I love feeding people.
Now I need to be Mary.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
rabbit-trails about "extra" children and carbon footprints
I'm always a little irritated when I hear about population control or the irresponsibility of having more than so many kids. I found this article while deleting accidentally-saved drafts, and I decided to write about it after all.
When I'm finished with a gallon of milk, I throw the bottle in the car and, when I go home, add them to our recycling bin in the garage. I keep a hamady bag next to my desk and fill it with scrap paper (rough drafts of essays, map quiz practice sheets, outdated flyers I've removed from bulletin boards). I use some of it to make lists or so I don't get acrylic paint on the carpet, and whatever I've collected by the time I go home next gets tossed in the recycle bin at St. John Vianney. Clothes I don't wear anymore go to St. Luke's Street Ministry; clothes too worn-out to wear I make into something else. For the most part, I avoid using paper napkins. I made a gift for a friend from a green glass balsamic vinegar jar; I filled an emptied peanut butter jar with cough drops. I shy away from bottled water. I walk to Mass and the grocery store when I can. On my shelf right now is a burned-out lightbulb and an empty 10-oz apple juice bottle, waiting to be turned into projects.
I am thrifty (read: stingy) and I honestly enjoy walking, but most of these environmentally-friendly activities come from a desire to treat the earth with respect. We ought to: it is a gift from God.
But the earth is not God, and we need to remember to keep our duties in perspective. As a student I have a moral obligation to complete my schoolwork thoroughly; however, if a friend had a rough day and needs my shoulder and my ear the night before an exam, I ought to hug my friend. Love for God first and neighbors second should rule our lives; other duties follow.
Caring for the earth -- treating so great a gift with respect -- should flow from, not supersede, our primary duty to love.
Here we need to distinguish between love of humanity and love of neighbor. It's easy to "love humanity," for humanity is merely a collection of our neighbors, minus what makes them actually human.. We can "love humanity" without having to deal with a human response. We can "love humanity" but this love carries with it no risk of rejection and it is therefore a cheap form of love.
We were specifically instructed to love our neighbors, and our neighbors are real people. They have faces and middle names and favorite colors. The hairs on their heads have been counted. These are the people we ought to love. Your spouse and children are real people; the ozone layer is not. Contracepting to reduce greenhouse gases is putting humanity ahead of neighbor, promoting a vague, faceless cause instead of loving people.
The lede paragraph in the article asks: "Will there be enough food? Enough water? Will planet-heating carbon dioxide gas become ever more uncontrollable?" These are horrible questions to consider when planning a family.
First of all, we shouldn't really "plan a family." Just as the Son is love become incarnate, so too ought children be love become incarnate. There's a reason the "how to make babies" talk begins with "when a man loves a woman..." Love transforms from an abstract concept to a physical being, a child conceived in his mother's womb. "Family planning" involves an attitude of "I love you, but let's decide when/whether to let our love become incarnate," which is simply wrong.
Secondly, given the amount of food we waste in this country, we really shouldn't pretend that we worry about food quantity. Food will never be appropriately distributed over the entire world, and if we did run short, I don't think we would notice. We would continue to eat our dinners and ignore larger parts of world.
Third, though food is necessary for survival on a physical level, we are not merely physical beings. We are also spiritual beings who will live forever. How does fasting appear in the light of eternity? I don't want to trivialize starvation, only point out that it is an evil suffered, not an evil committed. Evils suffered damage the body; evils committed damage the soul. The human race has survived famine before; we can probably do it again.
Quoth the article: "If you are serious about your carbon footprint, think: birth control."
Interestingly enough, artificial forms of birth control are really really bad for the environment. The Pill is essentially a collection of hormones, bad for the environment and bad for your body. (Honestly, why would you want to mess with women's hormones more than necessary anyway?) With other forms of artificial contraception, the packaging and the items themselves get thrown away, filling landfill space, or left in a parking lot or in the woods, littering. The factories that produce these products and their packaging also produce greenhouse gases.
One way to avoid having children is to abstain, or to abstain during fertile cycles (which you can figure out easily if you have a thermometer). This leaves no carbon footprint whatsoever.
At heart, though, this isn't an issue of the methods of preventing conception but whether to prevent conception at all. Every time a husband and wife express their love this way, they must know that their love might become incarnate and they must be open to this possibility. Otherwise, they are qualifying their love and love must not be qualified. Love doesn't come with modifiers, dangling or not. Love does not precede a cum clause. Love is not followed by conjunctions. Love is "I (completely) love (completely) you (completely)," not "I love you, but let's be careful" or "I love you when you're not fertile."
The article continues: "The greenhouse gas impact of an extra child is almost 20 times more significant than the amount any American would save by such practices as driving a fuel-efficient car, recycling or using energy-efficient light bulbs and appliances," according to the study.
This begs the question: which children are extras and who decides? Look my little sister, kid #5, in the eye and tell her. I dare you.
The article goes on to say that "under current U.S. consumption patterns, each child ultimately adds about 9,441 metric tons of CO2 to the carbon legacy of an average parent--about 5.7 times a person's lifetime emissions, he calculates."
The writers of Our Sunday Visitor's Daily Take blog comment better than I ever could:
First of all, what is that even supposed to mean? If we start thinking about our future children in terms of how many metric tons of carbon dioxide they will produce, we may need to consider the possibility that perhaps we are not called to the vocation of motherhood and fatherhood in the first place.
The article mentions that this awkward statistic takes place "under current U.S. consumption patterns." Who's to say that these "extra children" will follow current U.S. consumption patterns? Most couples having "extra children" (we'll say more than two) tend toward the Catholic/homeschooling variety -- countercultural enough not to follow the current consumption patterns. They are probably wearing hand-me-downs, driving vans and buying food in bulk. They probably don't take long or frequent road trips, leave a big-screen TV flashing at all hours or fill landfill space with used contraceptives. I wouldn't be surprised to find that a normal family of seven or eight leaves a carbon footprint similar to that of a normal family of three or four. Big families just don't follow normal consumption patterns.
In the light of eternity, how much of this matters? The heavens and the earth, including the ozone layer, will pass away, and when it does my carbon footprint will be erased. My first duty is to love God, and from my love for him flows a desire to respect the gifts he has given me. I will recycle not for the greater good of the vague mass we call humanity, but to express my gratitude to so great a Creator.
When I'm finished with a gallon of milk, I throw the bottle in the car and, when I go home, add them to our recycling bin in the garage. I keep a hamady bag next to my desk and fill it with scrap paper (rough drafts of essays, map quiz practice sheets, outdated flyers I've removed from bulletin boards). I use some of it to make lists or so I don't get acrylic paint on the carpet, and whatever I've collected by the time I go home next gets tossed in the recycle bin at St. John Vianney. Clothes I don't wear anymore go to St. Luke's Street Ministry; clothes too worn-out to wear I make into something else. For the most part, I avoid using paper napkins. I made a gift for a friend from a green glass balsamic vinegar jar; I filled an emptied peanut butter jar with cough drops. I shy away from bottled water. I walk to Mass and the grocery store when I can. On my shelf right now is a burned-out lightbulb and an empty 10-oz apple juice bottle, waiting to be turned into projects.
I am thrifty (read: stingy) and I honestly enjoy walking, but most of these environmentally-friendly activities come from a desire to treat the earth with respect. We ought to: it is a gift from God.
But the earth is not God, and we need to remember to keep our duties in perspective. As a student I have a moral obligation to complete my schoolwork thoroughly; however, if a friend had a rough day and needs my shoulder and my ear the night before an exam, I ought to hug my friend. Love for God first and neighbors second should rule our lives; other duties follow.
Caring for the earth -- treating so great a gift with respect -- should flow from, not supersede, our primary duty to love.
Here we need to distinguish between love of humanity and love of neighbor. It's easy to "love humanity," for humanity is merely a collection of our neighbors, minus what makes them actually human.. We can "love humanity" without having to deal with a human response. We can "love humanity" but this love carries with it no risk of rejection and it is therefore a cheap form of love.
We were specifically instructed to love our neighbors, and our neighbors are real people. They have faces and middle names and favorite colors. The hairs on their heads have been counted. These are the people we ought to love. Your spouse and children are real people; the ozone layer is not. Contracepting to reduce greenhouse gases is putting humanity ahead of neighbor, promoting a vague, faceless cause instead of loving people.
The lede paragraph in the article asks: "Will there be enough food? Enough water? Will planet-heating carbon dioxide gas become ever more uncontrollable?" These are horrible questions to consider when planning a family.
First of all, we shouldn't really "plan a family." Just as the Son is love become incarnate, so too ought children be love become incarnate. There's a reason the "how to make babies" talk begins with "when a man loves a woman..." Love transforms from an abstract concept to a physical being, a child conceived in his mother's womb. "Family planning" involves an attitude of "I love you, but let's decide when/whether to let our love become incarnate," which is simply wrong.
Secondly, given the amount of food we waste in this country, we really shouldn't pretend that we worry about food quantity. Food will never be appropriately distributed over the entire world, and if we did run short, I don't think we would notice. We would continue to eat our dinners and ignore larger parts of world.
Third, though food is necessary for survival on a physical level, we are not merely physical beings. We are also spiritual beings who will live forever. How does fasting appear in the light of eternity? I don't want to trivialize starvation, only point out that it is an evil suffered, not an evil committed. Evils suffered damage the body; evils committed damage the soul. The human race has survived famine before; we can probably do it again.
Quoth the article: "If you are serious about your carbon footprint, think: birth control."
Interestingly enough, artificial forms of birth control are really really bad for the environment. The Pill is essentially a collection of hormones, bad for the environment and bad for your body. (Honestly, why would you want to mess with women's hormones more than necessary anyway?) With other forms of artificial contraception, the packaging and the items themselves get thrown away, filling landfill space, or left in a parking lot or in the woods, littering. The factories that produce these products and their packaging also produce greenhouse gases.
One way to avoid having children is to abstain, or to abstain during fertile cycles (which you can figure out easily if you have a thermometer). This leaves no carbon footprint whatsoever.
At heart, though, this isn't an issue of the methods of preventing conception but whether to prevent conception at all. Every time a husband and wife express their love this way, they must know that their love might become incarnate and they must be open to this possibility. Otherwise, they are qualifying their love and love must not be qualified. Love doesn't come with modifiers, dangling or not. Love does not precede a cum clause. Love is not followed by conjunctions. Love is "I (completely) love (completely) you (completely)," not "I love you, but let's be careful" or "I love you when you're not fertile."
The article continues: "The greenhouse gas impact of an extra child is almost 20 times more significant than the amount any American would save by such practices as driving a fuel-efficient car, recycling or using energy-efficient light bulbs and appliances," according to the study.
This begs the question: which children are extras and who decides? Look my little sister, kid #5, in the eye and tell her. I dare you.
The article goes on to say that "under current U.S. consumption patterns, each child ultimately adds about 9,441 metric tons of CO2 to the carbon legacy of an average parent--about 5.7 times a person's lifetime emissions, he calculates."
The writers of Our Sunday Visitor's Daily Take blog comment better than I ever could:
First of all, what is that even supposed to mean? If we start thinking about our future children in terms of how many metric tons of carbon dioxide they will produce, we may need to consider the possibility that perhaps we are not called to the vocation of motherhood and fatherhood in the first place.
The article mentions that this awkward statistic takes place "under current U.S. consumption patterns." Who's to say that these "extra children" will follow current U.S. consumption patterns? Most couples having "extra children" (we'll say more than two) tend toward the Catholic/homeschooling variety -- countercultural enough not to follow the current consumption patterns. They are probably wearing hand-me-downs, driving vans and buying food in bulk. They probably don't take long or frequent road trips, leave a big-screen TV flashing at all hours or fill landfill space with used contraceptives. I wouldn't be surprised to find that a normal family of seven or eight leaves a carbon footprint similar to that of a normal family of three or four. Big families just don't follow normal consumption patterns.
In the light of eternity, how much of this matters? The heavens and the earth, including the ozone layer, will pass away, and when it does my carbon footprint will be erased. My first duty is to love God, and from my love for him flows a desire to respect the gifts he has given me. I will recycle not for the greater good of the vague mass we call humanity, but to express my gratitude to so great a Creator.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Lepanto Day
I have friends whose families have recipes for Pacskis and others who take Mexican dancing lessons. I know people who grew up bilingual and whose grandparents speak broken, accented English. I didn't.
I know people who revel in being Irish or Polish or Italian or French. I can't -- I'm made up of smidges and pinches of Europe.
Ethnically, I am lost, without a clear history or notable ancestors to show me who I am and where I came from. Judged this way, I have no real identity.
I think a lot of Americans feel this way. We are a people without a past.
But I have a past. I have my people. I have St. Peter, who insisted on being crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy to be martyred the way our Savior was. I have St. Joan of Arc, who led France to victory. I have St. Francis of Assisi, who rebuilt the church. I have St. Maximillian Kolbe, who died in place of a stranger in Auschwitz. I have St. Nicholas, who slapped a heritic on the face at a church council. I have Perpetua, who thought of modesty before pain during her martyrdom. I have St. Thomas Aquinas, brilliant man, who realized God is infinitely more than he could contain in a book. Even St. Paul -- everyone reads his letters -- he's one of mine, too.
Anthony put it beautifully on Sunday: "I, too, have some claim to this." This is my history. These are my people.
I have our baggage, too. All throughout our history -- even now -- we've been varying degrees of fallen human beings. The more visibly fallen ones are my people, too.
But I also have Don John of Austria and the heroes of Lepanto. I have the Blessed Mother, who can do anything.
And I'm with them, too.
I know people who revel in being Irish or Polish or Italian or French. I can't -- I'm made up of smidges and pinches of Europe.
Ethnically, I am lost, without a clear history or notable ancestors to show me who I am and where I came from. Judged this way, I have no real identity.
I think a lot of Americans feel this way. We are a people without a past.
But I have a past. I have my people. I have St. Peter, who insisted on being crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy to be martyred the way our Savior was. I have St. Joan of Arc, who led France to victory. I have St. Francis of Assisi, who rebuilt the church. I have St. Maximillian Kolbe, who died in place of a stranger in Auschwitz. I have St. Nicholas, who slapped a heritic on the face at a church council. I have Perpetua, who thought of modesty before pain during her martyrdom. I have St. Thomas Aquinas, brilliant man, who realized God is infinitely more than he could contain in a book. Even St. Paul -- everyone reads his letters -- he's one of mine, too.
Anthony put it beautifully on Sunday: "I, too, have some claim to this." This is my history. These are my people.
I have our baggage, too. All throughout our history -- even now -- we've been varying degrees of fallen human beings. The more visibly fallen ones are my people, too.
But I also have Don John of Austria and the heroes of Lepanto. I have the Blessed Mother, who can do anything.
And I'm with them, too.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Praised be Jesus Christ!
(to which you respond: "Now and forever!")
I lost a friend, sort of; anyway, I'm not publishing details. I tried chasing after her -- I poked my nose in when I knew she was working, made an appointment with her that she didn't keep, called her, texted her (from gmail, not my phone, so it was free, Dad), followed her back to her dorm. One day I went to her room (she lives in a different dorm than I do), sat down and did homework for a couple hours, hoping she'd show up, but she didn't. I left a note on her computer before I left.
Finally, she told me I'd get a response sometime Sunday. I didn't really believe her (based on recent track record), but--
I talked Anthony into coming to St. Anthony's so I'd have someone to walk back with and could stay until 8 p.m., when adoration ended. Hooray! I had two hours to spend with our Lord.
And I did. I sat/kneeled there, drinking in graces as if I were starving for them -- I probably was (I usually am).
I was praying mostly about this particular friend and this particular conversation I was trying to have with her. I'm not publishing details.
Before long it was 7:30, and I heard my phone beep. I looked back.
Phone call from this particular friend.
A bit later, another beep. Voicemail.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Anthony and I walked back to campus after night prayer and benediction, and I listened to the voicemail. I followed directions and met my friend.
We talked. I'm not publishing details.
The elephant has left the room and his droppings have been cleaned up. Forgiveness happened.
Blessed be God forever!
I lost a friend, sort of; anyway, I'm not publishing details. I tried chasing after her -- I poked my nose in when I knew she was working, made an appointment with her that she didn't keep, called her, texted her (from gmail, not my phone, so it was free, Dad), followed her back to her dorm. One day I went to her room (she lives in a different dorm than I do), sat down and did homework for a couple hours, hoping she'd show up, but she didn't. I left a note on her computer before I left.
Finally, she told me I'd get a response sometime Sunday. I didn't really believe her (based on recent track record), but--
I talked Anthony into coming to St. Anthony's so I'd have someone to walk back with and could stay until 8 p.m., when adoration ended. Hooray! I had two hours to spend with our Lord.
And I did. I sat/kneeled there, drinking in graces as if I were starving for them -- I probably was (I usually am).
I was praying mostly about this particular friend and this particular conversation I was trying to have with her. I'm not publishing details.
Before long it was 7:30, and I heard my phone beep. I looked back.
Phone call from this particular friend.
A bit later, another beep. Voicemail.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Anthony and I walked back to campus after night prayer and benediction, and I listened to the voicemail. I followed directions and met my friend.
We talked. I'm not publishing details.
The elephant has left the room and his droppings have been cleaned up. Forgiveness happened.
Blessed be God forever!
Monday, September 14, 2009
cookies say I love you
I'm up late e-mail bouncing my story with my editor, and not a whole lot left to do except philosophize about cookies.
I love making cookies for people, and I make them for lots of different reasons, but they all boil down to "I love you."
I made cookies for a really super close friend in the middle of a year-long angry fight we had ("If your enemy is hungry, feed him."). I made cookies for Myles when he brought gas to me in Jonesville. I made cookies for a high school friend I had a crush on. This afternoon, I made cookies for a friend I'd lost a bet to. I made cookies for Tony's family when his grandmother died.
I make cookies to say I'm sorry or I forgive you or whatever muddled mis-match of that there is when we stop tallying how much fault is on each side and we're done with being angry.
I make cookies to say thank you or welcome home or I miss you. I make cookies as peace offerings.
I understand why people say "made with love" -- I can't explain it, but that's completely and utterly true. When I make you cookies, I'm offering myself in a way that I can't explain in words. I can't tell you or show you how I feel, but I can make cookies.
I love making cookies for people, and I make them for lots of different reasons, but they all boil down to "I love you."
I made cookies for a really super close friend in the middle of a year-long angry fight we had ("If your enemy is hungry, feed him."). I made cookies for Myles when he brought gas to me in Jonesville. I made cookies for a high school friend I had a crush on. This afternoon, I made cookies for a friend I'd lost a bet to. I made cookies for Tony's family when his grandmother died.
I make cookies to say I'm sorry or I forgive you or whatever muddled mis-match of that there is when we stop tallying how much fault is on each side and we're done with being angry.
I make cookies to say thank you or welcome home or I miss you. I make cookies as peace offerings.
I understand why people say "made with love" -- I can't explain it, but that's completely and utterly true. When I make you cookies, I'm offering myself in a way that I can't explain in words. I can't tell you or show you how I feel, but I can make cookies.
Friday, September 4, 2009
concealed carry on campus?
(prompt) I'm not really sure where I stand on gun control, so I'm going to throw a few ideas around. I'm pretty well ignorant of the entire issue.
I don't understand why concealed carry is so important. I think if I were going to rob someone, I'd less likely rob someone who was openly carrying. If I see that you have a gun, I'll probably go rob someone else. If I don't see that you have a gun, I'll probably rob you, then get shot. Now I'm dead and you have some messy legal problems--at the very least, some irritating red tape--to deal with.
Security officials, including student workers, should carry while on duty, especially on particularly dangerous campuses (e.g. those in Flint). They should be trained in appropriate use and safety, and they should be visible all over campus, especially after dark. I think if I were going to rob you and an unarmed security officer showed up, I'd probably still rob you.
Who has the right to tell civilian students whether they may carry? Logistically, it doesn't make sense to legislate this from the state because college campuses are so different. Kettering University students--most of whom are men--don't feel safe walking 100 yards in the dark because of inner city-folk, but I have no problem walking across Hillsdale College campus by myself in the dark. It makes no sense for the state to make a sweeping rule on this; instead, college administrations should figure out a proper solution for their own college.
Civilian students--that is, students not on duty at security--should not be allowed to carry firearms on campus at Hillsdale because our campus is so safe. We aren't worried about townies coming onto campus and robbing us: anything worse than a suggestive whistle is big news. We don't need to worry about a Virginia Tech-like incident because it almost definitely won't happen. Virginia Tech made national news because it was such an abnormal event, so there's no reason to be paranoid about it. We all know someone who's been badly hurt or killed in a car crash--car crashes are so common they hardly ever make national news--yet we aren't afraid to drive.
Additionally, I'm not convinced that gun-carrying Virginia Tech students would have solved the problem. It may have helped. It may have turned into chaotic gunfire. I don't know.
Civilian students don't need to carry, and moreover, we shouldn't. College students in general do stupid things, like get drunk. I brought this up with an anti-gun-control friend and he looked at me very seriously and said "guns and alcohol don't mix."
Nonsense. Guns and alcohol are aluminum foil and draino, not oil and water.
You could legislate CUI and CWI offenses, but that isn't really going to prevent anyone from carrying while intoxicated. If you normally carry, you'll probably carry to your friend's house, and if your friend offers you a beer (as lots of friends do), you'll be CUI. I'm not much into the drinking culture, but it seems to me that most people don't plan to get intoxicated, and those that do plan to get intoxicated probably don't care enough to leave their firearms at home.
I'm still exploring the issue...
I don't understand why concealed carry is so important. I think if I were going to rob someone, I'd less likely rob someone who was openly carrying. If I see that you have a gun, I'll probably go rob someone else. If I don't see that you have a gun, I'll probably rob you, then get shot. Now I'm dead and you have some messy legal problems--at the very least, some irritating red tape--to deal with.
Security officials, including student workers, should carry while on duty, especially on particularly dangerous campuses (e.g. those in Flint). They should be trained in appropriate use and safety, and they should be visible all over campus, especially after dark. I think if I were going to rob you and an unarmed security officer showed up, I'd probably still rob you.
Who has the right to tell civilian students whether they may carry? Logistically, it doesn't make sense to legislate this from the state because college campuses are so different. Kettering University students--most of whom are men--don't feel safe walking 100 yards in the dark because of inner city-folk, but I have no problem walking across Hillsdale College campus by myself in the dark. It makes no sense for the state to make a sweeping rule on this; instead, college administrations should figure out a proper solution for their own college.
Civilian students--that is, students not on duty at security--should not be allowed to carry firearms on campus at Hillsdale because our campus is so safe. We aren't worried about townies coming onto campus and robbing us: anything worse than a suggestive whistle is big news. We don't need to worry about a Virginia Tech-like incident because it almost definitely won't happen. Virginia Tech made national news because it was such an abnormal event, so there's no reason to be paranoid about it. We all know someone who's been badly hurt or killed in a car crash--car crashes are so common they hardly ever make national news--yet we aren't afraid to drive.
Additionally, I'm not convinced that gun-carrying Virginia Tech students would have solved the problem. It may have helped. It may have turned into chaotic gunfire. I don't know.
Civilian students don't need to carry, and moreover, we shouldn't. College students in general do stupid things, like get drunk. I brought this up with an anti-gun-control friend and he looked at me very seriously and said "guns and alcohol don't mix."
Nonsense. Guns and alcohol are aluminum foil and draino, not oil and water.
You could legislate CUI and CWI offenses, but that isn't really going to prevent anyone from carrying while intoxicated. If you normally carry, you'll probably carry to your friend's house, and if your friend offers you a beer (as lots of friends do), you'll be CUI. I'm not much into the drinking culture, but it seems to me that most people don't plan to get intoxicated, and those that do plan to get intoxicated probably don't care enough to leave their firearms at home.
I'm still exploring the issue...
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
prayer before sex? GASP!
I don't know what's up with this article. I'd like to go on a point-by-point rant examining each error/inaccuracy, but it will get dull rather quickly. I think instead I will write about how great sex is. That's great as in lofty, sacred, etc.
This idea that anything enjoyable is sinful really irritates me. God made it; therefore it is good (cf Genesis). The problem is that we are fallen and therefore not in our natural state--and therefore not inclined to act in accordance with our true natures. A telescope with a broken lens does not function as a telescope, but it's still a telescope.
Sex is really, really great within its proper context (that is, a valid marriage which, by definition, is heterosexual and monogamous) and really, really bad without. A formal dress can make a woman look absolutely stunning at a formal occasion; however, if she wears a formal dress on an equipment move (trucks, canvas, grills), she will probably get hurt and ruin her dress and make everyone else angry because she can't be helpful.
Now there are a million more things to discuss--the incarnation of Christ and how that relates to baby-making; Christ's relationship with his bride, holy mother church; the creation story; Trinitarian theology.... but it's late, I have work to do and I don't have time to make it short. And these points I'm better explaining by talking than by writing anyway. So that's all you get for now.
This idea that anything enjoyable is sinful really irritates me. God made it; therefore it is good (cf Genesis). The problem is that we are fallen and therefore not in our natural state--and therefore not inclined to act in accordance with our true natures. A telescope with a broken lens does not function as a telescope, but it's still a telescope.
Sex is really, really great within its proper context (that is, a valid marriage which, by definition, is heterosexual and monogamous) and really, really bad without. A formal dress can make a woman look absolutely stunning at a formal occasion; however, if she wears a formal dress on an equipment move (trucks, canvas, grills), she will probably get hurt and ruin her dress and make everyone else angry because she can't be helpful.
Now there are a million more things to discuss--the incarnation of Christ and how that relates to baby-making; Christ's relationship with his bride, holy mother church; the creation story; Trinitarian theology.... but it's late, I have work to do and I don't have time to make it short. And these points I'm better explaining by talking than by writing anyway. So that's all you get for now.
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