Starry night. I thought about Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh's "Starry Night" this week as I contemplated a smartphone stand featuring "Starry Night" that my wife gave me for Father's Day. In 1888, van Gogh wrote a letter in which he connected what he called "a great starlit vault of heaven" to what he considered to be the fact of "God." As I reflect on the countless times I have looked into a crystal clear night mountain sky to take in the millions and billions of stars above me, the Milky Way sweeping before me, the Big Dipper rising to the north, I cannot help but agree with van Gogh.
Sure, some will say, this spectacle is no more than a marvel of evolution, an astonishing picture of the universe's capacity to grow and be. Though I do not disagree, when I compare the staid skies of the rural Midwest with the starry abundance of the mountain landscapes, I remain awestruck by the mystery implicit in creation's dance of life. And it is this mystery, this mystery of simultaneous presence and absence, that pushes me beyond the black and white categories of my humanness. It is this mystery that makes me think that although we may know the universe, we'll never know, fully, life. It is therefore the stars, the "starry night" that opens our eyes to what life is--and can be--the door to God.
By the way, I'll be traveling in the West for a couple or so weeks, so will not posting. I'll catch up in July. Have a good day and thanks for reading!
Summer has come. Those of us in the Northern Hemisphere can now, once more, rejoice in the warmth and bounty that seems to burst out of this season of diachronic splendor. Creatures of technology though we be, we still enjoy the changing of the natural rhythms of the planet. That's who we are.
The word solstice literally means, "the sun stands still" or "the sun doesn't move." People who live in the Arctic know this firsthand: for a couple of months during the summer, the sun never slips below the horizon. Even though for people who live further south the sun rises and sets every day and night, time still seems to stand still. Everything seems to shine, grass, trees, flowers, lakes, streams; the sky seems endless, not a cloud to be seen; and the air could not get any better. The world is perfect, as if heaven, in the broadest sense, has come upon earth, as if a spell, a wondrous and glorious spell has been cast upon the land.
Despite its troubles, our planet remains remarkably predictable and resilient, the work, however hidden, of a God of love and grace whose fact of presence is beyond our imagination. In this God is order, and in this order is us: moral and free beings, free to move, free to seek, free to love.
Enjoy your summer moment.
Did you know that today, June 20, is World Refugee Day?
If we are to acknowledge that God is there and is, in vastly unfathomable ways, working in the cosmos, mysteriously granting love and purpose to all things in the compass of his largely inscrutable and ultimate vision, then why are we not treating refugees more Kindly? The Jewish Bible (Old Testament) overflows with admonitions to help the foreigner and stranger.
Don't we all want better lives for the children of the world?
Sure, I know about Romans 13:1, that God holds final authority over all laws and rulers, and I recognize that we ensure an orderly society when we obey the law, but what seems to be missing in this awful debate over the fate of migrant children--refugees--who come to the southern borders of the United States is the notion, a notion given especial prominence by Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., is that, as Jesus pointed out long ago, it is compassion that is at the center of God's heart. And if a law is not promoting compassion, then it is missing the mark.
Jesus never rejected a child, and Jesus didn't separate children from their parents. Why are we?
"The heavens are telling the glory of God." So goes the initial chorus of Handel's "The Heavens are Telling," drawn from the opening lines of Psalm 19. This is quite a challenging phrase, really, for it asks us to look at the sky and conclude that God is out there, that God is speaking, that God exists. When we couple this with Paul's contentions in his letter to the church in Rome that God's invisible attributes, that is, his eternal power and glory are "understood" through what has been made, we have quite a dilemma. We are faced with asserting that we ought to be able to conclude that in looking at the creation, and only the creation, God exists.
For a person who already believes in God, this is of course is easy. Consciously or not, she has trained her mind to do it. For an unbeliever, however, it's not so easy. It asks her to make an inference on the basis of the sensory data before her. But we all perceive sense data differently; what we perceive depends on what is already in our brains. Hence, to insist that we ought to "understand" that God is there on the basis on sensory evidence is, for some, a stretch.
On the other hand, how else can a transcendent presence make itself known except through a medium that immanent creatures will understand? If we're not looking for God, well, we will likely never find him. Yet if we are looking for God, we ought to look at our world, for it is in the world that we and God come together in epistemological unity.
And we understand.
Yesterday was Father's Day. Sure, it's a Hallmark holiday, but it's still a good day. It's a good day to celebrate our fathers and, if we are fathers ourselves, to celebrate that.
Although I lost my father many decades ago to a heart attack, I still think about him, almost every day. So many wonderful memories. I owe so much to Dad, not just for taking care of me materially, which he did in abundance, but even more for being such a splendid picture of what life could be. Dad embodied for me life's capacity for love and potential, always encouraging me to consider the nearly endless possibilities of existence. With Dad behind me, I felt as if I could do anything. His simple words, "Do your best," still resonate with me today. He was a father, yes, but he was also a friend, a friend whom I miss every single day.
I am so thankful to God for Dad, so grateful for the workings of God's loving vision through which he came into the world. Having Dad in my life testifies amply to the enduring goodness of God. As Dr. John Hall, head cleric of Westminster Abbey, observed as physicist Stephen Hawking's ashes were interred there last week, "If someone is achieving extraordinary things then I believe God is in that process."
Precisely. Dad was extraordinary. Thanks, God, for Dad, and thanks, Dad, for being my Dad.
Have you seen them? I speak of what is popularly called a "squash bug" (its proper name is leaf-footed bug). A curious little insect, a squash bug seems to turn up everywhere lately, outside as well as inside our house. It doesn't seem to be after anything, nor is it ever aggressive. It simply walks around, stops and hangs out, then walks some more. We have watched some of them walk all around the molding on our living room ceiling--and then walk all around again.
So we wonder: why do these insects exist? I don't know. But they are here, and like I do, they live, and like I will, one day they will die. Somehow, some way, it all fits together. We all play a part in the cycle of life, the grand circle of existence, we all spin madly through this world, walking, talking, being.
And then what? Oh, little insect, do you believe there's a God?
"In His grip" ends many letters people of faith, particularly Christians, write to each other. In saying this, these people are reminding their readers, as well as themselves, that despite the many twists and turns their lives make, ultimately, their lives are in the hands of God. In the end, regardless of circumstance, God will have his way. And they're OK with this.
In some ways, this sounds unfair. Here we are, little human beings on a very big planet, trying earnestly to live a meaningful and enriching life, seeking, amidst the countless permutations of existence, to find a path forward. And then along comes this big bad God, a God who is trying, seemingly heedless of what we may want, to ensure that his desire, and only his desire, is fulfilled. We have no input into what ultimately happens. Why should we bother?
I guess it's our choice. Either we believe we are free in a meaningless universe, or we believe we are free in a meaningful universe. Choose the first, we struggle all of our days to make our lives count. Choose the second, we also struggle all of our days to make our lives count. But we can't have it both ways.
On the whole, I would rather struggle with God. I may doubt, I may wonder; I may fight, I may writhe. In the end, however, I will not find anything unless it is there to be found.
And emptiness is never full.
At the monthly meeting of my atheist discussion group this week, we watched a video that presented interviews with various atheists about how they found meaning without believing in God. Young and old, female and male, Western and not, these interviewees shared how even if God is not there, life is nonetheless meaningful.
Although I do not doubt their words, am highly reluctant to define another person's sense of meaning, and strongly affirm the human capacity for choice, I do wonder about the idea of meaning and the human being. In order for us to decide life has meaning, we must understand what meaning is. And in order to understand what meaning is, we must be able to say, unequivocably and unreservedly, that we are meaningful. We end up doing nothing more than agreeing with ourselves.
And we still do not know what meaning is.
For many years, I have had a bird feeder in my backyard. My wife and I love watching how, summer, winter, autumn, and spring, birds come to the feeder to catch a snack. Although most are sparrows, we have seen cardinals, wrens, goldfinches, chickadees, and blackbirds. All are welcome sights.
This year, however, for reasons we do not know, the birds aren't coming. Although we've cleaned the feeder, put in fresh food, and hung it further from our house, no bird has yet to land on it. It's rather puzzling. And disappointing.
Granted, birds have ample food sources during the summer; they may not necessarily need a birdfeeder. Life is good. Yet I find myself calling, in the manner that St. Francis (Francis of Assisi) is said to have summoned birds to himself, to the birds, whoever and wherever they are, to come to our feeder.
It makes me think about the Prodigal Son. He had everything. But he didn't hear his truest call. He only heard what he wanted to hear. Until he couldn't even hear that.
It was only then that God could speak to him.
Come winter, I hope the birds return.
