in one tiny slice of American Fundamentalism) is the philosophical distance of, what, about a span? Imagine these issues set before the entire movement and watch that span stretch to a furlong. And out of this we shall produce an improved culture? Based on what?!
If within this tiny group there is no agreement as to good leadership, true and worthy sentiment or beautiful worship, what are our chances? If we cannot consider, weigh and adjudicate, how can we select the good over the bad, the true over the false and the beautiful over the ugly?
I say this not to judge but to observe. Pontificating rubes have clumped onto the fundamentalist stage since the beginning, railing against this, that and whatnot. Nothing has changed.
Well, that’s not true: something has changed. Now they speak to us of culture. Uncultivated rustics whose knowledge of arts and letters is partial and recent, the smell of the farm still in their clothing, hold forth on matters of meaning and manners.
Please, someone tell me why I can’t stop laughing.