"Maybe it's all utterly meaningless. Maybe it's all unutterably meaningful. If you want to know which, pay attention to what it means to be truly human in a world that half the time we're in love with and half the time scares the hell out of us. Any fiction that helps us pay attention to that is religious fiction. The unexpected sound of your name on somebody's lips. The good dream. The strange coincidence. The moment that brings tears to your eyes. The person who brings life to your life. Even the smallest events hold the greatest clues."
Fell back asleep after Peg left for work, the inevitable result of a late, heavy Italian supper at our new favorite Italian restaurant in Horseheads, washed down by a fine Amarone. Now I'm scrambling already, with a telephonic mediation in a few minutes. At least it shouldn't last long--my guy presents as sort of a cowboy and risk-taker who can't conjugate a verb but flies his own big airplane and makes more money than all of us combined; the other side is an arrogant corporation represented by some Ivy League hot-shot who hasn't seen fit even to call and introduce himself ahead of our virtual meeting. I reckon client and counsel for the two sides are appropriately aligned.
I'm so confident this exercise is going nowhere, in fact, that I arranged several days ago to take Peg's car back over to Vestal so they can install four new tires. Of course, now this damned northern winter weather may scuttle that plan, as well, with skies darkening ahead of snow that's supposed to start just as I'd be pulling out of the garage.
Nope, I won't be driving the rear wheel drive roadster fifty miles each way in wet snow and ice. Been there, done that.
Last night P and I accepted an invitation from friends to attend a Christmas concert at the RC Church over in Elmira. We arrived with low expectations, and were utterly floored by the talent of the singers, each of whom performed a solo piece as well as joining the others in a sublime, heavenly choir. It was simply beautiful.
And yet, the magic has sort of bled out of this whole Christmas exercise as we've lost the ability to believe in virgin births and magic stars and angels herding shepherds into town to gaze adoringly at the most creatively cloaked illegitimate birth in the history of humanity. Why did Joseph play along? I read years ago, in my seminary days, a book entitled "A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus" by John P. Meier, a priest. Meier observes that all of Jesus's siblings, and indeed Jesus himself, bore names that suggested parents who were religious fundamentalists, eschewing the Hellenizing influence of the world around them. So maybe Mary, realizing she was in a bit of a pickle, found herself a religious nut who'd buy the whole immaculate conception thing. I mean, he already accepted the notion of a talking donkey. How much more of a stretch was this?
Start thinking these thoughts while fidgeting in the pews, and "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" sort of loses its luster.
But we're still searching, or at least I am. What to believe in this post-religious season of life? To believe in nothing is to sink into nihilism, which would seem to take the color out of life completely.
Yesterday I ran across a "New Declaration of Independence" by my old sage Elbert Hubbard. I can't cut-and-paste it here for some reason, but here's a link to a nifty plaque that sets it out.
Find meaning in your work. Be a servant, never served. Respect the value of every human being. What a wonderful planet this would be if we recited this on Sundays instead of the Nicene Creed.
Then again, the baptismal covenant in the BCP gives us a lot of this. I have a priest friend who regularly folds it into the liturgy when he's in charge. There's something to that.
If we dumped the "I believe" stuff, the two statements of purpose could stand side-by-side.
Oops. Time for that mediation. And I'm still in pajamas. Welcome to 2022.
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