In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.
Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.…
The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. (Gospel of St. John 1:1-5; 14)
____________________
Merry Christmas, dear friends. May your hearts be filled with wonder and peace; may your hearts overflow with thanksgiving; and may hope never leave you.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
When Faced With The Past, The Strongest Man Cries
Dan Fogelberg has died. His music touched me profoundly. I don't think I would be who I am today without his romantic, lovely, painfully beautiful muse touching my obdurate heart when I was a young man. I am not sure I could have even made it through my first year in college without his soulful, evocative voice.
The snow turned into ... rain.
I told my wife last night that I had always felt I would someday know the man. I feel that way about a number of musicians. I've always felt I'd someday be friends with Bruce Cockburn and Bono, to name but two others. But these hopes are naïve and woefully conceited -- as if I could ever be friends with these eminently talented men. And now Mr. Fogelberg's death -- at best -- delays my dream.
There is some small comfort knowing that Mr. Fogelberg came Down East to die; that he would choose the rugged coastline of New England as his final stop brings me some small sense that we shared at least one thing in common.
Here is a sunrise to set on your sill
the ghosts of the dawn moving near
they pass through your sorrow and leave you quite still
sitting among souvenirs
Peace to you, and Godspeed, my dear man. My heart… forever thankful.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The snow turned into ... rain.
I told my wife last night that I had always felt I would someday know the man. I feel that way about a number of musicians. I've always felt I'd someday be friends with Bruce Cockburn and Bono, to name but two others. But these hopes are naïve and woefully conceited -- as if I could ever be friends with these eminently talented men. And now Mr. Fogelberg's death -- at best -- delays my dream.
There is some small comfort knowing that Mr. Fogelberg came Down East to die; that he would choose the rugged coastline of New England as his final stop brings me some small sense that we shared at least one thing in common.
Here is a sunrise to set on your sill
the ghosts of the dawn moving near
they pass through your sorrow and leave you quite still
sitting among souvenirs
Peace to you, and Godspeed, my dear man. My heart… forever thankful.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Death At The Diner: A True Story
Yesterday (Friday, Dec. 7) I sat in the corner booth of the Peterborough Diner, my back to the wall. Across from me sat my nephew, David, 28 years old, looking far older than he should. I was finishing my BLT and fries, while David talked between bites of his bacon cheeseburger. We were pretty quiet despite the fact that the diner, one of those old metal railroad car-type dives that dots the American landscape, was nearly filled to capacity. Plates chimed in the dish washing-room out back; diners tapped coffee spoons on the edges of white ceramic mugs. There was chatter at the counter; newspapers crinkled.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
The Peterborough Diner is a decent place, as far as it goes. The food is pure grease-and-grill; the menu is cheap and easy, a bi-fold covered in plastic so dirty you want to wash your hands before you eat but, knowing what the bathroom is like, you're convinced such fussiness will not produce the desired effect. For certain, the diner does not evoke images of sterility.
Only a few feet from my left sat John, a thin, wiry and rugged man, about my age, who's the only guy in town who sells and carves gravestones. John had his back to me, propped up as he was on an old, round vinyl-and-metal stool at the end of the counter. To his right, another man sat, a man in his late 50's or so, who I had seen around town many times but did not really know. But I knew his name. Joey.
As I said, I was nearly done with my BLT. My nephew was enjoying his burger and fries. And then I heard John at the counter.
"Joey! Are you OK?!"
Instantly I was up, leaping toward Joey, trying to prevent him from flying backwards off his stool. I tripped and fell, catching myself with my right knee and right hand but still managing to catch Joey with my left hand. I stood up quickly. John was still shouting.
"Joey! Joey! What's wrong, bud?"
John had an awkward hold on Joey, reaching as he was from his seat on the stool. I looked around Joey's rigid body; his lips were distended, drool spilling out of his mouth. His eyes were rolled up in his head. His body was spasmodic. And he was sporadically emitting awful sounds.
Immediately I could tell he was not choking. He had an airway, irregular and spastic as his breathing was. I turned to a waitress.
"Call 911!" I urged.
John kept talking, and I found myself trying to go through a checklist that I could not find. Airway? Pulse? Seizure? How much time? Where's the ambulance? I was suddenly confronted with my own helplessness.
Joey's condition immediately worsened. He gasped, then shrieked eerily. I warned people around me that he might vomit. People moved away in deathly silence. Then Joey exhaled -- a huge exhalation. He did not inhale. I checked for a pulse, but I could not find one. And I looked at his pallor, and it seemed fine. Then, unbelievably Joey exhaled even more than seemed possible. A moment later, a partial inhale, a gulping.
________________________
Just over 7 years ago, my nephew -- who is learning disabled -- was driving his mother, my 44-year-old sister, to the doctor's office when she suffered a heart attack on a lonely stretch of highway. My nephew pulled over, exited the car, and jumped around frantically, waving his arms at the few cars that drove by. No one stopped, so he drove a little further to a farmhouse. He pounded on the door. No one answered. He ran back to the car. He waved. Finally, someone stopped.
My sister never recovered from the massive loss of oxygen her brain suffered that day. Four days later, I would be the one to remove life-support (not the feeding tube) from her. She died in the ICU in the early morning twilight.
__________________________
As Joey struggled to live, I turned to my nephew. Though 28 years old, he looked like an old child. His face was pure panic; he was jammed in the booth and he could not escape. I moved the little I could to give him a pathway out.
"David," I said. "You can go. It's alright to leave!"
He bolted.
The next few minutes were harrowing for me. I was looking at a man's struggle for life, even if his struggle came while unconscious. I could not accept -- at least for Joey -- that his life would end in a diner.
Another man came to our aid. He was calmer than I. I was distracted by this haunting sense that I could not find my mental checklist for first aid. I was only reacting. I wasn't helping. The waitress, on the phone with 911 operators, was asking us questions. We answered, but all rather dumbly. Again I searched for a pulse, but I couldn't find one. Why? Surely if his heart was NOT BEATING, Joey would not be still able to fight this spasmodically.
Suddenly the man next to me said, "He's completely unconscious. Let's lay him on the floor. Hold his head."
I did what I was told. We pulled Joey off of his stool. And then I realized that the reason we had not laid him on the floor sooner was because there was so little room, AND because the floor was filthy. This man can't die on a filthy floor! I said to myself.
Feeling myself utterly helpless, I held Joey's head and prayed for him. This was death, or so it seemed to me. The ugliness that words cannot convey struck me as proof that Joey was dying, his head in my hands. I asked God for a miracle and for mercy. There was nothing but simple desperation in my plea.
When I finished, I kept asking if anyone had found a pulse. ("They said to lay him on his side!" the waitress shouted.) I could hear sirens a couple of blocks away. I checked Joey's arms for medical bracelets. Nothing.
Just as I was about to say that we needed to start chest compressions, I heard a voice.
"Oh, what happened? That's weird."
"Joey! It's John!" shouted John.
The calm man next to me asked a series of questions: "What's your name? where are you? where do you live?"
Joey answered the questions perfectly. He was completely lucid.
"How embarrassing," he said. "Can I stand up?"
"No," I said, still holding his head (it was cold with sweat). "Don't be embarrassed. We are all the same here, Joey; none of us is different. Do you have any history of epilepsy?"
"No, I don't," he calmly answered. "Can I get up now?"
"You stay here, Joey, until the ambulance arrives."
At that, a paramedic walked in, cool as could be. He recognized Joey.
"Joey, bud! What's going on?"
One minute later, Joey walked out of the diner and into the ambulance.
"Your lunches are free today," the waitress said to me and John.
I went and found my nephew.
____________________
Five hours later I received a call from someone who knew Joey and had discovered that I had helped in a time of crisis. It turns out that Joey was rushed to a major hospital for emergency surgery to install a pacemaker. Joey's heart had slowed WAY, WAY down.
But he would be fine.
____________________
Trust me when I say that I was certain I was staring at death in my hands. Death that suddenly opened its eyes, spoke apologetically, and walked out of the diner.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Blahs, Blues and Barack
Friday. A blogger's nadir, the Death Valley of the week. How is it that folks stop visiting on this day of all days? Is Friday 'dress down day' at the office, when everybody takes off for an early and long lunch? Is Friday 'home office day,' where countless workers huddle around laptops -- coffee, spouse and kids nearby -- with Saturday scratching at the door and blogs tossed into the garbage bin?
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
THOUGHTS ON THE FLY, SEATED IN A CAFÉ
The group of elderly folks seated at the tables nearby gathers at this little café every morning of the week, except Sundays. Each is a widow or widower; each lives in this tiny New Hampshire town (population 1,200; Nov. 21). And this morning they are quieter than usual. And one fewer (population 1,199).
Pat H., the jolly old ringleader of this coffee klatsch, died on Thanksgiving Day. She just disappeared, though she was seemingly too alive to ever pass away. But she did, and though the conversation next to me is subdued, it has not stopped. Words keep us going.
Yesterday I luncheoned in this same little café with a man wracked with grief in the wake of the death of his 15-year-old daughter 8 weeks ago. She, too, simply disappeared, though her death was expected for far too long: she died of an inoperable tumor that consumed her brain. Several times during our lunch together tears flowed; I was overcome when he told me that his daughter's last breath was used to say these three words: "I love you."
Words keep us going.
SPEAKING OF WORDS
I can't possibly express my surprise at the lengthy discussion that ensued after I posted my essay, "For Fun: The Speed of Light, Existence, Faith and Atheism." I am awed, impressed, overwhelmed. And tired. I pray no readers were alienated or put off by the debate. I found it remarkably good fun.
ON BARACK OBAMA
On Wednesday, I attended a Barack Obama event in my hometown. Michelle Obama spoke; it was a fine and interesting event. I even willingly put an Obama sticker on my sweater. Why not? He and I probably disagree on everything; I've been critical here that he's been presented as a savior. But the fact remains that he is a decent fellow, a child of God, and a fellow sojourner. There is much that commends him. Above all, I love that he aims to take the high road; his hope is to help restore civility and kindness -- not just in Washington -- but in America's streets. He intends not to engage in the crass demonizing typical of politics; he promises not to engage in 'us' versus 'them', you know, the 'We're-good-and-they're-evil' game which is standard fare everywhere in America. That nasty game is America's real national pastime, if you ask me, and it's called America's Plague.
My one fear is that Mr. Obama and his wife are too good for the White House. How can they maintain the high moral ground when Mrs. William Clinton is going to throw mud at them at every turn? Can they really keep their noses clean in the scrum which is presidential campaign politics?
Really, I have no problem supporting a man who wants to be decent. Barack Obama does not hold views I disagree with because he believes those views are evil and that evil is what America needs. He merely hears the same questions I hear, and answers them a different way. He believes his answers are good, morally good. I can't help but love him, really. Besides, he and I are both 46 years old.
You'll love this, though: When I entered the Obama event, you have to understand that I knew many if not most of the people there, and they knew me. The small 'disturbance in the force' I sensed as I walked through the crowd wearing my Obama sticker was palpable. I knew that I might be ruining the self-image of more than a few: If Bill Gnade likes Obama, well, I can't possibly like him, too! All of us have felt this in our own lives. We like the team we're on, or the one we cheer for, in part because it distinguishes us from the people we know but do not like or do not want to BE like. When you and your best buddies like NASCAR's Jeff Gordon, it is easy enough; but when your worst enemy proclaims a new fealty to the same driver, things turn difficult, and you find yourself tempted to start cheering for Tony Stewart. You get the idea, and it is not far-fetched: there is an elusive psychology that frames those things in which we find our identities. Our favorite political candidates are not outside our psychological need to distinguish ourselves from others. (I wonder if this means that Mr. Obama's goals are impossible: humans cannot rally around a candidate who attracts people so very different one to another.)
But when Michelle Obama finished her speech (I applauded, by the way), a wealthy local woman, at least 10 years my senior, immediately approached me. I know her pretty well; I know she sees herself as progressive. She is what I call a Brand Name: everybody knows her as a shaker and a mover. And what were the first words this person said to me?
"Hi, Bill Gnade. What did you think?" Then, looking at my sweater, she asked, "Did you put that sticker on yourself?"
I chuckled lightly. Yes, yes I did, I calmly replied.
The incredulity was obvious. The doubt was evident: It could not be.
So much for building bridges between us and them.
I would be stopped 6 more harmless and delightful times before I got into my car and drove away.
The Obama sticker is now on my driver's side door -- you know, the left side of my car.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT: Existence, Faith, and Atheism
[What follows is drawn from a comment I made at Debunking Christianity in response to an essay, "The Cost of Atheism." I was sharing my thoughts with a person from Illinois and Wisconsin who writes under the lovely screen name, GoPrairie. Our exchange was fun and gracious.
I've used this argument -- it is really more a puzzle, perhaps even a proof -- many times before. I have used it on the web several times; and it played a central role in Part 1 of a book I wrote (still no publisher). In April, it appeared in an exchange I had with atheist-novitiate Luke Buckham at his blog, O Machine.
I thought that some of you would find it fun, though some of you may find it frustrating. Those of my readers given to debates about theism might find it helpful, for it "proves" a very serious thing. I'll let you read for yourself what that thing is.]
[UPDATE, 12.5.07: Because what follows was originally drafted as a comment -- submitted in a discussion elsewhere -- it was hastily written and edited. As a result of some confusion, and some of my own disappointments with the piece, I am emending it to more closely resemble a well-written essay. Thanks. BG]
I've used this argument -- it is really more a puzzle, perhaps even a proof -- many times before. I have used it on the web several times; and it played a central role in Part 1 of a book I wrote (still no publisher). In April, it appeared in an exchange I had with atheist-novitiate Luke Buckham at his blog, O Machine.
I thought that some of you would find it fun, though some of you may find it frustrating. Those of my readers given to debates about theism might find it helpful, for it "proves" a very serious thing. I'll let you read for yourself what that thing is.]
[UPDATE, 12.5.07: Because what follows was originally drafted as a comment -- submitted in a discussion elsewhere -- it was hastily written and edited. As a result of some confusion, and some of my own disappointments with the piece, I am emending it to more closely resemble a well-written essay. Thanks. BG]
FOR FUN: THE SPEED OF LIGHT AND YOUR EXISTENCE
Let me note this: If the speed of light is finite, and yet it is the "fastest thing" (186,000 miles/sec) in the universe, then it follows that there is no present, there is no "present tense." Every perception MUST be delayed; we only know the past, irrespective of how quickly light reaches our eyes. From object to eyeball, from fingertip to wine glass, there is a delay; even the body's neurology operates at a finite speed. Hence, we only know a present by inference; but such an inference is rooted in faith. †
Let me go with this further. If the speed of light is finite,†º then know that when you look at the stars in the night sky over Wisconsin none of those stars "exists." Only their light "exists;" their fiery furnaces may have gone out long ago. Every single one of them may be gone, burnt out and dead in some distant explosion or some crushing implosion. We CANNOT "know" they are there, we can only know that they once were there, or so we induce from the light we see.
Now, go with me even further. All your life light has been bouncing off of you, traveling about the earth. Imagine for a moment that the light from your skin travels out from the earth and into space. Assuming that you are only about 40-years-old, then you are, in a very real sense, 40-light-years old, too. What does this mean? It means at least this: to the overwhelming majority of the universe, YOU DO NOT EXIST. Anyone 100 light-years away CANNOT know you exist. But, and here's the rub -- YOU DO EXIST. So, alas, we have a problem: Most of the universe cannot even know that life on earth exists -- and yet it does. Nearly every quadrant of the universe could never -- ever -- be shown ANY evidence of your existence, and yet you are in fact a very real being. What does this say about our sense of knowledge? What does this say about our demands for proofs for the existence of God? For if you exist and yet the universe cannot and does not "know" it, then perhaps God exists and you cannot know it -- or do not know it -- yet.
Surely I can at least make this concession: if it is extremely hard for me to prove my own existence to myself,† and if it is hard for me to prove my existence to you, then surely it would be hard for me to prove God's existence at all.
But you do ask for "proof " for God's existence, and I have none. But what if I said that the sun is God? You might counter that the sun is nothing more than a fusion reactor where the helium atom is smashed about. But what if I said this: How do you know God is not a fusion reactor? How do you know God is not a big ball of gas? What I am saying is that just because science has "explained something," it does not follow that science has not described the evidence which points to God; a thing explained is NOT God explained away. God may be proved by my pointing to a prairie dog. How do you know that such evidence is not evidence?
†[To explore this further, please see my essay, "A Letter to Christopher Hitchens;" therein I examine the impossibility of the self proving its existence -- to itself. The main examination occurs following the sub-head, The Transcendental Ego.]
†º[It should be noted that if the speed of light is instantaneous, then there is no delay except that between our senses and our perception. But let's assume that there is no delay even here. With that said, light that is instantaneous removes from us the ability to determine the age of the universe.]
_____________________
I would like very much to thank Chris from "Sorry We're Open" for his kind support and many encouraging words over the last several days. He particularly liked this "proof," and so I felt obliged to share it with the rest of you. If you hate what I've written, well, then direct your ire at Chris. Of course, I jest. But I'd surely love to know what you think.
_____________________
This New York Times piece by physicist Paul Davies is interesting -- especially if you draw your worldview from science. See? Faith is not so bad.
Peace.
Bill Gnade
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
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