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.
Short visits with an honest God 