I did something very strange the other day. I've been flirting with the idea of Christianity lately, so on Sunday I went to the nice, gay-friendly Methodist church across the street from my house. This was interesting, but not mind-blowing or anything (they're Methodists, so they tend to focus on practical knowledge and folksy anecdotes, which are nice, but, as I said, not mind-blowing). So I decided to go to the big Catholic cathedral downtown. When I got there, there was nobody there but a couple of homeless people sleeping in the pews, so I spent some time wandering around the place, enjoying all the old fashioned stained glass windows depicting sainted elderly white men, and the cute little pictures of Jesus getting whipped and such. I stopped in front of this really great statue of Mary with a very stern look on her face, probably reminiscent of the look the average nun would give you directly before whacking your vulnerable knuckles with a ruler. I was quite impressed, so I decided to light one of the many candles in front of her, and then prostrate myself to her eternal anger at one of the fancy, upholstered kneeling stations. So I took out a dollar bill, which they want you to donate if you light any candles, folded it up, and went to go put it in the collection box. When I tried to put it in, I noticed that the slot was blocked by another bill. I tried to push it in, but it wouldn't go, so instead I pulled it out. When I did so, I noticed that it was, as far as I could tell, a twenty dollar bill. So here's the strange part: I got very excited, very nervous, and, after looking around to see if anyone was standing nearby, I slipped it into my pocket, then slipped my folded-up one dollar bill into the slot (which didn't go in all the way either, by the way).
I spent the next twenty minutes walking around the cathedral, looking at all the other stuff (which include a few more paintings of Jesus, a couple of statues, both big and small, depicting him suffering on the cross, complete with would marks and contorted facial expressions; and, inexplicably, a big golden cup, with no informational placard to explain it's presence), and asking myself "why did I just do that?" I couldn't really think of a good answer. I'm not rich by any means, but I certainly don't need the money, and how much is twenty dollars going to buy anyway? So I thought to myself "I should just go put it back." Indeed, I would have been much happier, both then and now, If I actually had. But then I couldn't think of any reason to do that either. I didn't understand the theft, but, now that I had the money in my pocket, I didn't understand why I should put it back either. With no compelling reasons one way or the other, I did nothing. Mass started (with the most hilarious priest ever, who sounded almost exactly like the priest who almost married Prince Humperdinck and Buttercup in The Princess Bride), which I sat through and found quite enjoyable, and then I left. The whole time though, the same questions were going through my mind: Why did I take it? Why should I put it back? The problem only got worse when I decided to look at the bill, and realized that it was not, in fact, a 20, but actually a 50.
I don't want to go into the details of why I didn't think there was any reason to give it back, but I will mention them briefly. I didn't feel that I was doing anything bad to the Catholic church, because the Catholic Church is filthy, filthy rich (and the word filthy is appropriate: much of it has been gained by manipulating or out-right stealing from other people, and much of it is used to defend and maintain priests that are chronic child molesters, or else is used to propagate hatred of homosexuals and to stop women from having the right to get abortions), and they won't miss that 50 dollars one way or the other, especially seeing as they didn't know it was there in the first place. And it's not like stealing from an individual, which I feel very strongly is wrong, because even if they don't need it, it is a betrayal of trust, and damages their sense of security, which is essential to happiness and psychological well-being. The argument could be made that I was hurting the person (who for some reason I assume is a woman) who made the donation in the first place. But she had already made the donation; she already got the spiritual benefit of it, because God knew what she meant the money to do. The question, then, in my mind at the time, is if no one is going to get hurt by me keeping it, why should I give it back?
The frustrating thing about all this is that at least one person did get hurt: me. During the whole time at the cathedral, and even as I sit now, with the half-spent money sitting in my pocket, there is a powerful sense of guilt, gnawing away inside of me, like the Tell Tale Heart, constantly reminding of my wrong-doing, making me feel like shit. It's the same way I feel after having sex with 6 or 7 guys in one day: I know that what I'm doing is wrong, I can feel it inside of me, but I can't figure out why it's wrong. I can't decide myself to stop doing it until I'm intellectually satisfied that I'm stopping for a real reason, not just because of my emotions. I talked to The Social Worker about it today over soggy, throat-clogging buttermilk pancakes, and he is of the opinion that I'm trying to justify my behaviour. Well, I disagree, because I don't think that what I did was right, not at the time nor after the fact, and I'm not trying to make it seem right; but I do think he's on the right track: I'm desperately trying to rationalize my behaviour, to figure out just what the hell I did, what it meant, and how it affects what I believe is right and wrong, in a way that my intellect can understand it.
In fact, I don't think that me keeping the money had anything to do with right and wrong, because I believe, both intellectually and emotionally, that what I did was something that I believe is wrong. Even if nobody knows about it, it still is a betrayal of trust. The woman who left the money had the right to do with it as she saw fit, and me taking the money is effectively saying "you don't have rights: if I believe that something else should be done with your money, and if I have the strength or cleverness to take it from you, then fuck you." Which I believe is wrong: I do believe that she has rights, even if I disagree with what she does with her freedom. And the same goes for the Catholic church: it's their money, and even if I don't like their organization, in order to maintain a society that fosters freedom and peace I need to do my part and respect their wishes to do what they want with their money, just as I expect and hope that others will respect what I wish to do with my money, even if they don't like me or disagree with me.
These are very basic arguments, which I've hashed out already in my teenage years, when poverty and homelessness often led me to steal food and other necessities, and lack of work gave me plenty of time to think about the world and what I believed. I came to the very strong conclusion that stealing was wrong, even if I did often feel that I had little choice in the matter. So why did I conveniently forget my beliefs at this moment? I'm rather tired now, so I'll think about it some more later, but I think it had something to do with anger at Christians, anger at my father, and, yes, anger at the mentally ill.
I spent the next twenty minutes walking around the cathedral, looking at all the other stuff (which include a few more paintings of Jesus, a couple of statues, both big and small, depicting him suffering on the cross, complete with would marks and contorted facial expressions; and, inexplicably, a big golden cup, with no informational placard to explain it's presence), and asking myself "why did I just do that?" I couldn't really think of a good answer. I'm not rich by any means, but I certainly don't need the money, and how much is twenty dollars going to buy anyway? So I thought to myself "I should just go put it back." Indeed, I would have been much happier, both then and now, If I actually had. But then I couldn't think of any reason to do that either. I didn't understand the theft, but, now that I had the money in my pocket, I didn't understand why I should put it back either. With no compelling reasons one way or the other, I did nothing. Mass started (with the most hilarious priest ever, who sounded almost exactly like the priest who almost married Prince Humperdinck and Buttercup in The Princess Bride), which I sat through and found quite enjoyable, and then I left. The whole time though, the same questions were going through my mind: Why did I take it? Why should I put it back? The problem only got worse when I decided to look at the bill, and realized that it was not, in fact, a 20, but actually a 50.
I don't want to go into the details of why I didn't think there was any reason to give it back, but I will mention them briefly. I didn't feel that I was doing anything bad to the Catholic church, because the Catholic Church is filthy, filthy rich (and the word filthy is appropriate: much of it has been gained by manipulating or out-right stealing from other people, and much of it is used to defend and maintain priests that are chronic child molesters, or else is used to propagate hatred of homosexuals and to stop women from having the right to get abortions), and they won't miss that 50 dollars one way or the other, especially seeing as they didn't know it was there in the first place. And it's not like stealing from an individual, which I feel very strongly is wrong, because even if they don't need it, it is a betrayal of trust, and damages their sense of security, which is essential to happiness and psychological well-being. The argument could be made that I was hurting the person (who for some reason I assume is a woman) who made the donation in the first place. But she had already made the donation; she already got the spiritual benefit of it, because God knew what she meant the money to do. The question, then, in my mind at the time, is if no one is going to get hurt by me keeping it, why should I give it back?
The frustrating thing about all this is that at least one person did get hurt: me. During the whole time at the cathedral, and even as I sit now, with the half-spent money sitting in my pocket, there is a powerful sense of guilt, gnawing away inside of me, like the Tell Tale Heart, constantly reminding of my wrong-doing, making me feel like shit. It's the same way I feel after having sex with 6 or 7 guys in one day: I know that what I'm doing is wrong, I can feel it inside of me, but I can't figure out why it's wrong. I can't decide myself to stop doing it until I'm intellectually satisfied that I'm stopping for a real reason, not just because of my emotions. I talked to The Social Worker about it today over soggy, throat-clogging buttermilk pancakes, and he is of the opinion that I'm trying to justify my behaviour. Well, I disagree, because I don't think that what I did was right, not at the time nor after the fact, and I'm not trying to make it seem right; but I do think he's on the right track: I'm desperately trying to rationalize my behaviour, to figure out just what the hell I did, what it meant, and how it affects what I believe is right and wrong, in a way that my intellect can understand it.
In fact, I don't think that me keeping the money had anything to do with right and wrong, because I believe, both intellectually and emotionally, that what I did was something that I believe is wrong. Even if nobody knows about it, it still is a betrayal of trust. The woman who left the money had the right to do with it as she saw fit, and me taking the money is effectively saying "you don't have rights: if I believe that something else should be done with your money, and if I have the strength or cleverness to take it from you, then fuck you." Which I believe is wrong: I do believe that she has rights, even if I disagree with what she does with her freedom. And the same goes for the Catholic church: it's their money, and even if I don't like their organization, in order to maintain a society that fosters freedom and peace I need to do my part and respect their wishes to do what they want with their money, just as I expect and hope that others will respect what I wish to do with my money, even if they don't like me or disagree with me.
These are very basic arguments, which I've hashed out already in my teenage years, when poverty and homelessness often led me to steal food and other necessities, and lack of work gave me plenty of time to think about the world and what I believed. I came to the very strong conclusion that stealing was wrong, even if I did often feel that I had little choice in the matter. So why did I conveniently forget my beliefs at this moment? I'm rather tired now, so I'll think about it some more later, but I think it had something to do with anger at Christians, anger at my father, and, yes, anger at the mentally ill.
posted by nearfalse | 4:54 PM
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