Do you think about death?  I believe that, at one time or another in our life, all us do.  We really cannot avoid it:  we're conscious, we're finite, we're almost inherently inclined to view this life as the most important thing.

    From some standpoints, it is.  Whether one believes in an afterlife or not, we usually tend to view this life, this present existence, as that which demands our highest commitment and loyalty.  In many ways, it is the ultimate value.

    So what happens when we face its end?  In "Wit," a play by Margaret Edson, we follow the last days of an English professor as she fades away from ovarian cancer.  Once a leading scholar of John Donne, she is now reduced to a body in a bed, her life now nearly gone.  No longer is she the star, no longer is she acclaimed.  In her final minutes of existence, she remarks, "It came so quickly, after taking so long.  Not even time for a proper conclusion."

    How powerfully does death level our sense of time, space, and place.   Did life even matter?

    What do you think?

    

    Are we lost?  Over twenty years ago, I read an interview with a person I'll call James, a prisoner on death row in the state of Texas.  Earlier in his life, many years before, in fact, James murdered another human being.  In a week, he was to be executed for his crime.  All his life, James had, by his own account, wandered.  He never thought about what his life meant, never thought about where it began or where it was going.  He only did what was immediately before him.

    By his own account, James was lost.

    At some point in his imprisonment, James embraced Christianity.  He gave his heart to Jesus.  Everything changed.  Though he continued to wander, to wander through the permutations of the appeals processes of death row, he also wandered through the many doors he found in his new life with Jesus.  He now knew where he was going.  As he put it in the interview, "All my life, I never had a home.  Now I'm going to have one."

    Sometimes we wander, sometimes we make plans.  Still other times, we have no clue about either one.  Perhaps it is when we are the most lost that we are the most found.

  

     Writing about the French Impressionists recently, an art critic remarked that Cezanne drew his "religion from his art."  In other words, as this critic saw it, in contrast to some people who formulate their art on the basis of their religion, Cezanne reversed the equation and instead formulated his religion on the basis of his art.  It's rather akin to a person who draws her religious inspiration from walking through a forest:  on the basis of her experience in the forest, she develops her religious perspective.  It is in the doing of his art, in the work of his creation, that Cezanne finds his religious moment.

     

    The artists I know do likewise.  As they do their art, these artists find themselves and, usually, a new facet of their spirituality.  A spirituality that, it seems to me, could only be if there is spiritual presence.  A presence that we, necessarily, did not make.

    Otherwise, we're just spinning our wheels.

     You have undoubtedly heard about the wildfires that are currently raging across Los Angeles.  By any measure, they are creating enormous tragedy in the region.  It's difficult to see a silver lining.  Thousands upon thousands of people, rich and poor and inbetween, have lost everything.  Absolutely everything.

    No matter how much or how little we have, to summarily and categorically lose it, particularly when we do not expect to do so, can be singularly and profoundly devastating. Imagine:  one day you have everything; the next day you have nothing.

    It's the most frightful of losses.  Predictably, many of those who are suffering are turning to church and religion to deal with the enormous pain.  When what we have on this planet is suddenly gone, we tend to turn to that which we do not see but that which we want to think is still there.

    Is this a crutch?  Maybe.  At least, however, it is a crutch with purpose.  Unseen purpose, perhaps, but purpose just the same, one bigger than itself.

    Is the world really an accident?

     In his heyday, his heady years of Sixties fame, Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary fame, was known around the world.  The trio composed some memorable songs, one of the most famous was "Puff, the Magic Dragon."  Loosely based on a poem written by one of Yarrow's relatives, who in turn based his poem on an even older poem by Ogden Nash, "Puff" proved to be one of the group's most enduring hits.  Although some suggest that it is in fact about marijuana, Yarrow always denied it.

    No matter.  "Puff" is a fantasy, a story about childhood wonder and intrigue, of youthful adventure and exploration:  the openendedness of existence.  As I contemplate the import of Yarrow's recent passing from bladder cancer at the age of 87, I about "Puff."  Is not the world a fount of adventure and fantasy?

    And I also think about the various eulogies and scripture readings at the funeral of Jimmy Carter yesterday and, in particular, the song performed toward its close:  John Lennon's "Imagine."  Though some might reject "Imagine's" opening words that there is no heaven, none can safely can, I daresay, reject its sentiment of the joy and purpose of human unanimity and equality:  a world in which everyone lives in peace,

    Thanks, Peter Yarrow, and thanks, John Lennon.  And thanks, God, for creating the magnificence of the human being.  

     Have you seen "Complete Unknown," the new quasi biopic of the early days of Bob Dylan?  In general, it has received glowing reviews and has attracted quite an audience of all ages.  It's worth seeing.

    You may remember Bob Dylan from his heyday, you may not.  He's in his eighties and still touring.  While I could say much about Bob Dylan, I will limit it to this observation:  his ability to capture the Zeitgeist of his time.  Most of us can understand, to an extent, our moment; most of us can peer, however slightly, into the future.  Rare, however, is the person who can discern the larger meaning of it all.  Dylan seems to be one of those people.

    Much has been written about Dylan's spiritual perspective.  The way that he frames many of his songs tells us that our vision is limited, yes, but it also tells us that this is only because we do not always see what we should most see.

    We do not know what we do not know.  The world is material, but it could not be so unless its origins are not.

  

    

    A king.  As they studied the Zoroastrian and biblical prophecies about a coming king, the magi--wise men--of  ancient Persia realized this king would be a special king.  In him, the magi saw, God would really come to earth, would really make himself known.

    Small wonder that these people made the arduous journey over the Zagros Mountains, across the arid expanse of Arabia, and onto the international trade routes that coursed through the Levant, to enter Palestine.  Who would have imagined such a thing?

    Epiphany demonstrates that only when we decide to allow the possibility of the divine made immanent will we understand what the world is really all about.

    

    Physical sight is only the beginning.