The Argentinian novelist Jorge Borges once observed that the most important work, the work of the written word, is that which, as he puts it, has an "infinite and plastic ambiguity."

   Though given the rather mysterious nature of much of Borges's work, interpreting what he means here is, well, an exercise in ambiguity, he makes this observation in light of what he called sacred texts.  Texts of spirituality and religion, texts that embody and communicate verities not confined to purely material boundaries.

    Put another way, it is sacred texts, texts that speak of transcendent and metaphysical issues and questions, that, although they endeavor to present timeless truths, will also, necessarily, be texts that are open to a certain plasticity of interpretation.  Why?  Because they discuss ideas that, in our finitude, we cannot easily address or resolve.

     Yet as Borges saw it, this ambiguity is also the sacred text's strength.  If we could understand such a text fully, we would not need it to interrogate or grasp reality.  It is only because a sacred text is subject to a certain degree of ambiguity that it is a text which the human being does well to examine.  It meets the finite being with an infinite set of possibilities.

     And that's the point.  Frail beings in a convoluted world, we recognize that it is only by admitting to a degree of uncertainty about the meaning of existence that we find what existence is really all about.

     As Plato and the apostle John realized millennia ago, it is only in the infinite that we find the point of the finite.

       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.

     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 inundating several defenseless countries around the globe.

    "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.
    

     Perhaps you've heard of Chris McCandless, the young man whose quest for meaning became a best selling book, and movie:  Into the Wild.  If you are not familiar with Chris's story, I won't spoil it for you.  Find the book, read it, maybe see the movie, and then ponder the enormity of the human quest for lasting purpose.

    I do not write about McCandless today, however.  I write about another young man whose name was Carl McCunn. Born to American parents in Munich, Germany, McCunn in the summer of 1981 set out to trek alone through part of the massive Brooks Range in northern Alaska.  He hoped to stay at least three months. 

    Unfortunately, due to some miscommunications between him and a number of bush pilots, McCunn had failed to arrange for a pickup by plane.  He had also (foolishly, he later admitted in his diary) disposed of a considerable amount of his ammunition.

    In addition, although an Alaskan state trooper flew over the lake by which McCunn was staying, McCunn, apparently unaware of the protocol for a distress signal, mistakenly waved and whooped at the plane.  Thinking that McCunn was therefore in no trouble (when he in fact was), the trooper left and did not return.  It was an event whose tragedy was on a par with McCandless's not realizing that he was only a few miles from a hut with supplies.

    McCandless starved to death; McCunn shot himself with his own rifle shortly after Thanksgiving of 1981.  Both stories ended in tragedy, but the impetus for them lies in all of us.

    We all want meaning.  It is a desire that drives everything we do, a longing that spawns untold adventure and countless dreams.  It is the stuff of existence.

    An existence, however, frightfully dependent on an even bigger point:  how else could it even be?

     Amidst our rejoicing in the glory it bequeaths, I note that perhaps one of the most amazing places to experience the Summer Solstice is in the northernmost reaches of the continent.  There, be they nestled in the shadow of the mighty Brooks Range or perched on the shores of the Arctic Ocean, we find little villages, little Indian villages in which, for a couple of months, the sun will never set.  Never.

    It's quite remarkable, really, that the light is continuous, always present, always there.  Always ready to enlighten and bless.

    What a world in which to be.  What a world, a world in which we taste not just the ever present light of the sun, but the even greater light out of which this light has come.

    An eternity of moments, or as William Blake said, holding "Infinity in the palm of your hand."

        Ah, the Summer Solstice:  the apex of summer.   Beginning this afternoon, 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.
     

       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.  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.

      

     Pancreatic cancer?  In too many cases these days, such a diagnosis is a death sentence.  Rarely does anyone who is diagnosed escape its clutches.

    When one of my oldest and best friends shared with me recently that he had been given a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, I cratered.  Why him?  Why now?

    There are no reasons, there are no explanations.  The timing and meaning is beyond anyone's ability to fathom.  So when he asked me to pray for him, I of course said I would, fervently and often.  And I told him that although I believed that God loved him, I had to be honest:  I do not always know what such love means, for anyone.  God's love, I said, is often difficult to penetrate and understand.

    But it's there.  When nothing else is there, God's love is there.  Claiming this in the face of a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer is, however, perhaps the supreme act of faith.

    Yet what else ought faith to be?

        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.  

     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 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.

      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 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.

     

     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.
     

    And not to twist it into what we think it should be.  The freneticism of the West often blinds it to what life really is:  a gift from God.  A gift, moreover, not to be taken lightly.
    

     Thanks, Monsieur Gaugin.  Happy trails.

      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 pure aesthetic expression, gifts to those who enjoy beauty and new ways of framing the obvious and familiar.  Steps beyond that are rooted in what is already there.

    Some laughed at Christo; others lauded him.  But that, I think, bears out the point:  art is made to provoke, to provoke imagination, controversy, longing, and dream.  Be it covering islands in massive sheets of cloth or producing a wood carving of a dog that looks like Santa Claus, art expresses, expresses profoundly, the marvel of the human being.  Born to stay, born to roam:  born to always create a new home.

      Fear is a powerful thing, sometimes for good, sometimes for ill.  I think about this whenever I hear or read about a municipality or, worse, national government enacting measures or making decisions which have the net effect of denying adherents of religions other than those which they pursue the freedom to enjoy the various expressions of those beliefs.  We see this when France outlaws a so-called a  "burkini"; we notice it in America when municipal governments from Illinois to Georgia to Massachusetts deny Muslim groups permits to build a mosque or, oddly enough, a cemetery; we see it when assorted factions of a religious worldview seek to prevent members of other factions from exercising their propensities in worship or practice.

     Ultimately, these responses to expressions of religious belief are driven by fear, fear of physical harm, fear of ideological tarnish, fear of political upheaval, and more.  As I said earlier, fear can help, and fear can harm.  In these instances, I believe it to be harmful. Yes, differences, particularly religious ones, make many of us uncomfortable.  On the other hand, we should recognize that we will never agree on everything, nor will we ever live in a world in which everyone thinks exactly alike. Jesus was not born in a monotone world, nor did Mohammad or Buddha emerge in a homogeneous culture.  But their beliefs thrive to this day.

    It seems that the power of God, should we choose to trust it, is more than able to surmount and overcome and resolve the fears of human beings.

    We're not called to deny; we are called to believe.
    

    And we should--in every way.

      Are you familiar with Christopher Hitchens?  Before he passed away in 2011 at the age of 62, Christopher Hitchens was one of the so-called "Four Horsemen" of the (equally) so-called "New Atheists."  In book, column, interview, and debate, he did everything he could to argue against the notion of God.  His most popular book was titled god is not Great.

     A book that appeared recently, The Faith of Christopher Hitchens, written by an evangelical Christian, seems at times to convince us otherwise.  It presents another side to Hitchens, a side that leads some to think that he was not so stridently anti-theistic after all.

     Larry Tatum, author of the book, states unequivocally that Hitchens didn't convert to Christianity before he died.  However, he cites a number of episodes in which Hitchens seemed struck by expressions of sacrificial love.  In these episodes Hitchens appears to be moved greatly by his observations of people who are acting totally selflessly on behalf of others.  He wonders out loud why anyone would do such a thing.

    Quite.  In the end, people will not believe in God because they are afraid of him.  They will believe in God because they believe he loves them.

    Doctrine is important, yes, but Jesus didn't preach doctrine.  He told stories about God's love.  For love, a simple yet at times bewildering love, is what God is most about.

     As many people know, today is the 80th anniversary of D-Day.  For those who lived through it, D-Day was the day on which the Allies made their decisive assault on the Third Reich, a day of immense carnage and pain that led, after many more months of deadly and sustained warfare, to the fall and collapse of Adolf's Hitler's ambitions of a 1,000 year Aryan empire.  It is a day that the West should never forget.  We should never forget to honor and remember those who gave their lives, for they died without knowing the outcome.

    How difficult it is to measure the net worth and effect of our actions.  Likewise, how arrogant it is to assert what we do today means in the counsel of God.

     

    In the end, all we can be is thankful.  Thankful for many things, yes, but supremely thankful that however difficult it is to understand what such pain means, purpose remains.  Vision prevails.  Wisdom continues to reign.

    And how good it is that it is not our own.

     One of the recent issues of Outside magazine was titled "The Meaning of Life."  Though it seems a grandiose title, its sentiments certainly fit the life perspectives of most of those who read it.  After all, the editors argue, as long as we are here, here in this magnificent world, why should we not maximize our enjoyment of it?  Why should we not pursue everything this existence has to offer?

    Fair enough.  Even Ecclesiastes says, in chapter nine, "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might."  Yet Ecclesiastes also reminds in its final chapter that, "Whatever else you do, remember God."  I love adventure as much as anyone.  I've devoted a good deal of my life to pursuing it.  Nearly fifty years living on the other side of faith, however, has made me put adventure in a much different light.  

    Adventure and a zest for life are like candles.  They burn brightly and wonderfully, but eventually they go the way of all candles:  they burn out.    Remembering God is like a candle, too.  It burns brightly and wonderfully, illuminating and framing all we do. 

    Unlike adventure, however, God's candle will always be there for us to remember.

 

     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 integration point of the known world.  For them, Rome was the zenith, the highest, the beginning and end of all civilization.

    Let's look at omphalos as a center, yes, but center as a home, a home that is the beginning of our life journey, a home that, in some way, is also the end of our existence.  A home as that which runs through the entirety of our lives, shaping, influencing, building and, sometimes, tearing apart.  A home that is always there, home that though it may at times not seem present at all, steadfastly weaves itself into the currents of our days.  Home as the center of our world.

     

    Long ago, poet William Yeats asked, "Will the center hold?"  One day, our home, our center, will be gone, as will we.  Shorn of its cohering life force, the center itself will vanish, too. Our omphalos will be no more.  
    

    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?
    

    It almost makes one want to say there is a God.

        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 a personal and pervasive sense of love and purpose exists, humanity must always seek to interpret, and re-interpret, this love and purpose for changing times.

    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, again, likely unwittingly, 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?