Curiosity #84: The Non-religious Pilgrim

Anthropology, Religion, Travel, Uncategorized

The oldest man, Methusaleh, according to the Bible, lived until age 969. Now he comes to life every few minutes within a life-size fiberglass dummy at The Creation Museum in Petersburg, Kentucky. You’ve traveled hundreds of miles to witness “the truth” behind pseudoscience, and here it is prefaced by an animatronic figure dressed like Merlin. “Whatever God Says is True,” says Methusaleh, extending a robotic arm to you. Whether you believe the old man’s statement or not, his theory will carry you throughout your pilgrimage.

Enter the Creation Museum, and you feel you have walked into any large-scale exhibit house. Then you’ll stroll along the Dragon Hall leading to the ticket desk, and you’ll realize this is the only museum you might visit in which centuries-old myths stand as evidence for ancient life.  After being handed your $30 ticket, you’ll walk past three armed guards wearing guns, tasers, badges that read “Answers in Genesis,” then a fudge stand that looks like a truck-sized version of your childhood play-dough kit. Little do you know that you’ll be embarking on a journey of Christian politics at the height of its craft.

The entrance aisle stands between a raised display of a raptor standing beside a kneeling cavewoman and an aquarium full of live amphibians. An archaeology scene welcomes you with your first splash of rhetoric.  You walk up to a true-to-size sculpture of two paleontologists standing over a half-exposed dinosaur skeleton. One identifies himself as a Christian and the other an atheist. They each explain their processes for dating the bones beneath them.

“Every person must start with their own arbitrary philosophy as a starting point for evaluating everything around them,” states the Christian archaeologist.

It dawns on you that biblical literalists have systematized a semi-scientific method for construction of a timeline beginning 6,000 years ago. You wonder if it works like condensing an image file: downsizing the scale, but conserving proportion.

You walk through the Garden of Eden, which smells like wet wipes and sunscreen acid. Words form Genesis vibrate from a ceiling speaker spouting Bible passages recited by the deep and lyrical voice of a Polish Rabbi. Fake trees populate this womb-like oasis. Here is Eve, whose skin, facial structure, and waist-length auburn hair remind you of the paddle-tennis-playing suburban housewife who used to employ you as a dog-sitter. Her long hair covers her breasts, and she reaches one hand out to touch Adam’s hand. Adam leans back from Eve as if she’s transmitted an electric shock. A dinosaur poised on a crag cocks his head at the budding romance.

IMG_5672

This was the time when nothing was eaten.

There was a time when nothing was wrong.

You enter another wing of The Garden which, literally, walks you through the extent to which perfection reigned before The Fall.

“No poison!” barks one sign.

“No carnivors!”

“No scavengers!”

“No weeds!”

“No burdensome work!”

This pre-knowledge world instills such serenity that you’re tempted to pet the raptor poised beyond the rope separating you from the display, but a sign explicitly prohibits raptor-petting. You remember that even in the most idealized Abrahamic times, certain privileges were forbidden.

IMG_5682

From here you learn about Noah’s Ark. You read how God doesn’t love Evolution, but He does love Unity, and how appreciation for the perfection of God’s design demands us to embrace people of all races and abilities. Near the conclusion of the exhibit, you’re spit into a book store in which you can buy more fudge, and you finally exit through a world-class insect collection which teaches us to appreciate the dirt-crawlers designed to eat our refuse. God does think of everything, after all.


IMG_5667

 

IMG_5683

Thanks, Methusaleh, for sticking around.


Two strains of rhetoric stuck out the most:

  1. Adherence to creationism over science hinges on the fact that Christian faith cannot exist without trust in Genesis.

The Creation Museums goes as far as to say that the foundation of Christian faith rests on the first eleven chapters of Genesis.

What is it that makes biblical philosophy stand at odds with pure science?

According to the creation narrative, there was no death before the fall. Deny this, and the foundations of Christianity crumble. Pure science tells us that dinosaurs died before humans, but Christians know there was no death before Eve brought sin to The Garden.

Some Christian theorists have tried to reconcile science with Genesis by saying the days (“Yom” in Hebrew) in which the earth was created could have each represented hundreds of thousands of years.

This doesn’t fly with the literalists. The expanded interpretation of “yom” would mean that death would have existed before humans arrived on the 6th day. If we are to combine the truisms from Methusaleh and the Christian paleontologist–whatever God says is true and all must stem from this philosophy–there’s little wiggle room for literalists and scientists to shake hands.

Humans and dinosaurs found death from the same fruit, and there is no getting around it.

2. Christianity’s emphasis on “rule” sustains empowerment for faith-based communities.

You may or may not find fulfillment in the small town landscape, where Christian fundamentalism finds its common home. Some might call this “Forgotten America,” though within recent political developments this demographic is rising to the fore. We wonder what empowerment looks like for those of us who rely on faith. While I’m no expert on Christianity in the US, it makes sense that Christian literalists might find purpose, and even power, in the spiritual climb.

Walking through the wings of the Creation Museum, I took particular note of the rhetoric delivered by ambient biblical interpretations and wall plaques. One part of the message was clear: God invented man so he could “rule over His creations.”

As an aspiring anthropologist intrigued by people’s relationships to their surroundings, I wonder if devout Christians who are ambivalent towards academic or social elitism aspire to elitism in other ways. Don’t we all want to feel important, after all?

We are meant to benevolent rulers, insists The Creation Museum’s strain of literalism. The earth is humankind’s turf to govern, take from, and also protect. But even when guided by God, haven’t we learned from history (Biblical and other) that all rulers grow drunk with power?

 

 

Curiosity #83: Who Has the Wits?

Travel, Uncategorized

Her mascara dripped into the wrinkles on her cheeks. I smelled her dog from where it lay by her stool, and she clutched the leash with one upturned palm, waiting to be led. “I just don’t get it,” she said to a young couple who looked eager to pay their bill. “How can we have this fucking tard for a president?”

At that moment three people ran into the brewery, the size of a small store-room. The first through the door was a young man wearing a bar shirt that clung tightly to his muscled figure, no shoes. He took a deep breath in and grinned. “I won,” he announced. The remaining adrenaline coursed from his mouth, onto the floor, up the legs of the barstool on which I sat, and for a moment (despite my distaste for the frat boy persona) I shared his euphoria.

Two other young people in their twenties, a man and a woman, came in panting after their victor. The few bar patrons turned towards the new arrivals, and the young couple who’d just paid their bill used this as an excuse to escape. The victor, who turned out to be an off-duty bartender at Hop & Craft Tennessee, stepped behind the counter. Mascara-face, now without a pair of listeners, turned to me and introduced herself as Ann Clare. She scanned over the rest of us, surveying the new victims for her tirade.

“I don’t want to deal with this,” confided the bartender to Justin and I, leaning over the bar to whisper to us. “That guy,” she jutted her thumb at the man beside her, who spoke excitedly with his friends.  She furrowed her brow as if he were a rabid dog. “He’s a republican.”

I successfully contained my excitement. I was looking at a real live republican. I yearned to encounter this above all else in my first expedition to the South, perhaps even more than a moist southern biscuit. Among my cohort, a Trump-supporter was as rare as spotting a 3-legged wolf in the woods, as inviting as a prickly Persian cat. But I was taught that democrat folklore teaches us all we need to know about those republicans: they’re uneducated, they carry guns in their pick-ups, they get their hair cut at Walmart and they speak in tongues when they’re not dismantling every advancement towards social progress. I was sure that such folklore was true of only a fraction of the South, but I wanted to gather a few seeds of information on my own.

“Fuckin’ tard!” Silence. “President won’t let the minorities eat cake!”

The young man removed himself from the conversation with his friends, and now he raised an eyebrow at Anne Clare. “Everything alright ma’am?”

“Not with our president! We’re all going to shit!”

“Now m’aam,” the man said, cocking his head, lifting up his palms in surrender. “This is a bar. We don’t need to talk about politics. C’mon. How about sports? How about those—”

Never hush a woman launching herself in the Age of She. “We’re in the midst of the apocalypse because of our shit-hole president, and and all you want to talk about is sports?!”

I watched the man. I watched the republican.

What does republican do when a democrat loses her wits?

In this case he goes calm. He listens. He assigns himself as an arbiter of peace. He does not deny his alignment with conservative values, nor his identity as a Christian and a marine, but addresses the wrongs on both sides, astounding the believer of socio-political lore.

It was clear the woman wanted to be listened to. “I’m liberal. I’m a Californian. I’m liberal” She repeated this, as if committing herself to a refrain. Then she said. “I’ve lived here 16 years. I just want this to be a nice place.” I nodded my head, reserving comment. What she meant was I want to be in a place full of people like me.

The republican listened patiently behind the bar until she finished speaking. “The way I look at it,” he said, “is that there are wrongs on both sides. Extremism in politics is causing the wrong people to get elected, and the wrong kinds of judgment to float around. I don’t like it either.”

Anne Clare drew a deep breath to unleash another monologue.

But the republican wasn’t finished. “But I’m sick of people who claim to be liberal and open-minded talking about how all Christians are the same, and that people who have conservative values are all uneducated. I’m Christian, and I’m highly educated. I’m also not the same as every conservative person out there.”

Anne Clare looked at me, gave the republican a sidelong glance over the bar, and spat. “Protestants. They think they’re so righteous.” She paused, tipping back her glass to finish the dredges of her beer. “I grew up Catholic.” Then she turned to look at the young man again. “But I don’t get it. I don’t get how republicans think they can refuse cake to people they don’t like. You think that if a neighbor was baking a cake, they should be able to refuse that cake to people of color, or a same-sex couple? That’s wrong!”

The republican tried to emphasize that he didn’t approve of discrimination either, but laws couldn’t stop racism. Laws were limitations, not inspirations. The latter came with the ways communities raise their children.

Ann Clare looked deflated. “But the cake.”

The bartender announced that the brewery was closing. If we wanted to continue the conversation, we could do it at another bar. As we prepared to pass through the door, Ann Clare bent towards me. “You know my friends say I’m like an angry black woman.”

I looked at Anne Clare: a lite-pilsner-skinned woman in her late forties, blonde hair hanging to the middle of her back, dressed in pink as if she’d been drafted into a sorority 30 years late. “Don’t call yourself that,” I said.

The man, the republican, opened the door for Ann Clare and gave me a hug. “I’m just trying to stop extremism when I can help it.”

I thought about the cake, how “the republican” gave the cake of service and attention—and the most essential ingredient in the slice, the act of listening—to a person who attacked all his values, along with the people who aligned with them. And Ann Clare?

“We women are smart and intelligent,” she said to me as we met the Nashville air. Her gait was lazy, and it was clear she’d consumed more than a healthy fill of alcohol that evening. “It would be better if all the republicans were just wiped free from the earth. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

I’m on board with Ann Clare in some ways. I believe that the historically silenced should be offered the first rounds of cake. But I do believe that everyone, even Trump, deserves some cake (though he should eat it following his impeachment). And as for “us liberals” observing the American South, if we truly believe in sharing whatever this perplexed country can bake up, then maybe we should stop shouting that we deserve the biggest slice.

IMG_5596After we walked Ann Clare to her home, Justin, who had been silent throughout the whole conversation, said “I got a free beer for not partaking in that argument.”