In addition to everything else going on around the world this week, we today take note of the celebration of the feast of Eid al Adah.  One of the two great holidays on the Muslim calendar, Eid al Adah celebrates faith.  It celebrates the faith of Abraham, one of the greatest prophets of Islam, and his willingness to obey God unreservedly.  Even when God commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael, Abraham obeyed.  He trusted God.

    Would any of us do this today?  As we ponder why we live, why we are here in this bewildering world, and why we live only to die, we do well to consider Abraham's response.  True, the Qur'an states that right before Abraham raised his knife to Ishmael, Allah intervened and provided an animal sacrifice.  Yet this does not eliminate the dilemma:  why did God ask Abraham to do this?  And why would Abraham obey?

    However, given our finitude and innate frailty, we can no more criticize Abraham than praise him.  Whether we like it or not, we're all creatures of faith, be it faith in a broken self or fractured world, or faith in an infinitely trustworthy God.

    Herein is the central conundrum of humanness.

      We in the West live in the shadow of such tremendous disparity.  A few days ago, my wife and I attended a wedding.  It was a beautiful affair, full of life and wonder, overflowing with joy and good will as several hundred people gathered to honor two young people (and their families) who were preparing to join their lives together forever.  It was a grand occasion, one that my wife and I were loathe to leave.

     When, before my morning workout the next day, I picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headlines, my heart sank.  While we were celebrating the riches of an existence that only living in a relatively safe West can bring, across the world, Ukrainians and Russians are battling each other in seemingly endless and absolutely pointless war; two military factions in Sudan, vying for national hegemony, are forcing thousands of innocents into refugee camps; and floods and high waters are slowly inundating the country of Bangladesh.  And that's just the beginning.

    "To those to whom much has been given, much shall be required," noted Jesus.  Those of us who have had the good fortune to live in reasonably safe parts of the world, while we may have the greater material blessings, we also have the greater spiritual responsibility.  What we have should become the foundation of who we are, what we do, and what we give.  After all, what else is good fortune for?
    

    Never do we want to be on our deathbed and wonder whether we could have given and done more.  By then it will be too late.
     Enjoy the gift.
    

     Omphalos?  What is an omphalos?  A Latin term that appeared often in the annals of ancient Rome, omphalos is best translated as "the center of the world" or the "navel of the universe."  As the proud Romans saw it, their empire was an omphalos, the center, hub, the undisputed lord of the known world.  For them, Rome was the zenith, the highest, the beginning and end of civilization.  Nothing could match Rome, nothing dared challenge it. Why would anyone question the center of the universe?    

     

       

    Yet omphalos cannot be the center unless centering is possible.  And in an ordered yet allegedly meaningless world (an oxymoron for sure), how can centering, a centering of thought, meaning, and belief, be?
    

    Do we really want to deny there is a God?

      Perhaps you've seen photos, perhaps you've seen his actual art.  Either way, I doubt you have forgotten it.  I speak of the Bulgarian born artist Christo (his full name was Christo Vladimirov Javacheff), most famous for the gargantuan sized art projects which he and his wife Jeanne Claude staged around the world.

    Christo and Jeanne Claude focused on covering buildings, bridges, parks, even islands, with enormous swathes of brightly colored cloth.  Buildings include the Reichstag in Berlin; bridges the Point Neuf in Paris; parks Central Park in New York City; and islands Monte Isola in Italy.  Some of his projects cost nearly thirty million dollars.  Christo and Jeanne Claude financed every one of them with their own money.

    Curiously, both said that, on balance, their projects contained no deeper meaning or transcendent truth:  they viewed their work as a purely material expression of a purely material world.

    It's odd, however, that even if Christo understood his art as solely material expression, it remains as a way for people to point themselves toward something bigger than they.  That is beauty, that is humanness.  We're made to seek the larger dimensions of existence, transcendent and all.

    Born to stay, born to roam:  born to always create a new home.

     According to some writers in the Western press, millions of people around the world were gripped by the news accounts of the search for the missing submersible "Titan" after it went missing.

    Maybe so.  As some commentators have remarked, however, why was not the world's attention equally focused on the plight of the hundreds of migrants from various parts of Africa and Asia who apparently drowned when their boat capsized in the Mediterranean Sea?

    Though the occupants of the "Titan" were wealthy and influential, they numbered five.  In contrast, the number of people, largely poor and forgotten refugees, who lost their lives in the Mediterranean was in the hundreds.  Various nations spent millions of dollars to look for the missing submersible; some European nations who could have helped rescue the migrants spent nothing.  They didn't even bother to try looking for survivors.

    How sad that wealth continues to be the line that divides professions of faith from acting on it.

     Are we children?  As I review the recent actions of the American Congress, I'm coming to conclude that, not to be too political, children are managing some of the most significant levers of power at the highest levels of the federal government.

    I cite two incidents.  One, the recent action of the Republicans in the House of Representatives to censure one of its own, Adam Schiff.  Why?  Because Schiff led the work that resulted in the first impeachment of former president Donald Trump.  So now, like children in a playground, the Republicans are "getting even."  Getting even for no other reason than because they can:  like children in a playground.  And many of these Republicans claim to be Christians.

    Two, Georgia representative Marjorie Taylor-Greene's recent words to Colorado representative Lauren Boebert.  She called Ms. Boebert a "little bitch."  And she did so on the floor of the House of Representatives, on the floor of the supposed seat of power for the duly elected representatives of the American people.  And Ms. Greene professes to be a born again Christian, telling everyone who will listen that Jesus had changed her heart and life.

    As a Christian, I find such behavior enormously difficult to fathom, much less accept.

    It's a call to wonder:  what difference does Jesus really make?

     Like millions of other people lately, my wife and I have been watching the Amazon documentary "Shiny, Happy People."  It's about the Duggar family, most famous for its nineteen children and the reality television based on their lives, and their relationship to Bill Gothard and his Institute for Biblical Life Principles.  For those outside of Christianity, "Shiny Happy People" probably confirms their worst visions of what fundamentalist Christianity can be:  rigid, controlling, misogynistic, insular, and more.  For those committed to Christianity, I suspect the documentary stirs a variety of responses ranging from disgust to calls for nuance to suggestions for additional conversation, and more.

    For this Christian, the documentary makes me think about one, the dangers of interpreting the Bible too rigidly and apart from the cultural context out of which it emerged; two, the way that information, of any kind, can be twisted to suit a political or social agenda; and three, the essential point that God is a very big God and we cannot put him into a box of our own making.  We are little people living in a little slice of history and time:  how do we know the big picture?

    I believe in God, I believe in Jesus.  The Duggars and Bill Gothard do, too.  The challenge that all of us face is therefore learning how to understand what this means:  belief is black and white; interpreting and living it is not.

       Ah, the Summer Solstice:  the apex of summer.   Those of us in the Northern Hemisphere can now, once more, rejoice in the warmth and bounty that bursts 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.
     

       It's a day worth thinking about:  Father's Day.  Some of us have poor memories of our fathers; some of us never knew our fathers.  Many more of us have really good memories of our fathers; indeed, our fathers may still be part of our lives.  Regardless, all of us have fathers.

     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 graciously, but even more for being such a splendid picture of what life could be.  Dad embodied for me life's beautiful 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.

     Indeed:  the remarkable beauty of an intentional and personal universe.

      June 19:  Juneteenth.  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 from 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 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.

      

     A few months ago, I received word that Tom, a long time and stalwart member of my atheist discussion group, had passed away.  He was 94.  I liked Tom a great deal and miss being able to talk and banter with him.  His mind was sharp almost to the very end.

    Tom frequently stated his conviction that, given the order and complexity of the universe, there "is an intelligence" from which it came.  But he either could not or would not describe the nature of this intelligence, just to say that its presence was a necessary assumption for understanding the meaning and nature of the universe.

    I of course agree with Tom, that the fact of the universe necessitates positing the existence of something larger and considerably wiser and more powerful than we out of which it came.  Though precisely how this happened is the subject of much debate, what is beyond debate, for me, is that we cannot picture the universe as it is today without acknowledging that, despite the claims of many cosmologists, it could not have emerged out of nothing.  Personality doesn't simply come to be.

    We live in an intentionally birthed universe.

    Thanks, Tom.

     AI?  At my atheist discussion group last night, we talked about AI.  Although the debates over the usefulness or, alternately, the dangers of AI continue to roil the public imagination, most of them overlook a more fundamental idea:  the enduring distinction between "is" and "ought."  That is, even if we can, should we?  And if we do, how are we to do it?

    At this point, the world cannot put AI back into the bag and pretend that it isn't there.  Clearly, it's one of the leading waves of the future.  And the nations of the world can, if they wish, work together to establish ethical guidelines and boundaries for how AI is used.  While we move forward with AI, however, it seems to me that we must keep asking ourselves this question:  even if we can, should we?

    One of the essential premises of capitalism is that, if we can, yes, we should.  Historically and in the long, long run, this premise has generally worked to the world's benefit.  Generally.  "Creative destruction," proponents call it.  Yes, people fall through the cracks, and yes, societies experience upheavals, but all these are part of the larger and necessary process.  In the end, or so theorists say, everyone benefits.

    This begs another question:  how much do we wish to trust the people who are working on AI?  Are they our moral arbiters?  Are they the decision makers for the rest of us?  What are their ethical starting points?

    Again, we cannot turn back the clock.  AI is here to stay.  Nonetheless, we should keep asking ourselves about the virtue, and it is a significant virtue, of our human capacities:  how do we balance our capacities to create with our capacities to be moral?

     It's a lonely image, that of the "Wandering Jew," and the one below in particular.  You may notice that the person in this painting is wandering past the crucified Jesus, past the one who proclaimed that he had come to deliver the Jewish people--his people--from sin. As the wind blows and the storm rages, however, this person is moving determinedly ahead, resolved to keep going another way.

    In many ways, however, all of us walk the path of this "Wandering Jew."  Whether we believe in Jesus, Allah, Krishna, or some other expression of the divine, we frequently forget about him in the course of our daily life.  Perhaps more than we think, we live and breathe with nary a thought of him.  We wander through the storms of our lives, our hearts hardened and chin held high:  we will survive, regardless.
    

    The painting before us captures existence aptly.  Life can indeed be like hiking through a cold and forsaken wilderness.  Small wonder that we try so hard to control it; little surprise that we do whatever we can to contain it.  We want to keep afloat.

    And in most instances, we will.  Yet we all have a choice.  We can navigate life declining belief in anything bigger than what it is, or we can live life believing in the full range of its possibilities.  Only in the latter way, however, will we see the larger point. Otherwise, though we wander determinedly, we will wander from dust to dust, one day coming into being, another day vanishing forever.  It's over.

    

    If we are personal, and we are, there's more.

  

     Have you read Howl?  It's not for the faint hearted.  Written by Allen Ginsburg, one of the so-called Beats of the American Fifties, Howl is a singularly memorable slice of literature, a titanic coming out of the American culture, an honesty about feelings and viewpoints that had rarely heretofore been expressed.

 

    While some have rued the day Ginsburg broke into the cultural scene, in truth, America, and the world, may well be better off that he did.  Yes, Ginsburg penned some rather bizarre, even, by some standards, obscene literature, yet there is no doubt that he and his Beat compatriots shook up the staid world of the lily white American Fifties.  Though they probably didn't intend to do so, they reminded any who looked   between the lines that, although God indeed exists, a personal and pervasive presence of love and purpose, humanity must always strive to interpret, and re-interpret, this love and purpose for changing and particular moments of passage and time.  While God does not change, humanity and its cultures do.

    The challenge is understanding the balance:  the infinite in a finite world or the finite in a finite world.  Whatever else of which Howl may be accused, Ginsburg and his fellow Beats created a path for, in the long run, a profoundly new window into understanding the meaning of God.

    And isn't this the most important thing?

       When I read my bike over some of the rolling hills that surround my neighborhood, I often think about my aunt Jeanne.  It was 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 very different from the frenetic world of the West, 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.

     

    To let the world be as it should be.
     

    The freneticism of the West often blinds it to what life really is:  a gift from God.  A gift not to be taken lightly.  And as I continue to ponder the arduous backpack I just completed, I think even more about the enormous amazing gift life is:  boldness, fragility, glory.

     

    Thanks, Monsieur Gaugin, for helping us see beyond our cultural ken.  Happy trails.

      I returned from my backpacking trip to see what I might call a delicate beauty.  Among the plants and flowers we have in our garden are peonies.  Lovely flowers, peonies bloom profusely in early June.  All through the winter and into the nascent spring, we wait for them to come forth, watching the stalks emerge, the buds appear and, finally, the full flower.

     Almost as quickly as they explode with color, however, the peonies are gone.  Their reign is brief, an evanescent moment of glory that, in the space of a couple of weeks, is over.  For the remainder of the summer, all we see are the rapidly drying stalks, falling onto themselves, not to resurrect for many, many months to come.

    The ancients viewed beauty as a sign of wholeness, a vision of integration and order.  Beauty was an ultimate good.  But it was elusive:  who could really attain it?
       

    So go peonies.  Though we retrieve as many blooms as we can, our time to do so is very limited.  We strive in vain to lengthen it.
    

    And then we're left with the dust of the earth:  a delicate beauty.
    

    If not for God.