"Tho' I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!" (Kipling 1892).
Religion sometimes confuses and worries me, mostly because I enjoy it when people think I know things. And it's not that you can't know things in religion, but it seems that so often the lines between belief, assumption, logic, knowledge, and truth become incredibly blurred. That being said, I naturally grew up as a spiritual prodigy.
I went one summer to a week-long church camp called EFY (Especially for Youth). I remember one night we were gathered as a small group sitting outside and listening to our councilor give a short lesson. At the end of the lesson, he invited us to separate (there were only about ten of us) and each find a secluded location where we could (ideally) truly and honestly pray. I found my spot and laid down on the grass, looking up at the moon. Suddenly, I began to weep. Powerful, emotional sobs - waves of some kind of fire, some kind of eruption of deep anticipation that washed over me again and again. Was it God? Was it only me? I stared up at the moon as if it were the hand of God. After a time my tears stopped and the intensity was replaced by a feeling of rest: a sort-of aching peace. As I think about it now, I think about Elijah, who witnessed wind and earthquake and fire - what emotions of terror must have accompanied him, I can only imagine. Or maybe it wasn't terror, maybe it was astonishment and awe, an outburst, a crescendo of incomprehensible beauty that may sometimes attend us as we witness the unequivocal power of the natural; perhaps even of the divine. Perhaps he felt the wind and the earthquake and saw the fire as if they too were the hand of God; waves of passion washing over him as they did me.
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!" (Kipling 1892).
Religion sometimes confuses and worries me, mostly because I enjoy it when people think I know things. And it's not that you can't know things in religion, but it seems that so often the lines between belief, assumption, logic, knowledge, and truth become incredibly blurred. That being said, I naturally grew up as a spiritual prodigy.
I went one summer to a week-long church camp called EFY (Especially for Youth). I remember one night we were gathered as a small group sitting outside and listening to our councilor give a short lesson. At the end of the lesson, he invited us to separate (there were only about ten of us) and each find a secluded location where we could (ideally) truly and honestly pray. I found my spot and laid down on the grass, looking up at the moon. Suddenly, I began to weep. Powerful, emotional sobs - waves of some kind of fire, some kind of eruption of deep anticipation that washed over me again and again. Was it God? Was it only me? I stared up at the moon as if it were the hand of God. After a time my tears stopped and the intensity was replaced by a feeling of rest: a sort-of aching peace. As I think about it now, I think about Elijah, who witnessed wind and earthquake and fire - what emotions of terror must have accompanied him, I can only imagine. Or maybe it wasn't terror, maybe it was astonishment and awe, an outburst, a crescendo of incomprehensible beauty that may sometimes attend us as we witness the unequivocal power of the natural; perhaps even of the divine. Perhaps he felt the wind and the earthquake and saw the fire as if they too were the hand of God; waves of passion washing over him as they did me.
But I feel empty now as I remember Elijah's story; I feel somewhat confused, like my emotions should have proved something, like remembering them - and even experiencing them again in the slightest degree as I do so - should have produced something more than the quiet, tired uncertainty that now pervades. But perhaps that is why the author of 1 Kings was so careful to note that the Lord was not in the wind, or in the earthquake, or in the fire. But why? What is this voice that comes after?
A few years after EFY, I went with a large group of local church youth to a weekend campout activity. During one of the last nights we were put in a surprisingly similar situation (though this time by our local church leaders) and thus I again found myself in a secluded spot with the intent of communing with the Divine. But this time I was ready, I knew what I wanted and I was fully prepared to ask for it. This time I did not weep; I was not washed; I was not fooled by wind or earthquake or fire. I was only refused.
One day in my high-school English class our teacher began to criticize the US government. The things he said here controversial - something about Osama Bin Laden (whoever that is) and the Taliban (whatever that is) being freedom fighters when they were fighting Russia , but now being branded as terrorists. I didn't really know what he was talking about, but I definitely observed how his controversy gave him some sort of rapt attentive power. I immediately adopted his beliefs and, the next day, was thrown out of my Math class for refusing to stand during the Pledge of Allegiance. My Math teacher spoke to me afterwards as did my mother when she picked me up from school. They each reprimanded me, but then masterfully used the situation to respectfully present their opinions. They even encouraged me to discover my own.
Did I listen? Of course not; the damage had already been done. When I had been waiting outside my Math class after being kicked out, I had been approached by two girls, one of which I knew. They asked me why I wasn’t in class and I explained. They looked at me like a god.
One day in my high-school English class our teacher began to criticize the US government. The things he said here controversial - something about Osama Bin Laden (whoever that is) and the Taliban (whatever that is) being freedom fighters when they were fighting Russia , but now being branded as terrorists. I didn't really know what he was talking about, but I definitely observed how his controversy gave him some sort of rapt attentive power. I immediately adopted his beliefs and, the next day, was thrown out of my Math class for refusing to stand during the Pledge of Allegiance. My Math teacher spoke to me afterwards as did my mother when she picked me up from school. They each reprimanded me, but then masterfully used the situation to respectfully present their opinions. They even encouraged me to discover my own.
Did I listen? Of course not; the damage had already been done. When I had been waiting outside my Math class after being kicked out, I had been approached by two girls, one of which I knew. They asked me why I wasn’t in class and I explained. They looked at me like a god.
You know, the boy who cried wolf eventually got eaten by the wolf. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it is rather frightening to me that, in my mind, this brutal end seems so incredibly justified.
2 comments:
I suppose part of the lesson learned here is not to adopt another's beliefs... find your own. Which I believe you have if you'll just stop overthinking things long enough!
And whether you remember or not, you *did* listen :)
I just read this again. I don't remember ever hearing about the English teacher and how he influenced your opinion, before the math incident the following day. I just remember you talking about the government and how angry you were at them... and then our discussion.
I wish I knew who he was so I could punch him in the face... and knock you upside the head again :/
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