Gobsmacked - An Episode of Everyday Apologetics

             

   “Are you aware that everything you have on matches?” This from the clerk behind the bookstore counter.

                Little did she know that she was touching a match to the fuse of a theological epiphany.

                “Believe me, if anything I’m wearing matches anything else, it is not intentional on my part,” I responded. “Perhaps I’m channeling my mother.”

                Mom is - and has always been - well put-together. Me, not so much. My attire is usually a study in entropy.

                On Fridays, we are allowed to wear jeans to the office. The inclusion of blue jeans to my ensemble was the only planned element of my attire. The purse I currently carry is bright blue. (I bought it because blue is my favorite color, and carry it all the time, regardless of what else I’m wearing because… well… blue.) My morning routine on Fridays – in my pre-coffee state of semi-consciousness – is  to grab the first shirt I can lay my hands on. The one I was wearing was acquired at the last IT conference I had attended, and happened to be lime green, with (you guessed it) blue lettering. Which of course matched my purse. My sneakers had LIME GREEN SHOE LACES. What were the odds?

                There is an argument in favor of creationism that goes something like this. If you were in the middle of a desert, and found a watch, what would you think? That it had spontaneously appeared there as a natural phenomenon? No – you would recognize it as the design of an intelligent mind. If the universe is a parallel to the watch, one is inclined to believe that there is also a superior intellect behind its design.

                Gobsmacked in the middle of Barnes and Noble, and confronted with the miracle that my attire actually matched, I had to admit that yes, this is incontrovertible proof, no matter what your religious background.

Kathy’s clothes match today. There is a God.

Candle Wax

When I was a kid, I loved the idea of fire, but my parents would never let me have anything to do with it. This is probably like most children. You want to play with what is forbidden to you. The exception was when there was a birthday, and then sometimes I would get to light some candles on someone's birthday cake. And of course, when it was my own birthday, I would get to blow them out. This was my first introduction to being able to handle a form of fire.

Candle wax is wonderful, until you realize that when it melts, it is almost as hot as the fire itself. When I was a child, at Christmas Eve Service they would give us little candles which would be lit at the end of the service, as we passed the light of Christ throughout the congregation. The candles had little paper holders around the bottom, which in theory would catch the wax, but they never would quite do the trick. We would be holding the Light of Christ, but the byproduct of the light of the baby Jesus would be dripping down onto our hands and burning us. It was an exercise in irony.

It was hot as Hell.

I hadn't thought about what candle wax would do to other objects, either, but once, blowing out the candles on my mother's dinner table, I realized (all too late) that I should have used the little bell-shaped candle snuffer, because the liquid, red wax from the candles blew onto her elegant cream-colored best table cloth, and the stains never came out. We never had much money, and we couldn't afford to replace the tablecloth. The look in my mother's eyes when she looked at that stain hurt me worse than hot wax could ever have done.

You can't have light without heat. And you can't have candle light without candle wax.

The sucker's hot.

The Telecommuning Soul

It is a typical midsummer evening in Montgomery County. The sun has gone down on another hot, humid, and hazy day; yet in the dusk the temperature has started to go down, and the grass is a lush green, thanks to the rain we have gotten lately.

My pup Angel and I enter the pathway, a shaded tunnel on the side of our house, and turn right at the corner of our fence, emerging into the common area. A couple of deer lift their white tails and bolt into the woods. Fireflies rise from the grass like a multitude of the glowing, fervid souls of the redeemed, resurrected in the rapture at the sound of the final trumpet.

This is the physical world, and I love it. Its extreme temperatures become difficult for me to live with in midsummer and the bitter winter, but I try not to complain. In all too short a span of time the lush greens will fade, the air will turn crisp, and then freeze. Those who complain now about the heat will soon complain about the cold.

But there is another world laid over the physical part of our existence – another part of the person who is Kathy Long. Theories of our being describe humans as a dichotomy or a trichotomy, depending on what religious or philosophical view you espouse. If you believe in an afterlife, when this physical body ceases to function, the light that is Kathy Long will go dark in this world, and we hope that it will flicker into existence in another, better, world. That light is usually referred to as my soul or my spirit. (Or both.)

 

Humans are developing in yet another way. With the advent of the Internet, and in particular the Social Web, we have integrated another component into our being.

I first became aware of this phenomenon in the mid-80s, when I became involved with a few online communities. Each of these was fairly isolated from the others, not yet linked together by the "Internet". Depending upon my activities in a given community, I became known as an entity that was separate from (but somewhat the same as) the real-life Kathy Long.

In the community where I was the most active, I took the persona of "ByteSize", and quickly realized that I could present myself however I saw fit. ByteSize may or may not have been very much like Kathy Long, depending on how much of myself I wanted to reveal. The important idea was that in this digital incarnation, people didn't first see a thirty-something stay-at-home mother of two who ran her own business from home. Rather, I was known online for my ideas, and my ability to express them. Therein lay a great deal of personal liberation.

A friend of mine in this group referred to himself as "a telecommuning soul", and even now this label appeals to me. I still find that some of my deepest and most enduring relationships are carried on via the Social Web and the Blogosphere.

And this was prior to Facebook. Prior to the Internet unifying these various "online services" and enabling them to talk to each other. Forgive me if this sounds "too cool for school" but I was involved in online communities long before Facebook was a twinkle in Mark Zuckerberg's eye.

A man by the name of Nicolas Carr has recently written a book entitled "The Shallows", whose main premise is that the Internet is re-wiring our brain circuits. The main gist of his argument is that our activity on the Internet is damaging our minds.

There are others who feel that there is only a change in the way our mental circuits process information, as the brain constantly changes and adapts to our every experience. And this change isn't a bad thing. One of these is Tom Stafford, a lecturer in Psychology and Cognitive Science at the University of Sheffield, UK. To the question "Does the Internet change your brain?", he responds that everything we do changes our brains, including making a cup of tea, and it's not anything to worry about.

So put your mind at ease.

Our lives have a new dimension. We exist in the physical world; the world of the soul; and now also the world of bits and bytes. And maybe the Kathy Long you see on the Social Web or the Blogosphere is a better representation of her true self, as thoughts and feelings fly free of the strictures of the physical world.

When I Go Home

Grandma Smith. Grandma Chamness. Aunt Katie and Uncle Lloyd. Uncle Lyle. Daddy.

These are the people whose spirits are always somewhere in the back of my consciousness. They are the ones who loved me unconditionally, and had hopes for me. I, and the children born to the family in my generation were at one time The Hope of the Future. In the days approaching a trip home, their spirits solidify in my mind and memories, and become more real. As I near Home, they are a welcoming committee, watching me cross the threshold into southern Illinois. And when I am Home, I miss them more than ever, because when I arrive, their places are empty.

Now there is Mom, and a couple of cousins. We often remember the others and miss them together. I am who I am, because they helped me start my life. And I hope that I can live it in a way that would have made them proud.

Sometimes I have a sense of them as the "cloud of witnesses" - that they see me from afar. And I hope they are proud of the woman I have become.

I'm always shocked at the way things have changed, as in my mind I remember the Zeigler/Carbondale/whatever of yesterday.

I'm always pleasantly surprised by the persisting love and bonds that still exist between myself and those I love.

I feel sorry for people who have never had a real "home" that they can come back to.

A Dyslexic Devotional

Q: Did you hear the one about the dyslexic insomniac agnostic?
A: He used to stay up all night, wondering if there was a Dog.

Bear with me, I actually am going somewhere with this thought. And the thought is Unconditional Love. The only two places I have found it in this life are from God, and from my dog.

I will talk about my dog first. I have heard people say they wish they were as perfect as their dog thinks they are. Sometimes I fall short of perfection, but my dog still wants to be with me, and looks at me with adoring eyes. I may yell at her, or discipline her, but she forgives me every time. Every time I walk through the door, I am greeted with enthusiastic, unreserved love. It is a Wonderful Thing.

I certainly don't want to trivialize the love of God by comparing it to the love of Dog, but can only say that there are many people in the world who will never know true unconditional love. My dog is not aware of my imperfections, but God is; yet he readily forgives us and loves us unconditionally.

That leaves the rest of us who are neither Divine nor Canine. We have a hard time giving OR receiving unconditional love.

We can't give unconditional love, because of our expectations. Something within us wants payment for our love... or at least a quid pro quo. We have an instinctive feeling that THERE IS A PRICE TO BE PAID FOR LOVE. We do something wonderful for someone, and they forget to tell us thanks, they don't do us a favor in return, or they generally take us for granted. Our feelings are hurt.

Or maybe the other person did something that made us angry with them, and we aren't big enough to forgive them and love them. There is a price to be paid for love. Like the statue of Justice, we hold a balancing scale in our hand, and the weights on either side are always unequal. For we humans, loving unconditionally is an impossibility.

We sometimes can't receive unconditional love, either. It is too big, and implies a future commitment on our part. Our cramped and shriveled little souls can't unclench enough to receive it. We know the sinful beings we are, and we know that we don't deserve it.

The good news is that God's unconditional love is free. There is a price to be paid for it, but it has already been paid. All we need to do is stretch out our hearts and our hands and receive it.

How to Survive a Hurricane

First, you need to batten down the hatches, because anything that isn’t heavy enough, or tied to something heavy enough, will blow away. Case in point: we have two trash cans. The one that is currently filled with trash has stayed put in our carport. The one that was empty has blown into the fish pond. I hope the fish (who were otherwise unaffected by the brouhaha) have not sustained any casualties on account of this.

Sally Solara, in her raincoat

We also put car covers on our two convertibles. The more elderly (and most concerning) is our 63 VW. But we have recently acquired Sally Solara, who now has a raincoat of her own.

But when you have finally done all that you can to prepare for the hurricane, it is pretty boring to sit in the house listening to the wind blowing figuratively about your ears, while the rain is coming down at a 45-degree angle. What can you say about this hurricane? Much has already been said on all your local news stations about the fearsomeness of "Frankenstorm."

But from a personal standpoint, wind, rain, gee I hope the roof doesn’t blow off – and you’re done.

Nothing would do but for us to put on our boots and raincoats, and venture outside with our camera, because we needed to make the story personal. Being at the moment snug inside my house, and content to have hot water and electricity, I tried convincing Eric that he should just go outside and take some random pictures. But he thought we should do this “together”. Eventually, “together” meant Kathy standing at the top of the path into the woods, and Eric standing in the woods with the camera, and refusing to come out when Kathy wanted him to.

I kept thinking about the tree we heard falling in the woods earlier, with a rather resounding “crack,” and had visions of another tree falling on Eric, whence the trepidations.

But all was good. Not being successful at luring Eric out of his woodland lair, I grumbled to myself a bit, and then went back into the house, where I awaited the delivery of a photo chip full of pictures. So much for doing it “together.” Wasn't this my original plan?

(Philosophical rabbit trail: many things in marriage are supposed to be “together” but many of them end up apart. Not always a bad thing.)

This is a picture of the water, which had pooled in our back yard, finally running across the asphalt pathway, into the woods. I have to admit, in the 20 years we have lived in this house, this is the biggest pond we have had in our back yard.

Our sidewalk/spillway

And a close-up of leaves being swept across the path. If they were sensate beings, they would at this moment in time be experiencing a feeling of doom and inevitability.

Eventually, Eric came into the house with a photo chip filled with at least 60 photographs. This is what happens when you do something “together.” Suddenly, the proposition becomes a two-headed monster, and I have more artfully-photographed pictures of leaves and water than I know what to do with. But this is a good problem to have.

This is me, at the top of the path, having conflicting thoughts. The first one is “Oh HELL no, I’m not going down that path!” The second one is “If I went down that path, Eric and I would be ‘together’.” The third thought is “If I go down that path, I will never get back up,” succeeded by “Why won’t Eric come out, and be with me?” Shortly after that, I tired of standing in the wind and rain, and went into the house.

It is ironic that our neighborhood is named “The Heights,” because we live at a low point - literally, not figuratively. There is a culvert that runs beneath the common area in back of our house, collects run-off, and discharges it into a creek in the woods. From thence, it becomes part of Great Seneca Creek, which runs into the Potomac, flows past the majesty that is Washington, DC, and thence into the Atlantic. I could make pronouncements here about “no man is an island,” or otherwise blather on about how all rivers run to the sea, but I will spare you.

It’s not exactly Niagara Falls, but it’s ours.

When the kids were small, we would descend this path into the woods and hike around. Especially in the winter, after a snowfall, we would hike down to our own small stream that eventually becomes Great Seneca Creek.

We would tramp around in the woods until we became cold and tired, and then retire to the house for hot chocolate.

Today, however, the path was covered in leaves and water ran down its length, making it resemble a slip-‘n’-slide.

 

The House of God: Mystery and Light

When I have the pleasure of being in a cathedral, I am amazed at the spiritual profundity of the experience. The patina of holiness is expected in the cathedrals of Europe. Washington, DC has its own cathedral, which although a newcomer to the cathedral business (being built in the 20th century) has much the same effect upon me as the great cathedrals of Europe.

This revelation came to me during two recent visits of my sister-in-law, Beth, who is an Episcopal priest, when she requested that we accompany her to worship at the National Cathedral. It was a profound experience.

This past Sunday, I woke up with the intention of going to the National Cathedral for church again, and Eric opted into my plans. Due to logistical problems with our departure from our house, we walked into church just as the processional was starting, and squeaked into a back row. Happily, this gave us a more comprehensive view of the congregation and the nave.

There is a lot of diversity among attendees of the National Cathedral's services, often including tour groups visiting from out of town. This Sunday a group of five people were seated a few rows ahead of us. They seemed to be related, all adults, ranging in age from their 20s to senior citizens. During the hymns, they would raise their hands in old-school charismatic style, and they joined hands during the Lord's prayer. Observing the relationships of those seated ahead of me deepened my own feelings of fellowship as we passed the peace, and progressed through the liturgy.

I was not too concerned with following the liturgy closely, or even singing during all the hymns. I was trying to soak up whatever it was I was feeling in this place. During my youth, we made much of such statements as "The Church is not a building," or "Saying you're a Christian because you attend church is like saying you are a car because you spend time in a garage." Yes, the Church is the people - but bypassing the entire question of what makes one a "Christian," I will say that there are places - buildings - that are the abode of holiness, dedicated to the glory of God. Walking into such a place, even when services are not going on, one feels the mystery of God's presence. I won't try to explain this capital-M "Mystery".

After the service, I wandered about the sanctuary, looking at the stained glass windows, and observing the way the light flowed through them, illuminating the stone walls and the floor. I was entranced, not by looking at the windows themselves, but at how the light transformed other objects.

Light is merely light. According to my junior high school science teacher, one cannot see light, until it hits a physical object which reflects it. Rays of light are merely light hitting dust motes or water vapor, because for light to be manifested, it needs to strike a physical object. In the case of these divinely inspired windows, the light is manifested by whatever else it falls upon.

Stone gray walls dance in a riot of color, Window frames are illuminated in gold. The aisles running the length of the nave become a journey from one window to another, from glory to glory.