It is nearly impossible for me to write anything anymore. I have overdrawn my checking account; I am deep in the negative. There are little slips showing up in my mail box: the bank wants its money. I dig deep into my pockets, I search beneath the cushions of the sofa, I paw through the rejectamenta of my car's glove box. Nothing but a few coins.
Surely the bank will not care if I tape them to a card and toss it in the post.
____________________
Perhaps I am exhausted by a particular pleasure. It's a sordid one, I admit, and one thoroughly pervasive in our culture. It is the pleasure derived from criticism, of reading criticism, of being a critic. It is the fatigue that befalls the cynic, particularly the reluctant cynic.
But maybe it's not about criticism. Maybe I am tired of defending what I believe. Maybe I am worn through, having given way like the denim that covered a little boy's knees. Or maybe I am empty, not because I have given too much away, but because I can't find anything to replenish my mind. In this case, it's not what comes out of a man that corrupts him. What corrupts a man is that there is nothing going in.
Perhaps.
____________________
Of course, the problem lies with me, within me. I am a fool for looking "out there" for things to fill the void. The poets and prophets know better (or so they say) and I should too, as I've read their couplets and been burned by their ire. To look elsewhere than myself is to cast blame, to look for a target onto which I might cast aspersions. It is to out-source, if you will, the problem, the cause of the malaise. My grief is not, ultimately, rooted in injustice, or in the vapidity of presidential campaigns, or in the obscenities of culture. My grief is mine: I am the source of my weakness. For I have, in part, put too much meaning, too much import and value, on things outside myself. Such objects of devotion are indeed idols, and they may take the form of real people, like a spouse or a president; or they may be ideas or ideologies or promises uttered by a candidate reported to be as good as Christ.
Indeed, I DO place too much meaning on things. I once was rejected by a woman -- a woman! -- because she thought I held sex in too high esteem: She chided me that sex was "too meaningful" for me. I recall at my 20th high school reunion a conversation I had with an old friend, Helen. She told me that in high school I scared women off because, as she said, "you wanted to get into their heads, and not their pants." How could I reply that I thought that was what women wanted?
I confess my guilt. I have put my hope and trust in things.
_____________________
What does it mean to be happy? Is it enough to to get up in the morning and drink tea while watching the day's birds gather outside on limbs and lawn? Is it enough to ask God to forgive me, again, for forgetting that He is not an idol, a talisman, a magic lamp? And is it enough to say little prayers, just little ones? Is it enough to ask God questions in the morning, and then, beneath the deep night's full moon, ask the same questions again? Does a loving father ever tire of little talks with his children? Is he deaf to the chattering choruses of "why, why, why?" Does he grow weary of giving answers?
In all my years loving birds, I've never heard one bird change its song, nor have I ever grown weary of hearing the same winged symphony. Let the chickadee sing the same song all day, for it comforts me. The crow soothes me. The oriole and the rose-breasted grosbeak bring me no small joy.
Of course, I correct myself. There is one bird I know that does change its song. I will not mention that bird here, for its name almost suggests harassment. But I love that bird's nocturnal tunes, though its voice is that of all other birds (and other similar sounds) and not its own. Perhaps today I am like that bird -- that voice of many voices -- calling out in the night, trying out many songs, hoping to land on one that is, in the end, the voice I thought I had.
And I wonder, in the end, if happiness is really rather simple, and it has just one voice: Gratitude.
Peace.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Showing posts with label Asking God Questions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Asking God Questions. Show all posts
Friday, April 18, 2008
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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
On Belief: My Great Protest
My dear readers,
I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.
Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.
________________________
Why do any of us believe what we do believe?
________________________
A Tangent
A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????
_______________________
THE QUESTION EXPLORED
Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?
My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.
This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.
And yet ...
I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.
That seems rather problematic.
Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).
Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.
But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.
Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.
Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?
Such puzzles.
I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."
I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"
In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"
The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.
Peace to you, this day, and forever.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
I've been too busy to write here, but I have not been away from blogging. I won't steer you toward what I've been up to -- elsewhere -- but I will say that I am tired. My fatigue is not the kind one feels after some arduous task or struggle; rather, it is the kind one feels from spending too much time in one's head.
Suffice it to say, I am tired of trying to sound convincing.
________________________
Why do any of us believe what we do believe?
________________________
A Tangent
A few questions come to mind. They emerge randomly to me; they carry no import of any expedience. They just merely show up, bowing their heads while standing atop a ball: ?????
- If Jesus the Christ is real, and if He was a blogger, what would He blog about? What tone would He take?
- If Christ accepted comments at His blog, what would be the first question you'd ask?
- If Satan is real and he had a blog, what would he write about? What question would you ask him?
- If there is a God, does He love Satan? If so, why? If not, why not?
_______________________
THE QUESTION EXPLORED
Why DO we believe what we do? Is it not a matter of desire, of will? Do I believe in Christ merely because it is my desire to do so? Is belief nothing more than an act, a choice, a decision?
My non-believing friends, be they atheists or agnostics or materialists or empiricists, inform me that the cosmos possesses no inherent "meaning." In other words, there is nothing of religious import -- or the equivalent -- in the universe that exists independent of human consciousness. Moreover, there is no meaning or purpose not only intrinsic or extrinsic to the universe, there is no equivalent in human consciousness: there is nothing in your thought-life that impels you -- by force of law, rule or precept -- to think certain ways. You can, pretty much, do whatever you believe is right, meaningful and purposive. Ultimate meaning and purpose is up to you: the object of your adoration, worship or motivation is yours to create, and you need not even create a thing.
This, at least to me, is the materialist/atheist worldview in a nutshell. It is an idealism of mammoth proportions, for it only exists in the human mind and that mind is the only place it can ever exist.
And yet ...
I wonder if it's true? For I note that now that I've written down this great truth about the cosmos -- that no truth exists independent of the mind who creates or at least affirms it -- there seems to be some possibility -- however remote -- that the very act of communicating this truth -- by merely writing it down -- renders the truth false. The proposition "All minds find meaning on their own terms" appears to this writer as something quite like an absolute that transcends any individual mind, for it is meant to apply as the law of all minds. In other words, there is something extrinsic that binds humans together: Humans must create. There is no exception. You have no choice in the matter. And I communicate this to you: you do not find it for yourself.
That seems rather problematic.
Moreover, if I say that morality is always evolving, that an individual's personal ethics are shaped by the expectation of any social group in which an individual exists, I must admit that morality is absolutely always evolving, mustn't I? And if I admit that, then I must admit other absolutes, like what was once preferred is not now preferable; what was once good is now not; humans must change; standards are dynamic and never static. Of course there is something static, e.g., humanity, evolution, society (as a concept), and choice: humans (static) evolve (static) in society (static) willingly (static).
Have I, as I wrestle through all of this, merely mangled my arithmetic? If humans MUST create, then there is no choice; if humans evolve by willing to create, then choice is real. Irrespective of my apparent fallaciousness, the assumptions are meant absolutely: they are not created.
But none of this matters. What matters is that I do not see how to explain why a person believes what he or she does independent of that person's will. I can never, ever present a case for the truth of Christianity that could be described as irresistible. I think such a thing impossible. And I note that those who aim to discredit Christianity or theism cannot possibly argue from a position of absolute compulsion, either. There is nothing any of us can say to each other that can change another's heart. We believe, and belief is a choice.
Perhaps, then, a good question in debating another person about God's existence or non-existence is to ask what it is our interlocutor desires? What does he or she want to believe? What sort of universe do they want to accept? For if an atheist, for example, says to me that he wants his beliefs in the universe to conform to what the universe is as described and defined by science, then he is admitting that his beliefs come from outside him: he is saying that something that he did not create defines his beliefs: he can't help but submit to reason and the hard, brute facts afforded him by his senses and the scientific method. But surely this is utterly unhelpful, because now we are back where we started: we do not create meaning. Instead, the universe gives it to us -- and we submit. Absolutely. Or, so we should.
Have you ever been stymied by that person who tells you that all truth, logic and meaning are subjective, and then berates you for being a Christian, calling Christianity a "lie?" I sure have. And I am quick to note that if all truth is subjective, then, it follows that Christianity is -- at least for me -- one of those subjective truths. And if it is a subjective truth, then why is my subjectivist interlocutor critical of my choice? Or does his subjective quest for meaning include his right to be critical: he derives further meaning by berating my freely chosen worldview? How, pray tell, can my choice be wrong or even inferior? What, does it fail to correspond to some objective truth? What is that truth, how do we know it, and why are we discussing subjectivism if there is in fact an objective truth?
Such puzzles.
I am left, of course, nauseous, just like Mr. Sartre, as I consider these conundrums. But despite the nausea, I fight, nay, I WILL to believe in a universe that is fundamentally rooted in purpose, the purpose of love. I choose to believe in a universe that can and will answer our deepest questions; I choose to believe in a universe where all goodness, beauty, joy, bliss, art, genius, justice, laughter, music, color, taste -- and so many more lovely things -- are not crushed into oblivion. I choose to believe like Friedrich Nietzsche that suffering makes humanity heroic; and I believe with him that life is everlasting. But unlike that great atheist, I refuse to believe that human heroism ends in nothingness, crushed in the vast emptiness forever forsaken, cast into some unconscionable hell; nor do I believe that life recurs in some endless and vicious circularity, where we can live out our futility ad infinitum in Nietzsche's "Eternal Recurrence."
I recall once reading in The Boston Globe a review of the lovely film about Sts. Francis and Claire, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon." The capsule review, wherein the film was given one star, included this: "A film only a saint could love." I remember sneering at the reviewer's smug and ridiculous words. For latent in the remark was nothing but disdain for the holy. I retorted, "What sort of person would not want to be a saint? What sort of person gives the pursuit of holiness but one star?"
In a meaningless universe, where holiness means nothing, where love is but a dream and a whim, I protest with all due rebellion: "This is my pride -- to believe in a lie that is more beautiful than the truth! I shall be a saint!"
The empty universe does not deserve such a compliment.
Peace to you, this day, and forever.
BG
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
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