Resurrection


I don’t know why, but I became paranoid this morning (no, I wasn’t on drugs, but I sure wished I were). I was walking from the library to my car when, all of a sudden, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was about to be attacked, so I watched everyone closely, hoping they wouldn’t look at me. My next stop was Costco, which is a large box-store (as such places are called in America). I hate most big stores, but I love Costco—just not today though. God, but I wanted out of that place. Then, I got to observing the dance that we all perform in crowded situations just to avoid bumping into one another. I focused upon this dance, and it enabled me to reflect upon how cooperative people are, and that made my fear tolerable.

Like what I wrote about my mind and my heart sometimes being in conflict, today it was my mind and my fears. I often feel claustrophobic when I can’t leave a crowded place, and that’s how my morning was, only worse. I’m home now, and peacefully alone in this quiet room. Other than being paranoid at times on marijuana, I’ve never experienced anything like today, and I think it might be a small taste of how it feels to live in a place where people really do want to harm you.

Tonight. At 6:00 p.m., I went to a mass/rosary recitation at Resurrection Episcopal, and I felt as happy and peaceful there as I felt freaked-out this morning. It’s not just church I need, it’s the Episcopal Church, and not just any Episcopal Church, but a high church with incense, candles, holy water, altar bells, formality, and solemnity. I can put my heart into every word I say in such a setting without believing them literally. They possess me. Their beauty, their antiquity, the closeness I feel to those who are saying the same words and making the same gestures, is no less strange and beautiful to me than anything that’s strange and beautiful, whether I’m among people or in nature, whether I’m straight or on drugs. I don’t know how anyone could love high church more than I, or approach it more joyfully. On days when I know I will be going to mass, I count the hours. No one would ever suspect that I grew up in a church that considered ritual and ornamentation to be Satanic, but even back then, I missed what I had never had, and now I’m tired of depriving myself of it.

The day after George’s funeral a few weeks ago, I wrote to the priest at Resurrection: “I’m an atheist pure and simple and through and through, yet I keep being drawn-in by religion.” He wrote, “I am not a Christian who believes that believing correctly, that thinking correctly, has much to do with our relationship to God.” Years ago, another priest had written: “I accept atheism as a valid spiritual path.” Based upon what these priests, various lay people, and some prominent Episcopal theologians have said or written, I think it likely that I could find limited acceptance in this, the only denomination that I’m drawn to, so is the problem with it or with me? I just know that I leave an Episcopal “high mass” a different person, a more peaceful and happy person, and I fully believe that my life would go better if I could consistently allow myself that.

Iain, who is one of the staff at Resurrection, is a female-to-male transgender person who said as much during a Sunday School theology class he teaches. Last night, I told him about my father, about how he thought he was the only transgender person in the world until he was in his sixties and read a Life Magazine article about Jan Morris. I asked Iain whether he felt accepted by his denomination*, and he said, no, not entirely, and certainly not in every congregation. Then it hit me that he isn’t only like my father, he’s also like me in that I know I’ll never be accepted by many people in the church. They might not demand that I explain by what right I take communion in their church, but they’ll always resent my presence, and I’ll always know that nothing I might say could change that. I believe that this congregation will be more tolerant than most (“a place for misfits,” I’ve heard it called), and I’m also encouraged by the non-traditional pronouncement that the priest makes as he extends the wine and the bread toward the people before communion, “This is God’s table. All are welcome here.” Then he proceeds to serve all, including small children, and including me. My heart opens when I reflect upon his acceptance of me because I know what it means. It means that he cares more about love than dogma, and I’ve found that to be rare

*The following link contains the church's position on homosexuality and transgender:
http://www.episcopalchurch.org/page/lgbt-church

Symbol Rock


The Indians considered Symbol Rock sacred, and I can understand why. Unlike them, I know its approximate age, mineral content, and how it formed, yet knowing all this makes it seem no less miraculous. Why, then, does it lies ignored on the side of an abandoned logging road? Surely, there are other people who go there as if on pilgrimage, but I have't seen them.

Last week, I wanted to bring a piece of it home, there being thousands of fallen blocks, but I worried that doing so would be a desecration. I had decided against it when, after much discussion and reconnoitering, Peggy and I made a summit attempt. We proceeded on all-fours on rock so loose and exposures so precipitous that we could have been killed had we fallen, but we finally made it to the knife-edge ridge. The summit itself was hundreds of feet distant, and Peggy demurred, so we turned back. I felt good about turning back because what I most wanted was for us to be together, and because having made the attempt made me feel okay about taking a piece of the rock home--having given something of myself to Symbol Rock, I imaged that Symbol Rock was willing to give a piece of itself back to me.

We take from the earth with little thought about the morality of doing so, and with no thought about whether the earth itself might object. I do this myself. To give an example, when I replaced our wooden fence in 1997, I didn’t agonize over whether it was ethical to support the killing of trees and the destruction of habitats so that I could have a fence. This year, I gave the matter a lot of thought, and would have considered chain-link as an alternative had Peggy agreed, but she did not, and I eventually bought wood. The trees are no less dead for my guilt, the habitats no less destroyed, and the earth, perhaps, no less offended, but I take some small comfort in knowing that I’ve grown more desirous of mitigating the damage I do.

Science is increasingly discovering that life—if not the universe as a whole—is more complex and interrelated than previously thought. For example, rather than only being “red in tooth and claw,” living things are also more cooperative—if not altruistic. For instance, mature Douglas Firs have been shown by experiment to share nutrients with young Douglas Firs, and other examples of “lower species” altruism are ever increasing. Unlike many, I wouldn’t credit such things to the supernatural (images of a god who consists of some undefinable material that is separate from and superior to everything else in the universe doesn’t fit with any fact that I know, or can imagine, or would want to entertain), but to something that I consider far more interesting, which is a web of underlying connectivity that might someday be shown to not just involve obviously interrelated lifeforms but life as a whole.

My guess is that it also extends to what we now consider non-life and that it includes universal consciousness. I speculate, of course, but if I were to be penned down as to what I believe metaphysically—or at least to what I think might be the case—I would have to say that from my earliest childhood, I have believed that all things were conscious, and that I still think it might be true. When I wrote recently about my difficulty in reconciling my heart and intellect, this is one of the conflicts that I had in mind. 

I don’t believe in universal consciousness because I believe it’s true, but because I can’t believe it’s false. The amount of credibility that I give to it varies. In the presence of Symbol Rock, I was 75% sure, but as I write this, my degree of certainty is half that. This is a major issue in my life, if only because an acceptance of it would paint the universe as other than a place of meaningless darkness, meaningless frigidity, and meaningless emptiness. Unfortunately, even my desire to believe makes me mistrust the fact that I do believe. No matter how far afield my imagination takes me, I always come back to the certainty that truth matters more than happiness, but this doesn’t necessarily make truth easier to recognize.

On knowing which way to go


Blaise Pascal
Pascal wrote: “The heart has reasons which reason does not know.” My problem comes when the two are in conflict. When reason argues, “I am right, and can give evidence for it,” and heart responds, “I have no evidence, but I still believe I'm right,” I won't be at peace no matter which way I decide.

Existentialists believe that we will be held completely responsible for the consequences of our decisions, but that we have no means of predicting whether our decisions are right or wrong. If this is true, we might as well decide by tossing coins into the air. I think that most of us, most of the time, decide by default, that is we imitate those around us. Otherwise, there would be fewer Mormons in Utah and fewer Baptists in Alabama. 

I have found within myself that insanity can be defined as the space between what one part of me says is true and what another part says is true. As Montaigne put it: “...what we believe we disbelieve, and cannot rid ourselves of what we condemn.” And again, “There is as much difference between us and ourselves as between us and others.”

Michel de Montaigne
I have also heard insanity defined as the space between what you know is true and what others tell you is true. Indeed, it’s a hard thing when the beliefs that define a person are said to be wrong by his neighbors. Our success lies in the fact that we are a social species, but our downfall, as individuals if not as a species, lies in the same fact.

I do know that, aside from ethical demands, I don't owe anyone an explanation for my faults, values, behaviors, preferences, inconsistencies, or anything else about me that doesn’t affect them directly. It's enough of a challenge to explain me to myself.

The death of George


I went to the funeral of a 95-year-old friend and neighbor today. It started with a rosary, moved on to a mass, and ended with one of my friend’s distinguished children saying that he knew of no higher honor than to be compared to his father. I was wrecked throughout. First, I was alienated by a memorial service that excluded non-Catholics entirely and was conducted under the auspices of a church that I consider the institutional embodiment of evil. Secondly, I was touched to the core by his son’s recollections of George’s goodness, the moreso because I couldn’t say the same about my own father.

George and I would sit and watch mass on TV while eating ice cream or drinking brandy. I didn’t mind watching those masses because he would invariably pause them when we started to talk in any depth, or at least try to talk, a stroke having made it difficult for him to remember words. He never asked about my religious views, and I never offered them because of his communication problem. John said he survived WWII by going to mass everyday (he served on a ship), and I envied him that comfort, but few things are more certain to me than that religion isn’t a gift from God but the invention of men, and I do mean men. Today, the things that I had once tried to love about the Catholic Church—the rosary, the stations of the cross, the saints in the windows, the words of the mass, the font of holy water, and the red light signifying the presence of the host—all represented a lie that, under the pretense of love, has gone far toward filling the world with hatred, abuse, persecution, and bloodshed, as well as hungry children for the impoverished and mansions for the church’s hierarchy.

I seldom passed George’s house on foot, on my bike, or in my car, without him seeing me and waving wildly with a handkerchief while smiling like a dog who was too happy to contain himself. I’ve now lost two neighbors who waved to me that way, and, oh, but how empty those windows look, and how I wish I had visited those men more often to store up memories for the famine that their deaths represent. Ghosts are becoming more present than the living in my life.

After I wrote the above sentence, I surmised that his family would be home from the cemetery, so I went to John’s daughter’s house for the reception. God bless Catholics, for there was enough beer, wine, and hard liquor to get everyone there smashed.

I’ll be honest with you—this being a phrase that my father often used, stupidly, I thought, but for some reason, it came into my head just now—George was a wonderful man. He was unfailingly considerate, generous, and good-humored, and if I had any thought that his Catholic faith had contributed to his many virtues, I would find it difficult to criticize Catholicism. But as easy as it is for me to attribute evil to the Catholic Church, I hate it too much to allow for the possibility that it might also be responsible for good. This is the opposite of how I once thought.

Growing up as I did in a denomination that made Southern Baptists seem liberal, I learned that the world contained two outstanding evils—atheism and Catholicism. This, combined with the plainness of my own church and my awareness of the ornateness of Catholic churches, created in me a very great interest in Catholicism because that which most people hated always struck me as deserving of investigation. When I became an Episcopalian in my early twenties, it was only because I found Catholic dogma even harder to accept than Episcopal dogmaby then, I saw all dogma as a challenge to work around rather than a gift to cherish.

In 1997, I made one last serious attempt to believe that there’s something deserving of worship: I joined the Catholic Church. As I ask myself whatever possessed me to go through a six-month process of being admitted only to leave as soon as I was admitted, I can’t think of a satisfactory answer. I can but say that I was under enormous internal stress at the time for reasons that I won’t go into, and that I love things which are old, and the Catholic Church is awfully old. When I lived in Minnesota, I would often visit the Minneapolis Institute of Art and admire the beautiful saints statues and triptychs from the Middle Ages, and I wanted so very much to feel connected to all of that, instead of persistently feeling as though I’m floating through time and space, unattached to everything that is past, everything that is to come, and most things that are present. I wanted to feel as if the hands of those artists were my hands, their eyes my eyes, their hearts my heart. Against all truth, I mythologized the era as being simple, clean, and deeply colored, which is the way it’s portrayed in the art of the period. I, who couldn’t accept the existence of a literal deity, wanted to at least accept something, so I joined the oldest church on earth in the hope that the mere act of joining would give me a sense of connectedness.
 
I first applied for the membership class at St. Marys, but after talking to me for five minutes, the priest pronounced me unfit to join, so I presented my case to the priest at the more liberal St. Thomas. He said he had no problem with me, but that, like everyone, I would need a sponsor. Since I didn’t know a soul there, he appointed Bill, explaining that Bill’s extensive knowledge of church history and theology would enable him to address my concerns. Unfortunately, the more Bill and I came together, the further apart we grew due to his growing disapproval of me. It must have been hard for him to allow me to join (I needed his okay), but he pinched his nostrils, and publicly vouched for me on the Saturday night before Easter Sunday. Afterwards, he presented me with a copy of Thomas Merton’s The Seven Story Mountain and warned that if I ever joined another church, God wouldn’t forgive me. It was the last time we spoke.

There I was, a brand-spanking new Roman Catholic whom, despite my best efforts, had gotten nothing of value from all the classes, nothing from my scholarly sponsor, and nothing but a fleeting wave of emotion from my confirmation. A few weeks later, the priest called to ask what had become of me, and I said it wasn’t working for me to be a Catholic. He wished me well without asking any questions. I now look upon the whole episode as one of the more embarrassing of my life, because I knew throughout the process that I didn’t have an intellectual leg to stand upon, yet I joined anyway.

There’s a character in Elmer Gantry with whom I identify more strongly than anyone I’ve ever known or read about. Frank Shallard went through seminary and preached for years despite his ever-growing nonbelief, yet, as unlikely as it sounds, he was a person of integrity. Gantry didn’t bother to ponder the question of God’s existence because his only interests were the prestige and wealth that went with being a famous evangelist. Neither did maintaining their belief pose a challenge to such preachers in the book as did believe, because they were “superbly trained to ignore contradictions.” Frank Shallard, by contrast, wanted to believe—in something—but he couldn’t avoid probing questions, and his questions had to admit of rational answers, so he kept on preaching for the good he could do, even as he sought an alternate belief. Gantry finally outed him in the following exchange:

Frank was so simple as to lose his temper when Elmer had bullied him, roared at him, bulked at him, long enough, with Frank’s own deacons accepting Elmer as an authority…he screamed back at Elmer that he did not accept Jesus Christ as divine; that he was not sure of a future life; that he wasn’t even sure of a personal God.

Mr. William Dollinger Styles snapped, “Then just why, Mr. Shallard, don’t you get out of the ministry before you’re kicked out?”

“Because I’m not yet sure — Though I do think our present churches are as absurd as a belief in witchcraft, yet I believe there could be a church free of superstition, helpful to the needy, and giving people that mystic something stronger than reason, that sense of being uplifted in common worship of an unknowable power for good. Myself, I’d be lonely with nothing but bleak debating-societies. I think — at least I still think — that for many souls there is this need of worship, even of beautiful ceremonial —.”

“‘Mystic need of worship!’ ‘Unknowable power for good!’ “Words, words, words! Milk and water! THAT, when you have the glorious and certain figure of Christ Jesus to worship and follow!” bellowed Elmer. “Pardon me, gentlemen, for intruding, but it makes me, not as a preacher but just as a humble and devout Christian, sick to my stomach to hear a fellow feel that he knows so blame much he’s able to throw out of the window the Christ that the whole civilized world has believed in for countless centuries! And try to replace him with a lot of gassy phrases! Excuse me, Mr. Styles, but after all, religion is a serious business, and if we’re going to call ourselves Christians at all, we have to bear testimony to the proven fact of God…”

The Gantrys of the world are welcomed by the church; the Shallards are not. So was it in Jesus’ time, and so is it today.

Fifty-four years after I started to lose my fundamentalist faith, I find it sad how cheerfully confident I was that I would soon find an alternative and even enjoy the search. This was because I assumed great diversity among religions, and there is, of course, enormous diversity, but it is diversity of what people believe rather than of how they think. I also assumed that, just as botany and history have their authorities, so does metaphysics. Now, I see no reason to think that anyone knows any more about ultimate reality than I do, death being the only path to certain knowledge. 

Art by Zdzislaw Beksinski. His images describe my feelings better than any words. It is a nightmare to be simultaneously attracted and repulsed.