The Fantastically Improbable Meets The Providential.

I hope I get all the details right. So. One of the best people I've ever known had a very bad heart attack on SuperBowl Sunday. We first heard of it, and that, as a result of it, our friend and former pastor whom for present purposes we'll call Bob, since everyone does anyway, was then "on ice" and in a coma in intensive care in Raleigh, and that we should all pray for him. It sounded like the sort of story that would not normally end well, from a worldly point of view. But Bob had moved from the beach to Raleigh to lead a church there, and the area happens to have what may be the best cardiac care in the state (which is impressive, considering the facilities at UNC, Duke, and Wake Forest, as well as here in Wilmington and elsewhere). Updates trickled in that he seemed stable. Then news came that he was making small bits of progress, but would need a triple bypass surgery if he could ever regain sufficient strength and functioning, which he then quickly did within days rather than the hoped for weeks, and had the surgery successfully, and was then said by the medical staff on site to have had a truly "miraculous" recovery.

I was having breakfast with two friends yesterday and mentioned what looked like the providential care of Bob, if just in the fact of his location when the heart attack happened, and then I heard the story behind the story. You know the old real estate adage: Location, location, location. And the spot of the attack was vastly more significant than I had known, or could even have imagined. Bob was picking up his dry cleaning right before a planned two hour or more trip alone on the highway. And he suddenly had trouble trying to pull away from the drive through window. A guy in the car behind him noticed something strange in the movements of his car, which had now come to a full stop. The stranger put his own car in park, got out, walked up to the driver's side window of Bob's car, and saw our friend slumped over the steering wheel. The door was locked, so the man broke out the car window, determined Bob's condition, went back to his own car, pulled out a portable defibrillator that he happened to have with him (And really, who doesn't, on an average trip to the dry cleaner?), got Bob's seat reclined, shocked him back to a heartbeat, and waited for the EMTs he had already summoned to arrive.

If your heart stops beating, you don't have very many minutes to survive the event. If you're alone on the side of the interstate in your car, a thousand other cars and trucks may pass you by before someone, at some point, thinks to stop, and then of course it will likely be too late, especially when you factor in the initial caution of anyone approaching an occupied car in the middle of nowhere, and then the eventual emergency call and the likely long wait to get professional help. There aren't even that many busy public places that would be ideal for a heart attack, if you were to have one, in terms of available people nearby who would have a clue what to do to help other than dial 9-1-1 and hope that emergency assistance arrives soon enough.

But there's my man Bob, who decided to go to the dry cleaner before hitting the highway, where otherwise his episode most likely would have occurred. And he happens to be in a parking lot RIGHT IN FRONT OF the ONE GUY in the state who happens to have a defib machine in his car, who of course had himself earlier decided to go to the SAME dry cleaner at precisely the time he'd be needed—not three minutes earlier or ten minutes later. He doesn't just honk his horn at the aberrant driver or merely pull around him. He goes to look, and BREAKS A WINDOW and gets down to business. And then of course, later, when they learned the details of what had happened, NO ONE KNEW who the mystery man was or how he disappeared into the traffic of Raleigh after tucking in his superhero cape and giving a pat to his favorite machine. Of course, the cumulative magnitude of intrinsic probabilities that this would all work out as it happened would be absurdly small to the vanishing point. Which makes it look like someone was looking out for Bob. And who knows, maybe you and me, too, despite how things sometimes might seem.

It's almost as if things are going on behind the scenes, between the lines, and hidden from normal view, perhaps all the time, which is a major theme that runs through my Egyptian novels, and is something that continues to impress me and deepen my own worldview. There are odd wrinkles in the affairs of this world that not even the best dry cleaner can press away. They're worth our attention as, perhaps beautifully revealing as to the ultimate fabric of reality.

Hills, Valleys, and Hope

If I recall him correctly, the absurdly prolix philosopher Hegel posited that history proceeds by a dynamic undulation of thesis, antithesis, and then synthesis: One extreme arises, then an equal and opposite extreme crops up, when next a mediating compromise comes to be. And it all then repeats.

Some simply speak of history being a pendulum swing, from one outrageous excess to its opposite, and then back and forth. There are cycles. There are seasons. Others who talk of hills and valleys suggest that when we find ourselves in a deep valley, we should prepare for our ascent up the next hill.

We are now in a deep valley. So it's a time to prepare and plan and look forward with that most threatened and resilient of human qualities, hope. But hope, in its fullness, isn't a passive fantasy or a refusal to be realistic; it's an active goad to real action. So in this season, in this cycle, in this antithesis and far end of the pendulum swing, have hope. And begin to think of how you will help us all to climb the next hill, where we may be able to see a new sunrise on its way.

Lessons on Life

I just finished my second reading of a wondrous and even numinous book, Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. I loved it in 2004. I got much more out of it on this second time through.

An older minister in the small town of Gilead, Iowa has a young son through an unexpected second marriage. His first wife died in childbirth, and the baby also passed shortly afterwards. Decades later, in his sixties, he unexpectedly married a younger woman and then had a child, a son, when he was about the age of seventy. The book is a long letter he’s writing this boy in his sixth year, sharing his life and insights in a way that he is sure time will prevent his doing in person. He has serious heart trouble and may be in his last days. So it’s important to him, even urgent, to get into this letter anything he’d want to share with his son when the boy is older and can use some guidance about the deeper things in life, as well as on some of the simpler and most magical things.

Our writer, the Reverend John Ames is worried about a younger man who has come back to town after many years away. He is the son of the reverend's best friend, and as such begins to visit Ames' home, play with his son, and talk with his younger wife in overtly friendly ways. The wife and son seem utterly charmed by this charismatic guest. But Ames knows that in the man's adolescence, he displayed terribly bad behavior and morally irresponsible ways. And now our writer wonders what his intentions are toward his young wife and new son. This inner struggle intrudes itself into the overall flow of the work in fascinating ways, and ends up giving us one of the biggest revelations of the book that may be needed in our own lives. But so as not to ruin the suspense, I won’t mention what it is, except to say that it took me back to a theme in many of Jane Austin’s stories, and in the New Testament, and in a vivid and powerful way.

I’ll share some other sample passages, while recommending the book to you strongly, as a joy and potentially transformative read.

On writing:

“For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I wasn’t writing prayers, as I was often enough.” (19)

On Ego:

When the Lord says “You must become as one of these little ones,” I take him to mean you must be stripped of all the accretions of smugness and pretense and triviality. (30)

On Making the Most of Life:

When my father found his father at Mount Pleasant after the war ended, he was shocked at first to see how he had been wounded. In fact, he was speechless. So my grandfather’s first words to his son were, “I am confident that I will find great blessing in it.” And that was what he said about everything that happened to him for the rest of his life, all of which tended to be more or less drastic. (35-36)

On Philosophy:

I got pretty good at pretending I understood more than I did, a skill which has served me throughout life. … I get much more respect than I deserve. (39)

On the Luminous Reality of People:

When people come to speak to me, whatever they say, I am struck by a kind of incandescence in them, the “I” whose predicate can be “love” or “fear” or “want,” and whose object can be “someone” or “nothing” and it won’t really matter, because the loveliness is just in that presence, shaped around “I” like a flame on a wick, emanating itself in grief and guilt and joy and whatever else. But quick, and avid, and resourceful. To see this aspect of life is a privilege of the ministry which is seldom mentioned. (44-45)

On the Human Face:

Any human face is a claim on you, because you can’t help but understand the singularity of it, the courage and loneliness of it. (66)

On Our Flaws:

These people who can see right through you never quite do you justice, because they never give you credit for the effort you’re making to be better than you actually are, which is difficult and well meant and deserving of some little notice. (98)

On What We Now Call Covetousness:

I believe the sin of covetise is that pang of resentment you may feel when even the people you love best have what you want and don’t have. (134)

And later:

I don’t know exactly what covetise is, but in my experience it is not so much desiring someone else’s virtue or happiness as rejecting it, taking offense at the beauty of it. (188)

On Forgiveness and the Parable of the Prodigal Son:

It says Jesus puts His hearer in the role of the father, or of the one who forgives. Because if we are, so to speak, the debtor (and of course we are that, too), that suggests no graciousness in us. And grace is the great gift. So to be forgiven is only half the gift. The other half is that we can also forgive, restore, and liberate, and therefore we can feel the will of God enacted through us, which is the great restoration of ourselves to ourselves.

On Adulthood and Enjoyment:

Adulthood is a wonderful thing, and brief. You must be sure to enjoy it while it lasts. (166)

For the amazing book click HERE.

A Blessing

I'm halfway through the editing of my next novel, The Mysterious Village, and just came across this passage that expresses wishes and blessings that I want for us all. In the midst of travel across the desert, and at a special Oasis, Walid is in the presence of a mysterious lady who seems to have special knowledge not available to most. He asks about the future. She's reassuring but elusive. And this happens.

She reached out her right hand and spread her fingers wide, pointing her palm toward Walid but not touching him or even coming close to him. She spoke several words in a language he didn’t know or understand, and in a strange tone, both softly and quickly, with her eyes closed. And then she opened her eyes wide and said, “May you and your friends be richly blessed as you move on deeply into the adventures that now await you. May a firm faith and a resilient hope be with you and in you at all times. May you persist with courage and prevail through any difficulties you’re called upon to face. And may you then be able somehow to share the story of your journey with future generations. Great blessings will go with you and be on you, enduring blessings to you and your friends and all who learn of you, my golden young man of the kingdom. We are blessed to have you with us for this short time, Prince Walid.”

For information on the series in which this will appear, early summer, go to www.TheOasisWithin.com.

Resurrection

I just realized on this Easter Weekend that I’ve been writing about resurrection for seven years without realizing I was doing so.

Our word comes from Latin roots, from a verb that meant to rise again or arise anew. Since February of 2011, I’ve been writing and editing a story about a boy and his friends in a reimagined Egypt in 1934 and 1935. As the story played out like a vivid movie in my spirit, I gradually learned that the story is about the power of the mind, the depth of the human spirit, the strength of love, the nature of true friendship, the vital importance of wisdom in everything we do, and the many contours of goodness. It's also about the special abilities we all have available to us that we too rarely experience. What I didn’t realize was that perhaps resurrection is the main thread around which all the others are woven.

Can a boy rise anew from the life of an ordinary child in a small village to serve his kingdom as a prince? Can a nation rise from the ashes of turmoil and great political damage to a new and better life? But finally, and most importantly, is a moral and spiritual resurrection possible within the confines of this life or beyond for a individual whose journey has been corrupted by decades of wrong choices and motivations?

As a Christian, I celebrate a unique resurrection this weekend. But as the best theologians of my tradition have long pointed out, the myth of resurrection has long been present in the human spirit, across cultures, and throughout history. The distinctive Christian claim is that at one particular place and time, and in a distinct individual from another small village, the myth was finally embodied and made real at a new level, for the benefit of us all.

The idea reverberates through all of life. In the world of vegetation, there is death and then revival. In our careers in the world, we’re sometimes like the fantastical Phoenix, who goes down in flames and rises afresh from the ashes. We want to believe in radical and positive transformation. But is it really possible? I think it is. And that’s an implication of the message of Easter, when a tragic death brings new and transformed life. I see now that I’ve been writing about it without realizing I was doing so for the past seven years—its possibility and hope and reality.

My Easter wish is that we all experience that possibility and hope and reality anew in this special season and throughout the days to come.

A Christmas Reflection

Christmas is about new beginnings. It's about the miraculous entering the mundane and transforming it, while also revealing its genuine nature. It's about the true power that comes in real humility. The big in the small. The most remarkable in the least expected of places. A gift that unfolds over the years. It's about the tiny beginnings of forgiveness, redemption, and reconciliation. It speaks of the great high value of the sojourner, and the power the lowest of us have to both witness and help usher in a new era. It's a call to us all. And a reminder of the joy at the bottom and pinnacle of this cosmic adventure.

Merry, Joyous, Happy Christmas, Y'all.

Socrates and Jesus

I always had my Intro to philosophy students read Plato's Apology (The Greek word means "Defense"), an account of the trial of Socrates, during the first week of our class, because of the portrait contained there of a man wholly dedicated to the life of the mind. Offered the chance to live and go free if he would just stop doing philosophy on the city streets, Socrates said, "As long as I live and breathe, I shall never cease to philosophize." My students were stunned to see an adult, as they would say, committed to a mission, so imbued with a purpose, that he would willingly go to his death rather than recant or change his ways. Such determination! Such passion!

Socrates was intensely committed to truth. And he died for that commitment. Jesus, by contrast, was fully committed to love, and he died for that.

I would suggest that you can be committed to truth without an equal felt commitment to love and compassion, but that you can't really and fully be committed to love without also thoroughly honoring truth. So Socrates had, perhaps, a big part of life's puzzle, but not the whole thing.

An old professor, an orthodox Jewish Rabbi who taught philosophy of science, once said to me, "Christianity is all about what you believe, while Judaism is all about what you do." Well. It's not quite so stark, is it? But I get what he was saying. Since Jesus was a Jew, and so were most of the early Christians, maybe we should dig a bit deeper. Perhaps Christianity is more about an attitude and commitment of the heart than about either the beliefs or the actions that might properly attend that attitude and commitment. We do cherish our beliefs and opinions. We're willing to fight for them. Maybe we should cherish God and his creatures more.

There's this other contrast between Socrates and Jesus. Socrates could come across as arrogant. Jesus, strangely, despite alluding repeatedly to his own literal divinity, seemed to live and preach humility. The trick in life is to have all the right commitments, but with all the right attitudes.

The Greeks didn't appreciate the deep power of humility. Christian theologians have, because of Jesus. In the end, truth may indeed be worth dying for. But it's love that's worth living for.

Resurrection: The Insight of Easter.

Resurrection. It's about radical transformation and new life. It's about disaster and even death as the doorways for redemption. It's about apparent failure and ultimate success. It's about vivid appearances and unsuspected realities. It's about having these treasures in earthen vessels.

The original disciples, our predecessors and paradigms of faith, abandon the one in whom they had hoped, and give up their aims in despondency—they flee the path and the project, in a failure of both understanding and courage, and thereby provide an example for all of us unfaithful, weak, panicked souls that we need not be shamed by our lack of sturdy steadfastness, but rather inspired that strength can come of weakness, that honor can come of humility, and that the plan for all things is a massive, wonderful turnaround.

In the darkest of times, the light still shines. Happy Easter.

Grace: A Quick Sunday Morning Thought.

What is it to embody grace, to be gracious in word and deed? 

It's positioning ourselves alongside the highest and best of what is. It's joy. It's love. And it's our greatest opportunity. There is no ungracious path to real happiness or true success. Grace touches deep in the soul and elevates us in a unique way. It means acting beyond the calculus of merit, with forgiveness and transformative power, demonstrating both nobility and humility in equal measure each day. It's the spirit of living well and abundantly in all good things. It's our calling and chief dignity in the world.

The Tree, The Fruit, and The Ladder

Here's a thought that came to me a few days ago and I've pondered it since then.

Imagine for a moment that we can represent true spirituality and even the purpose of our existence in this world as a tall tree. High up in the tree is the fruit that we're here to pick and enjoy. It's life changing. It's meant for us and is the true nourishment we need. But it's beyond our normal reach. So we find or build long, tall ladders we can climb to get to the fruit.

Imagine a positive religion as a ladder, or a life philosophy as one. Any enterprise, any structured activity or array of human activities could be conceptualized as a ladder propped up against that high tree. Some of the ladders may be rickety and dangerous or too short, but some are great and even truly inspired. Perhaps, many are. And you may properly believe that you're on the best one of all, a great ladder that's been explicitly designed for reaching the highest fruit of all. You've been taught how to climb the ladder. And suppose you've learned well. So you climb high. And you've not just mastered the techniques of ascent, you've learned lots of other things along the way because of what you've experienced and seen as you've climbed.

But here's the problem. Many people who climb in search of the ultimate fruit tend to cling tightly to their ladder with both hands. And they won't let go. Ladder climbing has been turned from a means into an end. And that's a problem. When people keep a firm grip on their ladder, some fearfully and with white knuckles, they can't actually reach out for the fruit that awaits them and take it and eat it, and share it with others.

Only those who are willing to let go of the ladder can reach for the fruit. They can still keep their feet firmly planted on its rungs, but they have to reach out beyond its structure with an open hand to get the real treasure they've sought.

And the tragedy, it seems to me, is that many people who have good ladders just become ladder experts, ladder specialists and aficionados. They work on their ladders a lot, and paint them, and polish them, and keep them in good repair. They may even gild them with gold and show them proudly to others. But when they climb, they simply cling and don't reach out for what's really the purpose of the climb.

The moral of this little metaphor is, of course, simple. Find a great ladder and climb high. But then learn to let go enough to reach for the fruit that's the real point of the climb. Life, after all, isn't about the ladder, but ultimately the fruit.

The Empty Tomb and Plato's Cave

Today I came across a vivid Easter Sunday representation of the Empty Tomb of Jesus, as described in the Gospels. In this depiction, as viewers, we’re inside the tomb and can see that it’s essentially underground and dark, and yet an attractive bright light draws our attention beyond the now open door. Right away some thoughts came to me.

The Christian diagnosis of the human condition turns on a Greek word, hamartia, that’s most often translated as “sin” but that in the original language meant “falling short” or “missing the mark,” as in the case of an arrow shot toward a bullseye failing to make it to the target, falling short, and thus missing the mark.

The Christian claim is that we all naturally fall short of our proper ideal. We fall short of what we’re shooting for as human beings who deep down want a good, meaningful, successful, fulfilling and loving life that makes its best potential impact on the world. We’re all somehow metaphorically buried in a tomb of mistakes and illusions, and the gospel claim is that there is one who has escaped that tomb, leaving it empty, and has invited us all out of it as well, while actually also empowering us to leave it and move into the light that awaits us.

Plato had this image of a cave. He suggested that we’re all like men chained in an underground cave, watching shadows dance across its wall and mistaking those shadows as realities. We fear them or we desire them. We want to chase them or run from them. They monopolize our attention and define our lives. But they aren’t the realities among which we’re meant to live.

The philosopher, Plato tells us, is the person who breaks his chains and leaves the cave, ascending into the light of the true sun outside, to see the realities within which we’re ideally meant to live. But then, this philosopher descends back into the cave to spread the word to the other captives that they, too, can escape these illusions and the darkness that envelopes their lives. The light awaits them all.

The tomb from which Jesus escaped can be viewed as symbolically representing that same cave, where we're cut off from the true light and life that we’re meant to have. The Easter message is that the one who left that tomb empty invites us all to leave the realm of illusion and get out where we can hit the intended mark, following him into the light.

A Sunday Reflection on Religion and Faith

I've been away from blogging for a couple of months. I first took a break in honor of the holidays. And then I got busy editing my new series of novels for a quicker than normal schedule of publication. I hope you've already seen the prologue to the series, the book The Oasis Within. It's been out for a few months. And just this week, the first numbered volume in the series Walid and the Mysteries of Phi, The Golden Palace, appeared on Amazon. In two or three months, I hope to have volume two out as well, The Stone of Giza. 

I'm almost done in my editing of the eight books I've already written for the series. And today, Sunday, I want to share a passage I just edited. Even though the books are set mainly in Egypt, certain things happen in faraway places, like Tunisia, or Berlin, or New York City. This passage comes from a story line in numbered Book Seven, The Ancient Scroll. The setting is New York City in 1935 at a Methodist Church. The minister, Bob Archdale, is working on a sermon. We get a chance to see into his head and heart as he makes notes. I hope you enjoy this passage.

Bob at the moment was in his office preparing his sermon for the next morning. He was planning to talk on the nature of faith and how it’s more about perception and values and commitment than just belief. He had decided to use as his biblical text the famous meeting at night between Jesus and the Jewish Rabbinical leader Nicodemus, as reported in the Gospel of John, chapter three. At a time when most of the religious establishment either disliked or feared Jesus, this prominent teacher had gone to see him at night, when, presumably his visit would not be public knowledge. He approached the controversial figure and actually said, “Teacher, some of us know that you were sent by God, because no one could do the things you do without divine support.” And then Jesus, rather than acknowledging the scholar’s rare open-minded reasoning and remarkable belief, says something instead that can be very puzzling on more than one level. His words in response were: “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a man is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Nicodemus is of course perplexed and says, “How can anyone return to the womb and be born a second time?” And then Jesus answers in such a way as to indicate that his entire ministry and mission aren’t primarily about reasoning and belief, but personal transformation into what’s really a new life, with new perceptions, values, and commitments.

Bob knew that, at almost any time, many of the people in his church were showing up, week-to-week, to make a deal with God. They would believe whatever they needed to believe, and do whatever they needed to do, in order to gain divine favor and everlasting life. Some were likely just hedging their bets and maybe living out the famous Agnostic’s Prayer: “Oh God, if there is a God, please save my soul, if there is a soul.” They were there in an effort to perhaps improve their lot and maybe defeat death. But God wanted them there to defeat spiritual blindness and deafness and idolatry and selfishness. He wanted to see them born anew, raised from the death of alienation and separation and selfishness to a new life of union with him and each other. He wanted an eternal life for them now, which was more about quality than it was about quantity. 

He really wanted to get this point across to everyone who showed up for the service. The faith they were being called to embrace is about new life, new values, and new commitments lived all day, every day. He wanted them to understand that when the insistent felt needs of the untutored ego can be released, its real needs can be met. And then, we can experience the genuine power of humility, compassion, and deep faith. The reverend was hoping to get all this across in a persuasive and illuminating way, so that at least many of the members of his congregation could perhaps see the issues of faith in a new and richer light.

When people approach religion for what they can get out of it, they ironically make it nearly impossible to get the most out of it. It becomes a tool—an instrument the ego is merely using to enhance its own interests, whether those interests are healthy or not. That’s why we’ve had so much war and violence and oppression in the name of religion throughout history. These things have nothing to do with true spirituality, but are perversions or deformations of what faith and the quest of the spirit are supposed to be all about. We often come across people pursuing their own greed, with their own ambitions, and superstitiously seeking to assuage their worst fears under a false patina of religious language, ritual, and sentiment. And this wasn’t just a danger for other times and places, Archdale knew, but it’s a temptation for any of us unless we can come to a true understanding of spiritual things.