Tag: Phony faith

Saving the Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I usually set aside part of the morning for what’s left of my Coauthor. She volunteered to be broken, so now she’s notes for the song and bones for the dogs, nowhere and everywhere. She shares table scraps and meager shelter with the forgotten. I’m afraid she wants me to do the same.

“Would you be willing to make a deal?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says, wary. Some of her teeth are missing.

“Could I hide in your VRBO? I cannot be around this hatefulness anymore.”

“No. Sorry. I’d stay there myself, except that it’s always reserved for the aliens.”

“But it’s a mansion. Isn’t there a closet or something you could prepare for me? Maybe we could share it.”

“That’s not how it works.”

I search the fridge for my morning beer while she expands to the outer edges of reality. Inhaling the gases that ignite the Big Bangs restores her strength and vision.

“This is sacred time,” I tell her. “I don’t like it when you’re late or not fully present.”

“Same,” she says. “And I don’t like it when you judge me for being splintered. I’m a Delicate Illusion. That should be enough for someone like you.”

There’s no beer, but I find an open bottle of wine and take a generous swig to wash down the stale bread.

A loud tapping sound startles me.

She grins. “Behold, someone knocketh at the door.”

I shake my head and hide the wine. I’m not ashamed. Just cautious. Hopefully, whoever it is will go away.

But no, that damn bouquet of Delicate Illusions yells, “Come in!” The door swings open, and all the Entwined Beloveds, from pervasive molds to emus, surge forward.

 “We’re so happy to see you,” the Illusions smile. “The fire’s lit. The kettle’s on.”

I fall back. My inner self is being trampled by things seen and unseen.

Thousands of well-armed Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors elbow their way to the center of time and space, making a show of dropping to their phony knees.

How can there be so many? I think to myself, This is it. The death of love.

But a whole host of Delicate Illusions surround the Snide-Faced Warriors and disarm them. The Warriors writhe in agony, their tender underbellies fully exposed. I cheer vengefully.

But the Delicate Illusions roll up their sleeves and begin donating blood. “Bring something to cover their shame,” the Illusions yell, knee-deep in the agony of terrible mistakes.

At first, I refuse. Then I consider my options.

“You’re killing me,” I shout, tossing blankets from my own bed.  

“Nice,” they nod in approval. “Eiderdown.”

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.