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 16th 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
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