Our lives are never what we think they are. Not completely. As St. Paul wrote a long time ago, "we see in part." And how we see ourselves is likely alien to how others see us. Oh sure, we may strike the same broad strokes from time to time. But mostly we see one another packaged in the wrapping of our own preconceptions.
People have an atmosphere about them like little enfleshed worlds. Meaty brains, numinous minds, and a slew of identities. There's the doctor with his bow tie and his black bag. We know he's a sharp dresser. We know he knows medical science. I enjoy his dry sense of humor, but I have no idea what he thinks of me. But when he woke up this morning he padded his way to bathroom sink and washed the sleep from his eyes. Or some variation on this theme. Maybe he went to the kitchen sink. Maybe he lives by a lake and every morning he dips himself ritually into the near frozen murk as an offering to the gods. He may have dreamed... most likely he did, though he never remembers them. Or maybe he does. He writes in voluminous journals vivid accounts of worlds that melt and bleed into one another, cloud rays and sun showers and stars as cold and soft as snowflakes...
I will never know, entirely. But I can imagine.
It is the same with me. I put on my identity with my trousers and my button up shirt and I go to work. This morning I scraped the ice off my windshield. I smelled hickory burning from some faraway fireplace (and at once I was young again, my dad alive again, and we in his workshop and we making wooden candle sticks shaped like stars and painted red and green just for my mom...). You, sir or madam, pass me in the hall, I smile, look you in the eye, say hello... Or maybe I'm feeling bashful and I look down. To inflict you with my aspect, my eyes, my analysis is something I wish to spare you. And anyway maybe I don't want you inside. Who knows what might be betrayed in a handful of moments? What part of me will been seen that I want hidden? We all have those parts... and we cover them, each in our own way.
The post-modern thinker is aware of context. We have our layers of influence and identity. Our very thoughts are poured within the urn of our place and time. We don't hear it often, but there is always the swishing sound of disturbed waters we carry...
Do you remember the strange story in the Gospel of John about the man waiting by the pool? The man is a "paralytic," and he tells Jesus that he is waiting by the pool because an angel will come and stir up the waters. Being lowered into these waters brings about healing. I wondered how long this man would have waited for that angel? "But I have no one to help me into the water," he said to Jesus. And of course Jesus heals the man. But it is interesting that he never asked Jesus to heal him. In this gospel, miracles are known as "signs." Semeia. The man never saw the angel... never waded into those wing brushed waters... but he took up his mat and walked away... disturbed water and all...
Friday, December 14, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Meaning Around the Edge of Darkness
Last night I dreamed I was in the kitchen. It was no kitchen I'd ever seen. Nothing special about it. But it was not mine. Mom and Dad were there. We were talking and I was washing a pan in the sink. That was when the spiders came out. About five or six of them. Little, black jumping spiders. I felt their legs tickle across the top of my hand as they crawled and leaped. And then they began to swarm. Hundreds of spiders, a demon army of tiny biters, gnawing into my arms...
I woke up in the on-call room (where I'm writing this). I turned over on my back and looked up into the dark. It was quiet except for that industrial hum you hear in big buildings. Most of the time it goes unheard. It's just background noise. But it's never truly silent here. The hospital hummed and I let my left hand search my right arm just to reassure myself... that dreams are just dreams.
When the pager shrieked to life, it took me a moment to realize what was happening. Oh, I'm at the hospital. I'm the chaplain on-call. And that's the pager. How strange it is to wake up and put on the garment of one identity... or another. When I wake up in the middle of the night, especially in this place. The stories I tell myself about who I am... what I am... why I am... gather about me like a fog. But in the first few moments, I am No One... and pure being.
It was a Code Blue. A cardiac event. I roused myself, put on my clothes, gathered my cluttered thoughts, and went down... down... down.
The patient's companion was there. She was scared. The doctors and nurses injected medicines and tubes for ventilation for the patient. Still half asleep, I found his anxious loved one waiting outside...
Sometimes it is jarring, going from strange dreams to strange realities. Who knows which is which? Drifting in from the night into someone else's story (she has known him for two decades). Setting aside the biting spiders and my wounds to bear witness to another's nightmare ("even if it's his last breath, I have to see him"). Going from my ambiguous history into another's mystery ("before you knew it, we had a child together").
There is so little I understand. I search and seek, but find few answers. But occasionally I look into the solar eclipse and see light spilling out over the edges of darkness. In life as it happens, in this ongoing river of mystery... we can look into the black heart of Mystery, and if we look hard enough... if we look with one another... maybe we'll catch a glimpse of meaning as it escapes the edges of darkness.
They were able to save him.
For now.
I woke up in the on-call room (where I'm writing this). I turned over on my back and looked up into the dark. It was quiet except for that industrial hum you hear in big buildings. Most of the time it goes unheard. It's just background noise. But it's never truly silent here. The hospital hummed and I let my left hand search my right arm just to reassure myself... that dreams are just dreams.
When the pager shrieked to life, it took me a moment to realize what was happening. Oh, I'm at the hospital. I'm the chaplain on-call. And that's the pager. How strange it is to wake up and put on the garment of one identity... or another. When I wake up in the middle of the night, especially in this place. The stories I tell myself about who I am... what I am... why I am... gather about me like a fog. But in the first few moments, I am No One... and pure being.
It was a Code Blue. A cardiac event. I roused myself, put on my clothes, gathered my cluttered thoughts, and went down... down... down.
The patient's companion was there. She was scared. The doctors and nurses injected medicines and tubes for ventilation for the patient. Still half asleep, I found his anxious loved one waiting outside...
Sometimes it is jarring, going from strange dreams to strange realities. Who knows which is which? Drifting in from the night into someone else's story (she has known him for two decades). Setting aside the biting spiders and my wounds to bear witness to another's nightmare ("even if it's his last breath, I have to see him"). Going from my ambiguous history into another's mystery ("before you knew it, we had a child together").
There is so little I understand. I search and seek, but find few answers. But occasionally I look into the solar eclipse and see light spilling out over the edges of darkness. In life as it happens, in this ongoing river of mystery... we can look into the black heart of Mystery, and if we look hard enough... if we look with one another... maybe we'll catch a glimpse of meaning as it escapes the edges of darkness.
They were able to save him.
For now.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Frustration, Desperation, and Hope
I put a new roof on a house of cards. Or triple axle on thin ice. Or clean the teeth of a ravenous leopard. That is how life feels on some days.
Or maybe it is like the dream. You see someone you love in the distance, and when you try to walk towards them, then run towards them, they remain far away. No. They are outdistancing you. Straining forward with all your might, whipping through the wind with every step, but they grow smaller and smaller, unil finally they disappear behind the horizon.
Or it is like climbing that venerable magnolia. At first there are so many branches, easy footholds, handholds... The fat leaves brush across your face and your arms, but you don't notice. You're going upward. You're going as high as you can before your mom sees you and tells you to "Get down from that tree before you kill yourself." You are climbing like Jack and the Beanstock, expecting the uppermost vistas to show you something new. What new perspective will we gain from that height? Will it terrify us, finally, to know how far we can fall?
The entire thing is a gamble. Life. Atoms are mostly empty space. What is to stop me from falling through the floor, the earth, or the sky on the other side of the globe? Physics has an answer (strong force, or weak force, I'm not sure), as to why things are bound so that we do not plummet ceaselessly.
But somedays I feel like I am falling through space. The starfield around me shifts and spins. I can find no north because there is no north. No constellation can guide me home like the old time sailors. I am traveling with strange stars.
And then sometimes I feel as if I am encoffined. I can't press my way above ground again. I can't breathe fresh air. The strength of my will, even at its most brutish, falls short of moving one grain of dirt.
O Reader... I know there is serenity to be found. The absence of desire. Silence and stillness in the peace of God. I know that I live, move, and have my being in the One who both created and sustains the universe. Oh... I know... I know...
But knowing is different than feeling. And somedays, there is only the house of cards and my shakey hands. I take a deep breath and hold the card in between my fingers... praying for stillness. Hoping that this will make a home.
Or maybe it is like the dream. You see someone you love in the distance, and when you try to walk towards them, then run towards them, they remain far away. No. They are outdistancing you. Straining forward with all your might, whipping through the wind with every step, but they grow smaller and smaller, unil finally they disappear behind the horizon.
Or it is like climbing that venerable magnolia. At first there are so many branches, easy footholds, handholds... The fat leaves brush across your face and your arms, but you don't notice. You're going upward. You're going as high as you can before your mom sees you and tells you to "Get down from that tree before you kill yourself." You are climbing like Jack and the Beanstock, expecting the uppermost vistas to show you something new. What new perspective will we gain from that height? Will it terrify us, finally, to know how far we can fall?
The entire thing is a gamble. Life. Atoms are mostly empty space. What is to stop me from falling through the floor, the earth, or the sky on the other side of the globe? Physics has an answer (strong force, or weak force, I'm not sure), as to why things are bound so that we do not plummet ceaselessly.
But somedays I feel like I am falling through space. The starfield around me shifts and spins. I can find no north because there is no north. No constellation can guide me home like the old time sailors. I am traveling with strange stars.
And then sometimes I feel as if I am encoffined. I can't press my way above ground again. I can't breathe fresh air. The strength of my will, even at its most brutish, falls short of moving one grain of dirt.
O Reader... I know there is serenity to be found. The absence of desire. Silence and stillness in the peace of God. I know that I live, move, and have my being in the One who both created and sustains the universe. Oh... I know... I know...
But knowing is different than feeling. And somedays, there is only the house of cards and my shakey hands. I take a deep breath and hold the card in between my fingers... praying for stillness. Hoping that this will make a home.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
On Love: After a Beer in the Moonlight
"You are what you love, not what loves you back." This is true, at least, according to a Jenny Lewis song.
Lifted right out of the context of the song, I suppose that could mean quite a few things. But in my mind I imagine it being the kind of thing you'd say to someone disappointed by love.
To be "dis-appointed" suggests that there is a way things ought to be... that things are appointed. That there is an "oughtness" appointed by Fate or God or by the passion of our hearts. When this "appointment" is foiled... dissed... negated... corrupted... we experience a jarring betrayal. Our appointment with what felt like destiny has been canceled. Life, others, God, ourselves... has not delivered the promised goods.
There is a feverish lie that some believe... I've bought into it. Even though I reject it on an intellectual level, my heart believes this one particular lie; My worth lies in the hearts of other people. So if I am unloved, this must mean I am unloveable. Are you cozy with that lie? Many of us are. So let's unpack this a little more...
"You are what you love, not what loves you back." There is no real guidance here. Just an observation. But I think this could be an empowering statement. What "loves us back" has never been in our control. What we invest our hearts in, is always our choice. We have control there. But what should we love? I wish the song told us.
I also wish the song offered some protective measures. A magic spell against pain. Because the truth is, loving is dangerous. If you love someone with whom you've committed to share your life, and you live happily together "till death do us part," you will not escape the particular parting that death will lay upon you or your spouse. Even if you are together for sixty years, your soul mate will someday die. If you're lucky, you'll go first and never know that pain.
So, that's not looking very good. Perhaps we think about this and feel "disappointed" with God about how this world is set up. We love... only to lose. Is that it? The stakes are so incredibly high...
You may know that marriage is an identity. It is a relationship that permeates your whole being. You ARE what you love... who you love. What happens when the one you love dies? Do people ever think about that last clause in the wedding vows?
I imagine people do. But it's often uncomfortable. The death of someone we love... a partner... spouse... child... parent... means that a part of who we are, maybe even a large part of who we are, has died as well.
Religion offers a few antedotes. One in particular can make a difference, but accessing this antedote requires a strong spirit. You have to practice for a lifetime, because the reality of death is a full contact assault on your entire being. So what, in God's name, helps?
Gratitude, that's what. Now, before you hit the X at the top of your screen because you're put off by the triteness of my antedote, just chill out and keep reading...
I remember the ninety-one year old woman whose heart was weakened and barely working. Her mind remained sharp, however, and as I sat by her bedside I was able to hear about her gratitude. She was grateful for the big Montana sky of her childhood... the horses on her parents' ranch... the life and love she lived her entire life. If she was what she loved, she was many things. She had a large spirit.
Maybe that's a part of the secret. The scope of her love was broad, and so she was able to weather many losses without ever completely losing herself. Instead, she told me she was grateful. She didn't talk to me about the hope of Heaven. She talked about the gift of her life as she lived it. She did not seem "disappointed."
She is an unnamed saint in my memory. An ordinary person who loved extraordinarily. Her gratitude comes from a love that has learned not to grasp onto people, places, or things. Remember in high school when you got your heart broken and someone said to you, "If you love it, you'll let it go... if it loves you, it will return." Well, it's annoying, and even just typing the words makes me want to punch myself in my own face. But that doesn't change the fact that in some sense, it's true. In any case, the important part is the letting go. Love can let go. Because love doesn't own anyone. It accepts... it welcomes... even at great cost.
The courage of the wedding vow comes in the acknowledgement that nothing lasts forever. Health gives way to sickness... death leads to parting... And knowing that, two people can choose to love one another anyway. Grief will someday come, but it is also possible that gratitude will follow someday. The life lived between the alter and the grave means something. It has enriched life... created life... "You are what you love, not what loves you back."
If we love, we may find something that is painful to lose. We are at risk for pain. But if we love no one and no thing... we are nothing. We are frozen in non-living.
I do not know what I will feel on my death bed. But I hope it will be gratitude. I hope that I will be able to look back on a life characterized by loving others, despite what was offered back... despite what eventual loss has come. And I hope that someone loving me... losing me... will find that the journey has been worth the while.
Lifted right out of the context of the song, I suppose that could mean quite a few things. But in my mind I imagine it being the kind of thing you'd say to someone disappointed by love.
To be "dis-appointed" suggests that there is a way things ought to be... that things are appointed. That there is an "oughtness" appointed by Fate or God or by the passion of our hearts. When this "appointment" is foiled... dissed... negated... corrupted... we experience a jarring betrayal. Our appointment with what felt like destiny has been canceled. Life, others, God, ourselves... has not delivered the promised goods.
There is a feverish lie that some believe... I've bought into it. Even though I reject it on an intellectual level, my heart believes this one particular lie; My worth lies in the hearts of other people. So if I am unloved, this must mean I am unloveable. Are you cozy with that lie? Many of us are. So let's unpack this a little more...
"You are what you love, not what loves you back." There is no real guidance here. Just an observation. But I think this could be an empowering statement. What "loves us back" has never been in our control. What we invest our hearts in, is always our choice. We have control there. But what should we love? I wish the song told us.
I also wish the song offered some protective measures. A magic spell against pain. Because the truth is, loving is dangerous. If you love someone with whom you've committed to share your life, and you live happily together "till death do us part," you will not escape the particular parting that death will lay upon you or your spouse. Even if you are together for sixty years, your soul mate will someday die. If you're lucky, you'll go first and never know that pain.
So, that's not looking very good. Perhaps we think about this and feel "disappointed" with God about how this world is set up. We love... only to lose. Is that it? The stakes are so incredibly high...
You may know that marriage is an identity. It is a relationship that permeates your whole being. You ARE what you love... who you love. What happens when the one you love dies? Do people ever think about that last clause in the wedding vows?
I imagine people do. But it's often uncomfortable. The death of someone we love... a partner... spouse... child... parent... means that a part of who we are, maybe even a large part of who we are, has died as well.
Religion offers a few antedotes. One in particular can make a difference, but accessing this antedote requires a strong spirit. You have to practice for a lifetime, because the reality of death is a full contact assault on your entire being. So what, in God's name, helps?
Gratitude, that's what. Now, before you hit the X at the top of your screen because you're put off by the triteness of my antedote, just chill out and keep reading...
I remember the ninety-one year old woman whose heart was weakened and barely working. Her mind remained sharp, however, and as I sat by her bedside I was able to hear about her gratitude. She was grateful for the big Montana sky of her childhood... the horses on her parents' ranch... the life and love she lived her entire life. If she was what she loved, she was many things. She had a large spirit.
Maybe that's a part of the secret. The scope of her love was broad, and so she was able to weather many losses without ever completely losing herself. Instead, she told me she was grateful. She didn't talk to me about the hope of Heaven. She talked about the gift of her life as she lived it. She did not seem "disappointed."
She is an unnamed saint in my memory. An ordinary person who loved extraordinarily. Her gratitude comes from a love that has learned not to grasp onto people, places, or things. Remember in high school when you got your heart broken and someone said to you, "If you love it, you'll let it go... if it loves you, it will return." Well, it's annoying, and even just typing the words makes me want to punch myself in my own face. But that doesn't change the fact that in some sense, it's true. In any case, the important part is the letting go. Love can let go. Because love doesn't own anyone. It accepts... it welcomes... even at great cost.
The courage of the wedding vow comes in the acknowledgement that nothing lasts forever. Health gives way to sickness... death leads to parting... And knowing that, two people can choose to love one another anyway. Grief will someday come, but it is also possible that gratitude will follow someday. The life lived between the alter and the grave means something. It has enriched life... created life... "You are what you love, not what loves you back."
If we love, we may find something that is painful to lose. We are at risk for pain. But if we love no one and no thing... we are nothing. We are frozen in non-living.
I do not know what I will feel on my death bed. But I hope it will be gratitude. I hope that I will be able to look back on a life characterized by loving others, despite what was offered back... despite what eventual loss has come. And I hope that someone loving me... losing me... will find that the journey has been worth the while.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Beginning of Wisdom
"Fear is the mind-killer."
Bene-gesarit saying
from Frank Herbert's Dune
Fear can save us from the sabertooth tiger, but it often keeps us in terrible marriages, keeps us from pursuing a particular vocation, keeps us from opening our hearts... from living life, even. But why should that matter?
It is said in the book of Proverbs that the beginning of wisdom is the "fear of the Lord." The better translation probably would render "fear" as "respect," but on some days I wonder if there is something to the traditional wording.
We are born in a certain time. I was born on a snowy morning Anno Domini 1979, on the planet Earth, the continent known as North America, in the State known as Tennessee. My father was a fifty-two year old pathologist. My mother was younger. They'd been married two years when the "bump" known as Me began to show. For years they told me I was not an "uh-oh" baby, but it WAS an accidental pregnancy. One "slipped through the goalie," apparently.
Or maybe it was the hand of God that orchestrated it. I am here for a purpose. Like John the Baptist or Jacob the Cheat. I'm "William the..." I won't suggest an adjective. I'm "Will." It's less formal that way.
Yeah, sure. God planned it out that I would be here. But does this mean that God also planned the unknown miscarriages that occur for most sexually active women? Something like one in three conceptions self-aborts. I don't have the documentation on this. This may be bunk. But I remember that the number surprised me. Life is conceived... often it is never known to exist... and it dies. All in the bright shadows of life and love and happenstance. It happens all the time.
There is the shadow of terror here. I could have been one of "those" that Life did not select. And you also!
In an alternative universe, which many theoretical physicists now believe exist, I have died. In a billion trillion other worlds, I have lived, died, and never been born. I am beginning to feel some of that fear... I mean, respect, for the Lord.
Yet, I have trouble bending the knee. Calling God the "Lord" is suspect to me for many reasons. There are the social-academic reasons. Imperial models of relating to God are very medieval... nay... antique! In first century Rome, where one inclined their heads before an Emperor, it was well and good to refer to God as "Kurios," or "Lord." New Testament authors, comfortable with the monarchical models suggested by their Old Testament forebears, spoke of the Kingdom of God. But do we have any real kingdoms here today? Tooday everything is democratic. Everyone has a voice. In the United States, we have no class. Er... classes. I meant to say CLASSES. And so, in this day, we imagine that God does not WANT to be called a King. It's too masculine. Too imperial. And despite the tongue in cheek quality of this paragraph, such imperial labels have wedded religious justification to the oppression of millions over the centuries. The way we talk, after all, affects how we think and live. So if you talk about "the Lord" a lot, you have a very strong sense of hierarchy. Perhaps you are the king of you own castle?
Still, in our attempts to evolve our images of God and life, I wonder if we have disempowered God?
Damn it all to hell. I was not trying to turn this into a sermon. This was to be a personal type blog. It never fails, however, that I sway towards the preacherly. I was trying to talk about FEAR... and I swerved into God's lane.
We should probably fear God. Any Being that could generate these myriad universes is a Power.
Oh, it's not that I think God is "up there" waiting to smite us because we have premarital sex or have a shot of whisky. Course, we might get smote with a baby if we don't use protection. Or a DUI. But I don't think God will drop a piano on our heads out of indignation.
I think I fear God in the same way I fear the edge of the Grand Canyon. If I fall off this ledge, I'm gone. I fear God the same way I fear an asteroid flying throught the blank dark of space. How many worlds have been destroyed in the history of the universe? Is my life so special as to be protected? Does God "have a special plan" for me that protects me from such? Yet I am drawn forward by siren song. Will I be lured towards Meaning, or dashed upon the rocks? Don't we live in a universe where the rocks are inevitable? Is Meaning as clearly promised?
All of that is the fear of mysterious great powers. Things Bigger Than Us. Awe. Terror. Rilke says that "Beauty is the beginning of Terror." and that "Every angel is terrifying." And so it is. So it is. God is beautiful.
I think the grief our world lives with today is the death of Destiny. At least, this seems true among intelligent folks. People who have reflected upon the chances and changes of life, who have seen the Universe strike down the innocent with pancreatic cancer or aneurysms with utter capriciousness... they find it hard to believe in personal destiny. Echoes of Job, there.
On the other hand, there are still plenty of people who DO seem to believe in it, but their victory seems cheap. Sunshine Christians who never admit to feeling doubt or fear. Of course, when tragedy does strike, and they do not feel so perpetually "blessed," many become psychotic religionists... unwilling to mesh their personal experience with their triumphalistic understanding of God... OR they become the most violent of atheists. What can you say to these people? Even the Psalmist had enough faith to doubt. Even Jesus sweated the big stuff in the garden.
But I think there are many people who have lost their sense of Destiny. I am sometimes one of them.
To feel as if we are a part of a grand Story may or may not be an option. We are born and place our feet into the cold stream as it passes. The river's beginning or end has no practical bearing on us. We are only one foot in, and soon we are done, followed by others who have made their way there from unknown provinces.
Yet there is the shock of cold water we feel on our ankles when we tenderly step into the water. There is the smoothness of the stone underneath the balls of our feet. There is the crawdad that disappears into a cloud of murk, while the water spiders transport across the surface like electrons. We look up and see others around us, tenderly padding their way across the stream, hands and arms outstretched for balance. The rapid knocking of an unseen woodpecker resonates in the air... nature's jackhammering, to be sure, yet cleaner somehow than the human version. We feel the warm air on our faces, the sunshine... or the rain. We smile, we lament, we hold hands, we walk alone.
Maybe there is a Story. Maybe there isn't. But we have the walk across the stream. We have our brief moment with others who share this time and space with us. This time has never existed before and will never come again. We share our atoms with stars and dinosaurs and ancestors, but THIS configuration right now is unique to us... just as theirs was unique to them.
There are fools who sometimes get it right. People who tatoo "YOLO" somewhere on their bodies. The sentiment seems to be "You only live once," so party hard while you can. But what if we used an awareness of our mortality... the single, strange limitedness of our one wild lives... to spur us towards awakening? What if we find ourselves walking across the stream, and realize that we should give this journey our best efforts, our best attention?
Life is a mysterious guest sitting across from us at the table. We are sharing a meal. There is a beginning, and there is an end. Will we be attentive to what this interesting Stranger could tell us? Will we lean forward on our elbows, and gaze into the Stranger's eyes, hanging onto every word? What would we ask of this One? What would we offer of ourselves?
If you feel a little intimidated... a tinge of fear. Then perhaps you really have arrived at the beginning of wisdom.
Bene-gesarit saying
from Frank Herbert's Dune
Fear can save us from the sabertooth tiger, but it often keeps us in terrible marriages, keeps us from pursuing a particular vocation, keeps us from opening our hearts... from living life, even. But why should that matter?
It is said in the book of Proverbs that the beginning of wisdom is the "fear of the Lord." The better translation probably would render "fear" as "respect," but on some days I wonder if there is something to the traditional wording.
We are born in a certain time. I was born on a snowy morning Anno Domini 1979, on the planet Earth, the continent known as North America, in the State known as Tennessee. My father was a fifty-two year old pathologist. My mother was younger. They'd been married two years when the "bump" known as Me began to show. For years they told me I was not an "uh-oh" baby, but it WAS an accidental pregnancy. One "slipped through the goalie," apparently.
Or maybe it was the hand of God that orchestrated it. I am here for a purpose. Like John the Baptist or Jacob the Cheat. I'm "William the..." I won't suggest an adjective. I'm "Will." It's less formal that way.
Yeah, sure. God planned it out that I would be here. But does this mean that God also planned the unknown miscarriages that occur for most sexually active women? Something like one in three conceptions self-aborts. I don't have the documentation on this. This may be bunk. But I remember that the number surprised me. Life is conceived... often it is never known to exist... and it dies. All in the bright shadows of life and love and happenstance. It happens all the time.
There is the shadow of terror here. I could have been one of "those" that Life did not select. And you also!
In an alternative universe, which many theoretical physicists now believe exist, I have died. In a billion trillion other worlds, I have lived, died, and never been born. I am beginning to feel some of that fear... I mean, respect, for the Lord.
Yet, I have trouble bending the knee. Calling God the "Lord" is suspect to me for many reasons. There are the social-academic reasons. Imperial models of relating to God are very medieval... nay... antique! In first century Rome, where one inclined their heads before an Emperor, it was well and good to refer to God as "Kurios," or "Lord." New Testament authors, comfortable with the monarchical models suggested by their Old Testament forebears, spoke of the Kingdom of God. But do we have any real kingdoms here today? Tooday everything is democratic. Everyone has a voice. In the United States, we have no class. Er... classes. I meant to say CLASSES. And so, in this day, we imagine that God does not WANT to be called a King. It's too masculine. Too imperial. And despite the tongue in cheek quality of this paragraph, such imperial labels have wedded religious justification to the oppression of millions over the centuries. The way we talk, after all, affects how we think and live. So if you talk about "the Lord" a lot, you have a very strong sense of hierarchy. Perhaps you are the king of you own castle?
Still, in our attempts to evolve our images of God and life, I wonder if we have disempowered God?
Damn it all to hell. I was not trying to turn this into a sermon. This was to be a personal type blog. It never fails, however, that I sway towards the preacherly. I was trying to talk about FEAR... and I swerved into God's lane.
We should probably fear God. Any Being that could generate these myriad universes is a Power.
Oh, it's not that I think God is "up there" waiting to smite us because we have premarital sex or have a shot of whisky. Course, we might get smote with a baby if we don't use protection. Or a DUI. But I don't think God will drop a piano on our heads out of indignation.
I think I fear God in the same way I fear the edge of the Grand Canyon. If I fall off this ledge, I'm gone. I fear God the same way I fear an asteroid flying throught the blank dark of space. How many worlds have been destroyed in the history of the universe? Is my life so special as to be protected? Does God "have a special plan" for me that protects me from such? Yet I am drawn forward by siren song. Will I be lured towards Meaning, or dashed upon the rocks? Don't we live in a universe where the rocks are inevitable? Is Meaning as clearly promised?
All of that is the fear of mysterious great powers. Things Bigger Than Us. Awe. Terror. Rilke says that "Beauty is the beginning of Terror." and that "Every angel is terrifying." And so it is. So it is. God is beautiful.
I think the grief our world lives with today is the death of Destiny. At least, this seems true among intelligent folks. People who have reflected upon the chances and changes of life, who have seen the Universe strike down the innocent with pancreatic cancer or aneurysms with utter capriciousness... they find it hard to believe in personal destiny. Echoes of Job, there.
On the other hand, there are still plenty of people who DO seem to believe in it, but their victory seems cheap. Sunshine Christians who never admit to feeling doubt or fear. Of course, when tragedy does strike, and they do not feel so perpetually "blessed," many become psychotic religionists... unwilling to mesh their personal experience with their triumphalistic understanding of God... OR they become the most violent of atheists. What can you say to these people? Even the Psalmist had enough faith to doubt. Even Jesus sweated the big stuff in the garden.
But I think there are many people who have lost their sense of Destiny. I am sometimes one of them.
To feel as if we are a part of a grand Story may or may not be an option. We are born and place our feet into the cold stream as it passes. The river's beginning or end has no practical bearing on us. We are only one foot in, and soon we are done, followed by others who have made their way there from unknown provinces.
Yet there is the shock of cold water we feel on our ankles when we tenderly step into the water. There is the smoothness of the stone underneath the balls of our feet. There is the crawdad that disappears into a cloud of murk, while the water spiders transport across the surface like electrons. We look up and see others around us, tenderly padding their way across the stream, hands and arms outstretched for balance. The rapid knocking of an unseen woodpecker resonates in the air... nature's jackhammering, to be sure, yet cleaner somehow than the human version. We feel the warm air on our faces, the sunshine... or the rain. We smile, we lament, we hold hands, we walk alone.
Maybe there is a Story. Maybe there isn't. But we have the walk across the stream. We have our brief moment with others who share this time and space with us. This time has never existed before and will never come again. We share our atoms with stars and dinosaurs and ancestors, but THIS configuration right now is unique to us... just as theirs was unique to them.
There are fools who sometimes get it right. People who tatoo "YOLO" somewhere on their bodies. The sentiment seems to be "You only live once," so party hard while you can. But what if we used an awareness of our mortality... the single, strange limitedness of our one wild lives... to spur us towards awakening? What if we find ourselves walking across the stream, and realize that we should give this journey our best efforts, our best attention?
Life is a mysterious guest sitting across from us at the table. We are sharing a meal. There is a beginning, and there is an end. Will we be attentive to what this interesting Stranger could tell us? Will we lean forward on our elbows, and gaze into the Stranger's eyes, hanging onto every word? What would we ask of this One? What would we offer of ourselves?
If you feel a little intimidated... a tinge of fear. Then perhaps you really have arrived at the beginning of wisdom.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Dad, I'd like to talk.
Every summer, back when my dad was still alive, my parents and I would go to the Isle of Palms. This was a summer tradition. I didn't realize how lucky I was then, but by God I know now. Trips to the beach, to beautiful Charleston, to Patriot Points Naval and Maritime Museum. I have been aboard the USS Yorktown so many times, I could probably give you a tour. 
My dad loved the aircraft museum. He was a quiet man, but he grinned like a kid when he'd look at the Hellcat in the hangar. I was partial to the F4J-Phantom. I think his love for the aircraft came from his Air Force days. Before he was a civillian pathologist, he was in the AF during the 50's and 60's. He was actually trained to fly a few larger aircraft, although his primary job was to practice medicine. Sometimes when I go to Tennessee, I go to the garage and I find his flight helmet. I pick it up. I wonder. He really loved the Air Force.
And of course I find his stethoscope. An old blood pressure cuff. Even a black doctor's bag. I brush the dust off of these things, and I talk to my dad.
"Why didn't you tell me this world was a mad house?"
OR
"How did you survive the death of your first marriage?"
OR
"I'm doing the best I can. I really am."
OR
"Thank you for being a kind, wise, loving father, and not a jerk."
BUT MOSTLY
"I miss you."
If you have a loved one who's died, it's likely you talk to them too. I don't suppose I'll ever stop.
These days I am trying to recover something from the past. I've always been interested in the past. Anyway, I've decided that the symbol of this "recovery act" is my own body. I'm trying to eat well. Trying to exercise. I've lost thirty-five pounds so far. This means I weigh about 268 pounds. In high school, when I played football and wrestled, I weighed in the 190-205 range. Dad got sick in April of 1996. Died a few months later. I kind of just gave up after that. But now I've decided a change in policy is in order.
I know that getting to 200lbs again won't bring my dad back. But this process, for me, is about bringing something of myself back. It is about a journey to a place better than Charleston... or ANY city. Walt Whitman wrote a poem entitled, "Passage to India." In this poem he celebrates the great technological accomplishments of humankind. Laying down telegraph wire across an ocean... circumnavigating the globe... You'll remember that centuries ago, Europeans were obsessed with a shortcut to India. Finding a "passage to India" was a symbol for progress, and indeed, Whitman heaped praise upon the advances made over the centuries. But he laid a bold charge down for the reader at the end. We are charged to take "passage to MORE than India." Despite the technological advances, Whitman felt that the last great frontier was spiritual.
I do hope to return to Charleston again someday. I hope to return with people I love. But my deepest hope is to passage to more to India... to go more deeply into my own heart... more deeply into the heart of God. I imagine that I bring my dad with me in this journey, and all the people I love. With such good company, I know that I will not fail. And who knows what I might find?
My dad loved the aircraft museum. He was a quiet man, but he grinned like a kid when he'd look at the Hellcat in the hangar. I was partial to the F4J-Phantom. I think his love for the aircraft came from his Air Force days. Before he was a civillian pathologist, he was in the AF during the 50's and 60's. He was actually trained to fly a few larger aircraft, although his primary job was to practice medicine. Sometimes when I go to Tennessee, I go to the garage and I find his flight helmet. I pick it up. I wonder. He really loved the Air Force.
And of course I find his stethoscope. An old blood pressure cuff. Even a black doctor's bag. I brush the dust off of these things, and I talk to my dad.
"Why didn't you tell me this world was a mad house?"
OR
"How did you survive the death of your first marriage?"
OR
"I'm doing the best I can. I really am."
OR
"Thank you for being a kind, wise, loving father, and not a jerk."
BUT MOSTLY
"I miss you."
If you have a loved one who's died, it's likely you talk to them too. I don't suppose I'll ever stop.
These days I am trying to recover something from the past. I've always been interested in the past. Anyway, I've decided that the symbol of this "recovery act" is my own body. I'm trying to eat well. Trying to exercise. I've lost thirty-five pounds so far. This means I weigh about 268 pounds. In high school, when I played football and wrestled, I weighed in the 190-205 range. Dad got sick in April of 1996. Died a few months later. I kind of just gave up after that. But now I've decided a change in policy is in order.
I know that getting to 200lbs again won't bring my dad back. But this process, for me, is about bringing something of myself back. It is about a journey to a place better than Charleston... or ANY city. Walt Whitman wrote a poem entitled, "Passage to India." In this poem he celebrates the great technological accomplishments of humankind. Laying down telegraph wire across an ocean... circumnavigating the globe... You'll remember that centuries ago, Europeans were obsessed with a shortcut to India. Finding a "passage to India" was a symbol for progress, and indeed, Whitman heaped praise upon the advances made over the centuries. But he laid a bold charge down for the reader at the end. We are charged to take "passage to MORE than India." Despite the technological advances, Whitman felt that the last great frontier was spiritual.
I do hope to return to Charleston again someday. I hope to return with people I love. But my deepest hope is to passage to more to India... to go more deeply into my own heart... more deeply into the heart of God. I imagine that I bring my dad with me in this journey, and all the people I love. With such good company, I know that I will not fail. And who knows what I might find?
Monday, June 11, 2012
Anton's Syndrome
Today I learned about Anton's Syndrome. There are two symptoms of this stroke-induced disorder. The first is "cortical blindness." There's nothing wrong the eyes, it's that the part of the brain that translates what the eye sees is damaged, so that the person is blind. If it seems strange that a person with perfectly healthy eyes can be blind, then consider the next symptom... The patient is unaware that they are blind.
The doctor said that this was a less common syndrome. And truthfully, it's hard to imagine that it exists. Blind people who are not even aware that they are blind. So they will go to the doctor's office, and they will flat out deny to the physician that they are blind. So the good doctor asks the patient, "What does my tie look like?" And the patient answers. Of course, the description is wrong. He's blind, remember? But the patient actually believes he is seeing the doctor's tie. It's not like the patient is lying. His brain supplies an image for the "mind's eye," and it is as real to the patient as the brown dog I see lying at my feet. Of course, one could question the reality of my perspective. This goes to the old philosophical question of whether or not we are seeing "things in itself," or merely "representations of ideas." But that's not the dog I'm gonna send to go hunt. Not tonight anyway.
As I said, Anton's Syndrome isn't common. But I personally feel acquainted with it. Maybe you do too. Seems like we go about life, assuming that our common sense is actually common. We assume that we see things as they are. We're a practical people. And we trust our senses. But should we? Don't we all have "blind spots?" This can be particularly frightening if we are driving our cars. We prepare to merge into the next lane. We check our mirrors, we glance over our shoulder, and begin our drift... only to be honked at! A man drives by and you can't hear a word he's saying. But you know what he's saying. You know. And it scares us terribly... to be waylaid by unforeseen blindness.
As dangerous as this can be on the road, there is are places where eyes that normally see 20/20 fail to catch the light. That place is called "Love." Ain't nobody got an eagle-eye as far as Love is concerned.
This is because love involves people, and people are an ever unfolding mystery. Friendship is not dissimilar. Any type of relationship wiggles out of ability to apprehend it entirely. We see what we see... in others... in ourselves, for reasons we can scarcely comprehend. We see an enemy possibly because we have an enemy. Or maybe we merely need one. Maybe you know what I mean. We've all pointed an accusing finger at some whipping boy. "It's that bastard's fault I said... did... feel... etc." The opposite is often true. We need an ideal. A hero. Someone to adore. People do this to their ministers. We're expected to be "better," more pure. Our families are more orderly. We have calm, Spirit-rich lives. If we have any faults, they're laughable. We're Ned Flanders. We're sexless. I remember putting my pastor on a pedestal... with golden intentions. Of course, he never was a real person to me. He was a priestly function. An "enter" key that I could press to start a new paragraph.
We also do this to lovers. I was once accused to putting someone on a pedestal. She smiled when she said it. Joked with me and asked me if "Wonder Woman" had any faults. I smiled. I hurt. While I have put women on pedestals before, I realize now the pitfalls of such wide-eyed praise. When we elevate our Loves in impossible ways, when we refuse to acknowledge their limitations, their outright faults, or at least the things about them that drive us crazy, WE MISS WHO THEY ARE!
Wonder Woman's words hurt. I wondered, "Does she believe that anyone who really knows her would find it hard to love her?" And maybe my pride was hurt a little. I think I see things... people... pretty clearly. I believe I have the courage and the will to see others "as they are."
I know now that this is not always true. Sometimes, whether I'm pointing at a scape-goat or at someone I admire, I am actually pointing at my own blindness.
The heart is a dark place. We can barely know our own hearts, and it is faith that lets us feel like we can know another's.
Another word for "Faith" is "Trust." In the end, life requires a lot of Trust from us. It is a key ingredient in the recipe for love and/or friendship. It is essential for the reading of our own souls, because it's our soul that will tell us where to go, what to do. It is where God speaks. And even though we often see and hear God according to our own needs and conveniences, we "see through a glass darkly," as St. Paul says... we still catch a few glimpses.
The patient with Anton's Syndrome may not be physically able to trust the doctor's diagnosis. But we can accept our blind spots if we have the courage to acknowledge them. We might not ever see anything very clearly, but who knows... with a little trust, and a lot of love... we might get some of this Life stuff right.
The doctor said that this was a less common syndrome. And truthfully, it's hard to imagine that it exists. Blind people who are not even aware that they are blind. So they will go to the doctor's office, and they will flat out deny to the physician that they are blind. So the good doctor asks the patient, "What does my tie look like?" And the patient answers. Of course, the description is wrong. He's blind, remember? But the patient actually believes he is seeing the doctor's tie. It's not like the patient is lying. His brain supplies an image for the "mind's eye," and it is as real to the patient as the brown dog I see lying at my feet. Of course, one could question the reality of my perspective. This goes to the old philosophical question of whether or not we are seeing "things in itself," or merely "representations of ideas." But that's not the dog I'm gonna send to go hunt. Not tonight anyway.
As I said, Anton's Syndrome isn't common. But I personally feel acquainted with it. Maybe you do too. Seems like we go about life, assuming that our common sense is actually common. We assume that we see things as they are. We're a practical people. And we trust our senses. But should we? Don't we all have "blind spots?" This can be particularly frightening if we are driving our cars. We prepare to merge into the next lane. We check our mirrors, we glance over our shoulder, and begin our drift... only to be honked at! A man drives by and you can't hear a word he's saying. But you know what he's saying. You know. And it scares us terribly... to be waylaid by unforeseen blindness.
As dangerous as this can be on the road, there is are places where eyes that normally see 20/20 fail to catch the light. That place is called "Love." Ain't nobody got an eagle-eye as far as Love is concerned.
This is because love involves people, and people are an ever unfolding mystery. Friendship is not dissimilar. Any type of relationship wiggles out of ability to apprehend it entirely. We see what we see... in others... in ourselves, for reasons we can scarcely comprehend. We see an enemy possibly because we have an enemy. Or maybe we merely need one. Maybe you know what I mean. We've all pointed an accusing finger at some whipping boy. "It's that bastard's fault I said... did... feel... etc." The opposite is often true. We need an ideal. A hero. Someone to adore. People do this to their ministers. We're expected to be "better," more pure. Our families are more orderly. We have calm, Spirit-rich lives. If we have any faults, they're laughable. We're Ned Flanders. We're sexless. I remember putting my pastor on a pedestal... with golden intentions. Of course, he never was a real person to me. He was a priestly function. An "enter" key that I could press to start a new paragraph.
We also do this to lovers. I was once accused to putting someone on a pedestal. She smiled when she said it. Joked with me and asked me if "Wonder Woman" had any faults. I smiled. I hurt. While I have put women on pedestals before, I realize now the pitfalls of such wide-eyed praise. When we elevate our Loves in impossible ways, when we refuse to acknowledge their limitations, their outright faults, or at least the things about them that drive us crazy, WE MISS WHO THEY ARE!
Wonder Woman's words hurt. I wondered, "Does she believe that anyone who really knows her would find it hard to love her?" And maybe my pride was hurt a little. I think I see things... people... pretty clearly. I believe I have the courage and the will to see others "as they are."
I know now that this is not always true. Sometimes, whether I'm pointing at a scape-goat or at someone I admire, I am actually pointing at my own blindness.
The heart is a dark place. We can barely know our own hearts, and it is faith that lets us feel like we can know another's.
Another word for "Faith" is "Trust." In the end, life requires a lot of Trust from us. It is a key ingredient in the recipe for love and/or friendship. It is essential for the reading of our own souls, because it's our soul that will tell us where to go, what to do. It is where God speaks. And even though we often see and hear God according to our own needs and conveniences, we "see through a glass darkly," as St. Paul says... we still catch a few glimpses.
The patient with Anton's Syndrome may not be physically able to trust the doctor's diagnosis. But we can accept our blind spots if we have the courage to acknowledge them. We might not ever see anything very clearly, but who knows... with a little trust, and a lot of love... we might get some of this Life stuff right.
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