Spirituality – a simple man

Like Elijah

I thought I had written about Rich Mullins before on my blog. I can’t find where, except for one post that is more about a song he covered than about the man himself. I reference him in my book Whiskey Poetry, heavily influenced by his thought and philosophy.

Rich Mullins was a recording artist in the Contemporary Christian Music world in the late 80’s and throughout the 90’s until his death September 19, 1997. He was a complicated man, who frequently went against the evangelical Christian sub-culture that embraced his music and used his songs for their worship services. His death was a sudden automobile accident, an ignoble end for such an authentic person.

I was born and raised in the evangelical Christian sub-culture that embraced Rich Mullins, and his albums were on constant play on my boombox, along with others. I have long been enamored with the poetical and metaphorical content of his lyrics, and the realness of his soul, both of which were impossible to ignore as I sung along. I was touched deeply when I heard news of his death. I was ten years old.

Since that time, my own personal journey with faith has been long and varied. Today I more, or less, have no spiritual aspect to my life, in terms of organized religion. I disbelieve that there is any sort of “god” or even “gods” in existence, given an overall lack of evidence for any sort of extraterrestrial being that cares at all about this planet and the sentient beings thereon. It would seem to me that some sort of not-from-Earth sentient beings must exist, given the incredibly vast nature of the observable universe, but I don’t think any of them are “god” as described by most religious people on this planet.

Rich Mullins was certainly more religious than me, but in contrast to those in my younger world, he was certainly on the fringe. He was completely honest about his struggles with faith, his lack of concrete answers, and his opposition to the status quo of the sub-culture. All my life, I had similar questions, struggles, and opposition, but I was not able to articulate it, nor would I have been comfortable doing so. Christianity has always been core to my family, and it was part of who we were (and who most still are). To go against that as I grew up would have been anathema to our central identity. So I kept my vacillations hidden, with various degrees of success until I arrived in college.

As I disassociated and deconstructed from my religious education and upbringing, I continued to appreciate Rich Mullins’ life and music. It spoke to me, even as I rejected the trappings and teachings that surrounded Mullins’ career. I came to appreciate his honesty more than anything, and like a work of art that depicts things I don’t understand or don’t associate with, but that I nevertheless recognize as supremely artistic, I admire his art. Certainly his poetical lyrics influence my own poetry still today.

Next year will be 30 years since Rich Mullins died. If there were to be a heaven, I am sure it is for people like him, ragamuffins of the world, people that don’t fit into a social construct and who are completely honest about their place in life. I aspire to be as honest and as real as Mullins was. I miss his influence, and his way of being, that radiated outward from his heart to those that he touched through his music. I wish more who claim the same Christianity that Mullins did acted more like him.

One of my favorite of Rich Mullins’ songs, Elijah, speaks of dying and “go[ing] out like Elijah/ With a whirlwind to fuel my chariot of fire” alluding to the biblical prophet and his rapture into heaven. He also speaks of seeing “candlelight in Central Park”, a reference to the vigils held around John Lennon’s death, and one that Mullins should have earned (and did, to an extent, in the Christian sub-culture). This song is inspiring to me. It captures the essence of how I hope to leave this existence when I do, and also resembles how I live, and how Mullins’ lived: “lonely” “bent to the ground””aging” and yet “free”.

Rich Mullins wasn’t a great man, at least how the world traditionally calls men great, but he was among the best I have ever been aware of. I miss him.

A Quiet Rage

I’m sitting in my home in the middle of Texas, on a “holy” day, thinking on the evils perpetrated in the name of a god that many in my country claim to follow. An idiotic madman wannabe dictator, with the assistance of a South African Nazi, is turning my country into a hellscape I no longer recognize, helped along by American Christianity. There are pictures of this madman being prayed over in the Oval Office by someone who claims the same faith of many I know.

Innocent citizens are being kidnapped in the street by law enforcement and sent to a concentration camp outside our borders. Medical research that would have saved lives is being defunded and halted. Lies on every topic spew forth from the cesspit of the capitol. Bombs rain down to murder brown people in countries beyond the sea. Unjust war is waged in Ukraine. Genocide is methodical in Palestine, again, in the name of a god many here claim to worship. Many I know would claim separation, but it is difficult for me to discern a difference.

I’m sick of it.

I haven’t said much publicly for several reasons: mostly, I am cowardly. I hide behind pacifism and a desire not to have the FBI (or whatever goons the government might start sending after those who criticize the would-be king) come to my house and disappear me. Also, I am afraid for my job, my livelihood, and my comfort being taken away. How pathetic of me. But when the aforementioned atrocities are being carried out every day in my country, or in my country’s name, or with its consent, how can I remain silent?

I don’t want to ruffle feathers, or have an argument, or engage with the people that support such evil under the lie that our president will save America by making it great again, whatever that even means. Therefore, I have said nothing and done little else. I don’t know what power my voice has. Many millions are already screaming in the streets against the injustice and evil that has risen, so what good will my voice do when added to the din?

I don’t know. But I no longer wish to be counted among those who remained silent while evil reigns. Here I am, speaking out. Maybe I will speak again in the future, I don’t know. I am still plenty fearful that I will face consequences for this little that I am saying. I don’t know who exactly reads this blog, or how they feel about things, or what they may wish to do to me for venturing to have an opinion, but brave little me is deciding on this “holy” day to not care.

If there ever was a Jesus, and if he were god, I wonder that he is allowing such utter black evil be done in his name, seemingly without his rage visiting retribution upon them. If he be risen, as many are joyfully proclaiming today of all days, where is he? Such things are beyond me, but I am done waiting for a god to reach down from heaven and right wrongs. It is up to us to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with each other. That means, to me, not tolerating evil anywhere, fighting injustice everywhere, and loving all regardless of creed, color, gender, expression of love or any other petty “difference” that may be perceived between me and anyone else.

If anything I have said offends you, please, look beyond me to that which I am decrying. I’ve barely scratched the surface of what is going on, and America is doing little to cover any of it up. Much of what I’ve said is public knowledge and public news. Look beyond your pearl-clutching of me, and see what evil is being done to those all around us. Please, stand with me, and speak out. Add your voice. Together, we are stronger and we will not be defeated.

In the end, I believe, as did Samwise the Brave, that this shadow is only a passing thing, and when the sun shines again it will shine all the clearer and stronger. But we must persevere, and endure, and fight back in all the ways we can to defeat the shadow and the evil beneath it. Hyperbole and ridiculous sentiment? Tell that to those languishing in prison for committing no crime. Tell that to those suffering. Tell that to the dead that should be breathing free today but for this evil.

May their memories rise again. May they be risen, indeed.

DoNotErase

Browsing social media, as one does in this day and age, I came across a quote. It is unattributed:

“If you went back and fixed all the mistakes you ever made, you would erase yourself…”

The second part of the quote was added, and it said:

“…and that’s all I’ve ever needed to hear.”

I’ve been puzzling over this ever since. Initially, I want to agree. I want to consent that, yes, should I erase my mistakes, I as I know myself would cease to exist. Bound up with this is the assumption that as I am now, that who I am is a Good Thing. Well, I would like to mostly agree with that, too.

But, I find myself examining these premises a bit more deeply and questions arise: would I even want to fix my mistakes? Would that be desirable? Could one extract their mistakes from their successes and fix one while leaving the other unaltered? Are the two inextricably linked, in other words?

Am I anything without my mistakes, I wonder existentially? Without driving too far into the metaphorical weeds, the point is, I think, made.

Second, then, are the queries around whether or not who I am as I am is a Good Thing, warts and all. Are we, as humans, made by our failures? Do they, indeed, define us? The same could be said about successes. Are we who we are because we found success? Because we, at some point, did well? That infers that doing well is a good thing, and that doing poorly is a bad thing.

My society is tremendously invested in maximizing success and minimizing failure, as generally defined. The dearth of success is seen as lack of morality. Lack of backbone, of the Right Stuff. To not have success is, by definition, less than. To be successful is to be blessed, to be superior, to be on the Right Track. Do we exist in a black and white world, in which success is good and failure is bad? I reject that binary. The more I examine the life I continue to live I have come to the conclusion that life is capricious. The universe, as a whole, is uncaring about such small things such as success and failure.

Furthermore, success and failure are the same thing, given a long enough view. They are complementary sides of a two-faced coin, spinning in space, flipped, but never landing. One must have failure to have success, and success to have failure. Indeed, now we come to it: success and failure define each other. How do you know what success is unless you have failed? Without success, you don’t know what it is to achieve failure. Without the absence of light, luminosity has no meaning, in other metaphors.

Therefore, no, in answer to the many questions I posed earlier, I wouldn’t go back and erase the mistakes I made, thereby erasing myself as I am known. I know that I am who I am, and my mistakes/successes are but one fibre of my being, and are inextricably linked to each other.

Am I a person worthy of existing now as I am now? Yes, because my worth is not predicated on failure and success but on existence. I exist, therefore I am worthy. Whether I have succeeded or failed is irrelevant. As meaningless as those constructs are to place in opposition to each other, they are equally meaningless as a measure of worth, because worth is not about that at all.

Concluding the matter in mind is the conclusion of the quote: “and that’s all I needed to hear”. Not even close. I need to hear, and I need others to hear loudly and clearly, that success and failure do not make you who you are. They are but one facet of the multilayered being you are. They are not a measure of worth at all, that one should go back and erase one or the other. They are simply waypoints, signaling location, a way of saying “here I am” and nothing more.

I, Jedi

I don’t want to be angry. I know, I know: I just wrote an entire blog post about getting back into the fight, but over the past few days I’ve been doing some thinking. I don’t want to be angry; I want to be passionate. And there is a difference.

The picture above is a very simple picture of the creature Jar Jar Binks from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace facing the viewer, sitting on a grid, leaning against a yellow crate on the right with a red crate on the left. He appears to be lost in thought, resting his head on his left hand with his legs splayed out in front of him. The image mirrors how I’ve felt the past few days.

Including the Binks picture is more than just illustration. It reminds me of the difference between the Jedi and the Sith, two opposing factions of Force users from the Star Wars universe. The difference I wish to discuss is the difference between anger and passion. The Sith, categorized as evil and dark, use anger as a pathway to power, and as a tool to wield power over others.

Jedi Master Yoda says the Dark Side of the Force is “easier, quicker: more seductive” just as anger which is “quick to join” in the heat of the moment. Much more subtle is the passion of the Jedi. Passion must be fed, it must be nurtured: cared for. Passion derives its strength from love, ultimately, and slowly builds into an explosive force (no space-pun intended).

For the uninitiated, the untrained, the unwary, and the impatient, anger can seem like passion, but it has an edge and a bite. It cuts and crushes, and ultimately exhausts, leaving a bitter shell behind. Passion fuels, paradoxically softens, like sand paper smoothing a rough edge leaving a gentle curve. Both produce heat, come at the expense of friction, but only passion boosts and allows its wielder to thrive.

I want passion. I reject anger. I know, I also quoted the OCB which says “be angry and sin not” but I don’t much like that translation or that connotation. I prefer a verse that says “be passionate, and not angry, which leads to sin” but I didn’t write the thing. At any rate, I don’t want the edge, the cutting force of anger to incite me to fight. I want to overcome with passion, and be overcome by it. I don’t want to fight. I want to be moving so powerfully that no one, or thing, could come close to fighting me, that it would be a futile waste of effort. I am not a violent person, and don’t wish to become one in the chase away from lethargy.

In the novelization of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Master Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi is described as a “devastating warrior” who would prefer to “sit alone in a quiet cave and meditate” and that is more akin to what I would be. So full of the Force of passion, that would I ever need to do battle. I’d be unmatched, but really, I’d want to be amidst the life-giving Force itself. Kenobi so disdains battle that he is known throughout the Clone Wars as the “Negotiator”: the fighter who prefers to talk. That’s exactly what I want to be, in this example.

Yoda wasn’t great because he was a warrior; he reminded Luke Skywalker that “wars not make one great”. Yoda was great because he chose not to fight, not to engage, and to amass wisdom, peace, and patience. Eventually, evil was brought down by its own hubris, blindness, and corruption: from the inside. By fighting at all, Luke was being drawn towards the Dark Side. Only in throwing away (literally: his lightsaber) his fight could he start the course of action that would lead to evil’s destruction. That is what I want to be, in that example: the fighter who chooses love instead.

Maybe that sounds all too space hippy, but why not? Glamor all too often chooses the wrong target: the bold, the brash, the battler. Perhaps the ones who deserve the glory are the peacemakers, the meek, and the gentle. It takes passion to wear away the rough edges of confrontation, of power-lust, and of greatness-seeking behavior. Color me invested in rebelling against the quick, seductive lure of anger and moving towards the patient cultivation of passion. I don’t want to be the hero, the Anakin who fell to anger’s dark lure. I want to be Kenobi, be Luke, Yoda, passionate about what drives my passion and full of light. That is what I am chasing.

Look, I wasn’t wrong a few days ago, just unrefined. I want to constantly be growing, and moving in the right direction. I think I’ve found the bedrock beneath the sand I was sifting. Now I have something I can build on. True growth, I believe, is in admitting when one is wrong, and by altering course to fly in the right direction. So here’s me, in my little starfighter, headed for meditation and growth and away from battle.

Grey Pilgrim

I am in the midst of a downturn in my mental health. I have been labeled as having a high likelihood of having a bipolar disorder, and this feels more true now than it has in a long time. For a while I was doing very well. I was creating, I felt good, and I spent time in the metaphorical sun. Today, and for a while now, I haven’t created, I’ve felt out of sorts, and I’ve been lurking in a metaphorical Mirkwood.

I often think of Gandalf, one of my favorite characters from JRR Tolkien’s imagination. He is called the Grey Pilgrim, because his wizard color is grey. Pilgrim is an interesting moniker. It means “a person who journeys to a sacred place” and the thesaurus adds the connotations of “traveler” or “wayfarer”. In Tolkien’s mythology there are a few sacred places in Middle-Earth, and out of it is the most sacred place of all: The Undying Lands, or Valinor, sort of a heaven realm.

Gandalf was certainly a wayfarer and traveler as he journeyed all over Middle-Earth during his long years, but he was also tasked with opposing the Dark Lord Sauron. Once that mission was complete, he was allowed to return to Valinor, and thus embarked on a final journey to the most sacred place of all.

I feel like a different kind of grey pilgrim. I am certainly no wizard, but since my early teenage years I’ve often felt a grey or murky blackness hang over me. Also, since even earlier than being a teen, I’ve been inculcated in religious things, and read John Bunyan’s famous story Pilgrim’s Progress. An allegory for spiritual things, the pilgrim Christian treks ever towards the Celestial City, certainly a “journey to a sacred place”. I was always taught to strive towards Heaven, an eventual home beyond earth and death. My depression, bipolar disorder, or whatever this is that I’ve had since 10 or 11, has made the doctrine of heaven problematic for me.

For one thing, I was suicidal for a long time, not that many knew or paid attention to the signs. As a young kid taught that a paradise awaited me on the other side, it was difficult to resist the temptation to shuffle off this depressing mortal coil and thus enter blissful realms. I know the Catholic Church used to preach that suicide victims couldn’t enter Heaven, probably for this macabre reason of keeping the downtrodden from seeking a better existence. But my fundamentalist church had no such teaching. Anyway, I obviously survived suicide and haven’t arrived on “God’s golden shores” but I often wished that I could have go through with various plans. The lure of a bright peaceful afterlife was a tantalizing vision.

For another thing, the idea that A Better Place (C) awaits would perhaps imply that suffering on Earth will yield rewards later on in that better place, either in the place itself, or through some sort of riches being doled out. In a city paved with supposed golden streets and boasting pearl gates, riches seemed sort of a cheap reward to me, but anyway I never liked the idea that I was being made to suffer so that I could reap later. That idea rings cruel, especially because there are many worse off than depressed, bipolar(?) me. That’s a lot of copping out on easing real, immediate pain in order to make belated reparations later. Why go through the charade if God could wave his spiritual hand and ease all suffering immediately?

What then is my pilgrimage about, if I am a different sort of grey pilgrim than a wandering, world-weary wizard or a 17th century wayfarer? When I discover that, I will let you know. For today, as Gandalf did for a time, I am stepping through the oppressive, murky, and dismal Mirkwood. I don’t have a hobbit, or thirteen surly dwarves, in tow, neither do I have a stronghold of darkness in Dol Guldor to exorcise, but wander I still. I often wish my purpose was as clear cut as kicking dragon-butt or tossing jewelry in a volcano. Incredibly difficult, dangerous, and downright depressing as those journeys turned out to be at times, there at least was a drive behind them, and a world or mountain to be gained in the here and now.

Eventually, as did Gandalf, Frodo and Bilbo were admitted into the Undying Lands as a respite for all the pain they endured in Middle-Earth, but they also had many years of rest in their homes as well (maybe not Gandalf, but Bilbo hung out in Rivendell for many years after defeating the dragon and that was pretty good by all accounts). Where is my Last Homely House? Where is my Bag End? Maybe I haven’t found it yet, but I wish I could.

Ultimately, I don’t know if heaven awaits me after death, or if it is a forever sleep I will definitely have earned whenever I do die, but I do know that I have life in me yet to live. It is sad and depressing right now, but I’ve also ridden these waves enough to know that as down as I am now, I will (should) surge upwards once more. It’s just the constant surfing is making me sick and tired. As I haven’t a choice but to be a pilgrim, I will keep moving. Maybe there is at least a cozy inn on the horizon that will serve a good meal and provide a bed better than a forest root.

I don’t know how to shake my depression. I don’t feel I’ve done a terribly good job of doing anything but enduring the troughs, and nothing really seems to work to bring me out except time. Gandalf himself had many long years of waiting before the Ring was found and he could formulate a plan to defeat Sauron, and in the end, such defeat (and Ring) was out of his hands anyway. So I guess I will wait for this greyness to lift. At least then I will feel more myself again, for a time. Damn, but this is frustrating.

But, to take a page from Tolkien’s book, Gandalf looked for and found happiness and pleasure where he could. Whether in lighting fireworks for young hobbits at Bilbo’s birthday, or in fighting for those less fortunate many a time, he always found a way to rise above his circumstances. That’s what I see I must do. Not necessarily go out and light off a firecracker, but enjoy what I can when I can. Gandalf, my old friend, I will do my best!

(A friend of mine would recommend pipe-weed to me, but as Old Toby doesn’t exist, I’ll have to do without smoke rings. And I’m not one for smoking anyway.)

A Green Thing Am I

A dear friend of mine shared a thing on social media, and without speaking to its factual veracity, I want to discuss the truth of the thing.

Some cultures believe we must be alive for a purpose: to work, to make money, etc. Some indigenous cultures believe we’re alive just as nature is alive: to be here, to be beautiful, and to be strange. We don’t need to achieve anything to be valid in our humanness.”
@ melatoninlau

My entire worldview, and my thoughts and feelings about it, are a construct. I’ve known this in other areas of my life, but I have not had the framing to understand my quest for meaning in this way: that my entire culture was predicated on my needing to be alive for a Reason. But that another culture held that I was alive simply to be Alive is a radical thought to me. Maybe I need to adjust my personal culture, my worldview, and my thoughts and feelings in the way that I consider myself.

Western, capitalistic society created me. From an early age, I understood that my value would come from what job I held, what I did for a living, and how I contributed to society. Those thoughts have eaten at my soul for decades now. As a tween, and teenager, I had no idea what I wanted to “do”. I didn’t know how I could contribute. Those thoughts worsened as I approached my eighteenth birthday and questions of what college to go to, and ultimately what to do with my life, became more pronounced.

I don’t know how to adequately convey the dread, the feeling of being lost, and of uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm me during my early years. It was a potent, ever-present layer of feelings. Maybe this is part of what sparked my descent into depression at this time; I don’t know for certain. I do know that I hated how I was feeling and had no idea what to do about it.

To get to today, I have survived much, and grown and matured, but if you’ve been reading my blog, you know I’ve been tortured over contributing to society, of finding meaning for my life, and knowing what I am to Do. Now, I may not need be conflicted about any of that! I don’t even need to Do anything at all!

I am “alive just as nature is alive.” I am connected to this planet, to humanity, and to the universe simply in existence. A plant, or a beaver, or a star does not worry about contribution. They simply grow and be green, or build a dam, or twinkle through the cosmos, and are Alive and are Enough. I am Alive; I grow; I have the ability to build; I am “star-stuff” as the great scientist Carl Sagan once said. I am Enough!

Just as I could not accurately convey the negativity surrounding my need to contribute, or what I would do in life, I cannot justly convey the positivity of how I am feeling now: the liberation, the joy, the weightlessness of being Alive and of that being Enough. I don’t have to take the best pictures, or create the best artwork, or have a meaningful job, or conform to Western culture at all in order to have worth. I have intrinsic value in Life Itself.

I don’t think I’ve even fully processed what this means in and to me. But I know that I will explore this idea fully, and adapt as much of this philosophy to myself that I can. Something this potent must needs transform me completely. What happens around me, or to me, or because of me is not what gives me meaning. Sure, I want to add to people’s lives; I want to preserve the life of this planet; I want to exist well – but that does not inform my worth. I am worthy! What I do is but an extension of who I am: a green thing, rooted deep, and nourished by the energy of all things.

Living the Questions

This feels odd to say, but: I am going to begin a Bible study this coming Tuesday.

If you know nothing of mainstream Christianity, then a lot of what I am about to write may be incomprehensible to you. If, like me, you have always lived a life surrounded and inculcated with God, then what I am about to write may sound very familiar.

I’ve undergone such a journey in my life regarding faith, and religion, and God, and the Bible: I’ve walked away from it all several times and come back a few times. Being a Christian was and was not ever a choice I made. I was born into a Christian family, and a very conservative one at that. Prayers were offered, beliefs re-affirmed, a life was dedicated and re-dedicated to following precepts and “the way one should go” more than once.

I’ve styled myself an atheist, a Jesus-follower, a Christian, and other things. Thirty-five years into living, I don’t much do labels, or even explanations, anymore. Nothing quite seems to fit, define, or include how I feel and think and, yes, believe so I tend to eschew labels altogether.

This whole business of God, of religion, of Christianity is at once simple, and so very complex. It is familiar, and very, very strange. Frightening, and comforting. Growing up, I was taught the tenants of the faith, the evangelical Christian faith, at the same time as I was taught arithmetic, reading, and history. God was so inextricably intertwined with everything that I had no hope of separating anything mean from the Divine. As an older child, and young teenager, I knew all of the answers, the stories, and the Bible back to front and back again.

But cracks began to show, at the seams, the corners, and the low levels of my life. Depression became something that I struggled with, though I did not know what to call it then. Other mental health issues became prominent in my life, manifesting as anger, and behavioral troubles. I desperately didn’t want anything to do with God or religion, but it was such a part of my identity, of everything that I knew and believed about the world, I didn’t know how to let go of it.

Then my family became uber-Christians: missionaries. We left America to travel to another country, in this case: Papua New Guinea, to spread what we believed to the people who lived there. Ironically, it was there that my life of faith exploded. I met more of my peers than I ever had before, and people from many different Christian contexts, that I had my point of view radically altered. Many of my classmates and friends had conflicts similar, or even deeper, to mine. They had Questions about God that I had never encountered before. Or they had perspectives that I didn’t know could exist. Suddenly my answers seemed small and inadequate.

Whiplash. V, a jerk or jolt (to someone or something) suddenly, typically so as to cause injury.

I experienced whiplash to an overwhelming degree when I graduated from my missionary school in Papua New Guinea and returned home to the United States. I attended a very small, very sectarian, and ultra-conservative Bible institute. For two years I fought quite hard to maintain any semblance of a Christian faith at all. Again, I was immersed in conservative religion. I breathed it, ate it, lived it, but only at night when I dreamed was I free of it. The wide horizons I had marveled at a year prior in another land were challenged hourly and almost completely condemned by this place I found myself. I never before was on the outside of something religious, but only the senior administration’s convenience kept me from being kicked out during my second and final year there. My Questions had multiplied to a level beyond reckoning, and I didn’t know what to do.

Upon graduation, I joined my girlfriend who was studying at another university, this time a liberal arts school that was Christian in name and founding, but in persuasion was much more free than anything I had experienced prior, even more so than the high school in Papua New Guinea. There, while studying one of the languages of the Bible, ancient Hebrew, I met a man who would change my life irrevocably. I don’t remember his name, but he was the former campus pastor and current Hebrew scholar. While in his class, learning to read portions of Genesis and other parts of the Bible, he taught me to Live the Questions.

What he meant by that was to develop a life that was comfortable with uncertainty, with ambiguity, and with not knowing. The complete opposite of me as an early teenager who knew everything, me as a young adult knew nothing about the Bible or God. All my answers had evaporated in the past two years. Sure, I heard them often and loudly at the institute, but they rang hollow and empty now. I didn’t know where to turn. My life was un-anchored, adrift, and tossed. Living the Questions was a philosophy that became a safe harbor. Now I could ask questions prolifically, and be ok to not have answers.

If God is everything I was taught he is as a young child, then he should be big enough to handle a few questions from me. He shouldn’t condemn me for being uncertain, unbelieving, or, for the first time in my life, unafraid. I graduated three years later and almost completely gave up God, religion, and faith. Now, twelve years after that, I’ve yet to come back to where I was even in Papua New Guinea. I am still Living the Questions, and I have even more Questions than I ever did before. Answers are what are scarce. The Bible is at once more clear and much more opaque.

Life my professor before me, I want to model a life that Lives the Questions. I would like to introduce anyone who attends my study to this concept and way of looking at the Bible and the Christian world. I am not out to destroy faith, though certainly mine resembles not what I had before leaving my home as an elder teenager. I consider that a Very Good Thing, but not everyone in my life would agree. What I would like to do is introduce a life comfortable with not knowing, and to help dispel the fear that comes from being uncertain about ideas that one has been taught to be certain about. I lived in abject religious terror for seventeen or more years. No more is that true, and most of that is due to learning to Live the Questions.

I’ve taught Sunday School, attended numerous churches, graduated from two faith based colleges, and read the Bible more times than I can count. I have a passing knowledge of Ancient Hebrew, and am well versed in doctrine, tradition, and church history. I am certainly credentialed enough to lead a Bible study, though it remains to be seen if I am qualified. But, come Tuesday, I will once again be leading a Bible study and be back to all the old familiar places, though in a completely different light and way. I will always Live the Questions, and maybe I can teach a few other people how to do that as well.

UPDATE: the Bible study was canceled after just three meetings, two of which were attended only by myself, and the other by four people on purpose. It did not go as planned.

True Christmas

Apparently the word “christmas” is a portmanteau of two words: Christ and mass for “Christ’s mass” or a Catholic church service celebrating the person of Christ, commonly called Jesus. Also, I’ve heard if you rearrange the words in Santa you get Satan, and both are sometimes seen as the enemy of Christ.

This is an essay about the phenomenon of Christmas, as I understand it, and some of the controversies that arise about Christmas every year in American popular culture. If that isn’t your cup of hot chocolate, feel free to stop reading and wait for my next treatise. Otherwise, let’s continue.

I think it is interesting that the color red is associated with Christmas, as it is also associated with the devil, who is depicted in paintings and other representations as wearing a red suit. You know who else wears a red suit? Santa “Satan” Claus. Coincidence? Probably. You see, I doubt anyone was paying close attention to things like that when they were designing Christmas iconography.

Santa, while having roots in Sinterklaas, a Dutch St. Nicholas who put gifts into children’s wooden shoes, and the 280 A.D. St. Nicholas of what is today Turkey, is actually more of a modern creation. The current vision of Santa Claus comes from the 1820’s in the United States when the poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” was published and a popular image of the saint (santa being Spanish for a feminine saint, by the way – as in Santa Fe) was drawn. One hundred years later, in the early 1930’s, the song “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” was recorded, thus cementing the idea of Santa Claus as we know him in American culture.

What does this have to do with Christianity? Almost nothing, except that the basis of Santa, the St. Nicholases, were Catholic saints who helped poor children have food, clothing, and money during the cold winter months of Europe and West Asia. It certainly has nothing to do with organized Protestant religions. Nowhere in the Bible is such a figure represented, for example, though Christ certainly demands that his followers care for the orphan and the widow on multiple occasions, so the spirit of the saints may be Christian.

I’ve mentioned several times the association between Santa and Satan, which may seem weird given the history of Santa as a saint, but that is because Santa is vilified in certain Christian circles as the enemy of True Christmas. True Christmas, you see, has been and always was, about the birth of Christ, which occurred on, or near about, the 25th of December in a manger in Bethlehem as foretold by the Hebrew prophets. At least, that is the story many cling to. There are other Christian explanations for why we have a Christmas tree, and other common Christmas decor and trappings. (The tree representing the wood of the cross on which Jesus was destined to die to save the world from their sins, for example.)

But scholars put the birth of Christ near enough to September as to render part of that argument moot. So why the December rituals? Pagan winter solstice celebrations surrounding the Germanic/Norse god Odin, the All Father. The Catholic church had a unique way of conquering new geographic areas for religious purposes: they would very cleverly co-opt local deities and festivals, give them Christian names or associate them with Christian saints or events, and call the work of converting the locals complete. After building a few churches and making mass attendance mandatory under threat of punishment, the Catholic church suddenly had hundreds or thousands of new members (and lots more tithes for their coffers). Yule was a Germanic ritual holiday feast that occurred in mid-winter. Odin, the All Father, was lord of the feast. Call Odin “God” and Yuletide “Christmastide” and voila you have new converts and a new Christmas holiday.

Christmas is based on Catholic imperialism and pagan ritual. Jesus wasn’t born anywhere near December. The symbols of Christmas are purloined from local festivals. Where then is True Christmas? It seems that True Christmas is the myth and Santa and Christmas are the real reasons for the season.

With that paragraph I have enraged an entire swath of the Christian population that hold to their dearest of holidays with great reverence. You see, True Christmas, once again, has been and always will be solely about the birth of Christ come to redeem us from our sins and eternal death in hell, according to them. “Merry Christmas” is no mere greeting, it is a holy incantation meant to hallow the season. That is why these Christians are so enraged when someone, or an organization, fails to wish them “Merry Christmas” and instead substitutes “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings”. In fact, the simple act of trying to avoid offense greatly offends them.

America has been and hopefully always will be a pluralistic society. It was founded with the key goal of religious freedom, so that Catholics and Protestants and Methodists and Orthodox (and whoever else) could worship freely. That is what some of the Pilgrims were escaping in Europe after all – religious persecution. Therefore, in today’s America, recognizing that the stranger who orders a coffee in your local Starbucks may be a Christian, or a Wicca, or a Muslim, or a devout Jew and may be celebrating Christmas, the Winter Solstice, Hanukkah, or no holiday at all, some people choose to avoid the scandal of “which greeting is correct for your religion” and instead substitute a generic, secular greeting. Recognizing, quite correctly after all, that Christmas has nothing to do with religion whatsoever, especially in 2015, in fact “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings” becomes the appropriate greeting.

Starbucks this year, which has traditionally used a red cup with generic holiday imagery to celebrate the fall and winter holidays, has decided to use no imagery at all and has apparently instructed their employees not to say “Merry Christmas” and has therefore come under fire from Christians who celebrate True Christmas for taking the “Christ out of Christmas” and perpetuating a cultural “War on Christmas”. These are the same Christians that become outraged when a public Nativity scene is removed from public property or when a Christmas tree is called a holiday tree and really the list goes on. They say that maintaining a Christmas without the True Christmas Christ is akin to blasphemy and they don’t care that they share an America with those of many faiths or no faith at all. This is why they also, traditionally, dislike the saintly Saint Nick. In their view, Santa Claus takes away from the central position of the baby Jesus in the manger in Bethlehem.

The reality, as I’ve said, is that America is a secular, pluralistic nation. You are free to create a Christmas holiday that is about the birth of Christ and celebrate it however feels appropriate, but that does not come with an inherent right to force others to celebrate your Christmas. By failing to wish you your preferred greeting, persecution or war is not being levied. This is simply America being America. Furthermore, you can create a Christmas holiday that is about the birth of Christ, but that doesn’t make it historical or Biblical. In fact, the Biblical Jesus, I believe, would have Christians emulate Father Christmas and care for the orphan and the widow and as widely as possible give food, clothing, and money to those less fortunate. That, in my view, is the True Christmas one should fight for, not Christmas iconography on disposable coffee cups or the cashier saying “Merry Christmas”.

With that in mind, I wish you Happy Holidays. Thanks for reading.

Confessions of an Atheist

I would say I am spiritual, but not religious.

I was religious once, and I never will be again. Too much pain and suffering has been caused at the hands of the religious for me to be comfortable identifying with any religious group ever again.

Is there a god? This is a good question which preoccupies many, many people. Even those who say they are religious and that they believe in a god ask themselves this question often. Christians, a group I am most familiar with, call it having faith. You don’t have faith in absolute certainties. Things you know you don’t believe in. There is no evidence for a god. If there were, I would know there was one. There is evidence for gravity, therefore I know gravity exists. There is no evidence for god, therefore I do not know he exists.

In my understanding, this is what makes faith necessary. God cannot be proven, therefore one must believe, through faith, that a god exists.

I am an atheist because I have no proof for a god’s existence. I am not a believer, not because I do not have a capacity for faith, but I lack belief.

Why do I lack belief? I have yet to see a need for a god in my life. A god, commonly stated, is an all powerful supreme being who rules, or who has the capacity to rule, humanity, by fiat of being a god. Many religions of the world believe in one god, some believe in several, a few believe in a pantheon of gods. Christianity, again, a religion I am most familiar with, believes in one God who rules because he created the universe (or multiverse, should it be proven there is more than one universe). This God is supposedly all powerful, all good, and all knowing.

So why do I not exercise my faith and believe in God despite a lack of evidence like many on the planet? Why should I? I have yet to find a compelling argument for why belief is necessary. This is an open question I have. Without proof of existence, why should I have faith?

I once believed in the God of Christianity; I once was devoutly religious. I am no more because the evidence I thought I had for God fell away as inadequate. I made the logical choice to stop believing just like I made the choice to stop believing in other mythical beings and creatures once I grew old and discerning enough to know that they did not exist.

I have no barrier towards belief and faith. I simply see no reason why it is necessary. If it could be proven how and why belief in God, or a god, or many gods, is necessary to my continued existence, I would happily believe.

I’ll put it this way. To date, there is no credible evidence for life beyond our tiny little planet. Intelligence life seems to be reserved to homo sapiens and perhaps a few lower forms of animal life. I choose to believe, despite the lack of evidence, that not only life but intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe (or multiverse). In the same way, I could believe that god, or gods, or God. But I see no reason why I should, why I must.

This is why I am an atheist.

There is something further. Most Christians, and other prominent religions that I am aware of, are not content with mere belief. There is an insistence upon subservience, upon obeisance to the god, or gods, or God. It is unclear to me why I should not only believe that such a deity exists, but that I should indenture myself to lifelong servitude to said deity.

These are the questions that I, as an atheist, have. Why believe and why indenture? I am sincerely open to answers, to discussion on the matter. I admit, that I, as a former Christian, feel that something is missing in my life. Consider it this way: a person who lives in a family of sports fanatics, who does not follow sports, may nevertheless feel a lack of something when they leave the atmosphere of fanaticism. I feel that sort of emptiness.

I am spiritual, but it is a quiet, non-specific sort of spirituality. I am moved by nature, by the beauty of human compassion; I lose myself in the sublime joy of a baseball game, in competition. The written word especially captures my heart, as does the emotion of an actor on a screen, lost in performance. But I don’t have anything more than that, and I can’t help but feel I should. I just don’t know why. I suppose that is a third question I could ask. Why do I feel compelled to have something more to my spirituality? Why do I feel the need to investigate the tenants of ordered religion? I don’t know.

So I ask for help. If you think you have answers, if you think you have understanding, come, let us reason together. I want to know. I want answers to my questions.

Confessions of an Atheist 2

Well, that was interesting.

I wrote earlier about being an atheist and my quest for answers to my questions about god. With few exceptions what I got were not god related answers. What I got were a bunch of people who I know to be Christians denying that they were Christians at all, or more to the point, denying that they were like other Christians.

I mention this because I am about to say that I am not like other atheists.

I am not like other atheists.

Well, I am, but only in two very basic ways: I am human. I don’t believe in god (or gods or God). There is no other defining characteristic of an atheist. In fact, it is a bit of a misnomer to call someone an atheist in the first place. Why does not believing in god carry its own moniker? I have a theory, which I will get to in a second. But first, there is no term for people who disbelieve in unicorns, dragons, Santa Clause or other mythical creatures/beings. Except maybe the term “adult” except even children can disbelieve in these things and frequently do. So why do atheists have their own inclusive group name? I think because of Christians, and the Christianity dominated world. The numbers vary, but the largest religious group on the planet is Christianity. Around 33% of the world is Christian. Another third is Islam and Buddhism combined. (I got my facts from a quick Googling. Don’t crucify me over inaccurate data. I’m not writing a scientific paper here. Close enough for gov’ment I always say.) Everyone else is some smaller religion or no religion at all. So Christians name us atheists because they have a god dominated world view and define the world in terms of their religion. “Atheist” then is a Christian term, not a secular term. There is no secular term. We simply don’t believe. We call ourselves people.

It amuses me that Christians frequently deny being Christians, or deny being like other Christians. Look, I get it. Even I am lumping Catholics and Protestants together under the moniker “Christian” so I know there are differences there, but they all believe similar things, with only, being honest, minor differences. You believe in one God not named Allah, and his son Jesus Christ, you are a Christian. Pure and simple. Christians have churches and in America, at least, don’t pay taxes as a group. Sunnis and Shi’ites are both still Muslims (though I am not familiar enough with Islam to know the difference). For that matter, Muslims say that Allah is the same god as the Christian god. They also believe in Jesus. Practically speaking, from the “atheist” point of view, 2/3 of the world believes in the same god and that god’s son. To say otherwise is silly because the run of the mill atheist doesn’t bother about trivial doctrinal differences within or between religions. In the same way, each family that does the Santa Clause thing has their own little take on Santa, but they don’t really make a big deal when one kid says something a little different about the jolly old guy. (Or is he an elf? Some versions of the myth say he is. You get my point.)

Me saying I am an atheist is not an attempt to identify with any world group. I’m just a person. But I am helping my Christian friends know how to classify me according to their world view. I could just as well call myself an apostate or a non-believer, but technically, Christians are apostate to the other 2/3 of the planet. Ultimately, I use atheist as a convenient term. But it remains a religious term. I just prefer to call myself a person, really.

Of the people who didn’t immediately clamor “but I am not a Christian like 1/3 of the planet” one was a Christian and one was a fellow person. The Christian actually didn’t try to use any evidence to convince me of anything. She actually agreed with me that faith is believing in God outside of direct evidence, and that she believes because of her personal experiences with God. Fair enough, as personal experience is not evidence. The fellow person and I had a discussion about religion being a culture phenomenon (when you really get down to it) and that science should remain free of any religious bias. Again, fair enough. Religion typically is not provable or disprovable by science. It isn’t even in the same category of thing. There is not way to marry science and religion, really. I appreciated both view points, but probably loved the Christian’s more. It is so refreshing to have a Christian not argue from the Bible or some theological doctrine, but simply to say, “Yes, I believe and that is a personal thing. In order to believe, it must be personal for you as well.”

But I still want to know what compels a Christian, or a Muslim for that matter, to believe in a god at all, and why, if they believe, they feel the need to serve a god. I’m still asking those questions.