Tag: Faith

Come Hell or High Waters

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Even though my highly evolved frontal lobe allows me to weigh alternatives, it’s hard to live equivocally, think critically, or keep an open mind. It’s so tempting to explain away contradictions and cling to naïve or wrong-headed beliefs. I suspect most of us do this, come hell or high waters.

And at least in my case, Hell-or-Highwaters usually come, claiming they intend to save me from myself. They go by many names; Hell-or-Highwaters is not my favorite.

“So, what are we defending or pretending today?” they ask as they remove themselves from the sticky wicket of being defined and strip down to an array of naked, undulating possibilities.

“Stop it!” I demand, holding up my hand. “You’re making me sick.”

They shrug. “Nothing wrong with a good vomit now and then.”

“I’m going to have to kill you,” I respond, my voice cold and calm. “All of you.”

“We know, honey,” they nod. “Let’s get on with it.”

Their phony acquiescence is not helpful. “You know I can’t get on with it. I’m not brave enough to be an atheist.”

They seem to find this hilarious. Guffaws rise from the Laughing Buddha in the garden. The winds of Shakti howl. Allah and the Living River giggle like teenagers flirting at a kegger. The hills hold their quaking sides, and brilliant streaks of sunrise release into mirth with such force that the planet is knocked sideways.

This reaction adds insult to injury. “I NEED ONE SURE THING,” I bellow.

“We’re so sorry,” the Choir sings. “But we’re not a thing. We’re a process. A fragile set of evolving constructs. A far, far beyond.”

I make a hateful face and mock their words.

No response.

Of course, no response.

Somehow, I finish typing and lower my leg rest.

 “Let’s roll,” I say to the Iridescent Shadows.

Todd Beamer said those very words as he led the suicidal downing of Flight 93 on 9/11, and with that, the plane intended to be a weapon became a sacrifice. Lives were suddenly ended. Other lives, randomly prolonged. These truths are as brutal as the equations.

Fanatic fervency is not faith, and blind allegiance is not love. The energy we call God is embodied in intricate complexities and barely traceable connections. Thus, we are destined to live amid holy but ineffable words and die in the arms of unlikely possibilities.

“My, my, aren’t we profound today?” Yahweh jokes as the solitary black chicken scratches for worms in the compost. She’s new to the flock, relocated because her sister hens were all killed by a wily racoon. She survived. But understandably, she’s a little skittish.

The Humble Pinky

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Our planet and our better ways of being continue to evolve primarily because of pinky fingers bravely stuck in dangerous holes. The nasty waters of ignorance and greed are thus momentarily, but only momentarily, held at bay.

All dikes and dams eventually fail, and when they do, those trying to help are slimed, tossed about, and contaminated. Ground is lost and only rarely regained. If you wish to do some good in your lifetime, learn to swim in sewage.

“C’mere,” whispers the Supplier of All Pinkies. “Let me clean that mud off your face.”

“Probably not mud,” I admit, embarrassed. “It’s likely chocolate. I’ve been sucking down chocolate so fast that sometimes, I lose control. Good chocolate melts at body temperature.”

The Hound of Heaven licks my face and nods. “Yeah, it’s chocolate.”

I put my hands over my eyes, trying to make it all go away. No luck. The hands come down, palms up in surrender. I stare at the angular pinkies. Such humble, powerless appendages. On its own volition, the left pinky waves. My entire right arm twists to wave back.

The Universe gently takes both hands. Mortal bones glow in the piercing gaze of the Magnificent.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” I ask. “A very bad ship has sailed. We’re awash in human failings.”

“Yes, the ship has sailed,” the Universe agrees. “The ship has always sailed, and it’s always over. That’s not the question.”

Mournful cries of mothers and fathers rise like the scent of decomposing leaves, and the paths of least resistance are worn bare. Tall grass hides the bodies of soldiers, terrified and soon to be sacrificed.

“There are seasons,” the Universe says. “A time for swimming lessons. A time to swim.”

“I’ve had too many blessings,” I say, as the dark storm rolls in.

 I run for the shed filled with life jackets, fishing gear, matches, paper, wood, and goggles. The driving rain stings like bullets. I slip and fall. The shed lifts, breaks, and floats away.

“I got nothing,” I shriek to the fading Universe. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.” 

But in my hand, I find a chocolate bar. The label claims the cocao beans were not harvested by slaves.

“Eat it slowly and cry. Salt preserve things beyond their expiration date,” the Universe murmurs.

“That’s it?” I say, incredulous. This cannot be all. This cannot be right. I look down. I’ve grown very thin. The ancestors are relocating. They wave from distant horizons, inviting me along.

“I’m staying a while longer,” I yell. “I have opposable thumbs and a bit of chocolate left to savor.”  

Then I dog paddle into the murky water, hoping to find my goggles. Hoping to find my way.

Fallibility: The Ultimate F-Word

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Oh, it’s so damn tempting to deny or excuse our own malice or mistakes, but this is a bad idea. Projecting failings onto enemies or loved ones doesn’t work, either. Deliberate unkindness or hidden imperfections cling to the soul and congeal into restrictive outer layers. As defensiveness dries in place, fault lines scar the surface. It often requires excruciating scraping to get back to original skin.

In my experience, it’s better to sit down and face those nasty shortcomings. I recommend having a dark beer in hand. I also make sure my Unifying Force is nearby, willing to listen and reason things through with me.

I usually lead with something like, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but lately, I may have been a little selfish, judgmental, and conniving.”

“Correct you if you’re wrong?” My Unifying Force bursts into belly-clutching gales of laughter. “Selfish, judgmental, and conniving?” She echoes my words between gasps for air. “Stop. You’re making me wet my pants.”

Sometimes, I use other words. Acknowledge other sins. But the ritual is the same. My Unifying Force hoots and snorts in mirth.

This is not infectious laughter. Nothing about this is funny. I don’t know why the Universe finds my confessions humorous, and I’m never sure whether to feel shame or claim vindication. I sit through the cosmic hilarity, setting my intentions, breathing, and yes, glaring and sweating a little.

The storm begins to subside, and I contemplate some form of forgiveness in exchange for another day. But I feel small. Diminished. I’m tempted to drown my sorrows, hop a freight train, or throw my puny body over a cliff. This is like transition time in birthing. Extreme dislocation.

Then, finally, the miracle. The punchline. The tonic. This sacrament is a circle dance. My shadow grabs my hand, and I remember the steps.

All the Unifying Forces sing lullabies to the babies, foxtrot around the graves, and dwell deep in the dung of human fallibilities. Beside us and within us, they shoulder the blame and share the exaltation. Best efforts fail. Bladders leak. Our fingernails are broken and unclean.

But this is how it’s meant to be. Who can tend a garden and stay perfectly pristine?


God (and Dr. Bossypants) Speak

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Some astute readers may suspect that God is well-acquainted with Dr. Bossypants, and this is true. God and Dr. Bossypants had little tête-à-tête this week because they like making up rules that they believe will enhance people’s lives, and they generally like people. At least a little bit. Their combined hubris is something to behold. At times like this, I just sit back and take dictation. We all hope these suggestions will help more than hinder. I know a lot of us are a bit oppositional. Try to resist getting indignant about being bossed around. But if you must, that’s okay. God and Dr. Bossypants are both fairly forgiving.

If There’s A God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

If, in our little fraction of Vastness, there’s a god who demands we worship him above all other gods, I think, well, how about those other gods? What do they have to say for themselves?

And if we continue to destroy our fragile home spinning in the Vastness and end up extinct, I think, well, that’s not very nice, is it? And not at all wise.

And if there are universal laws or holy suggestions about how best to live, I think, well, such guidance should be readily apparent, right? Who would design the creatures of Vastness and hide the best ways?

Then I think, well, the best ways aren’t hidden. We just don’t want to love our neighbors, let alone our enemies. We convolute and complicate to disguise our greed and justify our cruelty. This has been going on for a long, long time. We borrow other people’s sacrifices to quell our fears.

Apparently on crack, the Apostle Paul wrote Oh death, where is thy sting? Well, Paul, I’ll tell you where it is. It’s wrapped in a shroud at the border between the haves and the have-nots. It’s screaming in civilians blown to smithereens by war machines. It’s plastic in the bellies of hungry, hungry children. In fact, Paul, death stings like hell down here most of the time.

And then I think, well, who’s fault is that?

The Silences parade by. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. The Excuses slither by. Phony, ignorant, gluttonous. The Hierarchies hail themselves. The Meek stand at attention. The Humble avert their eyes and bow their heads.

“Hey, Happy New Year!” Big God bounds into my consciousness like an exuberant dog.

“Hello, God,” I nod.

“What’s shakin’ baby?” God jiggles her large bottom. “Got some money? I have a few charities in mind.”

“It’s not that easy,” I protest.

“Ain’t that the truth!” God exclaims, rubbing my head with affection. “Who’s a good monkey, huh? Who’s a good monkey?”

 “Stop it!” I laugh. “No one’s a good monkey.”

“You got that right!” God proclaims. “But get out there and do something nice anyway. Eat some greens. Time’s a-wastin’.”

I shake my head. “I’m tired of greens. And besides, money and time are just abstractions. They’re not real.”

Big God raises an enormous eyebrow. “Hmmm. Let’s see how that works out after you’ve ordered your ice cream. It’s warm today.”

Coins jingle in my pocket as the blazing sun drags my remaining hours across the southern sky.

“Okay,” I admit. “I see your point.”

“I’d like a scoop of salted caramel,” she grins. “And two of coconut crunch.”

Audacity

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

The first day of another week arrived and God declared it good. The chickens have learned to use their new ramp and now vie with the pigs for attention and treats. The pigs are smarter; the chickens are faster and more easily airborne. Relationships always require compromise and tradeoffs. Even God’s and mine.

God is smarter, faster, and more easily airborne. But I’m tenacious.

“So am I,” God declared. “Let’s just enjoy these old lilacs for a bit, shall we? They’re as tenacious as we are.”

We sat on displaced cement steps going nowhere and marveled at the prolific purple blooms, blue sky, apple blossoms, and the speed of dandelion growth. Because I associate lilacs with Memorial Day, I brought to mind dead friends and wondered when I would be joining them. God brought to mind babies and urged me to consider their fat little legs kicking, their loose, drooly mouths smiling.

Thanks to the expansive air and insistent green of spring, I found I could hold the babies and my dead loved ones in the same space, and a profound sense of gratitude arose that surprised God as much as it surprised me.

“Nice,” God said. “That’s some impressive space you’re holding there.”

“I know. Some days, I’m so damn impressive I can hardly stand it.”

“But other days…” God gave me a look. Was it shaming? Understanding? Predictive?

I shot God an equally quizzical look. “What are you getting at?” (If you want to maintain healthy relationships, it’s better to ask than assume. But with God, there will often be too many answers or none at all.

Our newest apple tree has not recovered from the wind-whipped trip home. We should have protected it better. The hours remaining in my life will bring opportunities for despair, kindness, contemplation, meanness, largeness, smallness, giving, and withholding. The pigs will demand more food than is good for them. They’ll squeal and squabble. The chickens will scratch for worms. There will be blooming and going to seed.

God is the pollinator, the fertile idea, the distorted reflection, the broken door. How could I possibly expect a coherent answer?“

“Ah, but you keep asking, and I adore you for that,” God said. “You’re not just tenacious. You’re audacious.”

God’s right. How dare I break my realities into so many pieces, or twist verbatims into poems? But with such a photosynthetic God, how dare I not?

The lilac branches swayed as God summoned a flock of goldfinches, and together they flew toward the glaring, generative sun, leaving me and my audacious tenacity sitting content in a fragrant lavender haze of seedlings and ancestors.

Monovision

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Due to my astigmatism, I wore hard contact lenses early in life, and those darn little things were easy to lose. It took a long time to get a replacement, so I’d wear the remaining lens and become a one-eyed wonder until the new one arrived. This practice trained my brain to be tolerant of monovision—one eye feeds tolerably clear visual information into the brain while the other contributes only fuzzy approximations.

Decades later I had laser surgery and made this arrangement permanent. One eye tells me about things further away. The other allows me to read without glasses. I suspect my brain works overtime to sort this out, but I’m not conscious of that effort.

Monovision is cool. By simply closing one eye, I can remind myself nothing is ever exactly as it seems. My take on reality is based on the way I see things, but it’s not the whole picture. It’s just one view.

“Right on!” God chimed in as I was mulling this recently. “You would not believe how I look to a housefly.”

“True,” I said. “I don’t even believe how you look to me.”

“Is that so?” God asked. “I thought we were on better terms.”

I closed my left eye. Then the right. I tipped my head and considered looking at God upside down, but the thought made me queasy.

“What are you seeing?” God asked.

“Oh, the usual. Needs, vacancies, denial, anger, fear.”

“No, I mean what do I look like?”

“Old. Improbable. Vast. I wish you looked softer and safer, but you’re too vague.”

“Are all your eyes open?”

“I think so.”

“You’re wrong,” the Ultimate Optometrist said. “But I know you’re trying. Let me adjust these lenses for you.”

“No!” I yelled and backed away. Who wants God adjusting the way they see things? In my haste, I failed to glance behind, so I tripped and fell.

God rushed to my side and helped me up. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. My pride was bruised, my fears, fully activated, my body felt fragile and clumsy, but was I hurt?

“That depends on what you mean by hurt,” I said finally. Then with my two eyes open, I looked straight at what I see to be God and added, “Are you real?”            

“Oh, I love how you set me up,” God chuckled affectionately. “That depends on what you mean by God.”

Vertigo

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

God is a dizzy dame who throws her head back and laughs from her gut. Droplets of saliva sparkle in the air. No politely covered mouth for this One. She’s extravagant, repulsive, and contagious. Early in life, I came down with a bad case of God, and it permanently deformed my worldview. To stay balanced, I learned to compensate.

But now, the crystals in my inner ear randomly come untethered and reality spins like a rolodex. I no longer trust any surface or deity presenting itself as stable or defined.

“Remember that coiled rattler under the burdock?” God chuckles as she guzzles Hutterite rhubarb wine. “That was me!” She’s drunk and proud and dancing.

“I’ve never doubted that,” I say, sober and serious.

“And remember how I taught you to breathe?”

I shake my head. God takes credit where credit may not be due. But who am I to question the Source? To protest the inconsistencies, incoherence, and impossible dialectics? The Sophie’s choices and failed states?

God clicks her castanets, sways her hips, and stomps her high-heeled feet. “Yes!” she exclaims. “That’s the question. Who are you?”

The frenzied beat moves her past the limits. The sky gathers force, and hailstones strip her naked. She throws her head back again, her joy maniacal, her hair, a den of vipers, awakened and writhing.

I am unfazed. Bemused. I’ve seen it all before.

“No,” I say calmly. “The question is who are YOU?”

The scene shifts. God is Tevye, singing as if I were Golda.

“But do you love me?” His voice is gravelly. Vulnerable.

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“Do you have a telescope? Or microscope? Can you alter DNA? Of course, you can. But if you plant carrot seeds, do you harvest corn?”

I settle in for a long ramble of nonsensical obfuscations, but God chucks me on the chin and becomes Dr. Seuss, reading from his book Oh, the places you’ll go. “You have brains in your head, feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.”

Despite my instabilities, I know this is true.

“I have no sheep, but there are eight chickens, two pigs, a tiny slice of land, and some hateful, deluded neighbors to care for. Will that suffice?”

“Yes!” Dr. Seuss says. “Oh, love what you love and then love some more. Love so much that your muscles get sore…”

“Shazam. Poof. Be gone!” I wave God away with a smile. “I’ve got work to do.” God winks and squeezes back into that slinky gown. “Me, too,” she says with a toothy grin. “See you around.”

What Condition My Condition Is In

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

A moment or two ago, I was hunkered down in an old Chevy van with two women I admired but didn’t know well. We were finessing undercover maneuvers to abolish some unfair hiring practices. And in the fragile and fractional ways of justice, we succeeded. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were God.

Faith was the slender, quiet one. A shaman. With the help of heavenly beings, she planned her own starvation and left for higher ground. Grace was outspoken. Irrepressible. She had a breast removed as a token of her love. “Statistically, I’m stepping up so seven other women don’t have to do this,” she joked, framing it as a willing sacrifice rather than a curse. These are the ways of the cross as I understand it.

But there is so little I understand.

The drivers of the machines of destruction let their engines idle when they’re not full throttle. I despise this ignorant, highly polluting practice. They are overweight and complacent; their masters are neither. Humans now move more carbon each year than Nature, even when earthquakes and floods are factored in.

Game on, humans. I think to myself as if I were God. You won’t win this one.

“Excuse me.” God emerges from the paralyzing fog of nostalgia and dismay, eyebrows knit downward. “I’d like a word with you, young lady.” Looks like he’s going to grab my arm and drag me somewhere out of sight for a scolding.

“Well, I’d like a word with you, too,” I answer, knitting my eyebrows to match his.

“Word,” he says.

“Word,” I answer.

We laugh.

Fed by riotous tributaries of living words, the clear lake of infinity pools up at my feet. I strip off armor, shelter, clothing, and body; I shed ideas, hopes, fears, longings, and memories. I dip everything in the sacred water, hang it all up to dry, and jump in.

 But I’m cold and uncertain. I have no idea if I should try to swim in my condition.

“And what condition might that be?” God asks, floating by on his back. For some reason, this makes me think of Kenny Rogers and the First Edition.

“Decrepit,” I say. I had been filled with self-pity, but something about that song makes me smile. God shakes his head and points at the shoreline where there are rows and rows of old Chevy vans. And so many smiling people.

Holy Preppering

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

The question of what to believe and what to believe in has plagued humans since consciousness seeped into our thick skulls and we uttered our first Why? So many ways to explain what happens, what matters, and how things are related: Science, sorcery, nature, love, revenge, big bangs, money, freedom, justice, magic, self, country, and a wide variety of gurus, presidents, and Gods; it boggles the evolved mind.

When things don’t go our way, we also ask Why not? We assign culpability for painful, scary, disappointing events. Awful things must be someone’s fault: the failings of the various Gods, the devil’s doing, the stupidity of our fellow humans. It’s comforting to blame.

But such attributions are simplistic and often wrong. Absolutes are always nuanced. We naively pit cause and effect against chance because for a species of meaning-makers, meaninglessness is terrifying.

“Yes,” God agrees cheerfully. “It’s astonishing what humans think up to believe in. Accepting meaninglessness, ever-evolving truth, or limited comprehension is tough.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” I ask.

 God shrugs.

Recently, I had a brief encounter with a bona fide Doomsday Prepper. Talk about meaning-makers! Preppers believe fervently that a specific global disaster is imminent, and they enjoy actively preparing for it, honing their skills to endure against the odds, spinning conspiracy theories late into the night.

They hoard food, toilet paper, and usually, weapons. They have generators, animals, flour grinders, and secret stashes of who knows what else. If they are rich, they are building biodomes where they can live once the rest of the earth is uninhabitable.

Generally, they’ve formed God in their own image. This God wants them to have supplies and ammunition. This God wants them ready. This God wants them to survive.

“That’s so sad,” God says. “So isolating. Devastation around every corner. Enemies on every horizon.”

“I know,” I agree. “And it’s likely self-fulfilling.”

“Maybe,” God says. “But what matters is who you’re prepping to share with and who you’re prepping to kill.”

My heart sinks. “Well, that’s easy. We share with those who are like us and kill those who are not. And we kill anyone who threatens our loved ones or our supplies.”

 God nods. “It takes an enormous amount of prepping to be ready to love your enemies.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I snap, crossing my arms.

“Oh, I think you do,” God says patiently.

“Nice chatting,” I say, backing away. “But I have things to take care of.”

“Going to order another crate of toilet paper?” God asks with a grin.

“Yes,” I admit. “But I’m planning to share the outhouse with anyone who needs it.”