Atlas Effect

I refer to it as the Atlas Effect, though I am not always quite sure what I am talking about. It touches on that tension between the individual and the collective, as if those two were the only dimensions.

The idea was born out of Steve Jobs’ death, when over half the internet blossomed with heart-felt tributes and the remainder plucked-up their bows and slings, since there is something fundamentally unbalanced about mourning so fervently for a wealthy white-American when children in the third world suffer and die daily. I live in a third world country territory—so do many of my favorite people.

I appreciate Steve Jobs’ work with Apple. I played “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?” on an Apple II in the early-nineties and listen to iTunes daily. Still, I contended that we were mistaken to think Steve Jobs was the genesis of his own success. ‘He is only the locus of those achievements’, I said, ‘an intersection of other peoples contributions. He had a mother...’ and so on. At the same time, I watched the level of conflicts in Bethlehem rise just as Zoughbi Zoughbi and his mediators rose to the occasion. I saw what he means to Bethlehem (and peace activists worldwide), not to mention his family, and wondered what it would be like if he were in a car accident. What would happen to me if he were gone? Pull the key-stone out of an arch. You cannot just replace him.

I started to cook an entry in my head. It started to get lengthy and I miscarried it. That’s just as well: I can talk about my dead grandfather and the shadow he cast over my Dad some other time. Forget it: the Atlas Effect is our tendency to gravitate toward the magnitude of impact located in one person, forgetting its genesis is elsewhere – in God, in other people, in good fortune. Steve Jobs is the key-stone but we make him the entire arch. Adolf Hitler is a detonator but we make him the whole bomb and all its fall-out.

Meanwhile, I find myself screaming for Palestine, afraid to be a silent German: nothing left to say because I watched it happen and under-estimated my impact. On the deepest level, we are not just an intersection of phenomena. We have an essence: each, a manitou of our own. The Atlas Effect becomes dangerous when the line between manitou and all that someone does is lost. The greater the achievement, or failure, the more weight is placed on that fragile set of endemic attributes. The full radiance of the sun belongs to that person but also the weight of the planets because they matter that much, in their entirety. They become something to be measured with scales instead of painted on the canvas.

At worst, a person could become consumed with the facts of their self as an entity—a narcissist. The whisper of original sin lives in this thought—when a person becomes a god and must answer for every action as if it were intrinsic. Everyone’s manitou is dragging a train of acquired pieces in its wake. I believe that is why Jesus was somewhat evasive about being the Son of God; he shed that train on the mountain (Luke 4) when the devil tempted him. As demons cried-out his name, he shut them up. When the disciples discovered, he asked them to keep it quiet. On trial, according to my understanding, when they asked him whether or not he was the Son of God he said something akin to “You say I am.” He never rebuked them for saying so, because it was true (we’ll talk about Christology later...), but he allowed them to recognize it. Jesus was not keen on publicists... and my thoughts go on, not yet complete...

“And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul/self? Is anything worth more than your soul?” (Matthew 16:26)

The Atlas-effect is about me, too. Three months ago I felt as if I had to tug with great strength against all the anchor-ropes lashed to my essence. Other young adult missionaries sat with me in the depths and loosened my knots; we found buoys.

If I have missed my optimum windows it is because I needed to be who I am now: Catch-22. I did not realize that only I still saw myself as sitting in a bathtub, reading David Sedaris. Only I saw myself for the list of selfish or stupid things I did when my world was smaller. Nobody sees that, now. They see me standing in front of the West Michigan Annual conference defending alternate sexualities. They see me flashing a cheesy grin at the IDF during a protest at Al-Waleja. They say things like “amazing”, “admirable”, “adorable”, “unique”. I’ve heard each more than once, from more than one person. What saves me from Atlas-effect is being able to say, every time, “you and God made me this way. You built the house that sits on my manitou – and it is not a mansion imposed on the landscape. It is a Frank Lloyd Wright house, beautiful for how it blends with what was already there.” One word from the right person might fundamentally change how I see myself – so much that I composed this.

I walked through the front door of Wi'am with a cup of zata yesterday. I wanted to swell to thirty meters tall to give the Apartheid Wall a titanic kick and punch-out the gate blocking the Jerusalem-Hebron Road; I could see Rachel’s Tomb, at last. Then what? More problems. It reminded me of the difference between WILL and CAN—because I CAN go through check-points and see Rachel’s Tomb the long way, with patience. The lesson I learned in Tel Aviv is germinating.

I arrived during the worst possible window: in the middle of the night. They did not let me just pass. Sitting in limbo before my interrogation, I knew there was no story that would guarantee I WOULD reach Bethlehem. I acknowledged that God might have another plan. Still, I considered my doubts without fusing with them because I believed I COULD. Inshallah, I have the capacity to leave and do it again. Circumstances may spite or delay my hopes, because I cannot control other people, but I CAN fuse with my Faith and gain herculean perseverance. Forget the optimum window—give me any window.

So, do not tell me that I WILL because that would be disingenuous. Remind me that I CAN.