“They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.”
- Emily Dickinson

A philosophy of religion professor I greatly admired said to me that “God is either in everything, or in nothing.” I have often thought of this and think I will never let go, entirely, of the sense that this question is very close to the center of our existential dilemma. The declarative testimony of some preachers often clashes with our own, and often profound, sense that God is a very long way off.  Perhaps this is most true of ‘high mileage’ ministers; Ministers who say, week after week, that “God is near” or “God will provide”, or “God is love” while at the same time living lives of personal spiritual desolation.

Saint John of the Cross, a Carmelite monk and famous Spanish mystic of the 16th century, spoke of “The Dark Night of the Soul”. Though I can lay no claim to mysticism due to my own proclivity for skepticism and rational thought I do not believe that the spiritual desolation that many know today can be equated with his experience of exquisite sorrow. For one thing his travail was a stage in a life long journey toward greater awareness of the nearness of God.  Ours, by contrast, is  a contemporary and increasingly empty wasteland. A wasteland that is the consequence of longing or lust for something other than God.

When I retired from public ministry almost fifteen years ago I was met by objections from colleagues and friends. One, I remember in particular, said, “Don’t do this, you will lose your faith.” Really? I suppose the epicenter of this concern depends on what is meant by faith. What often passes for faith is not faith but enthusiasm for it. That is, what many consider ‘faith’ is an emotional rush associated with tantalizing hope for ________ (fill in the blank with health, wealth, power, the winning lottery numbers).  Longing, not faith, is the hallmark emotion of our age. We are obsessed with this sense of longing and the market is eager to exploit the demand. Consider our entertainment, the means by which we create and then fill idle hours. Today the ‘leading brands’ are fueled by longing.  American Idol, Next Super Model, The Bachelor/Bachelorette are testimonies to our ambition for something more.  In contemporary religion we are all too often exhorted to believe so that we too can have __________ (you may borrow from the previously completed blank).

Week after week the disenfranchised, the wealthy, the overwhelmed, and the overlord exhort their personal deities to grant a boon. And, to assure success, they (we) cry all the louder, “Hear Us!” The regular worship of many takes on the trappings of a pep rally and we, the worshippers, are the fans. Fans of Faith.

It is this kind of “faith” that can be easily lost. And when it is lost the heart of our hearts is a desolate, without relief from the scorching winds of self reproach, doubt, and despair. This is no “Dark Night of the Soul” it is a living hell.

When I first began to compose this piece the juxtaposition of statements by poet, professor and parishioner occupied my mind. In 1993 my wife, deeply loved by me and all her family, died. In the seven years prior to her death we struggled, together.  For my own part, I was not so troubled by some sense that God was absent. Instead I was haunted by an  inexplicable sense of pervasive good.  I began to realize more fully that we live in an ugly world where cancer is part of nature.  I saw the compelling evidence that pestilence is an unrelenting condition of life.  Likewise, poverty is the norm for most people in this world and yet… in the midst of such a world I held in my heart something mysteriously beautiful. In the fifteen years since then I continue to question many things but what I question most is how could we all seem to miss the outrageous eruption of good in a world so utterly hostile to it.

Far more than the presence or absence of God I am amazed that any of us ever has a sense of God’s presence. We, in spite of ourselves and our distance from conventional means by which we articulate faith continue to be amazed by God. I suppose this is the real meaning of “amazing” in grace.

I wonder how it came to be that right to left was the way to read… for some but not all of ‘us’? In a left to right world how do the ‘right to left’ live? Are there closet right readers (those who read wrong)? In a world where calamity is the expectation and on a slow news night the increased humidity of a mild summer night is presented by the ‘chief meterologist’ with a view toward the apocalypse it seems likely that the end is where we find our meaning.

My beloved is a cheater reader. She doesn’t exactly read right to left but she sneaks a peak at the last chapter to decide whether she will stick with the writer to the end. Is the end, she asks, worth the effort? In a right to left world do we already know where we are bound but wonder from whence we came?

Several Sundays ago our minister wrestled with Paul, or at least Paul’s interpreters. “All things work for good.” Unlike those ‘things’ that work for food or a good salary, I suppose. No, what our minister protested was the tempation to abandon accountability for Andersonvile, Auswitz, Somalia with a blithe “all things work for good.”

When my late wife was diagnosed with her, eventually deadly, cancer two polar opposites set to work explaining our dilmena. It was all good, somehow. Or, it was all bad and we deserved it. To say I loathed the latter and the one(s) who declared it would be self evident to any who know me but to say that I equally loathed the former might come as a surprise. After all they might say, “You are a minister, of course you believe all things work for good.”

Not so fast. I find it far easier to accomodate the reality of disease, decay, and death than to explain birth, vitality, and hope. How can anyone emerge from the torture chamber and have hope or from the oncologist where ‘the facts have been explained’ and belive that there is joy afoot? I can’t speak as an authority of every instance of suffering and the discovery of goodness but I can say that I have no answer but this: goodness is conceived even in the deepest trouble.

Night Snow:A view from Flickr for you to experience. Originally uploaded by Khans of Kuram

 

 This week I contribute an article to our corporate newsletter. The feature is called “Top This” wherein we, the road savvy technology savants, relate our encounters with peril and pleasure of unexpected dimensions. Presumably each posting will be a challenge to our gaggle of consultants to out do the last contributor.

This reminds me of efforts to challenge my neighbor to a game of “HORSE” with a basketball in the side yard. I, the infallibly un-gifted player, would be assigned a letter from the word “horse” for each time I failed match a feat performed by my him with the ball and hoop. Once in a while I could pull off a three point shot from a distance roughly the same as center court to keep from falling farther behind but I consistently failed to achieve even a semblance of a layup. Consequently I became the first, and usually only, player to reach the humiliating rank of ‘hor…’ (a fate worse than simply losing) while my competitors toyed with ‘h….’ or no letter at all.

In this context I consider the challenge; Who can top the tornado filled twilight of Dave’s (the previous contributor) recent Memphis trip? To recount sufferings such as my series of sweltering sojourns on the unbiquitously unpleasnant United Airlines would hardly measure up!

So, rather than trivialize my misery, I offer my best adventure to date; A snowy trip to mid-town Manhattan . I flew in from New Hampshire on the Sunday night before classes were to start. As my cab crossed the Tri-Borough bridge from Queens a snow flake struck the wind shield. Considering my good fortune I commented to the driver that had I booked a later flight I probably would have been canceled.

By the time I reached my hotel a light but steady snow was falling and I enjoyed looking from my hotel room window. The room was, surprisingly, graced with a balcony and I stepped out to watch the snow. Beautiful.

After dinner I pulled the shades, read for a while, and eventually fell asleep. Near dawn I got up and prepared for the day. Only after I dressed and gathered my gear did I open the shades again. The balcony was buried in three feet of snow.

Standing on a chair to get a better view I could see Madison Avenue to my right  as empty as if it were an unplowed drive providing access to a remote vacation cabin in the Great North Woods. For some reason I had carried boots with me and changing into them I headed straight out to the streets. I made the hike to Time Square and stood at the center of that triangle looking more alone than a survivor of a post apocalyptic world. Nothing, no one moved. For an hour or so I traveled through various neighborhoods past city landmarks where even as late as 10 o’clock in the morning there were only a handful of pedestrians. The city was shut down.

A bagel vendor near the hotel walked across the Brooklyn bridge to get to his shop and were it not for him I would have been pretty hungry. The hotel lacked a restaurant and their delivery service didn’t deliver. By dinner I was on my third trip to the bagle shop and loving it.

I had no camera with me, a mistake I have not repeated, or I would have some relics of the trip. As it is, I have my memories… not bad fare at that.

Been in the basement a lot this week. Making clouds of dust to see what I can produce just short of spontaneous generation. I am reminded of high school when we were taught to politely sneer at the ’science’ that proclaimed life could emerge ’spontaneously’ from a pond. How simple minded those pre-enlightenment fools were to think that fish could just spring into existence as if of their own volition.

 Today we teach our children an either-or tale of similarly stunning foolishness. We teach them that life either sprang, like Athena, full grown from the divine skull or it popped into being from an accidental combination of various compounds. Maybe we should coin a new phrase to label our own implausible possibility; “the divine mistake”. There was a god who liked to spend time stirring dust in the cosmic basement. Being a careless divinity some etheral compounds leaked onto the pile of molecular debris and, voila (this instance of divinity must be French, of course), life was percolating on the cellar floor.

 So, there you have it, perhaps we are the product of a cosmic Tim Allen. Isn’t that just as comforting as the alternatives offered by the battalions of opinionated critters engaged in our current cultural war?

 

Crisp air, an autum breeze

Coverlet drawn to the chin.

A nap

Cool amongst dead leaves.

Our rest ends the summer days.

Preachers, sales people, and raconteurs tell tales, we know. But our tales tell more than one story. Often it is the unconscious story by which our world view is shaped. I am not an advocate of political correctness but I wish to champion the role of story tellers as those who help shape our perception of the world around us.

In the comments that follow I am equally subject to the indictment that I would lay at the feet of others. Mea culpa.

Recently I read an attractive story of a drought apparently relieved following the prayers of many people. Among those who prayed was a child who bore an umbrella; a sign of deepest faith. It was touching as such stories usually are.

What struck me in the tale was the role played by each of the characters. I thought of how predictable the arrangement was and it seemed to comply with an unstated rule, “Children have faith and adults don’t.”

In many circles ‘child-like faith’  is idealized. Set aside the biblical precedence, please, and indulge me for a moment. It seems too easy for story tellers to rely on children to have this kind of faith but I wonder how much more powerful might the story be if a child is presented as a skeptic. Maybe the child was admonished by her parents to show evidence of faith by grabbing an appropriate talisman such as a bible, a rosary, etc. Maybe the child is cajoled by his mother on the way out the door and as a form of protest he seized an umbrella from the corner where it has lain, dusty from disuse.

Imagine how the story might proceed as the child raises this symbolic act of skepticism and watches the rivulets of water wash the dust from the protective shroud?

By avoiding the easy road where the story teller admonishes us to, “look at this childish act of faith” and by taking a less predictable path we who remain skeptical are confronted. Before us emerges a new possibility of grace rather than dregs of remorse over the loss of our childish innocence?

We live in a skeptical age. Unlike the scene in the New Testament where children are viewed as incapable of appreciating Jesus for who he is, it is we, the adults, that appear to suffer from an impaired capacity to believe. To paraphrase, Jesus might well have said, “Suffer those who struggle (and yet believe) to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”

PalmSprings-Hotel

Originally uploaded by gee David

On the road in Palm Springs. Warm, clear air, nice conference. Spent three pleasant days in spring weather just in time to return to cold, snow, and dark. Ah…. well I did say that I like winter. Now, I have been bitten and the ’spring bug’ has left me itching for the vernal equinox! Soon!

What’s not to like?

It is dark, cold, slippery. My fingers crack, the heating bill hurts, and my body itches from super dry air. But I like winter?

I like this proof that nature does not fully bend to my will. I like the ubiquitous blanket of snow. I love frost heaves in the yard. I am excited by the sight of cardinals flirting with the feeder against a tapestry of frosted evergreen boughs. It thrills me to hear folks on the distant end of the phone moan as I say, “I haven’t seen the lawn since November” and the date is Valentine’s Day.

I like the possibility that I will go back to the yard in my snow shoes one more time. I fantasize that this may be the year I finally build an igloo. I cherish the hope that before this winter is over my best buddy (the six year old) and I will build a radically large snow man.

Ok, I don’t like winter, I love it.

del.icio.us Tags: winter thebasin newhampshire franconianotch

“North; Which way is north?” The imperative in her tone did not escape me.

“Which north do you mean, dear: magnetic or true?” 
“Oh good grief, don’t be so complicated. Just tell me which way is north.”

The other day I learned that at various times in earth’s history the magnetic poles have been reversed. Does that mean that ‘down under’ becomes ‘up yonder’? I can hear folks in New England struggle with the notion of going up to Georgia and down to Canada. Don’t even ask me what we would do about ‘Down-east Maine’.

It seems there is a crisis of direction these days. Where are we going in Iraq? Why, when the economy is growing, are the “real” dollars that Americans earn less now than they were in 2000? What is the “real” definition of marriage? What is really right and really wrong?

Once, I took a trip to the mountains with a friend, Stan. Stan drove his 1963 Impala along an unpaved Forest Service road cruising uncomfortably close to the edge. As you visualize what I mean by “uncomfortably” remember we were in the mountains. I warned Stan that we were a little too close to the edge. To this he replied by veering farther to the right saying, “You mean like this?” To his amazement and to my sorrow I was vindicated. The soft soil of the shoulder yielded to the weight of the car. We began a slow roll that was, temporarily, halted by some small trees. The view from the passenger window was mud, stone, and naked roots. The view from the driver’s side was an azure sky framed by the forest canopy.

We crawled out Stan’s window to escape in case the roots lost their hold on the car. We stood on the roadway. I glared, Stan shrugged, the bugs bit. Stan pondered, aloud, whether one of us should walk out, a mere twelve miles, to get help. I glared some more. As he continued pondering “things” a man, on foot, rounded the curve and sized up the situation right quick.

“You boys lost?”

I could think of many things that could describe our state. Words like, injured, in shock, waiting for rescue, came to mind. “Lost” was not in the lexicon I was using as I glared at Stan.

“No sir, we were driving up to the Blood Mountain area and thinking of doing some fishing on the way.” I replied.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean are you ‘lost’ or are you ’saved’. In those days I was pretty slow to pick up on the theological nuances of the English language and so I naively replied that we had ’saved’ ourselves by climbing out of the car window.

The patient evangelist persisted, “Yes, I can see how that could be true but you could still be on your way to hell.”

I thought of Stan glaring, “The only hell that matters to me is sitting in the passenger seat with him.”

Perhaps the fellow concluded I was included in the category of fools and children after whom the almighty watches in spite of themselves. In any case he charged ahead, “I mean are you a Christian?” 

My single worded response, “Yes” was hardly convincing. And the fellow surrendered the road to us and trudged on leaving us in silent bewilderment. No offer to make a call, no information as to where we might find a phone, seek shelter, or set up a beggars’ camp for the duration of our wait. He just left us.

I’m quite sure that he asked a fundamentally important question but the depth of his rhetoric was superficial. Am I saved? Am I lost? Am I a Christian? Could I be a ‘lost’ Christian or are they mutually exclusive? And, besides all that, which way is north.

Hypothetically I could tie a piece of string to the bed post and head in the general direction I believe is north and, when I can measure the sun’s position relative to the horizon in such a way that I can “prove” my location, I could pull the string taught, signal my dear wife and indicate which way is north.

Regrettably, I could not similarly satisfy our evangelist but I have a hunch. I suspect that I could choose to accept the possibility that the life Jesus called disciples to is a true one. Further, I could choose to follow that same ‘way’ of living, not out of hope for a reward but out of the hope that it is the ‘right’ way. Something tells me that I would be less concerned with questions such as “Are you saved?” and more concerned with “Are you hurt? Are you hungry? Do you need help?”

By the way, I don’t have enough string. I tried it this morning. Now the shoes have no laces, the dog has lost his leash, and the cord to the vacuum cleaner is missing. If my dear wife is looking for me, tell her I am probably lost but I don’t think I am headed for hell.

Oh yes, one more thing, which way is north?