Franz Schubert was one of the most remarkable musicians in Western history.  Immensely productive and profoundly creative, Schubert wrote some of the most ethereal and haunting melodies of all time.  We listen to his music and feel transported, lifted above what is earthly and material, moved into transcendence.

    Schubert's music reminds us that if music only told us what we already know, we probably wouldn't get as much out of it as we do.  We do not need to be reminded of what is obvious and normal.  We rather need to be encouraged to ponder what is beyond the apparent, what breaks down the seen, what splits the visible apart.  We want to know what we, at the moment, cannot.

    Every day we balance, balance between presence and absence, perched on a slippery. boundary dividing yet bridging present reality and ultimate destiny.  We walk in a wisp, gossamer veils stretched between us and the other side of time.

   Then we bump into eternity.  And life becomes bigger than life itself.

     

     Perhaps you can identify with a longing for outdoor adventure, a visceral urge to step out of the regular and normal, to break away from the staid rhythms of quotidian existence. You might wish to be tromping through an uncharted wilderness area hundreds of miles from anyone or anything else.  You may want to seek the deepest unknown there is.

    American novelist Jack London wrote profoundly on this spirit of adventure, this thirst to explore, to topple boundaries, to abandon everything in quest of inner fulfillment.  His Call of the Wild captures this urge perfectly:  the lonely yet determined human pitted against the forces of the distant and remote wilderness, the former seeking meaning, the latter inundating him with it.

     There are many wilds, there are many unknowns.  Although London focused on the wilds of the material world, it's not difficult to see that in seeking the wilds of this world, we cannot help but find the wilds of another.  Finite creatures wandering in a nearly infinite cosmos, we humans need the wilds of transcendent mystery to really see who we are.

        What we say about Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (his birthday was yesterday)?  Although Mozart died, sadly, at the tender age of 35, he produced an array of musical expression that most musicologists agree is unmatched.  As a contemporary said of him, "He was like an angel sent to us for a season, only to return to heaven again."

    Confronted with Mozart's prodigious talents, we marvel.  We marvel at the nature of the human being, we marvel that we are creatures of such remarkable abilities, that we are gifted in a nearly infinite number of ways.  How could such a thing be?

    Such is something for which materialistic evolution has yet to give us a convincing answer.  Its inability to do so reminds us that, consciousness and sentience aside, we, and life, are far more complex than an inexplicably fortunate blend of chemicals.  

    

    Maybe we really are not alone in the universe.

 

        Today, January 27, is International Holocaust Remembrance Day.  It is a day that should cause all of us to stop, think, and weep.  How does one begin to grasp the deliberately engineered deaths of over six million people?  How does one connect with a person who lost the sum of his lineage in a concentration camp?  How can we possibly comprehend being the object of such virulent hatred and racism?

    And how can we categorize those who fomented this horror?

     We can't.  And that's the point.  God aside, evil has no explanation.  It has no point, it has no plan.  It is beyond our ability to fully understand.  Many Holocaust scholars insist, and rightly so, that the Holocaust is an event that surpasses the widest and deepest boundaries of our ken and imagination.  It's beyond intelligibility.
     

    Yet it happened.  So does 1986 Nobel Peace Prize winner Elie Wiesel ask, "How can you not believe in God after Auschwitz?"

    Precisely.  Though the Holocaust overturns all convention notions of who God is, it also affirms him.  Take away God and all we have left is ourselves, our confused and meaningless selves in a dreadfully empty universe.

     Weep for our Jewish brothers and sisters, and pray for those who persecute them.  And believe.  At all costs, believe in the ultimacy of God.

    In a blast from the past, I recently watched the movie The Company You Keep. It's a movie based on a novel, which is in turn based loosely on a real life incident in the lives of the Weathermen, the radical faction of the Students for a Democratic Society who, for a brief period in the early Seventies, perpetrated a campaign of bombings and other violence to bring down what they viewed as the oppressive and established order in the United States.

    Central to the plot is that one member of the Weathermen who had eluded capture for over thirty years and is now a settled and productive member of society is exposed by an intrepid newspaper reporter.  He immediately goes even deeper underground.  As he does so, he makes contact with another former comrade whom he knows can clear his name (it turns out that contrary to what the FBI thinks, he was actually not present when the incident in question, the killing of a bank guard, occurred), a person who, like he, has been living underground for all these years.  So the question becomes this:  will she decide to turn herself in and exonerate him even if it probably means spending the rest of her life in prison?

    Writing some decades ago, a theologian named Francis Schaeffer observed that the protesters of the Sixties were correct about the decadence of Western government and the corporate obsession with individualism and material bounty.  But their methods, he went on to say, were flawed.  On the latter point, it is hard to disagree.  Though many protests were orderly and peaceful, many were not. 

    Later in his life, Schaeffer, who died in 1984, wrote that in the coming years people living in the West will be concerned with only two things:  personal peace and affluence.  As we look at Western society today, it's difficult to disagree with him.  People in the West want their peace, and they want their affluence.  The irony of this, as the protesters pointed out, is that if we value personal peace as much as we do affluence, we will never be satisfied.  If we want personal or spiritual peace, we must set aside our interest in material wealth and consider the ultimate questions of existence.  If we want affluence and wealth, however, we must do just the opposite.
     

    That's why, as I look back on the Sixties from the other side of spiritual conversion, I see that after all these years, the same problem remains.  How do we determine and enjoy what matters most?  Put another way, how do we balance living to meet our material needs (not wants!) with living to understand why we live in the first place?  As many religions have demonstrated, such balance is possible.  It is only possible, however, if we agree, before we do anything else, that there is a reason, a reason beyond our finite and limited scope of purpose and ken, to see life as more than a random accident or quantum whim.  Only when we let go of the immediate will we see essence of our deeper existential purpose.

     Speaking of freedom (as I did Monday), one of the ironies of MLK day was that on that same day America inaugurated a new president who, as far as I can tell, has, historically, paid little attention to the notion of freedom for all.  Although some may say that he is attempting to remedy that, I believe that he will not do so at the expense of the landed and wealthy class whose donations to his campaign helped propel him back into power.

    That aside, one of the most unnerving statements, at least from my standpoint, that the new president made in his inaugural address is, "Just a few months ago, in a beautiful Pennsylvania field, an assassin's bullet ripped through my ear.  But I felt then and believe even more so now that my life was saved for a reason.  I was saved by God to make America great again."

    Really?  History is littered with people who have made similar statements.  People who emerged amidst the flotsam of the human adventure, "shone" briefly, then faded away, buried in the dust to which all human beings will one day go.  What did God think about their assertions?

    Though I cannot say, I believe I know enough about the ways of religion and history know that to claim that one is divinely chosen to "save" a nation is an exceedingly dangerous thing to say.  How can anyone know, absolutely know, the "will" of God?

    As a minister acquaintance of mine told me last week, "American Christians do not know that they have unleashed by voting for Donald Trump."

    Carry on.

    As many of you may know, today the U.S. remembers the birthday of civil rights activist Martin Luther King, Jr.  Central to this commemoration is King's belief, a belief he shared with millions of others, that freedom, the ability to do what one chooses, when one chooses to do it, is one of humanity's greatest privileges and blessings.  We all deserve to be free.

    Freedom is wonderful, and freedom is intoxicating.  But freedom can be frightening.  We often do not know what to do with it.  We frequently do not know what its fullness really means.  We frequently miss the point.  We abuse it terribly.    

    King, however, grasped the larger point:  freedom is only meaningful if it is grounded in something bigger than itself.  It is more than a release from physical bondage, a slip of one material experience to another. 

     We are not free in an accidental universe, a cosmos without definition; we are free in a universe made real by truth itself.

     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.

     I've always wanted to read the memoir of Julia Butterfly Hill, the young woman who, in the late Nineties, spent two years living on a platform attached to an ancient redwood tree to prevent it from being cut down.  Thanks to my daughter thoughtfully giving the memoir to me for Christmas, I finally got the chance to do so.

    It's a very honest account.  Julia leaves out little detail about how she lived on the platform.  Nor does she make any effort to mask the extent of the psychological and physical torment she endured.  Living 180 feet off the ground in the middle of a redwood forest is not always a glamorous exercise.  Although Julia found much beauty in the forest, the harsh winter storms and constant wind throughout the year left their mark on her.  She often suffered brutally.

    But she persevered.  Some might think devoting two years of one's life to saving a single redwood tree is plain silly; others might laud the intention but question whether it was the more effective means of protest.  Still others would accuse Julia of flagrantly breaking the law.  Regardless, her quest to save "Luna" (the name she assigned to the tree) and her meditations on the relationship between humans and the natural world should strike home with all of us.  We humans are intimately connected to the world of which we are a part.  And we should care for it.

    Moreover, how interesting that although Ms. Hill has left her childhood religion (her dad was a traveling Christian evangelist) far behind, she continues to pray.  She prays to a loving Creator.

    Shouldn't we all?  A universe absent love is a universe unknown.

    "Life is all a sublet anyway, of course.  We don't fully own even the bodies we live in; we can't stop them from changing."  So true.  On the one hand, we may feel helpless against the progress of time and aging, powerless to halt our demise; on the other hand, we may feel comforted and, I suppose, innervated that, try as we might, we will not be complete in this existence, for it will never be anything we control.  We're no more than wayfarers and sojourners, sailors on a voyage of, as poet Rainer Rilke put it, a life that is "incomprehensible."

    Yet if life really is incomprehensible, why do we try so hard to think we'll ever understand it?  We try because we think we can; we try because we, consciously or not, believe this life to be more than a "sublet."  We try because we believe that life is more than what we see.  Life will always be this way, for life, like everything in it, is not of its own making.

    We're helpless before what we do not know.

       Who are the Funhogs?  The Funhogs were a group of men, now in their seventies and eighties who, many decades ago, spent their days roaming across the planet in search of adventure.  Some of their names may be familiar to you.  They include people like Yvon Chouinard, founder of the outdoor clothing manufacturer Patagonia; Doug Thompkins, founder of the outdoor equipment company The North Face; and others who are not as well known:  Dick Dorworth, once a prominent skier, Chris Jones, and Lito Tejada-Flores.

     The Funhogs are perhaps most famous for their epic 1968 driving journey from California to the tip of the Americas, where they successfully summited the formidable Fitz Roy in, of course, Patagonia.  They reached the top on Christmas Day.

     1968 is a long time ago, yet the Funhogs still look back on that year as one of the highlights of their lives.  As Thompkins later wrote, "So I give thanks, as I look back, that fate played its mysterious hand guiding me along a wonderful path, in a life with never a single moment of regret.  If I could play it over, I would let it go just as it has, with all the minor bumps that came with it.  Just like those bumps along the last 900 miles from Bariloche to the Fitz Roy valley--sometimes a bit uncomfortable, but still very enjoyable all the way."
     

    Thompkins's words surely underscore the joy and marvel of life, whose twists and turns he attributes to fate and its mysterious hand.  Don't we all wonder why life goes the way it does?  Do not we all occasionally sit back and ask ourselves how it is that we ended up where we are today?

    As we enter into 2025, we should.  Are our lives a collection of glorious moments mysteriously enabled by swirls of impersonal fate?  Or are our lives a collection of glorious moments grounded in the intentional swirlings of a personal God?  In other words, are we glorious moments without a reason to be, or are we glorious moments with every reason to be?