Mankind in a Minor Key

Her forehead dimpled with concentration as her eight-year-old fingers drew the bow across the strings.  Sweetness spilled from more than just her violin, the music animated every muscle - she bobbed and swayed, eyes closed, lips alternatively rising and falling with each stroke of the bow.  Her hair was dark and natural in the way of children, her best dress blue and white, stretched across remnants of baby fat.  Vivaldi swept through her with an innocent passion, her instrument no less a part of her than skin.  It seems that angels play the violin.

 She reminded me of photos I’d seen just days before.  Photos of other children wearing best dresses, black and white photos of concentrated brows and violins and sweetness silently spilling from instruments through the glass and simple frames.  Children kicking balls and playing with sticks, braiding each other’s hair and leaning into one another, arms and elbows resting on shoulders, chins tilted to smile for the camera.  Each photo captured a singular tick of the clock, a singular moment when children with names and stories and dreams were animated with innocent passion, with freshness of life and with hope.  Each photo memorialized the moments before.  Before freshness and life and hope were ripped away.  These children’s photos hang in the Holocaust Museum.

I’ve read about and studied the Holocaust.  I’ve shuffled through the cramped quarters of Prinsengracht 267, touched the walls that sheltered Anne Frank and her family, leaned against the the tree outside that witnessed their discovery and forced removal.  I’ve written papers, essays, stories, seen movies and visited graveyards, I’ve remembered and remembered and remembered events that conspired before my lifetime.  I still don’t understand.

What sort of creatures are we humans that we can coldly and methodically research, engineer and execute deliberate torture and murder?  Frenzied attacks resulting in carnage I might understand (not accept, understand).  Revolutionary revenge striking brutally back against oppressive regimes I might ‘get’.  Ravings of madmen holding sway over a few dedicated henchmen willing to follow any order have peppered the history of mankind and surely left a bloodied and bitter trail in their wake.  Crimes of passion and insanity, though inexcusable, are explainable.

But what can explain the calculated, intentional, blue-print and supply order dependent, methodical, systematic process by which humans - flesh and blood persons with names and stories and memories, with first loves and favorite recipes, best friends and bed time stories – humans, just like me, were treated worse than animals and exterminated like ants?  Shot in the woods.  Shoved into cattle cars.  Burned alive.  Experimented on.  Deceived into thinking their captors might be human after all when a shower was finally offered.  They thought wrong.  A race that devises a freight elevator for lifting poisoned bodies to incinerators capable of turning 1,000 recently conscious souls into ash per day couldn’t possibly be human.

Yet, the blood of them both – German and Jew – floods my veins.  Racially, culturally, genetically I am neither, but their blood is the blood of humans, and it sustains my life beat by beat as it once did theirs.  When I witness the evil we humans are capable of, I am ashamed of it, ashamed of my relation to the rest of mankind.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” are the only words I have when passing black and white walls of children, angels with their violins, photographs of what could have been.

How did they bear it?  Did they cry out to their God, the One their sacred writings deemed the only true God?  Did they, in desperation, call Him “Jehovah”, His given name, the name forbidden to say, forbidden to write, hoping He might then turn and hear?  Did their angry, weary, broken cry, “Where are You?” stick to the loud sun in its merciless sky or echo in whispers against concrete “showers”?  I know the question, I have asked it myself.  How could God allow His own people to be lain on the altar, innocent sacrifices once again filling the air with ash?  How could He see it and do nothing?

I know of many who can only view the Holocaust with numbness.  It’s understandable.  It’s safer that way, because to let even a fraction of its enormity in feels like a white-hot sword through the soul.  It’s enough to make one question the existence of God – or the existence of a good God, at the very least.     

The problem is, I know of no other sufficient explanation for calculated evil.  The simple evolution of man from animals adequately explains frenzied attacks and carnage, even madmen and the destruction of the weak – similar phenomena are found in the wild, and if such wildness is our heritage, the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.  But intentional evil exceeding mere bloodshed, cold systematic torture and pre-meditated murder on an overly grand scale are not found anywhere else in nature.  The proof of such suggests that humanity is an “other”, a creature with sides unseen, with capabilities and potentials that no other being on the planet has inherited.  There are animals and there is “us” – we are somehow something else, something more.  We possess another layer.  

Lest the picture be painted too bleak, humans are capable of tremendous charity, as well.  Self sacrifice for the sake of another is considered a virtue (an odd concept at best, if the survival of mankind has depended on the practice of self-preservation), and pockets of overwhelming good are found tucked not only among the dark moments of the Holocaust, but throughout all of history.  Our extra layers extend infinitely beyond both ends of the spectrum – we are as capable of great love as of great pain.

We are like the strings of a violin.  We play our lives so that either joy or sorrow sweeps through those who are near enough to hear.  We are humans, persons, accountable and significant, having authority and dignity – that is what we are, not who we are, and nothing, not cattle cars, not poisoned showers, not pain or disease or abuse, can take it from us.  We sense the truth of it in our “otherness”, in the space where the music plays.  And the music matters.  The effect our lives have on the lives around us matters.  It matters to us, it matters to them and it matters to the One who originally bestowed the gift of music.  If it didn’t matter to Him, it wouldn’t matter at all.

If there is no God, no good God, justice would not exist.  It could not exist.  Those who committed treason against their own race – the human race - would never ultimately pay for it.  The blood of children would not be redeemed, the brutal cutting short of their lives never accounted for.  Human acts of evil would go unanswered, the sacrifice of innocents empty and merely pitiable.  The Source of our “other” is the source of our authority and our dignity, the Giver of our significance.  It is because He deemed us infinitely valuable that we are held accountable for the music of our lives.       

The blood of humanity flows through me, and that is enough for me to bow my head in shame and lift it high with pride.  I have infinite potential, power to change the world for good or for evil, power to offer love or pain.  I try to let the sweetness flow, sweeping through me with passion so innocent that my notes are high and clear, good and full of joy.  I’ve learned, however, that I must ask for the score. The God who is good, whose sorrow is greater than my own when weary cries stick to the loud sun, has written it, though for now I see only the notes I am meant to play.  The rest is a mystery and I must trust that the symphony of humanity will ultimately echo through the halls of heaven, somehow richer for its harmonies, sweeter for its sour notes.  When I hear it then, I hope I’ll understand.  Black and white faces will be flush with color when we stand where freshness of life and hope are reborn.  When we stand where angels play the violin.     

“With our hells and our heavens so few inches apart

We must be awfully small

And not as strong as we think we are”

-Rich Mullins

Messi, and I Know It...

One game.  Five goals.  Even I know that’s a big deal.  

Sports are not my natural habitat; I can converse fairly fluently in baseball, speak basketball and (American) football with a heavy accent, and communicate haltingly in soccer.  Yet even I, with my limited sports awareness, can recognize uncommon talent when it takes the field.   

Lionel Messi is said to mean more today to soccer than Michael Jordan did to basketball during the dynasty of the Bulls in the ‘90’s.  At 24, Messi has won the FIFA World Player of the year three times (only a handful of players have won it three times, and no one more than three).  He scored 30 goals in just his last 25 games.  Last week he scored five goals in a Champion’s League game against Bayern Leverkusen.  Considering that soccer is a sport where common final scores are 2-1 or 1-0, five goals (by one team, let alone one player) is considered outrageous.

And yet, he’s done it.  And continues to do it.  He plays so well, so unspeakably, inhumanly well, that a friend (half) jokingly said to me, “If Jesus is the Son of God, is it possible that Messi is the grandson?”    

An interesting idea.  A provocative idea.  But certainly not a new idea.  Argentine soccer superstar Diego Maradona, forever enshrined in the hearts of fans for his 66-yard dribble through six English players to score the “Goal of the Century” against them in the quarterfinal round of the 1986 World Cup, is so revered that in 1998 a church bearing his name sprung up in Rosario, Argentina.

“Beloved Diego, thank you for your everlasting magic,” church-goers sing to the tune of Ave Maria, “We are the church of the football god, we believe in your divineness” The Church of Maradona boasts 40,000 members in 56 countries.  Crazy, or simply convinced the soccer star was imbued with a drop of divinity?  The faithful are split on the issue, themselves.  Couples are married, babies baptized in Maradona’s name – who can say how real is their belief?

What is unquestionably real, however, is our all-too-human habit of worship.  Our lives tend to be tempered by routine patters and expectations.  When something startling breaks in – be it the vast yawning gorges of the Grand Canyon or a man who wields impossible control over a black and white ball – we fall to our knees in wonder. We feel small.  Overwhelmed.  Insignificant in comparison.  Something in us cries, “Too much! Too much!”  We are undone.  

And yet, the same breath undone cries out, “More!”  Hearts wearied and worn thin by burdens common to man nurture a secret, silent hope that something greater, larger, and more significant than they stalks the universe. When fleeting glimpses of uncommon glory pass by, that which was hoped for shouts, “I am here!” and wearied hearts then swell, renewed and vindicated, hoarse with unbridled joy. “I knew it! I knew it!”

This is why we are gladly small in the presence of the great, why language fails us in the sharing of aching beauties, and why a sports hero can ignite so fiery a passion that it blazes through the very marrow of his fans daring them to believe he is more than a man – he is a god. We want there to be more than what we see.   We want there to be a plane of existence where the possibilities we barely dare to hope for reside.  We want to know that the very ordinariness of our lives and the messiness of our souls can be overcome, that the dreams we dream could come true.  They, the ones we are tempted to call deity, are loved because they hint that we are right.

Again, I return as I have so many times before to the question begged – why?  If we, all of us, great or small, are no more than bone and spittle and muscle and sweat, if we are the random result of random chemicals devoid of intentionality, then where did we develop a taste for purpose?  For worship?  How did we get so addicted to the promise of hope?  Why are we both humbled and inspired by startling beauty and by unspeakable, inhuman talent?  Witnessing what we never imagined could be done so moves us that joy forcibly overtakes every cell of our being – we laugh, cry, shout, and throw up our hands as if we had done it ourselves.  Indeed, we've briefly tasted the hope that we could have. 

Is Lionel Messi God’s grandson?  Is the moon the grandchild of the sun?  Or does one light the darkness through its ability to reflect the other?  The lesser glory is seen only by the presence of the greater glory.  A man who can score like an angel whispers of a God who enjoys watching him do so.  Even I know that’s a big deal. 

"Messi is my Maradona" -Diego Maradona

The "Right" Line

The slow growling snort of an exasperated sigh hissed behind me.  “They need to open more registers”, the short-grey-haired hisser harrumphed.  She clutched her four items and turned to the man behind her.  “Why don’t they open more registers?”  He shrugged.  She turned back to me.

“I could have stopped at the one in Leesburg”.  She informed everyone within earshot.  “They told me to stop for my knitting things on the way home.  The one in Leesburg is a few miles out of my way, but it wouldn’t have taken this long.”  She sighed again loudly.  She’d been waiting approximately four minutes.

Over the next ten minutes, she proceeded to get out of line three times to check the length of other lines, give a minute-by-minute play-by-play for the line immediately next to ours (which, she mentioned four times, was faster than ours and she should have gotten in it when she had first thought of it), and complain about the magazines in the check-out stands.  The Weight Watchers magazine wasn’t current and the Food Network special issue on Chocolate was just plain annoying.  She’d given up chocolate for Lent.

When I (and the man in front of me) encouraged her to take her crochet hooks and, please, go ahead of us, a shocked little girl look crossed her face.  She peered innocently through her glasses and her free hand fluttered to her heart.  “I could have waited!”  Clearly.

When my turn at the register finally arrived, a slow smile crossed the check out girl’s face.  “Kerosene!” she exclaimed, zapping the bar code with her hand-help scanner and laughing a private little chuckle.  “When I was a little girl I would sell it.”  She shook her head and continued to coax a steady beep from the item-fed scanner.

“Kerosena” She sang in a sing-songy voice, the past all swirled up about her eyes.  “We would get in line at 4:00 in the morning to wait and wait just to buy some, then sell it in the afternoon.” A patient beauty clung to her, a gentle peace rose and fell with the rhythm of her hands.  “It paid for my lunch at school, and pencils and things.”  She smiled, as if the chore had been more a pleasure than a pain.

“Where are you from?” I asked gently, always curious about international flavors that might spice up my otherwise “normal” days.

“Sierra Leone” she answered, smiling and nodding, lost in days gone by.  “Is that everything for you, then?”

It was.  It was quite enough, actually, when I thought about how she must have lived through (or at least known and loved some who had lived through) the brutal eleven year civil war that swept through Sierra Leone a decade or so ago.   In its wake, 50,000 people lay dead and more than two million were displaced as refugees.  I wondered if she were one of them.   

I wondered, too, if the woman with crochet hooks and precious little time to stand in line had any idea how short (comparatively) the line actually was.  Or how fortunate she was to stand in it, separated as she was from famine and civil war, government brutality and permanent displacement.  Granted, I had no idea the possible personal hells the knitting woman may have experienced or have been experiencing, but it seemed that being driven from one’s home reeked of a little more devastation than being driven to shorter lines in Leesburg.  Somehow, it all just didn’t feel fair.

But, what is fair?  Where does our desire for fairness, freedom and equality even come from?  Many cultures have vastly different histories, religions, values and priorities, but somehow hold similar convictions: murder, theft, and intentional abuse of innocents are always taboo.  Cowardice and selfishness are never praised. Most civilizations develop systems for judging between two opposing moral views (courts, etc.), but what gives anyone or any system the right to declare one particular behavior ‘right‘ and its opposite behavior ‘wrong’? 

Having spent over two years working with refugees, listening to their stories and settling them in new homes while they mourned the loss of homes destroyed and gone, I heard more accounts of pain and sorrow than I ever wanted to.  Stories about camps in Sierra Leone surfaced, stories of entire refugee camps made up of amputees.  Rebel leaders had a tradition – when they captured a village, anyone who refused to join them was forced to choose from a hat a folded slip of paper, on which was written either “short sleeves”, or “long sleeves”.  If they drew “short sleeves”, either one or both hands were chopped off.  If “long sleeves”, then one or both arms.

The painful truth is that if we are not intrinsically valuable, we have no right to condemn such behavior.  If our rights, as humans, are not equal or fundamental, if they are dependent instead on our status, our looks, our positions of power or wealth, then an entire community forced to function with fewer limbs than the rest of humanity should not shock us.   Three hundred amputees, the youngest of which a three-year-old girl, have no right to stir in us feelings of anger or compassion. But, would we feel human if they did not?

The world is a broken place and we are broken people – every religion in the world acknowledges it.  What were we, then, before being broken?  What carved the great schisms in our souls that cause us to be impatient and irritated, blood-thirsty and cruel?  How were we shattered?  And is it possible to gather the broken pieces together again?  Or have they been tossed away like so many amputated limbs?  When we view our collective pains as the results of fallen glory rather than simply distasteful behavior, a gentle glimmer of hope emerges.

For if we were, in fact, meant to be more, if we were endowed with worth that nothing can shake or break or tear from our souls, if our shock and sorrow at the depth of human brokenness reveals our collective history of once being something glorious, then is it not possible to hope we could be glorious again?  A Hebrew poet said that we were knit together in our mother’s womb – could we dare to hope that that which has unraveled could one day be woven again into coverings of healing?  That souls once severed could be restored? The frazzled yarn is still there…  I guess good knitting is worth the wait, after all.     

A Thanks By Any Other Name

Sometimes the largest sentiments hide in the smallest words.   Perhaps it’s an English thing - “Thanks” seems so denim and blue jeans compared to a satiny, “Spaceeba” (Russian), or Fedora-esque, “Falemenderit” (Albanian).  The Swedes and Norwegians have us beat- their barely there, “Takk” through frozen lips must be enough to melt the space between them with gratitude.  Sassy little number, “Grazie”, spreads appreciation among Italians and an Arabic “Shukran” tastes of sugared rose petals, billowing like stately white dishdashas against the Middle Eastern sand.    

However we say it, it’s interesting that we do.  “Thank-you”, “Thanks”, “Cheers”.  It means someone offered us something they could have chosen not to.  It means we recognize their (however small or casual) sacrifice of freedom on our behalf as something valuable.  Something that ought to be acknowledged.  Something that is as important for us, as the recipient, to notice as it is for the giver of the gift/serve/opportunity to be noticed.  Gratitude blesses both hearts involved.     

Even more interesting is the fact that sometimes, my soul is overwhelmed with gratefulness -nearly to the point of bursting - though no particular target has been identified.  A serendipitous turn of events, an undeserved blessing, the sunset blush on quiet waters of pink and tangerine – thank-yous rise up in me unbidden, no dam could hold them back.  Their out-pouring relieves my soul.    

Why do we thank?  Not simply why we release the sweetly spoken potpourri of danke, gracias, or merci, but from where does the humbling sentimental cloud behind them come?  What purpose does appreciation serve the human race?  Do I acknowledge only the efforts of those who will someday acknowledge my own?  No, for then I would never thank a stranger.  Do I somehow prolong the life of the one I thank by recognizing their efforts?  No, for how could I then prolong my own?  The “thank-you” itself is as much a sacrifice of freedom as the thing provoking the thanks.  I don’t have to give it.  And, yet, somehow I do. Is it even possible that thankfulness could be nothing more than a mere social convention?  An exercise in courtesy?  To whom, then, am I being courteous when I am rendered speechless by the sharpness of blue against clouds and long-shadowed sunlit grass?   Why does my heart seek out an outlet for gratitude?

Socially conventional thank-yous are expected and usually offered as such.  “Please” and “thank-you” the verbal lubricants that decrease relational friction and increase societal symmetry.  But there are other thank-yous.  Occasions of gratefulness when the magnitude of a gift cannot possibly squeeze into any number of letters, any sound uttered by lips or tongue.  Moments of mercy when the silence of what could have been spoken is deafening.  The simple gift of self - open, honest, vulnerable, and accepting to a heart parched and withered by life, a dried “thank-you” gloriously gulping and drowning in the tidal wave of offered understanding.  The overwhelming humility of being given what we cannot gain for ourselves is what gathers together from the farthest outposts of our hearts and souls and minds, condensing the enormity of that experience into a potent verbal extract small enough to slip through our lips.  Huge sentiment, tiny little “Toda” (Hebrew).... Thank-you.  

"Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it."      -William Arthur Ward

        

Pedicabs and Personalities

Full mind.  Empty notebook.  Warm Colorado sun interfering with transference.  Gathering sunbeams in February is generally worth it for its own sake, so I wasn’t too concerned.  Some minutes are just made for soaking in.

Passersby in North Face jackets and wool caps jostled with the skinny jeans crowd up and down the grey stones of Denver’s 16^th Street mall.  Boots - cowboy, Ugg, and otherwise – shuffled along the Sunday pavement, carrying laughter and the rustling of bags to afternoon movies, coffee dates, and lunch at Hard Rock.  I was content to watch them, Bible open on my lap, cheeks and forehead tilted skyward for a dousing of Vitamin D.  I wasn’t in a hurry.

He circled once, his lightly rusted pedi-cab splayed with adverts for local airlines, his clothes rumpled in the way of the occasionally homeless.  “Great boots!”  he called to a group of teen-aged girls giggling on the curb.  The giggling surged and multiplied, climbing an octave and percussed with slightly embarrassed chatter.  “Thanks”, the boldest called back. 

“You girls want a ride up to the other end of the mall?”  Again the swell of high school laughter, awkward for his sake, looks passing between them. “We’re good, thanks!” the well-heeled spokesgirl tossed over her parting shoulder and the band of giggles cruised further down the sidewalk.  He circled twice.

“What’s your favorite verse?” His eyes pointed to my Bible as he perched on his pedals in front of me, one hand on the handlebar, the other scratching his possibly intentional beard.  His cab was Kermit green.

“Zephaniah 3:17”, I said, squinting into the sun.  He was unfamiliar with the reference and cocked his head.

“What does it say?”

“The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save.  He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.”  He mulled it over and wheeled a tight orbit around the nearest bench.

“That’s good.  Mine is Genesis 1:26”.

“And, what does it say?” (I don’t know all the verses).      

“…God said, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness”

I nodded.  “That’s a great one, too”.

“Yeah.  No offense,” he gestured to my Bible with one hand, tucking the other around his handlebar, leaning in on his elbow.  “But, I think God is everywhere.  You’ve just got to look.  He might be showing you signs – you know, like real signs that say, ‘Awake’ or ‘Turn Around’ and when you see them, you know what you should do.  It doesn’t matter how you look for Him, He’s everywhere.”

I nodded again.  “He is everywhere, that’s true”

“Yeah.  Anyway,” he pushed off his elbow and turned his front wheel all the way to his right, knees poised like pistons on the pedals.  “Have a good one!”  Lightly rusted Kermit green flashed in the Colorado sun and he was gone.

Very little delights me more than random theological discussions.  I love to hear other people’s opinions, love to let them settle on my own, then swirl them all around a bit to see what mixes and what separates out.  My philosopher on wheels held views that, though they may be common fare in today’s marketplace of ideas, are actually fairly fascinating.

From his vantage point on this planet, surveying all he had seen and experienced, he concluded a faw things:

      -A Being somehow different and superior to mankind (“God”) exists

      -This God made us to be like Him (“We are made in His image”)

      -This God permeates everything (“He is everywhere”)

      -He speaks to mankind through everyday avenues of our lives (signs, etc.)   

And the subtle inference, this “God” is not the God revealed through the Bible.

Interesting.  What I find intriguing is not that he holds these ideas, but that any of us hold such ideas.  In the agrarian days of old, I understand why mankind would conjure up deities – humanity’s very existence depended on rain and sun and healthy crops.  The forces shaping their lives were uncontrollable and so they sought explanations for those forces, proposing rites and rituals and all manners of behavior to appease the fickle governing gods and live.  

But I find it difficult to believe that a pedi-cab driver in downtown Denver grew up in a farming community, regularly offering sacrifices to the gods of the harvest.  It seems more likely that he, like so many others, looked out at the universe and vaguely recognized a quiet intentionality woven throughout.  Call it karma, call it God, call it Mother Nature or the universe or fate or destiny.  Whatever we call it, it is the sneaking suspicion lying just beneath the floorboards of our minds and resting very near our hearts, that we are not alone.  That a force or power greater and all-together ‘other’ than ourselves stalks the corridors of our existence, filling halls and galaxies known and unknown.  It knows and sees and discerns and rewards and punishes and interacts with mankind through everyday avenues. 

The tendency, as my pedi-cab friend demonstrated, is to view this force as generic – a random positive force dropping helpful hints to humanity through neon.  But, does intentionality not imply reason?  And does reason not imply freedom?  And does freedom to reason not imply personality?  And why should we assume to know anything about the personality living both under the floorboards of our minds and in galaxies known and unknown if it only bumps against us when we – all-important we - are in need of assistance?  Wouldn’t an actual personality, especially one bigger, wiser, stronger, and more pervasive than we, be unsatisfied with mere casual encounters?  If not, why would it have bothered sewing a bit of itself inside our souls, hemming itself into our hearts (“making us in his image”) and lacing every aspect of life with hints of its existence?

And, why in the world would a Hebrew politician who lived 2600 (give or take) years ago imagine or dare to believe that this all-encompassing personality could possibly care enough about him – not his crops, not his rituals, not his national stance on policies or procedures – but him, to attribute such unthinkable character traits in a deity as those he penned?  His God was no wishy-washy generic force lapping up against mankind when the universal tides rolled in.  Nor was He a petty, frivolous God amused with the antics of humanity, dolling out fair weather and bountiful harvests when the mood struck Him.

Zephaniah’s God was overwhelmingly personal – faithful, steadfast, and mighty to save.  A God who intimately examines every soul and can be delighted by the experience.  A God who recognizes our need for assistance but rather than toss pithy generalizations our way, hushes our fussing and fretting with murmurs of love.  A God who, (dare we believe it?) tenderly sings over us, like a mother to her frightened child. 

What bizarre and hopelessly naive characteristics to attribute a vague universal intentionality!  Unless it isn’t vague at all.  Unless intentionality does imply personality and that personality isn’t satisfied with casual encounters and neon theology.  Unless we are more than we seem and worth more than we know. 

Full mind.  Full notebook.  I guess moments in the Colorado sun transfer well after all.  

“A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, of the manifestations of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty - it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute the truly religious attitude..."                      -Albert Einstein 

Happy Enough

I hadn’t had a shower in days.  A real one, anyway.  When you’ve got water for only half an hour out of twenty-four, priorities change.  I think I’d had one two days back, just to wash off salt and sand, lined up in my bathing suit next to ten or fifteen others.  We stood squirming and squealing, brushing soap from our eyes and trying to dodge the older women pushing every available bucket under our spitting streams of water. Cooking, cleaning, and laundry were impossible with empty buckets.

I sat outside, the air hot and dark except for a smattering of far-off twinkles where Heaven had begun lighting candles.  Strains of an accordion and children’s voices singing in Albanian broke through the hovering humidity a few yards behind me, and I was thankful for the coolness of concrete under my legs.  We didn’t have electricity either.  Three (maybe four) orphans had draped themselves over my arms and lap, sleeping and sighing.  Perhaps dreaming.  One of them was drooling down my leg.  That moment – the nasal soothing of accordion against a crashing hidden tide, the star-littered sky and fatherless children settled in my arms – is crystallized in my memory.  I can’t forget because in it, only one thought soaked my tired mind: I couldn’t be happier.    

Funny the things that make us happy.  They’re often not what we think.  If someone had told me that being hot, dirty, and drooled on would bring unexpected bliss, I would have said they were crazy.  But I was there on the July beaches of Albania and I know it, satisfaction rose up in my soul like the ocean on the shore, warm and whipped to foam.  It ebbs up even now, miles and years later in moments I wouldn’t suspect. 

This week many of us mourned the extinction of a great light.  The voice of Whitney Houston will never be heard live again. Other shocking lights have also flickered and faded to black over the recent past – Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse.  Fan or foe, no one can argue that they possessed many of the qualities we who are less than famous want to believe will make us happy: talent, acclaim, success, wealth, beauty, world-wide recognition and approval.   

Sadly, the very “blessings” they received often twist into curses.  Ask any celebrity hounded by paparazzi and opportunists where they find peace or if loneliness floats just under the surface of their relationships.  We who devour the details of their lives do so because it appears that they have arrived – every happiness-inducing brass ring lies within their grasp.  We look at all they have (all we are confident would satisfy us if it were ours), and expect them to be happy.  The Third World looks at us and expects the same.

But, are we?  Satisfied?  Happy?  Where do we find peace? Does loneliness float just beneath the surface of our relationships, too?  

In reality, many of us struggle because we, and the brass rings we endlessly chase, cannot live up to our own expectations.  Success has a mighty reputation, but usually takes more than he dishes out.  Beauty is a fickle lover – the longer we hold her close, the more she slips from our embrace.  Talent won’t do much without effort, determination, and sacrifice tagging along, and, wealth?  Ironically, he satisfies most when we pass him off to others, the aura left in his wake warmer than cold hard cash in our hands.   

Again I return to my question at the root of this written pursuit – why?  Why does mankind continue to chase after goods that case study after case study reveal are not as satisfying as we hoped they would be?  Why do hollowed corners hide in the pockets of our souls?  Why do we crave significance, purpose, and hope unchanging, yet seek them in values that make promises which are transient at best and heart-breaking at worst?  Success, beauty, talent and wealth are satisfying to an extent, but they leave bare places we weren’t prepared to expose.  They aren’t bad, they just aren’t enough.

So, what is enough?  If Whitney, Michael, and Amy had everything and yet possessed nothing, what is it I should press on to possess instead?  If what I think will make me happy in reality doesn’t finish the job, what, then, is sufficient?  What fits into the hollow pockets of my soul? 

I have to wonder if it’s even possible for us to spend our lives searching for something that cannot be found.  Why do we search to be satisfied at all?  Can we hunger for a food that does not exist?  Can we thirst for water that will not flow?  Would we be drawn to withering oasis after oasis if true Paradise didn’t somewhere bloom and breathe?

I have seen fleeting reflections of Paradise from the corners of my eyes, so I know it is there.  Its reflections glance off Heaven’s candlelight and dance to an accordion serenade, they sigh softly in my arms and dribble down my leg.  They whisper of a wealth that is richer, a talent purer, a success greater and a beauty more enduring than my heart dares to hope.  We chase after shadows mostly because, whether we realize it or not, they remind us there is light.  When the brass rings blocking my vision are pushed aside and I stand in that Light, shadows stripped and Paradise rising up like the ocean on the shore, only one thought crystallizes and remains: I couldn’t be happier.      

The Treasure Room

I’ve had a re-occurring daydream about being on MTV’s “Cribs”.  If you’re unfamiliar with the show, it invites viewers to virtually tour the lavish and outrageous homes of the rich and famous.  Cars, high dollar toys and trophies are brought out into the spotlight, displayed proudly by their owners and instilling jealousy in those of us destined to appreciate such toys always and only from the other side of the TV screen.

In my episode of “Cribs”, very little time would be spent on the house, the backyard, or the car (singular).  No pool, no waterfall, no ridiculously expensive grill or outdoor pizza oven made of authentic Tuscan firebricks would find their way to your side of the plasma.  Instead, I would very proudly lead you upstairs and down the hall, past the single sink bathroom and a linen closet to a very ordinary door.  An ordinary door, however, to an extraordinary room.  My treasure room.  Facing the cameraman squarely, I would then explain that the valuables inside are priceless and without equal.  They represent the total accumulation of wealth throughout my lifetime.

With sufficient build up (and, perhaps, a drumroll), the door would slowly swing open and the camera would zoom in.  If you looked for great glass cases softly spilling light on gold or gems, you wouldn’t find them.  The walls are hung with heavy frames, but no canvases lain thick with ancient pigments fill them.  No marble statues grace the wooden floor.  Instead, it is a room of photos - a room of faces.  My treasure room.

Each face represents someone priceless and without equal in my life.  No flashy car or gold plated sink handles could compare.  There are memories attached to every one, some good, some hilarious, some heart-breaking.  If the show could last a thousand years or more, I would stand before each photo and explain to you why that particular treasured face has made me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.  I would tell you stories and we would laugh, the cameraman’s shaking shoulders making your side of the TV a dizzying place to be.  You would think of your own treasured faces and wish you could show them off on “Cribs”, too.  With a room like that, what more could any of us possibly want?

Relationships are important to us.  Something deep inside of every one of us longs to be known - truly known - and valued for nothing more than the existence of our utter selves.  We want to know that we’re more than just useful.  More than just convenient.  We spend much of our thoughts and our energies in attempts to build, strengthen, and repair the relationships in which we are entangled, because relationships, more than anything else, make us feel human.  Sometimes we fail.  Sometimes we succeed.  Either way, most of us keep trying because people matter to us.  And we want to matter to them.  We want to be the face on the wall in someone’s treasure room.       

It’s taken a lifetime for me to fill that room and though the process has sometimes come at great expense, the moments of sweetness shared have been worth the pennies of pain they cost.  It’s taken years and miles and the ache of both stretching wide between my treasures and me to learn the value of that sweetness and the privilege of paying the cost.  Through it, I have learned that a quiet, unspoken secret lies deep and hidden within every human heart.  We hide from its acknowledgement because it seems we want too much; the tender skin with which we cover it quivers both in fear and desperate hope of discovery.  The truth, the deep and hidden truth, is that we want to be “worth the effort”.

We want to be worth the effort of being listened to, even if the listener is tired.  We want to be worth the effort of a home cooked meal, a well-wrapped gift, an “atta-boy” when everyone is busy.  We want to be worth the effort of patience in the midst of our temper tantrums and fits of anger, our depression, our moments of uncontrollable tears and irrational behavior.  We want to be worth the effort of loving when we’re tired, cranky, ugly, and helpless.  We foster the scandalous hope that we could somehow be worth the effort of acceptance in our least acceptable moments.  That no matter what we do, no matter how difficult we become, our pictures will never come down from the wall.

This would be a very curious phenomenon in a universe with no meaning.  If we came from nothing and are headed for nothing, why are we so ravenous for purpose in the middle?  Why do people matter to me, and why does my heart dare to hope that someone, somewhere, would find me “worth the effort”?  If we all want to be treasured, not for our usefulness but for our selves, does it mean there’s an independent system of value lurking somewhere just outside our conscious grasp?  Is there a price upon my life that isn’t determined by my ability to perform, behave, contribute, or succeed?

I believe there is.  If I didn’t, the years stretching out behind me wouldn’t be filled with the sweet and tender faces I love.   Their failure to be perfect would have grated as sharply as my tendency to disappoint; I would have lost patience and let them go, as they would have with me.  We would be brief explosions in each other’s histories rather than weathered links in a chain.  The years stretching out before me would look bleak and lonely rather than bursting with the potential of new faces to frame and place on the wall (I’ve learned that just when you think your heart is so full of those you love that there’s no room left, someone else comes along and you see that the walls stretch after all.  There’s always room in a willing heart for one more).

We want to matter.  We want to be loved.  We want to be valued, even when we feel worthless; loved when we feel our most unlovely.  We want people to be “home” when they’re in our presence, feeling safe, and known and important, as we want to find the same “home” with them.  We want to be worth the effort.  And I, at least, want to know why.  

“Cribs” may not come looking for me, but my treasure room exists - if not right past the linen closet, then in my heart.  If you need a place to call home, I’m not perfect and I’ll disappoint, but my walls are willing and they’ll stretch.  I’ve got room for one more and you’re worth the effort.  Just let me call the cameraman – I’ll need to take your picture…

“Provide… for yourselves… a treasure in heaven that will never fail, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

-The Gospel of Luke, (Chapter 12, Verses 33-34)

An Apology or Something...

“Hello” he said and I looked up.  Shaved head, kind eyes, twenty-something - I recognized him from a week ago.  He motioned to the chair across from me, “May I sit?”

I mumbled a nodding,  “Of course”, shuffling coffee and napkins to one side of the table while nudging my computer nearer the wall to clear space for his elbows.

“I wanted to apologize,” he began, leaning into that space, his elbows perched on the walnut edge, fingers wrapped around the customary white and green cup.  He brushed through the details of our encounter a week before: some mutual acquaintances were passing the time in our coffee shop trying to flirt and teach me inappropriate words in their language.  I, having been exposed to enough games of, “No, it doesn’t mean anything bad – just say it” throughout my life’s travels, had recognized immediately what was going on, but felt trapped by cultural sensitivity.  Uncomfortable pointing out their obviously juvenile behavior, I (repeatedly) tried to politely leave.  Finally, in what I hoped was an appropriately respectful and face-saving out, I asked the kind-eyed twenty-something sitting on the fringe how to say, “Good night” in their language.  I had never met him before, but he seemed the trust worthiest of the group.  He rescued me and I slipped away.       

Now, he sat in front of me, distraught and embarrassed by his friends’ conduct.   “It does not reflect well on my culture,” he explained, “We should not behave like that.”  He stood to leave and offered me his hand, “Please, I hope you do not take offense”.  I shook it, assuring him I did not.  He smiled and left.  Minutes later, I stood for a coffee refill and the barista handed me a drink already prepared.  I was startled and confused.  The barista shrugged, “That guy bought it for you – said it was an apology or something”    

An apology or something.  Although the honest truth was that I hadn’t given the incident a second thought nor had it even occurred to me to be offended, how many times have we wished for an apology?  Or something?  For someone to recognize that we’ve been hurt, that their actions led to consequences and we were wounded in the crossfire? 

Fractured bits of broken hearts hedge the road mankind has been limping down throughout history.  No matter what century or culture, the civil war between every man and his neighbor has claimed the greatest number of casualties.  We humans have a tremendous capacity for offense, whether intentional or otherwise, and others bear the bruises of our choices.  We, in turn, bear the bruises of theirs.  An apology is a balm that aids healing, though deeper scars often remain.

Why do we get offended?  Why do we wish for apologies?  Why are apologies so difficult to give?  Every culture has at least one term/phrase of apology, and some have several.  It seems we all agree that certain behavior is acceptable and certain behavior is not – it demands an apology.  An apology is an agreement that unacceptable conduct has occurred and that it should not have; it begs the offended to forgive. (Note that while some specific actions which offend may vary from culture to culture, the idea of offense, through word or deed, is universal.)  

I believe we get offended, disappointed, and hurt because we have expectations for how we feel everyone should behave.  We instinctively expect others to recognize our inherent value and treat us with respect, kindness, and (gentle) honesty.  Funnily enough, those are the same traits I struggle to consistently find in myself, though I excuse their absence much more easily in my life than in everyone else’s.  I judge others by their actions and myself by my intentions. 

In fact, intention seems to be the lynchpin of offense.  Did someone intend to hurt me or was it an accident? “He/She/I meant well” seems to be the blanket caveat used to excuse all disagreeable deeds.  If the outcome is just as painful, why does intent matter?  Why am I more upset if someone meant to trip me and failed than if someone accidentally tripped me and I fell?  The ache in my soul at the intended wrongdoing is often more acute than the actual physical pain incurred by falling to the ground – why?       

As we continue the quest for an Ultimate Reality, one phenomenon we cannot ignore is the idea that there seems to be a certain underlying standard of behavior: we should, at the very least, intend to do right by one another.  And if we do not do right by one another, we should recognize our failure to do so and apologize.  Where do these expectations come from?  Why are they instinctive?  Why is it so hard for me to admit I’ve done something wrong and apologize?

The expectations which we seem to be consistently incapable of reaching may, at first, seem like the enemy, setting us up to fall.  “No one’s perfect”, we mutter, irritated that people expect us to be.  Would life be simpler without the expectations?  Could we dismiss them if we chose to?

No. I know what my heart is capable of, and I know how my words and choices wound those close enough to get caught in the crossfire.  I, myself, bear bruises of the wars that others have fought with themselves and lost.  Letting go of expectations for kindness, compassion, honesty, respect, dignity, unselfishness, gratefulness, and love can have only one result: the death of hope. Hope is what drives us; hope that the world could be less broken tomorrow by our actions today is the thready heartbeat beneath the skin of every "should".  Expectations are what make hope possible.  Without hope, people perish.  And, I'm sorry, but that’s bad in every language.

"We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made

Forged in the fires of human passions, choking on the fumes of selfish rage

And with these, our hells and our heavens, so few inches apart

We must be awfully small

And not as strong as we think we are..."

-Rich Mullins

The Two Sides of Truth

Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. My feet slapped out the rhythm of the word with every step.  The sky was clear and winter blue, naked spindled fingers of trees raked it as I ran by.  Frosted oxygen pierced my lungs with every panting breath, and my fingers crawled inside my sleeves, curling up against my wrists for warmth.  Bitter blades of passing winds stabbed color into my cheeks and nose – first blush, then pink.  Then icy shades of red.  My toes were slowly numbing inside my shoes.   I’d been running for ten minutes.  It was 32 degrees.

Five kilometers later, my hands swung free from their sleeves, pumping into the home stretch.   Red still splayed across my cheeks, but fire had replaced ice and they burned with exertion.  My toes felt the weight of each step and a trickle of sweat slid down my neck.  The sky was clear and winter blue, half frozen fountains stubbornly spilled barely flowing drips of water over their fallen brothers as I ran by.  It was 32 degrees.

In the span of half an hour, my reality blew hot and cold – literally.  If you had asked me to tell the truth about how I felt at the beginning of my run, I would have honestly answered “cold”.  If you had asked me at the end, I would have honestly answered “hot.”  However, although I had changed, the temperature through which I was running had not – it remained 32 degrees throughout.  One reality (the external temperature) remained constant, while another (my internal perception of the temperature) fluctuated.

Why does it matter?  Because if we’re going to take a long hard look at the possibility of an Ultimate Reality and what makes it up, we have to understand the difference between personal (subjective) reality and impersonal (objective) reality.  Too often I hear people say, “Well, that might be true for you, but it isn’t true for me.” Or, “Perception is reality”.  Others fight back with ideas about Absolute Truth and make grand sweeping generalizations meant to apply to everyone and everything everywhere.  Who is right?

I think they both are. 

The life I’ve known has simply been the succession of one personal experience after another and I believe in the legitimacy of those experiences.  No one has ever seen the world exactly the way that I do, steeped in the family, the upbringing, the culture, and the relationships I have.  I am uniquely me and everything I come across is cast with a certain hue of experience no one else can fully understand.  Others may have lives painted with a similar palette, but the proportions of this to that, or these darkened pigments playing off of those lighter ones cannot possibly be identical to mine.  All realities any of us encounter are slightly tinted with the shades of our own personal perceptions.  This is what makes the idea of fashioning individual serving sizes of truth seem reasonable.

At the same time, all of my very legitimate personal experiences happened in the context of an independent reality.  The sun shone, the trees were leafless, the frozen fountains half-flowed in a land of 32 degrees whether I went running today or not.  All of those realities existed independently of my experience.  Furthermore, anyone who wandered outside today could have encountered the same sun, the same bare trees and the same fountains.  While their perceptions may have been stained slightly darker or lighter or greener than mine, they still bumped up against the same reality I did.  A family-style truth existed which was greater than mere us.

We humans are made of both body and soul, mechanism and mystery, independent reality and personal experience.  An Ultimate Reality must be able to account for it all.   And yet, if each of us is so unique, seeing the world through our own life-colored lenses, how is it possible to discover any sort of supreme commonality?

Whatever is really Real must be large enough to absorb the truth of everything we can discover “out there” and small enough to satisfy the aching universe “in here”, spilling over into every valley of our souls.  If a thing is real to me and real to you, it’s very likely to be real to everyone.  Mankind, for all its many-splendored hues, does actually share the majority of life’s experiences. 

What, then, is Real?  Love is real.  I know for I have loved and been loved, gladly giving, laughing, listening, sharing, and holding on so tightly there were moments we ceased to be two and dissolved into one.  Because of love, I know that loneliness is real. The company of some I so enjoy that it seems the world drops a color when we are apart.  A note is missing from every chord.  The knees of my heart buckle when I think of the time and space between us.  A hundred people could fill a room, a thousand throng around me, and I could still feel as if the only one there. 

Compassion is real.  I’ve seen it with my eyes, felt the blisters of it on my hands.  I’ve watched the sacrifices made in mud, in hospital rooms, in orphanages and gypsy villages.  Sorrow is real and so is joy.  I’ve encountered them on multitudes of lips and eyelashes, sometimes welling up alone, sometimes side by side.  Life is real, and death.  Breathing and talking and eating and walking, singing and sighing and pain.  The world is a kaleidoscope of experience and perhaps if we look at it closely enough, we can discover the spring from which all its colors flow.

32 degrees is the freezing point and the fountains I ran past were straddling the line.  Water had frozen and water still flowed; the dripping diamond-kissed result a glittered work of art.  No matter the shape, however, no matter how rigid or fluid, no matter the weather or the winter blue shade of sky, the substance poised and running over the chiseled stone lips was water. H₂O.  The experience of each drop was ever changing, but its substance remained the same.  Subjective reality.  Objective reality.  The truth lay hot and cold in both.    

"It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from."

--C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

Rosario and Reality

There’s a jumble of delightful Italian chaos tucked inside a specialty shop just off the cobbled streets of Stresa.  Run by a gregarious whirlwind named Rosario, charm and dust mingle on wooden shelves packed with local wines, ancient Balsamic vinegars, and the goldy-green oil of freshly pressed olives.  Spices with hand-scrawled labels are pressed into corners with other secrets of nirvana-inducing Italian cuisine, entire stretches of Tuscan-colored walls devoted to jams and limoncellos, truffle oils and sweet cream honey.

Italian living ebbs with its own particular passions, rising and falling with the sun’s sleepy glow over the waters of Lago Maggiore.  I was determined to savor it, though I was in the area for a conference.  On a free afternoon, some friends and I went hunting for authentic Italy along the uneven paths of Stresa, scavenging for scarves and the other usual non-touristy but still envy-inducing fare Americans in Europe love to collect.   We were admiring some hand-painted serving trays carelessly tossed in a splintered basket when Rosario called to us from her doorway, like a carnival-hawker.

“Come!  You come here and you try some Balsamico.  It is the best in Italy.  My friend, he make it.  It is fourteen years old. You come”.   Rosario’s hair shoots out from her scalp like an iron blond halo and her voice is just as unyielding.  She is not the sort of woman one disobeys.  We stepped in, wide-eyed, breathing deeply the shop’s tangy colors and warm herbal aura with the intentionality saved for those rare moments you sense are in process of becoming extraordinary memories.  Every shelf was magic, every label enchanting.  We could have stayed an hour or forever, but we were meeting others for lunch very soon and said as much to Rosario.

“You come back after lunch.”  It was a command, not an invitation.  “You bring your friends and I do for you a wine and vinegar tasting.  You come.”  What could we do? We nodded.  We would come. 

  

Convincing the others wasn’t difficult, so after pasta and cappuccino al fresco, we traipsed back to Rosario’s emporium.  She threw up her hands at the sight of us, hustling us in and leading us to a dark angled half-room near the back, fussing over us like a hot-blooded Italian hen.  We soon were seated along an ancient oak table, worn smooth in spots by other others who had once breathed in the scents of sweet vinegar and herbs with intentionality.  Her husband perched on a three-legged wooden stool to her left, firmly in her orbit, but never speaking a word.  When we were all settled, she began.

For nearly an hour she lectured and laughed, clapping her hands and pouring potent dark liquids into our tasting glasses.  She would punctuate important thoughts with her index finger, stabbing the musty air near her head, then lowering her voice and raising one eyebrow to give us a sly knowing look.   We knew we were expected to nod in response, whether we had any idea what she was talking about or not.

“I have an American friend” she started, after a long litany detailing the birth of balsamic vinegar and the pressing of olives, “She is very bright.  A psychologist!” Again the finger, thrust into her husband’s orbit, with a dramatic wrist twist for emphasis.  He moved ever so slightly to his left.  “Alfred remembers.  We go to visit her in America, I think it was Pennsylvania, and this woman – a psychologist! She make us lunch before she go to work.”  At this, Rosario closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.   The stabbing finger rejoined her hand and fluttered to her chest.  When she continued, it was in the tones one reserves for funerals and very bad news.

“She make pork chops.”  She stopped, then corrected herself, “Eh -She try to make pork chops.  She put them in the pyrex dish and she-,” Rosario eyebrows arched with disbelief, her slightly bugging eyes imploring each of us to share in her incredulity. “On top of them she pour chicken stock.  Chicken stock!”  She flung her head back and slapped her forehead with the horror of it.  “She tell me to cover it with tin foil and to cook it in the oven for 35 minutes.”  The iron blond halo shook from side to side.  “This woman, she is brilliant – a psychologist!  But, she is a terrorist in the kitchen, I tell you.  A terrorist in the kitchen!”

We all shared a hearty laugh and she settled into her sly knowing look to tell us the rest of the story:  Instead of baking the offending pork chops, she and Alfred snuck into the psychologist’s back yard, dug a hole, and buried them!   The terrorist in the kitchen never knew and Rosario brought forth the authentic taste of Italy meal after meal for the rest of their visit.

Most of us hunger for the taste of authenticity, these days.  So much of the world we live in is fake – fake hair, fake teeth, fake body parts; fake friends, fake personalities, fake celebrities.  Generations of targeted advertising have taken their toll – salesman-sensing skeptics loiter in the back of our minds, sizing up everyone we meet.  Those trying to sell us something are immediately under suspicion.  Our minds and our wallets are equally guarded against swindlers, whether financial or philosophical.  We don’t really trust anyone. 

And because of it, when we happen to stumble upon a rare specimen of authenticity - whether cultural, spiritual, or relational - we take notice.  Although we spend most of our lives hiding behind the projection of a much better self than we know we truly are, when we see others brave enough to be transparent, we envy them.  We value honesty.  Candor.  Being “real”.

Why?  Because we know that if what we see is fake, it is because the “fake” can only exist as a distorted imitation of an actual reality.   Every year, millions of people go to “Italy” in Florida, at Epcot Center.  They visit the pink and white marble 14^th century replica of Doge’s Palace, girded by gardens of olive trees, Mediterranean citrus, kumquat trees, cypress and pines.  Canals echo with baritone strains of “O Sole Mio” from gondoliers in striped shirts, expertly guiding tourists in tapered boats through the waterways.  Bernini’s “Fontana de Nettuno” is there, as well as St. Mark’s Square, Illy coffee and Venetian glass.   But, Rosario is not.  And while no one who visits Epcot is under the illusion they are actually in Italy, it is because authentic Italy exists that Epcot Italy was born.

If we go back to the Big Questions – Who are we? Where did we come from? Is there a God? How should we live? Etc. - our hunger for authenticity reveals that not only is it logical for an actual Truth (vs. non-truth) to exist, it is important to us, as humans, to identify what that Reality entails.  What is “real”?  Is love real?  Loneliness?  The Orion Nebula?  Joy, Compassion, or Dodo Birds?  If we want to know the Truth that lies behind everything we experience, we must first identify what is real, because the authentic Truth must be compatible with every reality we encounter (or else it cannot be true). 

I’ll take the lead in being real and name my bias from the start – I believe in God.  I believe that He made things and spoke up, clearly communicating our purposes and our privileges as mankind.  I don’t, however, believe in swallowing a faith blindly just for the sake of believing in Something.  There are scores of “fake” belief systems for sale in the marketplace of ideas and sheer logic tells us that they cannot all be true, nor can they be equally authentic.  If so many imitations have been born, however, it must be because somewhere in the universe, an Original exists. 

I am not interested in the things that are fake – bury them out back with Rosario’s pork chops.  I want what started it all: the good stuff, the Original, and I believe the only way to find it is to be brave enough to take an honest look at the evidence.  If God is who I think He is, He’s not afraid of my doubts, my fears, or my wonderings.  If He cannot handle the hard questions, He must not be God.

My life has flowed with my own particular passions - through it I have made every effort to breathe life in with intentionality.  I want to taste the reality of extraordinary memories because I need to know that I am real, that my relationships are real, that my experiences are real and that somewhere, an independent Reality defines them.  I can be as brilliant as the next person, but if am focusing that brilliance on imitations that distract while carelessly whipping up a quick, sub-standard explanation for what feeds the hunger inside me, I am not a realist.  I am a terrorist in the kitchen.       

  

“No man really becomes a fool until he stops asking questions”

 -Charles P. Steinmetz