"It is love that believes the resurrection."  So said the twentieth century philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein.  Although I do not know the the precise state of Wittgenstein's spiritual heart, I commend him for this insight.  It is both wise and terrifying.     It is wise because it understands that unless a person genuinely loves God, that person is not likely to believe in the fact of Jesus' resurrection.  True enough.  It's terrifying because it suggests that, apart from a faith in the factuality of an event that occurred over two thousand years ago, a person is equally unlikely to believe that Jesus rose.  We cannot see Jesus today, we cannot see those who witnessed his rising.  We only have the records, the widely attested and verified historical records, those witnesses left us.  As we must do with all of our past, we are always left to reconstruct, on the basis of the evidence available to us, how and why anything happened.  We weren't there.

     Nonetheless, even if these records are historically accurate and true, one is not likely to accept them unless she decides to believe in and love the one of whom they speak.

     That's how faith works.  Even if we have the evidence, in the end, it is only with love, a trusting love in faith, that we believe.

     Faith never said it was easy.

     I've written before about the power of memory.  In reading about a soon to be released movie called "Mr. Jones," I've had occasion to ponder it again.  In a manner reminiscent of Jozef Czapski's Inhuman Land, his account of how he was asked to track members of the Polish Army who had perished in the infamous Katyn forest massacre on orders from Stalin, "Mr. Jones" describes the life of a man who tries to document similar "disappearances" in pre-World War II Ukraine.  It speaks profoundly to the importance of remembering.

     

     Had Czapski not gathered the names of the Polish soldiers who were slaughtered in that cold forest, no one would know about them.  Their loved ones would remember them, yes, but the world would never have known about the tragedy:  these soldiers would never have been recognized as part of the larger human race.  Similarly, had not the protagonist of "Mr. Jones" documented Stalinistic atrocities in Ukraine, no one would know of their lives.  No one would know of the thousands and millions of people of whom Stalin once noted, "One death is a tragedy; a million is a statistic."

     Humanity is incomplete without the memory of all of its members.

     And the memory of God.

        Are you familiar with Hildegard of Bingen?  Hildegard was a late medieval Christian mystic best known for her Scivias, her collection of visions she received from God.  For those with long musical memories, you may recall that thanks to a choral group recording some of her hymns a couple of decades ago, Hildegard became, briefly, an international singing star.

     You may of course reject that God could have given Hildegard visions.  Fair enough:  although her ecclesial superiors eventually decided that her visions were genuinely of God, they did so on the basis of a worldview which she and they already shared.  In a medieval Europe dominated by Christianity, culturally and otherwise, one would have sought independent verification in vain.

     Be this as it may, however, I invite you to consider one of her vision driven observations. It goes as follows, "But now, O human, you wish to investigate Heaven and Earth, and to judge of their justice in God's disposition, and to know the highest things though you are not able to examine the lowest; for you do not know how you live in the body, or how you may be divested of the body."

     If we look past the references to celestial presences, we see Hildegard making an astute assertion about the human race.  We do not know how we live "in the body."  Sure, we know how the human body works, and sure, we know the essentials of life's rhythms--birth, existence, death--but unless we invest in the legitimacy of "celestial presences," we will never know what this grand adventure of life really means.

     We're still trapped in who we are.

     Starry night.  I thought about Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh's "Starry Night" this week as I contemplated a smartphone stand featuring "Starry Night" in a store online recently.  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.

     We're always looking for more.

     Father's Day.  I lost my father, very unexpectedly, many decades ago, to a heart attack.  It was shocking then, and it still is today.  Why did Dad have to go so soon?  Happily, however, I have many, many wonderful memories of my father.  I owe so much to him, 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 astonishing 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 that he and Mom had me, so overwhelmed that God's loving vision bequeathed such a wonderful human being.  Having had Dad in my life underscores for me that although life can be thoroughly confusing, it is nonetheless a fountain of immeasurable joy.  The world is gloriously greater than itself.
     Thanks, God, for Dad, and thanks, Dad, for being my Dad.

     Today, as I mentioned yesterday, is Juneteenth.  It's also the day before the Summer Solstice.  At around 5:00 o'clock, Central Daylight Time, tomorrow marks the apex of summer.   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.
     Appreciate Juneteenth, enjoy your summer moment.

     Probably many more people are aware of tomorrow's date, June 19, than were a year ago.  It is the date, in 1865, on which slavery officially ended in the United States.  As some of us know, President Abraham Lincoln issued, in September 1862, the Emancipation Proclamation, making it effective July 1, 1863.  In this document he stated that this time forward all slaves were to be set free.  Unfortunately it was not until the end of the Civil War that this goal was actually accomplished.  Those who took up arms against the Union were not willing to manumit their slaves without a struggle.

     And what a bloody struggle it was.  So much suffering, so much pain.  So much blood spilled to defend and, alternately, vanquish a lifestyle built upon the forced labor of others.  It was one of the greatest tragedies in American history, one whose effects are still with us today. Prejudice and oppression die very, very hard.

     This is why remembering Juneteenth, as June 19 is often called, is so important.  It is good to remember, it is good to reflect.  It is good to recall George Santanya's prescient words that, "Those who can't remember the past are doomed to repeat it."

     It is also good to realize where we are from.  We're all from dust, dust made into the image of God, dust made to enjoy, to be, to love.  And one day to die.  I pray that we will always live in profound awareness of our place, a place of humility and grace, a place from which we have absolutely no reason to oppress other human beings.  Ever.

     Are you happy?  A recent American poll indicated that, at this time, only about fifteen percent of Americans consider themselves to be "very happy."  Researchers cited many reasons, principally the pervasive financial and medical uncertainty, sparked by the effects of the coronavirus, flooding many American households.  Uncertainty tends to undermine happiness.

     We Westerners crave control.  We spend much of our lives trying to master them.  We never will.  Sociologists have found that it is people who live in non-industrialized societies who are the happiest.  They have more leisure time, they seek only what they need on a given day, and they do not hoard in expectation of difficult times ahead.  They trust themselves, they trust their environment.  Uncertainty is not an issue because they never seek total control of their lives.  They accept them as they are.

     Granted, we could raise all kinds of questions about the wisdom of accepting things as they are.  Nonetheless, there is a reason why so many world religions encourage their followers to focus not on what they can gain but rather on what they can give up.  To give up for the greater good, be it for people, society, or God.

     If we seek our own happiness, we may never find it.  If, however, we seek the happiness of others, we will find our own.

     Just ask Jesus.

     I recently read a review of a new book that explores the history of the scientific method.  As you may know, it was Francis Bacon, the sixteenth century philosopher and scientist whom historians generally credit with developing what we call the scientific method today.  As Bacon articulated it in his Novum Organum, we ought to examine things inductively, not deductively.  By this, Bacon meant that when a scientist performs an experiment, she should avoid drawing any conclusions before she examines all the evidence.  Put another way, she should not decide in advance what the outcome of the experiment should be.

     Bacon's idea has withstood the test of time, repeatedly:  no credible scientist today would deny the usefulness and, to a point, integrity of his approach to evidence.  Most tellingly, Bacon was not an irreligious person.  He was a devout Anglican who believed fervently in God.  Yet he also believed that we should take nothing for granted, that we should not embrace any idea or theory without evidence.

     Hence, when someone accuses a religious person of having faith without evidence, she is missing the point:  in Bacon's world, faith cannot be faith without evidence.

     As the late British philosopher Anthony Flew, a lifelong atheist who, in his eighties, decided that, after much thought and study, God in fact existed, remarked, "I followed the evidence."

     Don't all lives matter?  This is a common retort to the idea that "Black Lives Matter."  Of course al, lives matter.  But this misses the point.  As one of the speakers I heard at a rally I attended in my community last weekend, drawing from Jesus' parable about the lost sheep (Luke 15) pointed out, we should be much more worried about the sheep that is left out than those that are in the fold.  In other words, it is not that one life is more important than another, but rather that it is on those lives that suffer from disenfranchisement and marginalization we should focus.  The "haves" already "have"; it is the "haves not" that need help.

     To say that "all lives matters" is disingenuous.  It overlooks that in the eyes of God, yes, all human beings are equally valuable, but that, unfortunately, some of these equally valuable human beings have systematically downgraded, even rejected, the value and worth of their fellow humans beings, beings whom God loves as fervently as they.

     As America continues to deal with its racism, the racism which, one commentator suggested, is its "original sin," its people should not be retorting as much as they should be repenting.  They should not be offended; they should rather be humble, humble before the still very much present effects of their ancestors' legacy of centuries ago.  God does not look to the proud to change the world.  He looks to those who, as Jesus pointed out in the opening lines of the Sermon on the Mount, are poor and lowly in spirit, who mourn over their sins, and who are submit to the humility, the humility of being human in a world they did not make.

         Earlier this week, in the Zoom meeting of my atheist discussion group, we talked, again, about the possibilities of CRISPR.  As you may recall, CRISPR is a remarkable technique, still very nascent yet very much in experimentation, which enables people to literally change genes in a human being.  CRISPR means that researchers can, in effect, prevent a person from developing a genetic disease such as sickle cell anemia by merely altering this person's genes.

     That's the good news.  On the other side of the coin, researchers can also use CRISPR to "make" a human being according to a parent's specifications.  By altering genes, researchers can ensure that a baby will be born, say, highly intelligent or extraordinarily good looking.  Or emotionally stable.  Or something else.

      The question we therefore face is this:  where do we draw the line?  And the group had no ready answers.  In the end, it seemed that the group landed on a sort of pragmatism, that is, if it works to human betterment, it is right.  But how do we define human "betterment"?  Or how do we define "what works"?  Or what is "right"?

      The weakness of a morality constructed around itself became immediately apparent:  if all we have is this world to decide, then we will use this world to decide.  And we will be right back to square one.

     A couple of days ago, the world of classical music remembered the birthday of the composer Robert Schumann.  Like so many of his contemporaries, Schumann died young, passing out of this world at the age of 45.  In his relatively short life, however, he composed some of the most lovely and ethereal melodies of all time.  His music was full of fantastic and images of other worlds, calling us to dream of things beyond ourselves.

     Ah, the Romantics.  Rebels to the Industrial Revolution, advocates of the senses and imagination, creators of a new picture of God.  Sliding in and out of the nineteenth century, the Romantics strove to push Western Europe past its obsession with technology and open its eyes to new possibilities of what humanity can be.  We are not mere robots of mind and materiality, they said, but creatures of the heart.

     And why not?  We live in a personal world created by a personal God.  Unless we acknowledge this, we would not otherwise know what to do with whom we suppose ourselves to be.

     It was my dear aunt Jeanne who introduced me to the art of Paul Gaugin.  Over twenty years ago, she and my mother traveled to Chicago to take in an exhibit of his work at the Art Institute.  I'm so happy she did.  Today, Gaugin is most well known for his depictions of the people of Tahiti, the island on which he spent his later years.  These paintings depict another world, a world of rest and leisure, openness and unconstructed possibility, a world which people do not try to shape for their own ends, but a world they allow to speak to them.  And from which they learn.

     

     Many Christians point to God's commands, as they are recorded in Genesis, to Adam and Eve to "rule and subdue" the world as justifying anything people might do to survive on this planet.  This is risky exegesis.  To rule well is to care and steward that which one rules, to let the world be as it should be.
     Not to twist it into what we think it should be.  The freneticism of the West often blinds it to what life is.
     Thanks, Monsieur Gaugin.  Happy trails.

     Although for some of us, fire can be an enormous challenge, a force that can, in the space of a few minutes, destroy everything we own.  For others, for instance, those of us who live without electricity and access to the appliances that come with it, fire is a wonderful thing.  For still others, for people who spend time outdoors, camping, hiking, and backpacking, fire can be a welcome comfort on a chilly evening.  And for some more of us, a fire is an added delight in an already warm house on a winter night.
     Many decades ago, when I was doing community development and activism in East Texas, I often visited homes, homes in the poorest parts of the county in which I worked, homes whose sole heating source was a fire.  With dirt floors.  In the United States of America.  Given the systemic racism of the region, I was not surprised:  many people of color were excluded from the economic mainstream.  But I was appalled.
     In many religious traditions, Rastafarian to Hinduism to Zoroastrianism to Judaism and Christianity, however, fire plays a formative role in spirituality.  Symbolically and figuratively, fire is a great purifier.  It speaks of refinement, it speaks of enablement, it speaks of power.  Fire is a phenomenon that frames the call of our lives, a summons to step into the greater power around us so as to capture what we otherwise cannot.  To find the hidden truth of reality.  To embrace the knowing unknown.
     In this week of Pentecost, a Jewish as well as Christian holiday, think about fire.  Think about its wonder and its tragedy, yes, but think also about its posture of transcendence, a transcendence that opens a new world of light.  A light that never ends.
     
     

     I've written before about the power of the desert.  It's weighty and timeless.  As I have been reading Wilfred Thesiger's Arabian Sands, his account of his long ago travels in the so-called Empty Quarter of Arabia, I find myself struck anew at the profundity of those distant sands.  As Wilfred writes, "Time and space were one.  Round us was a silence in which only the winds played, and a cleanness which was infinitely remote from the world of men."  It's no accident that prophets of all religious ilk frequently found their calling in the desert:  where else can we find a place, on this planet, in which time and space are one?
     Or a "cleanness" that is "infinitely remote" from all else?  It is the desert's ability to scour our hearts, minds, and imaginations that represents the core of its power.  We're helpless in its grip.
     And being helpless, be it, as Neil Young sang many decades ago, the inability to fathom the meaning of geese flying across a full moon in late summer, or, even more deeply, feeling inadequate before the idea of God, is what we, frail humans we are, ought to be.  Yes, we can reason, and yes, we can investigate and discover, but no, apart from opening ourselves to the metaphysical unknown, we will never know the full meaning of who we are.
     Helpless we live, helpless we die.  Why?

     Are you hungry?  Probably not.  At least not in a way that approaches starvation.  World hunger has always been with us, of course, but it seems even more pronounced in the wake of the coronavirus pandemic sweeping the globe.  Most tellingly, it has hit places  in which one would not normally expect it to happen:  the West.

     On the other hand, it's not surprising.  In many ways, the Western economies are built on debt, a massive web of interconnected debt.  Nations owe nations, states owe states, corporations owe banks, people owe each other.  Remove one pillar of this shaky edifice, and millions suffer.  Those at the bottom have nowhere to go:  their lives and jobs are expendable.  But those at the top are fine.  They can insulate themselves from the pain.
     This is not God's way.  God doesn't want people to go hungry.  God doesn't want people to be exploited.  God doesn't wish for the few to live at the expense of the many.

     Did not the early church, as Luke so carefully writes, "Hold everything in common?"

     As violence over the death of George Floyd continues to sweep across America, numerous government officials, media pundits, and other commentators have weighed  in.  All reject the mayhem, and most, in some way, affirm the rightness of the protestors' anger.  Almost uniformly, they say that, well, they understand the reasons for the rage.
     Unless one is African-American, however, she cannot really understand the experience of being, even after over one hundred and fifty years since Abraham Lincoln announced the Emancipation Proclamation, socially, economically, and culturally disenfranchised.  Such shoes can only really be worn by those who own them.  Not to say that an outsider cannot support or sympathize, just that, unlike being poor, for instance, being a person of color is an entirely different type of cultural experience.  It's hard to "walk a mile" in another's shoes if those shoes are shoes that one will never be able to wear.
     I weep over George Floyd's passing; I tremble at the racial animosity in America.  I feel profoundly sorry for those who feel so unwelcome in their own country.  But I'm white.  I don't normally encounter high levels of racism; I do not regularly experience being the target of focused and intentional social hatred.  I can't possibly know what that is like.
     It may seem trivial, it may seem trite, but I believe, with Martin Luther King, Jr., that, as he once observed, the arc of the universe bends toward justice.  And like King, I don't believe this only because of the power of social movements, though I endorse them strongly.  I ultimately believe this because I believe that, when all is said and done, we live in a world created, in some fashion, by a loving and personal God.