Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 13

Nobody Prays at The Slumlord’s House

I saw this excellent and thought provoking article by Mary Pezzulo on Patheos and decided to reprint it here. 

Nobody Prays at the Slumlord’s House

I saw a post online recently, about people praying the Rosary outside the public library. It’s a rally they’ve planned to “make reparation” for Drag Queen Story Hour.

They think Jesus is offended by Drag Queen Story Hour, and for all I know He is. They think praying a Rosary will cheer Him up. And for all I know it will.

But I can’t help but notice that no one has ever prayed a Rosary to make reparation outside a payday loan office, where poor people go into crippling debt just to buy themselves another few weeks of life. No one prays the Rosary outside a furniture and appliance rental scam which is more of the same. No one prays the Rosary outside used car dealerships who offer predatory loans. No one prays the Rosary outside of pawn shops. When my friends pawned their coats and boots to buy food, nobody made reparation for that.

Nobody prayed a Rosary to make reparation outside a row of gentrified houses after the poor were thrown out. Nobody prayed for reparation outside a slum apartment building where the landlord won’t fix the furnace, where the tenants have to hang towels over the windows and sleep in their coats to stay alive. Nobody prayed the Rosary outside the city utility department office when poor people’s water was shut off. Nobody prayed when the City shut down the park and demolished the playground to deter drug dealers or when children found a needle in the vacant lot. Nobody prayed when the derelict where homeless people were building a campfire burned to the ground.

Nobody prayed outside the slumlord’s house when a building went up in flames because the slumlord forgot to put in smoke detectors, and a whole family burned to death.  The neighbors built a little shrine on the spot where the house used to be, with flowers and teddy bears and a wooden cross, but nobody prayed at the slumlord’s house. Nobody prayed outside the apartment building with the black mold and the broken air conditioner, when people began to get sick. Nobody prayed at the spot where the homeless camp was “cleaned up” by the city, and the homeless lost everything they had.

Nobody prayed outside the grocery store that called the police on the person shoplifting a few boxes of pop tarts at the end of a hard month, even though it would be cheaper for everyone o just give them some pop tarts or pretend they didn’t see.

Nobody prays outside the courthouse when the addict goes to jail and loses their children, instead of getting mental health care before the situation got so out of hand in the first place.

Nobody prays outside the brothels.

Nobody prays outside the police station when they raid the brothels and take the enslaved women to jail instead of to safety.

Nobody prays outside the school when the cafeteria won’t give a lunch to a child without lunch money. Nobody prays outside the welfare office when they cut the family’s food stamps. Nobody except me prays when my friend texts to say that her baby hasn’t had formula all day because there’s none in stock in town– because I’m the only one that knows, besides God.

Nobody prayed on that street corner where that man overdosed, then dropped the needle on the ground and boarded the city bus before his heart stopped.

Nobody prayed when the addict stole my daughter’s bicycle off the porch, then returned it and apologized when he couldn’t sell it. Nobody prayed when he finally overdosed and died last year.

Quite a few of us got together to pray in my neighborhood, the day after a homeless man was shot to death. But I didn’t see the Catholics from the wealthy part of the neighborhood show up with their Rosaries. They stayed home. They don’t like to be on that block in the neighborhood, because it’s dangerous.

When the mentally ill woman downtown starved her baby to death, a lot of people prayed. But we didn’t pray outside the Children’s Services office, where the agents were notified again and again but nothing seems to have been done.

They think Jesus, who wore a dress every day of His life, is offended by a man putting on a dress and a wig.

They don’t care about actual sins.

The post Nobody Prays at The Slumlord’s House appeared first on Waiter Rant.

My Birthday, Yet Again

Several times a year, I must undergo tests to see if my cancer has returned. Despite all the previous ones coming back negative and my doctor telling me I’m “golden,” I still live with the fear it’ll come back. Normally I’m fine between these diagnostic probes of my mortality but, when the appointed time arrives, I get edgy. Understandable I guess, but no fun. 

I had hoped to get the results before my birthday but, due to a scheduling problem, my consult with the doctor was delayed until two days afterwards. That annoyed me because I wanted to have that off my plate by before I celebrated the anniversary of my birth. Waiting on the results is always a dangerous time for me. As my wife will attest, as the appointed hour approaches, I get cranky. So, when we met with friends for my birthday dinner at the Capitol Grille, I was a little distracted. Don’t get me wrong, I had a lovely time, but the uncertainty put a slight damper on the festivities – which probably explained why I downed two martinis instead of my usual one. 

On Monday, however, now officially in the last year of my “early fifties” I feel into a terrific funk. Having faced the specter of dying early, I don’t think it was about getting older, so I chalked my foul mood up to anxiety over my impending doctor’s visit. Having other life problems pressing in on me didn’t help either. So, as I sat in my living room staring at the television while a spring storm raged outside, I found myself wishing I was a better person. That I was tougher and more courageous. That I didn’t let fear and uncertainty impact me or my family so much. 

“Daddy,” my daughter cried as came home from a play date. “Come outside.” 

“What is it?” I said, dully staring at boob tube. 

“Come and see! Look! Come on!” 

Grunting, I got off the couch and went outside to see what Natalie blabbing about. The source of her excitement? A glorious double rainbow arching brilliantly across the sky.

“Wow,” I said, dumbstruck. 

“Isn’t it pretty?” Natalie said. 

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you for showing it to me. I would’ve missed it.” 

Standing in the driveway, I remembered my last birthday. Facing major surgery, I was cranky back then too. But then a series of beautiful moments came out of nowhere, lifting my spirits and giving me the perceptive and strength to endure.  As that rainbow dissipated my dark mood, I remembered, and not for the first time, that “beauty is gloriously useless.” Having no purpose other than itself, we delight in it for “the sake of delight alone.” When you think about it, that means beauty needs nothing in order to beautiful. It doesn’t depend on how we’re feeling, whatever situation we find ourselves in, and can manifest itself even in the worst of circumstances. It just Is. 

A wise man once wrote, “There is an unsettling prodigality about the beautiful, something wanton about the way it lavishes itself upon even the most atrocious of settings…a village ravaged by pestilence may lie in the shadow of a magnificent mountain’s ridge….Cambodian killing fields were often lushly flowered; Nazi commandants occasionally fell asleep to the strains of Bach, performed by ensembles of Jewish inmates; and no doubt the death camps were routinely suffused by the delicate hues of a twilit sky. Beauty seems to promise a reconciliation beyond the contradictions of the moment, one that perhaps places time’s tragedies within a broader perspective of harmony and meaning, a balance between light and darkness; beauty appears to absolve being of its violences.” 

Throughout my life, beauty has “lavished” itself upon me during my worst moments. Whether I was a child crying in the forest, seeing my friend die on a glorious spring day, or wondering if cancer was going to punch my ticket, it has always appeared. Granted, I haven’t always noticed those moments, even thinking it mocked my suffering at times, but Beauty’s response was just to sail calmly on. And, as it peacefully flows through time and creation – needing nothing and wanting nothing – I think it is unaffected by the most atrocious of circumstance because, for beauty, things like sickness, evil, sin and death simply do not exist. It blows past them like they’re not even there. 

Of course, as we struggle in this vale of tears, we’re mightily affected by life’s awfulness. So, when we witness beautiful moments during our many travails – like 9/11 happening on a perfect summer morning – it can be jarring. I think that’s because the juxtaposition reminds us how estranged we are from Original Beauty, the world as it ought to be.  Consciously or unconsciously, I think we all desire for that world to come again – innocent, peaceful, and free from pain. But, if in your despair and grief, you’ve failed to notice some of those beautiful moments swirling around us, you needn’t worry – they will always come again. That’s because Beauty’s “wanton prodigality,” far from being sterile, indifferent, or cruel, is merciful beyond measure. Patient, inexhaustible and infinite, it will never run out of giving us wonderful things to experience. It tells us we’ll always have something to look forward to, that there’ll always be more fun around the corner. That gives us the hope to ‘bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, and endure all things.”  Perhaps that’s how beauty absolves being of all its violences. Maybe. 

The next morning the doctor strode into the exam room to give me the results. After telling me I was a “perfect surgical outcome” and cancer free after almost a year he said, “You’re very, very lucky. Do you realize that?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I do.” 

“Happy Birthday by the way.”

“Thank you.” 

Of course, after reading all the sobering statistics since my diagnosis, I was acutely aware this conversation could have gone and entirely different way. And one day, it just might. Cancer is one of life’s violences and there are no guarantees. Driving home, however, I thought about that rainbow my daughter dragged me out to see. In the Bible, a rainbow is the symbol of God’s promise not to destroy his good creation; an assurance that, no matter how long, short, or uncertain my life might be, nothing is ever truly lost. That the party will never end. 

Smiling, I realized that, through a chance confluence of light and rain, Beauty had come to my rescue yet again.  

The post My Birthday, Yet Again appeared first on Waiter Rant.

Bless This Mess

Yesterday, my wife texted me an article about a priest who resigned his pastorship of a Catholic parish because all the baptisms he’d performed over twenty years had been deemed invalid. That means all the subsequent sacraments those unbaptized souls had received – like marriage – are invalid. In Catholic speak invalid means it never happened. The reason given for this ecclesiastical faux pas? The priest said, “We baptize you” instead of “I baptize you” while performing the ritual. The article further discussed how another young priest, upon viewing a videotape of his own baptism, discovered the priest performing the ceremony (Not the abovementioned pastor who resigned) also used the word “We” instead of “I” – compelling the cleric to have himself rebaptized, reconfirmed and re-ordained! It also meant all the sacraments he’d performed – every Eucharist, marriage, baptism confession, etcetera, were also invalid.  

“Who gives a shit?” I texted back to my wife. “No wonder people don’t go to church anymore.” 

Since I’m a cynical ex-seminarian, my first thought was this hapless pastor was the victim of a hit job by some ultra-conservative Catholic jihadists who wanted him removed from the parish. In the article, the man’s parishioners were cited as defending him, saying, “As part of his pastoral leadership, Father Andres reinvigorated the church community by renovating its facilities, giving parishioners and faith seekers a spiritual home that is open to all.” Hmm. Methinks someone didn’t appreciate the priest’s efforts to be “inclusive.” And the priest who thought he had to get ordained again? Sounds like a case of religious OCD to me – what we used to call “scruples” That his bishop supported this was also an idiot move. 

A friend of mine got married in the 80’s by a priest who was later found to be a serial pedophile and drummed out of the priesthood. Upon learning of the cleric’s crimes years later, he joyfully told his wife, “Hey, were not married!”  They stayed married, of course, because they were really married, but lots of marriages out there are hanging by a thread. Did the bishops of these two priests even consider the possibility that scores of couples, upon discovering their marriages – at least religiously – didn’t happen, would now use that as an excuse to throw in the towel? Slick move, pointy hat guys. Personally, if had been ordained and later discovered my Holy Orders were invalid, I’d have gone, “Awesome! I’m getting the hell outta here!” 

According to the letter of canon law, it is true that using the word “We” instead of “I” renders the sacrament of baptism invalid. But as any Catholic who’s tried getting their marriage annulled knows, canon lawyers often don’t live in the real world.  And, since I haven’t gone off in a rant in a while, I’d like to take this opportunity to skewer this bit of ecclesial stupidity. 

Let’s say you have a priest who is a serial killer of children. Not only does he lure them into the rectory and kill then with arsenic laced lollipops, but then dismembers them, bakes them into mince pies, and then eats them.  But hey, if he used the word “I’ instead of “We” then all his baptisms are valid. No harm no foul!  Or how about a sexual predator bishop ordaining hundreds of priests over the course of his career? Well, if he performed the ritual correctly, then it’s all good! Anyone see the disconnect here? Yeah, yeah, this is when the whole doctrine of ex opere operato comes up – meaning that, no matter how evil the priest performing a sacrament is, any “positive effect (The efficacy of said sacrament) comes not from their worthiness or faith but from the sacrament as an instrument of God.” So basically, if Hitler had been a priest, all the sacraments he had administered would’ve been valid – even if you’d be mightily skeeved that someone who killed millions of performed your wedding. I, for one, would’ve requested a do-over.

Now ex opere operato is important because, let’s face it, lots of priests throughout history have been full blown psychos. And I’m not talking about the Borgia popes mind you. Ever hear of a priest named Jozef Tiso? This nimrod was a full-blown Nazi who became the president of Slovakia during World War II and helped deport thousands of Slovakian Jews to the death camps. Or how about Father András Kun, a raging anti-Semite Hungarian Franciscan who actively tortured and murdered Jews during the Holocaust? These guys were a few beers short of moral six-pack and got executed for their war crimes – but guess what? Every sacrament they performed was valid. I mean, you can’t have all the people they married ditching each other now, can you? Besides, if the Church depended on the goodness of its ministers to perform valid sacraments, the whole thing would have gone down the shitter ten minutes after Jesus ascended into heaven. But this whole “We” versus “I” thing is complete idiocy because it’s all over one word.  

You’ve probably never heard of the Holy Qurbana of Addai and Mari – the earliest eucharistic liturgy we have record of. An East Syriac rite from the ancient Church of the East, this liturgy is notable for the fact that it doesn’t include the Institution Narrative; when the priest says, “This is my Body. This is my Blood” during the anaphora, the Eucharistic prayer. Now, if you exclude those words in a Roman mass, then “transubstantiation” – when bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ – doesn’t take place and the host remains just a tasteless wafer made by some nuns in a convent in upstate New York. So, no surprise here, many Catholic and Orthodox Christians thought there was no “Real Presence” in that liturgy’s Eucharist because they omitted Christ’s words and, therefore, was invalid. 

Lots of people don’t realize that Catholic and Orthodox Christians accept each other’s sacraments as valid. In an emergency for instance, Catholics can receive sacraments from Orthodox clergy and vice versa. It has to do with a little thing called apostolic succession, but that’s not important right now. The validity of the Liturgy of Addai and Mari, however, has been a source of consternation among liturgists of both traditions. Some Orthodox and Oriental churches haven’t accepted it – but the Catholic Church does!  “The words of Eucharistic Institution are indeed present in the Anaphora of Addai and Mari,” the church proclaimed. “Not in a coherent narrative way and ad litteram, but rather in a dispersed euchological way, that is, integrated in successive prayers of thanksgiving, praise and intercession.” Translation? You’re getting 100 percent Grade A Jesus. 

So, how can the Catholic Church accept a eucharistic liturgy that doesn’t contain what they consider the most important words in it, but have kittens when their priests say, “We baptize you,” instead of “I?” Couldn’t it be argued that, even though a tiny part of the ritual was not pronounced ad litteram, that the ceremony was “still integrated in successive prayers of thanksgiving, praise and intercession” and therefore a valid sacrament? Or does using “We” instead of “I” during baptism mean that the Holy Spirit, the Third Person of the Trinity, consubstantial with the Father and Son – God Himself and Infinite Source of all there is – will suddenly slam on the brakes and say, “Nope. I ain’t going into that baby!” That prayers are Harry Potteresque incantations with the ability to summon Him willy-nilly? Pure and utter nonsense. 

Of course, words and how they are said are important. As a priest friend of mine said, “I can’t stand when guys freestyle the liturgy. It’s the prayer of the Universal Church. You can’t extemporize!” I mostly agree with those sentiments. Back when I was a kid in the 70’s, priests were notorious for making shit up during Mass – which kind of put a dent in the dignity of the whole thing. And even though I think the newly revised liturgy is a clumsy, awkward and unpastoral travesty lacking the former’s linguistic grace, those are the indeed the words – although I hope the pointy hat guys will come to their senses and change it back. “With thy spirit?” Gimme a break.

Here’s another problem with considering those “We” baptisms invalid. Let’s say you’re a pointy hat – a bishop – and you’re pissed off with something the Pope said, suspect he’s really an alien, stewing that you’re not a cardinal, woke up on the wrong side of bed – whatever – and decide to start your own church. So, you go and ordain a bunch of guys bishops without the Supreme Pontiff’s permission and go on your merry way. This has happened many times throughout history, but most notably in 1983 when Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre ordained four men bishops without John Paul II’s permission to keep his ultra-Vatican II hating, Tridentine Mass loving congregation in in Écône Switzerland going. Of course, the Church, hewing to Canon Law, excommunicated everyone involved hours after it happened but guess what? It still considers all those episcopal ordinations valid. Illicit but valid. 

“Valid but illicit or valid but illegal (Latin: valida sed illicita) is a description applied in the Catholic Church to describe either an unauthorized celebration of a sacrament or an improperly placed juridic act that nevertheless has effect.” Basically, Lefebvre, broke church law, but his administration of Holy Orders was still valid, stamping that “indelible mark” on those men’s souls. They’re bishops – though not in communion with the Holy See. Now, the Vatican can excommunicate those guys all they want, not invite them to their parties, but they’re still bishops. And all the sacraments those bishops subsequently performed – priestly and episcopal ordinations, Eucharists, marriages, etcetera – are all valid. Illicit but valid. Now, some clerics from this group eventually returned to bosom of Mother Church and, upon their return, did not have to be “reordained’ in order to function as priests. That’s because they were already priests! 

So, why can’t those baptisms where a priest used “We” instead of “I” – and the reception of all sacraments by those persons afterwards – be considered valid but illicit? That’s an easy fix because, in the Catholic Church, there is a dispensation for almost everything.  And if the Pope issue dispensations to let a bunch of schismatic rebels stay priests without forcing them to get ordained again, then why scare the nice normal people in the pews with this “Sorry, you were never really baptized, confirmed, married, absolved” crazy talk? 

During the worst of the pandemic, when priests couldn’t hear the confessions of the dying, Pope Francis said, “If you cannot find a priest to confess to, speak directly with God, your father, and tell him the truth. Say, ‘Lord, I did this, this, this. Forgive me,’ and ask for pardon with all your heart…. And immediately you will return to a state of grace with God.” Yes, rituals are important, but if the Pope can say faithful people unshriven by ritual forms can still get into heaven, then why won’t certain people cut those improperly baptized people a break? I don’t know, but my time in seminary might provide a clue. 

Human beings like to feel like they’re part of something greater than themselves. Like most of my divinity school fratres, I studied for the priesthood because I thought I had received a calling from God -and nothing is bigger than God himself. But now, years later, I realize many of us were running from something – sexuality, traumas, emotional problems, what have you – and there’s no better place to hide from yourself than within a two-thousand-year institution. All of us, in some way, were looking for a source of surety and safety to keep the messiness of our psyches and life at bay. So, we’d armor ourselves with the culture, rituals, dogmas, doctrines, and ecclesiastical minutia of the church – often seeking to create new personalities so we didn’t have to deal with our own. As one ex-seminarian told me, “We were all guys in our twenties pretending like we were in our fifties.” 

Since so many of us weren’t dealing with our problems, whenever something occurred to threaten our hiding place – like guys quitting, questioning church teaching or the power structure, taking about clerical sexual abuse or the disproportionate number of gay men in the clergy, some of us would react like an addict who had his crack pipe taken away. No, Mother Church and all it teaches is divinely inspired and perfect! One such incident I witnessed immediately comes to mind.  After a conference on celibacy, some of us were having a bullshit session in the common room when I, a virgin at the time, wondered how would be able to counsel our future parishioners about sexuality if we ourselves had never experienced the horizontal mambo. Then one of my classmates, who is a priest today, shouted, “I don’t have to eat dirt to know I don’t like it!” 

Even though I was young, I was aware that 99% percent of humanity ate that “dirt” on a regular basis and that my classmate was completely out of touch with reality. But becoming a priest was so important to him – the need to dwell in that “safe space” so powerful – the even thinking of engaging in the messiness of intimacy was too threatening for him to contemplate. So, it should come as no surprise that guys would go off their rockers over things like theological dissent, challenging doctrine, the role of women in the church or even something as simple as a movie. One evening, when some of us were watching Martin Scorsese’s excellent film, The Last Temptation of Christ, on the community VCR, one guy went batshit – accusing us of heresy. Then he knelt in the kitchen and loudly prayed the rosary for the “salvation of our souls” and decrying the “evils of abortion” whilst also ruining our viewing pleasure at the same time. That was the closest I ever came to hitting someone in seminary. 

You’d think that our superiors would’ve put a stop to this kind of nonsense, but the reality was many of them were head cases too. Trapped within the clerical culture, many of them were hiding from problems as well and, as a result, struggling with things like alcoholism, obesity, drug use, pilfering church funds and sexually acting out. Lest you think I’m coming off as bitter, please be assured I know many priests are good and holy men fighting the good fight. But even the “good ones” are trapped by the inflexibility and fearfulness of churchmen desperate to maintain the “safe” status quo.  As the Vatican’s recent report on ex-Cardinal McCarrick’s sexual crimes shows, bishops were well aware of his activities and did nothing. Why? That’s complicated, but part of it has to do with fearing the whole “house of cards” would fall apart. Because if they were wrong about this, then what else could they be wrong about? And the church is famous for not admitting when it’s wrong. 

All this serves to disconnect the men who serve the church from the true purpose of the church- to serve its people by spreading the Gospel. It breeds clericalism – fostering an almost “us versus them” mentality that leaves priests on one side and their flock on the other. So, it’s not surprising that some clerics got their panties in a twist over the whole “I” versus “We’ thing – causing many of the faithful to suffer pain as a result. All of this over a word. Luckily, the church has begun to admit its failings with respect to the abuse crisis and Pope Francis rails against the disease of clericalism almost daily.  But, while many priests and parishioners are overjoyed at this development, quite a few are not – pining to return to a time when they didn’t have to deal with such questions. Seeking refuge in a vision of a perfect church that never existed; desperately seeking a safe space to hide from life’s messiness. For them, the real world is too threatening.

I recently read a wonderful definition of heresy- that it’s the inability to deal with life’s complexity. Life is messy. The Church, since it’s comprised of sinful human beings, is also messy and rigid people have an awfully hard time dealing with mess. They want everything to be just so – to have very i dotted and every t crossed. Coming from the subculture they do; some priests cannot countenance any deviation from “form” whatsoever. Well, priests “freestyling” the liturgy or saying “We” instead of “I” is also part of the messiness of life. And while doctrine, dogma, and ritual are important, if they are bereft of the spirit of the Gospels, if it does not walk alongside people in the messy and fleshy complexity of their lives, then it runs the risk of not only of becoming “a whitewashed tomb” but irrelevant in the lives of the faithful. And that would be a shame because the Church possesses wisdom beyond compare. 

I might only be an armchair theologian, but I’m quite sure believing that one errant word can invalidate a baptism is heresy. That’s because words cannot contain God. Even the sacraments cannot contain God. He is who He is and goes where He likes. And if Christians believe that God became man – that he “pitched his tent among us” – that means humanity, with all its diversity and messiness is good too. Like the Liturgy of Addai and Mari, none of our lives flow in a “coherent narrative way and ad litteram” but in a “dispersed” way “integrated in successive” series of life events that draw us inexorably towards God. In short, the liturgy of our lives is messy. And any attempt to homogenize it or control it in order to avoid dealing with uncertainty or doubt is a sin against the very God who graciously created it all in the first place. So, even though I lack any sacerdotal credentials, I can safely say that all those pastor’s baptisms were valid. No need for any do-overs. Besides, using the word “we”during the ritual should be fine since there is no “I” in Church. There is only We.  “For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them.” Or, as my godfather was fond of saying. 

 “Bless this mess.”  

The post Bless This Mess appeared first on Waiter Rant.

Getting Naked

My wife was stuck at work, so my daughter and I were enjoying a quiet dinner when she asked, “Daddy? How many girlfriends do you have?” 

“I don’t have any girlfriends” I said. “I’m married to your mother.”

“Did you have girlfriends?” 

“Yes.” 

“How many?” 

I paused before answering that question. I met my wife when I was forty-two and, despite having studied to be a priest, I didn’t exactly live a celibate life after I left the seminary. While I can’t post numbers like Wilt Chamberlin, I have enjoyed the company of women on more than one occasion – but the exact number is classified since my wife reads this blog. So, after editing out high school romances, summer flings, and a couple of painful and stupid escapades, I came up with an answer I thought was appropriate. 

“I dated a lot of women,” I said, “But there were only three I ever thought about marrying.” 

“Why didn’t you marry them?” Natalie said. 

I shrugged. “It just wasn’t the right time,” I said. “Or they weren’t the right person.” 

“Did you love them?” 

“I did,” I said. “Every one of them. But there is more to marrying someone than just being in love.” 

“Why did you marry mommy?” 

“Because I love her,” I said. “But also, because we balance each other out. There are things your mom does better than I’ll ever do and there’s things I can do she can’t.” What I really felt like telling Natalie was something a wise woman told me long ago; that you marry the person whose craziness meshes with your own, But that would just confuse her. 

“I think I’m going to marry (Name redacted)” she said. 

“Maybe you will,” I said, “Who knows?” 

“Daddy,” my daughter said, nervously. “I have to ask you something.” 

“You can ask Daddy anything, dear.” 

“When you’re boyfriend and girlfriend, do you get naked?” 

Stifling a laugh, I almost regretted my open-ended offer. But it was a legitimate question that was bound to come up sometime. “Yes, dear,” I said. “When you’re older that’s all part of it.” 

“That’s what S-E-X is?” Natalie asked, giggling.  God, where’s this girl’s mother when I need her?

“That’s part of it too,” I said. “And when you’re young that getting naked stuff seems awfully important and exciting – but do you know what it really means?” 

“No.” 

“That you accept the person as they really are – warts and all.” 

“Warts? What are those?” 

“Forget I mentioned warts, Natalie,” I said. “But one day, when you have a boyfriend or marry someone, make sure they love you for who you are – not what you might become or what they want you to be. They’ve got to love you for you. Got it?” 

“Uh huh,” she said. “So, when you’re married, are you naked in the bathroom together? Like when you poop?’ As I feared, my fatherly advice went right over her head. 

“Natalie,” I said. “We only have one bathroom.” 

“You don’t want anyone in the bathroom when you poop. But mommy will poop when I’m in there.” 

“But you don’t want me in there when you have to use the bathroom,” I said. 

“Because I want privacy. And you’re a boy.”

“Daddy likes privacy too. And you’re a girl.” 

“But you fart in front of everyone.” 

“That’s a man’s prerogative.” 

“Gross.” 

“Uh, you’ve let out a few bombs on occasion.” 

“But mine smell nice,” Natalie said. 

“Eat your beans,” I said. “Then we’ll see.” 

After that the conversation segued into Natalie’s newest obsession – Roblox. And, as I listened to her talk about stuff I didn’t understand, I took it that our embryonic conversation about intimacy was at an end. Did I handle it well? Maybe. Maybe not. But as the years go by, I know Natalie will hear about S-E-X and nakedness from other people, probably from older peers on the playground – and not all of it will be good. It’s hard to compete with that; in addition to all the other nonsense that the media puts out. But while Natalie will forget the particulars of our dinnertime chat by bedtime, I hope the tone I set will remain lodged in her consciousness forever.  Make sure someone loves you for you. 

Of course, that lesson will have to be repeated many times and, in many ways – through puppy loves, crushes, first dates and the inevitable breakups. But ultimately, my wife and I – and how we treat each other – will be Natalie’s first introduction to the complex dance between men and women. Right now, my daughter’s too young to hear about my cancer ordeal; on how my wife stayed unflinchingly by my side when the going got rough. But when we tell her the tale, I hope she’ll realize nakedness isn’t just about taking your clothes off – though that’s awfully fun – but about vulnerability. When I was at my worst; weakened, anxious and afraid, Annie stepped up to the plate. And let me tell you, knowing she was in my corner, loving me for me, gave me the strength to withstand what has been, to this point, the roughest period of my life. I hope Natalie finds someone just as special. 

But not anytime soon. 

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Time & Change

It was the morning after my daughter’s eighth birthday and, since she had a delayed school opening, she got to sleep in late. Taking advantage of the quiet, I made myself breakfast, put on a pot of coffee and then, after I’d stowed the dishes in the dishwasher, retired with my java to the couch and began reading a book by John D. MacDonald; an author who, despite my long-standing love of the detective genre, I had never read. After about an hour, however, Natalie woke up and peeked around the corner at the top of the stairs.

“Is my birthday over?” she said. 

“Yes, dear.” 

“But I didn’t get to have a party.” 

“I know, honey,” I said. “But we had to postpone it because Daddy had COVID.”

“Stupid COVID.” 

“Don’t worry, Natalie. You’ll have your party soon.” 

After making my daughter her usual breakfast of waffles, peanut butter and sliced apples, I turned on the television and let her watch The Thundermans, a kiddie sitcom about a superhero family. I can’t stand it, but those are the sacrifices a father makes. But after about hour, with my ears and sanity strained to the breaking point, I shut it off. 

“An hour of television is enough,” I said over her protestations. “And you didn’t take a bath last night. The bus will be here soon. Go upstairs and clean up.” 

“I hate baths,” Natalie whined. 

“C’mon. Chop Chop.” 

“Can you come with me?” 

I sighed. My daughter is a very headstrong and independent little lady. But with certain things; like going to bed, venturing into the basement or taking a bath, she sometimes requires a parental escort. “Natalie,” I said. “Your eight years old now. I think you can take a bath by yourself.” My daughter’s reaction to my fatherly missive was to burst into tears. Roused by the wailing, my wife walked into the room. 

“What happened?” she said, glaring at me. 

“I told her to take a bath,” I said, trying to look innocent. Then Natalie ran into Annie’s arms. 

“I don’t want to be eight years old,” she said, blowing snot into my wife’s housecoat. “I don’t want to grow up.” 

“There, there, dear,” my wife said, stroking her hair. “It’ll be alright.” 

“I want to stay seven!” 

“I hear ya, kid,” I thought to myself. 

Like most parents, I sometimes entertain notions of temporally freeze drying my child so they’ll stay little forever. As I see Natalie changing almost every day, I could be forgiven for wanting to stop the clock and savor this sweet and innocent time for just a little bit more. Natalie, however, is entering that period in her development where she’s starting to think abstractly – which means she’s starting to think of the future and the demands adulthood will make on her. And, like most smart kids, she starting to figure out that life won’t be all unicorns, puppy dogs, and birthday parties. That can be frightening for a kid, especially when they start to realize the world is much bigger than the safe and loving home they’ve always known.  So, I don’t blame Natalie for not wanting to grow up. But then again, many adults don’t want to grow up either, myself included.  

When I was twenty-four, the age I am now seemed so far away. But when my youthful self thought about it, I went, “Oh well, in thirty years I’ll only be a hale and hearty fifty-four.” Now, when I think about myself three decades hence, I realize I’ll be eighty-four. No matter how you slice it, that’s old. After my bout with cancer, I know there are no guarantees I’ll even make that number. Working with elderly people almost every day doesn’t help either. As I listen to them moan and groan about the vicissitudes of aging and losing their independence, I sometimes want to freeze dry myself – to stay the way I am now before it all turns to shit. But, despite what sci-fiction writers would like to tell you, time only flows one way – forward. You cannot stop time and, honestly, it would be foolish to try. 

At first glance, of course, such a proposition does seem awfully appealing. We’ve all imagined being twenty-four forever. But think about it, would you ask an eight-year-old to stay a child in perpetuity? Or a ninety-year-old to remain trapped in their decaying body for eternity? No, the kid eventually would want to grow up and the oldster would, at some point, yearn to be released from their mortal coil. Besides, if time didn’t march on, I’d have never gotten my act together, gotten married or had my daughter. When I think about it, change has been good for me. 

Change is central to our being because we are dynamic creatures. When you think about it, you’re never the person you “truly are” at any given time. We start life as babies and then move through time into childhood, stormy adolescence, adulthood, middle age and then, if we’re lucky, we get to take advantage of those senior discounts at the movies. We are all works in perpetual progress. But we all live with the knowledge that all these changes will ultimately result in our deaths. So, as we get older, it should come as no surprise that we start regarding our birthdays with a certain amount of ambivalence. We know our tomorrow are running out. 

When we look at it that way, time becomes our enemy – “The fire in which we burn.” But I have always had the suspicion that all this God/ life after death stuff is bound up in the question of what time truly is. God, at least as he’s classically defined, is infinite, perfect, unchanging and beyond time. But we live in time and, when we think about our finite existence, God’s infinity can seem awfully intimidating. How can we even begin to wrap our heads around his eternal vastness? We can’t. Infinity, by definition, is completely beyond us. If God was a destination, even if you ran toward Him at light speed for quintillions of years, it would be like you never took a single step. The journey would be endless. At first glance that sucks – mostly because much of Western thought looks at infinity as a bad thing. The philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel defined a “bad infinity” as “one in which the operation to overcome finiteness always remains the same, repeated and never comes to its destination.” In short, you’ll never get to where you’re going – like Sisyphus rolling that stupid rock up and down a hill for all eternity. 

Hegel’s solution to this bad infinity problem was quite simple. He argued that since there is nothing greater than infinity then it logically follows that “the finite must therefore be contained in infinity, or, to put it another way, that the infinite includes everything finite.” But a thousand years before Fredrich was born, Christian thinkers were already pondering what the that really meant. We can never grasp the infinite perfection of a changeless God, they argued. because we’re finite and do change. But it’s our very finitude and imperfection – the things that make us not God –that allows the infinite to be poured into us. A saint named Gregory of Nyssa compared humans to a vessel that can stretch without ever breaking, allowing God to pour his gift of infinite and immutable being into us; allowing to exist within time but infinitely into the future.  Far from being a “bad infinity” like Sisyphus’ tortured labors, nothing would remain the same because we’d change and grow endlessly.  In fact, Gregory claimed we would become more and more like God, a process called theosis. And if God is blissfully happy in his perfection, then it follows we will be happy too. 

But as we journey through this vale of tears, such theological niceties seem like pie in the sky thinking. Time and change bring about real pain. To paraphrase something another old saint said, “One day you will mourn everyone you’ve ever loved, or they will mourn you.” Loss hurts. And as we get older, we start to realize that our tomorrows are numbered. But as I dealt with the worst of my cancer ordeal, when I was facing the very real possibility of leaving my wife and daughter way too early, I took comfort in Gregory’s view on change and time. If change is the very thing that allows us to participate in the Divine – the elastically that allows that “vessel” to stretch – then change might not be a bad thing. Sure, it causes us no small amount of distress but that’s probably because we live in a “fallen world” where our experience of time is only a shadow of what it truly is. 

I don’t know what life after death will be like. Whenever we try thinking about it, we run the risk of turning it into a cartoon featuring white lights, rainbow bridges, chocolate rivers and meeting Elvis. But if time is indeed part of the infinity that surrounds us, supports us and give us, well, everything, then we’re faced with a concept that beggars our understanding – that our tomorrows might never run out. The finite cannot contain the infinite but the infinite, as Hegel said, can easily contain the finite.  And that brings me to something else Gregory talked about. We’ve all experienced bad things that, after the passage of time, don’t bother us as much. Now imagine yourself journeying endlessly though time. No matter how much something hurt you, or how badly you’ve hurt others, the endless acquisition of new experiences perspectives will eventually turn our travails on earth into distant and painless memories. Personally, I think the start of that journey might sting a bit as we see how our selfishness, egoism, and sin hurt us and others but, since you’ll have plenty of time, I think the kinks will eventually get worked out. 

Of course, as I watched my daughter cry, I knew rapping about such eschatological musings would be useless. So, I picked her up and hugged her. “Do you remember when we went to that museum in Seattle where you had so much fun?” I whispered into her ear. 

“Yes,” she sniffled. “When are we going back there?”

“One day,” I said. “But life is like that museum, Natalie.  As you get older there will always be new things to see, always more fun around the corner. It might be scary at times, but trust me, there will always be something to look forward to. There will always be time to play. You’ll be all right.” 

Mollified, my daughter calmed down enough to let my wife help her with her bath, brush her hair, bundle her into her winter coat, and then send her to the corner to wait for the school bus. Watching from the window, I smiled as she bravely waited in the cold, her warm breath steaming in the frigid air. Then, when the yellow bus came, she broke into a smile and then hopped on, her worries seemingly forgotten. And as the bus pulled away, I knew it was heading towards a future filled not only with reading, writing and arithmetic but also new relationships, connections and perspectives. My little girl is growing up. 

That reality bothers me at times, of course. I used to hate Natalie’s diaper pail and potty trainer for obvious reasons but, when it came time to throw them out, I was kind of sad because it meant she was no longer a baby. But I knew it was also a sign I was getting older. Change, as I mentioned, always stings a bit. Cancer changed my life in a big way this year and, to be honest, I sometimes mourn the changes my disease caused. Even though there’s a ninety percent chance my affliction won’t bother me again, which is a fantastic outcome, I occasionally get depressed that I’ll never be the man I used to be. When I mentioned this to my doctor he said, “Recovery is the hard part, Steve. But in a few years, this will all be in your rearview mirror. You’ll adapt and, eventually, you’ll realize the hell you’ve been though was worth it. Life will go on.” 

He was right, of course. Seven months out from my surgery, I find myself improving and healing almost every day. I started going back to the gym, dropped twenty-one pounds and my energy levels are starting to climb back up. And while I’ll never forget the terror and anxiety my diagnosis wrought, as time passes, it stings a bit less every day. Time, as Gregory posited, does seem to heal all wounds. And if this healing occurs here on earth, how much greater will it be when I’m hurtling through infinity? When seen in that light, time is no longer something to fear or change something to dread but, in fact, might be God’s mercy at work. Now, I’m just as scared and fragile as everyone else, so I make no claims to special wisdom or sanctity. I’m sure other changes will scare me terribly. But now I’m beginning to see that time and change are “signals of transcendence” – hinting at the very thing that allows us to participate in God’s infinity. Far from being a bad thing, His infinite distance from us is a great gift – allowing God not only to create everything that is not Him in all its wondrous diversity, but also giving it the ability to become greater still. You will never reach your destination – but that just means that the party will never end. And, as counterintuitive as it may seem, time and change – those realities which bring us so much pain on earth – may, in fact, be the very thing that ushers us into Paradise. 

After the school bus turned the corner, I hit the shower, got dressed and made my bed. But, as I passed Natalie’s room, I wryly noted all her new birthday Barbies and stuffed animals were strewn all over the room in various stages of discombobulation. So, I made her bed, arranged her toys in a neat pile, put her laundry away and then looked with satisfaction on the order that I’d wrought from chaos. One day, probably when she’s a teenager, Natalie will freak that I’d been rummaging through her bedroom. Hopefully by then she’ll have learned to clean up after herself.  

Such a change, however, might require Divine Intervention.

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The Circle of Life

A few weeks ago, in order to wean my daughter from those Barbie shows she’s always watching, I suggested we watch a nice nature program instead. After spinning up a list of National Geographic shows on my smart television, I told my daughter to pick one and, since she thinks sharks are “cool” she selected a program about the Carcharodon carcharias – The Great White Shark. 

Things were going swimmingly until the scene shifted to some seals living on some rocks off the coast of South Africa – complete with footage of a seal pup being born. “Aww,” my daughter cooed. “He’s so cute!”  Then the narrator intoned that while the seals were safe on land, they’d eventually have to go into the ocean to find food. “And seals are snacks for sharks.” And, sure enough, my daughter was soon treated to the spectacle of a Great White killing a seal in a seething foam of water, blubber and blood. 

“Did he eat the baby seal?’ my daughter yelled. “Did he eat him?” 

“No,” I said, realizing I’d messed up child safe programming wise. “It was a grown-up seal.” 

“Was it the baby’s mommy? The baby’s daddy?” 

“Uh…maybe it was an uncle.” 

“Like your brother?” Natalie said, her lip quivering. 

“You know, honey,” I said. “I think the seal got away. Hey, let’s watch Barbie.” 

Mollified by the going’s on at Ken and Barbie’s dreamhouse, I thought Natalie had gotten over her distress. But at my daughter’s soccer game later that day, she had a collision with another player and began wailing inconsolably. Unable to snap her out of it, the coach eventually told my wife and I to take her home, which only made Natalie more embarrassed and ratcheted her distress into overdrive. Since my wife was on her last nerve, I took Natalie to my job at the food pantry where I had some weekend chores to finish. After popping her into a chair with crayons, paper and chocolate milk for comforting nourishment, I let her free associate artistically for an hour while I did paperwork. Then some volunteers arrived to help sort food donations and I let Natalie join them. While she was occupied charming the volunteers with her spitfire personality, I looked at my daughter’s drawings. They all depicted my wife and I holding Natalie’s hands under a happy smiling sun. Then, later that night, as Natalie snuggled in my arms during story time she said, “If you die, who will cuddle with me?” 

“I’m not dying for a long time,” I said. Natalie has no idea my surgery in June was to treat an early-stage cancer. She just thinks the docs fixed something in my “tummy.” Since my surgeon told me there’s a 90% chance my cancer is gone, I wasn’t technically lying – but there are no guarantees when it comes to this kind of stuff. 

“But you are going to die?” My daughter said. 

“One day.” 

“Do children die?” 

Yes, dear,” I said, “It happens.” 

“Why?” 

I knew watching a shark munching on seal had jolted Natalie.  Then, when she got knocked down on the playing field, she came face to face with the aggressiveness of athletic competition – that in order to win, somebody else must lose. I wasn’t in my daughter’s head, but I know her very well. I’m guessing the minor violence of the soccer scrum reminded her of the frenzied appetite of that Great White. If a baby could get eaten, she probably thought, could such a fate befall her? Or mommy, daddy and Uncle Mark? That was why she was crying. And those drawings she crayoned? They were probably her way of reassuring herself that everything would be all right – that the world would always be a happy place beneath the smiling sun. 

“Most people die when they’re old and have been sick a long time,” I said. “But yes, sometimes children get sick and die too.” 

“Or get into accidents.” 

“Yes.” 

“So why did that shark eat that baby seal?” Natalie asked. 

“Because he was hungry,” I said.

“Couldn’t he have eaten something else?”

This is when parents usually have that “Circle of Life” talk with their kids. If they weren’t sharks there’d be too many seals and then seals would starve, so nature keeps everything in balance. If people didn’t die, then we’d have too many people. If forests didn’t burn, new trees could not grow. Life perishes to allow more life to happen. Life needs death and death needs life. Sounds perfectly respectable – until you think it though. 

Saying life needs death puts death on equal terms with life. Having just gone through the medical ringer, acquiescence to such an equivalence bothers me. When a doc calls to tell you that your biopsy came back positive, trust me, you’re thinking life is much preferable to death. I wasn’t thinking, “That’s okay, I’ll just be making way for more humans.” The Circle of Life is a nice metaphor – until it comes for you. But death being essential to life means that goddamn Disney song isn’t a hymn celebrating nature’s interconnectedness and wisdom but, rather, a chorus celebrating an endless cycle of predation, violence and death. For life to happen, somebody else must lose. But, like most parents, we tell our kids, “That’s just the way it is.” Yet children, in their tender innocence and wonder, instinctively rebel against such tragic resignation.  Why does the world have to be this way? Why can’t we call just be happy under the smiling sun? 

Children possesses something adults often find in short supply – hope. It’s one of the reasons why they’re so resilient. Adults, on the other hand, after getting smacked around for a while, banish juvenile hopes as a self-protective measure and adopt a kind of guarded optimism in its place. Sort of like a lifer in prison for whom thoughts of parole have become too painful and focuses on small anticipations instead – like maybe the inmates will be served chocolate pudding on Thursday. We would certainly say that prisoner is living a diminished life but, when we say death is equal or necessary to life, so are we. 

If you’ve given the yin and yang nature talk to your kids, ask yourselves this – how does that philosophical system hold up when confronted with the tragedy of four-year old girl dying from cancer? How did her death benefit anyone? Was her death a sad but necessary loss to make way for another child?  Did she fertilize the earth with her corpse so beautiful flowers could grow? Her grieving parents, of course, might decide to funnel their angst into prodigious fundraising efforts to find a cure, efforts that might eventually bear fruit and save countless children, but did that girl really have to “lose” so other’s might “win?” Was her death the seed for new life? Could you say that while watching your child wasting away in a hospital bed, knowing how many of life’s joys were being stolen from her prematurely? 

If you can, I don’t blame you. People desperately try searching for “silver linings” within tragedies so they can hold up under them. But when we do that, when we say decay, violence, and death are necessary for new “opportunities” to emerge, then we are making tragedies both large and small morally intelligible – and that they are most certainly not. That’s because Death is not a companion who greets us at the end of our journey or permits more life to flourish. Death creates nothing. It cannot make anything new. And, as a parent standing over their child’s grave knows all too well, Death only robs us of what is irreplaceable. Death is The Enemy, prowling “around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” And if that enemy is a necessary adjunct to life, then the universe is indeed a cold, dark, indifferent, cruel and violent place – much like a prison – making us anticipate small things because it’s much too painful to hope for anything more. 

Children, however, always hope for something more. Since they are so young, they are by nature oriented towards the future. So, for them, the thought of there being no more tomorrows is quite perplexing. And since they have such a hard time grasping death’s finality, like when they ask when a deceased pet or relative is coming back, their innocence can be heartrending for us adults. So, we smile wanly, pat them on the head and then write off their simplicity as psychological and developmental immaturity. “They’re too young to understand,” we ruefully tell ourselves. “But one day they will.” We say this because, as life’s heartbreak and loss exact its toll on us, we start becoming very careful to what or whom we open our hearts too, lest we get hurt again. Instead of hope, we begin to “hope for the best” or, at the very least, the least painful option. Superficial optimism replaces hope. Maybe there will be pudding on Thursday.

A couple of days ago, I was revisiting the often misunderstood and much maligned theological concept of divine impassibility – that since God is perfect, simple and infinite, he is incapable of emotions or change. If God reacted to a situation, let’s say, choosing a response from a menu of options, that would mean he’s been affected by that situation and has changed in response, which would mean that despite being super powerful, he’s just another a finite being, ergo not God. “Wild and blasphemous,” Theodoret, an early Christian theologian wrote, “Are they who ascribe passion to the divine nature.” Translation? The Almighty doesn’t get worked up over anything. People often think Divine Impassibility means that God doesn’t care or that he is unmoved by suffering, but that’s not what it means at all. As all the major faiths teach, God can only be who he is – Existence Itself. His endless donation of being is what allows everyone and everything to be. And since God is perfect and had no need for you, me or any part of creation, then it follows that our existence is pure gift – a gift the giver never tires of giving because that also is who He is. 

For a God who cannot change, death, suffering and evil are meaningless. He is maximally alive – life itself – so, for him, anything that is not life is of no account. For us of course, suffering, evil and death affect us greatly. They drive us to become selfless or selfish, resolute or cowardly, compassionate or cruel but they are, in of themselves, nothing. To wax Christian for a moment, the story of Easter is about an empty tomb – the Resurrection. Jesus of Nazareth suffered under and was legally executed by the civic authorities, scattering his disciples in fear. But, as the story goes, God simply took man’s tragic sigh of “That’s the way it goes” and turned it on its head – lifting His Son from the dead three days later. Not as a ghost or divine zombie, mind you, but as a living breathing man. He came back.  Is that not the wild hope of every child when someone they love dies? 

In their hopeful innocence children are a reminder that God, in his perfect, simple, and life-giving impassability, is also very much like a child. Like my daughter, he doesn’t think seals should be a snack for sharks or that any forest should burn; that pets or grandparents should die, and that no child – or their parent – should perish from cancer. God does not will that one must lose so another can win. He is not interested in “keeping everything in balance.” Perhaps a child’s inability to wrap their heads around death and loss is a “signal of transcendence,” a sign that God can’t abide such tragedies either. For Easter tells the tale of a God who simply ignores history’s cycle of predation, violence and death just by being who he is – life and life in abundance. And since life is a gift, it can only come from love – a love which is not a feeling but the very thing in which we “live and move and have our being.” Life only comes from love, not death.  And when we encounter suffering and try to alleviate it through charity, which is just another word for love, we are the vessels of that endless gift – life coming to the rescue of life. Far from being sterile or uncaring, God’s impassibilty provides us with the most radical of hopes, a hope that infinitely outstrips “grown up common sense” and calls us to be like children again – to hope that all can and will be well again. God is infinitely full of tomorrows.

“Natalie,’ I told my daughter, “I know that shark eating that seal upset you. I know you worry about me not being around. I don’t know all the reasons why bad things happen. But I think one day that shark and seal will be friends and play together and be very happy. And even if I leave you, one day I’ll cuddle with you again.”  

“You promise?” 

Smiling, I thought of a line from Scripture. “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.” Everyone happy under the smiling sun, for The Circle of Life has been broken.

“Yes, dear,” I said. “I promise.” 

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When Being Good Isn’t Good Enough

Many years ago, I dated a lovely and kind woman who hailed from Dallas, Texas. Her late father was a theologian of some renown at Southern Methodist University and had been on the faculty committee that investigated a scandal involving the school’s Division One football team – resulting in the NCAA inveighing the “death penalty” and shutting down the program for the 1987 season. In Texas, football is tantamount to religion, so he caught a lot of heat for his principled stance. By all accounts, he was a man of great integrity, but died before his daughter and I started seeing each other. 

My girlfriend’s mother was also a very gracious and kind woman. After her two daughters moved away, she converted the second floor of her house into a little neighborhood library for small children. Her efforts were so lauded that she was got some press in the national media. Then, in 2008, just before my first book came out, my girlfriend and I flew to Dallas to meet her mom. I’d never been to Texas before and was eager to see cowboys roping steers. To my surprise, Dallas was a lot like Jersey. As we drove from the airport into the city proper, I saw pretty much all the stores and restaurants you’d find by my house and not a single person was wearing a Stetson. Bummer. But the food was very good, that is if you like having your arteries occluded by racks of ribs, brisket sandwiches dripping with grease, deep fried apple pie, deep-fried Oreos, and, to my amazement, deep fired Dr. Pepper. Shiner Bock beer, however, was not to my taste, but you could get some mean margaritas down there.  But I really got a kick out of all the little kids who’d trundle into my girlfriends’ former home to borrow books. It was awfully cute, and her mom had put together a library that would rival the children’s section of any municipal establishment. 

During my conversations with my girlfriend’s mom, I discovered that, despite her husband’s theological background and both their formative years having been spent in the evangelical crucible of the Lone Star State, they hadn’t been a particularly religious couple in their later years. This didn’t surprise me because, after you discover how the ecclesiastical sausage is made, organized religion can sort of lose its appeal. As we talked about the topic, the subject of her über evangelical neighbors came up. “Around here,” the mom told me, “The first thing people ask you is ‘what church do belong to?’” Turns out, the mothers of the tykes who came to the library asked her that question all the time and, since she didn’t go to services, I asked how she handled it. “Very gingerly,” she said. “But when they don’t get a definitive answer, well, they eventually figure something is up.” Then my girlfriend’s mom told me a shocking story. One day, after all the kids had left the library for the day, she found a religious tract on her desk. It was titled, When Being Good Isn’t Good Enough. Basically, it stated that being a good person was nice and all but, if you hadn’t accepted Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior and went to church, then all your good works would be for naught. You’d still be damned and thrown into the Lake of Fire. 

That pissed me off. Here was a woman who gave of herself tirelessly to small children, creating a wonderful space for them to read and learn, only to have a self-righteous parent insult her by smugly mocking her religious choices. Now, I don’t know if my girlfriend’s mother believed in God or not and, quite frankly, I didn’t care. Experience had already shown me that people who’re not outwardly religious can still possess deep spiritual lives – but their being “off the grid’ threatens rigid churchgoing types greatly. God forbid someone has a view of the divine that doesn’t hew to their own. But even if a person does not believe in God, so what? Having been in seminary, I know for a fact that true believers can be some of the most perverted and evil people out there. So, what would you rather have? A religious person who traffics in holier than thou pride and resentment or a nice agnostic lady who teaches kids how to read? I know who I’d rather have a beer with. 

Besides, thinking anyone has the God market cornered is ludicrous. Since human beings are so diverse, it should come as no surprise we have so many viewpoints as far as The Almighty is concerned. It also shouldn’t be shocking that there are commonalities as well. Take the doctrine of the Trinity for instance. While it took Christian theologians hundreds of years to develop that whole “three persons in one God” thing, something much like it existed in the Vedantic school of Hinduism long before Jesus was born – Satcitanandai. To break it down, Sat means “existence,” Cit means “consciousness” and Ananda means “bliss.” Used as both a name and a description for how human beings subjectively experience Brahman – the unchanging Ultimate Reality in Hinduism – and those three separate “experiences” are considered inseparable, “one in substance and undivided” from that Reality.  So, if you look at “Father” as Sat, the “Son” or “Logos” as Cit, and the “Holy Spirit” as Ananda, it dovetails nicely with the Christian doctrine of a Triune God – so much so that Indian Christians call the Trinity Satcitanandai to this day. So, ask yourself, how can two traditions separated by thousands of years and thousands of miles come up with a formulation of the Divine that’s so similar? Maybe because God reveals Himself to all – not just to those belonging to a particular denomination. 

There are Christians however, like the lady who left that asinine religious tract, who bitterly cling to the notion of Extra Ecclesiam nulla salus – outside the Church there is no salvation. Well, that triumphalist little phrase is a poisonous as they come – using God as a means of dividing people, not bring them together. Do you seriously believe that a pious Jew, Muslim or Buddhist who performed good works all his or her life will roast in Hades because they were unbaptized? Because they weren’t Methodist, Pentecostal or Southern Baptist? You’re telling me Buddha and Gandhi are in hell because they weren’t “born again?” With respect to differing religions, the Vatican II statement Nostra Aetate states, “The Catholic Church rejects nothing that is true and holy in these [other} religions. She regards with sincere reverence those ways of conduct and of life, those precepts and teachings which, though differing in many aspects from the ones she holds and sets forth, nonetheless often reflect a ray of that Truth which enlightens all men. Translation? People aren’t bound for eternal hellfire if they’re not Christian. 

Most religious enmity is driven by human fear – the fear of people who are different. It has nothing to do with God. Don’t believe me? Just look at how social media and our poisonous culture wars and political culture -– which has taken the place of religion for many people -have become a secular version of the Spanish Inquisition. Now the question many people ask isn’t “where do you go to church?” but “who did you vote for?” And, if you fail to belong to a certain ideological tribe, people regard you with suspicion, if not outright hostility. Regarding antivaxxer Republicans, one Democratic woman told me, “I just don’t have time for those people in my life. They’re all just deserve to die.” That sounds like something a psychopathic Crusader might say just before slaughtering some Saracens. But this woman’s dehumanizing zealotry stemmed from secular political reasons, not religious ones – just another iteration of the all too human dynamic of “us against them.” Nowadays, “cancel culture” is just a sanitized version of burning people at the stake. Politicians might as well be saying, “Outside of the Republican/Democratic/Tea/Progressive Party there is no salvation.” With all this self-righteousness going about, it’s small wonder Congress can’t anything done. 

Like other religions, political parties can “reflect a ray of truth which enlightens all men.” We’re just so stuck in our self-reinforcing Facebook bubbles that we can’t tolerate the cognitive dissonance that listening to differing points of view may arouse. We’ve abandoned civil discourse for parroting “talking points” designed to soothe our egos and deaden our critical thinking. A criticism I’ve heard about evangelical Christians is that they’re forever spewing scriptural aphorisms like mindless automatons but, if you tune into Hannity or The View, you’ll hear the same tired political mantras trotted out again and again – as if the mere repetition will somehow make them true. We’re all talking at each other, not to each other. 

But, if you’re a Christian person, such triumphal and mindless doctrinal rigidity is especially problematic. Disliking, distrusting or ostracizing people – only liking people who believe what you believe – is against the whole ethos of the Gospels. When you look at the Parable of the Good Samaritan, you get an insight into how Jesus wanted us to treat people who’re different from us. Back in those days, Samaritans and Jews hated each other for religious reasons. As one scholar noted. “The Jews of Jesus’ day had no time for the ‘half-breed’ people of Samaria.” Sound familiar? And yet, when a Jew was attacked and left bleeding on the side of the road, Jesus made it a point to emphasize that it was a Samaritan who saved that hapless man’s, uh, bacon. Simply put, believing in one version of God or another is no excuse for treating a person like shit. For, as it states in the Letter of Timothy, “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.” 

So that lady who left that hurtful religious tract wasn’t acting out of Christian compassion – she was just showing how she was superior she thought she was. You may disagree with a person’s particular faith – or lack of it – for sincere theological reasons but that doesn’t’ give you permission to act like a jerk. And, as evidenced by the Gospels, Jesus felt the same way. “Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye?” He said, “But fail to notice the beam in your own eye?” In effect, he was saying, “Don’t be an asshole.” Of course, some religious people feel that atheists and agnostics fall outside of this commandment. They don’t. 

I know parents who’ve lost their children, people who’ve fought in wars and, sadly, innocents who were sexually abused by clergy. For some of them, after such heart wrenching traumas, God has become a fairy tale. Quite frankly, who can blame them? How would your faith hold up if such things happened to you? Let’s hope none of us finds out. Of course, there are atheists who’ve never had such experiences, but their reasons for unbelief are their own and don’t bother me a whit. That’s because I believe “rays of truth” are even found among those who do not believe.  Besides, jousting with atheists can reveal unhealthy attitudes or assumptions that blind fealty to religion can lead to – and that’s always a good thing. And, as far as I’m concerned, if they’re feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, giving drink to those who thirst, visiting prisoners and the sick, sheltering the homeless, burying the dead and defending the widow and orphan – or helping little kids learn how to read – then it’s all good. They’re just going about things differently.

The Bible says, “For as the body without a spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.” But people who do good works –those who are kind, loving, generous and patient – even if they’re atheists, are never spiritually dead. No, that’s the lot of the modern Pharisee – churchgoers who proclaim “faith alone” saves on Sunday and then stick it to their fellow man the rest of the week. Hypocrites “who tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.” Jesus had a serious problem with those people. So much so that he didn’t hang with them, preferring to spend his time with those the world rejected. Hey, I’ve got a new catchy religious acronym – WWJDW? Who would Jesus’ drink with? Put that on some t-shirts! 

Now, I’m not much of a churchgoer, but I’ve begun to get the sneaking suspicion that God has zero interest in who belongs to what religion or not. For me, If all people, regardless of belief or lack of it, have been summoned into being by The Father – Existence Itself or Sat – then Conscious Itself – The Son, Logos or Cit  – makes us aware of ourselves, others and the world which, in turn, allows us to rejoice in that knowledge and fellowship; a joy which is Ananda, The Holy Spirit – Bliss Itself. It all works together. As one guy described The Trinity; “The Father is he who kisses the Son, the Son is he who kisses the Father, and the Holy Spirit is the kiss.” Simply put God – Satcitanandai  – is not only a relational being, He is all love, desire,  friendship, passion and community rolled into one. He is Relationships Itself. “Where two or three of you are gathered in my name, I am with you,” or as E.M. Forster wrote, “Only connect…live in fragments no longer.” The Ultimate Reality wants us to get along. 

That sounds like a tall order since we are all so very different. But if you look at our diversity as God’s relational, eternal and infinite gift of Being prismated through the lens of time, then differences shouldn’t frighten us as much as they do. Because even though we are all separate and unique, there is a unity, a relationship, that holds it all together – much like a great composer weaving musical notes that might sound discordant on their own into a masterpiece. Yeah, sometimes it’s really hard to hear that music, but it’s always there, we just have to listen for it. And that means listening to each other – no matter what we believe or don’t believe. Religion has much to teach us but, if you’re troubled by your lack of faith – or even if you’re not – if you strive to love one another, to live in fragments no longer, then being good, in the end, will be good enough. 

The post When Being Good Isn’t Good Enough appeared first on Waiter Rant.

Reincatnation

I’m allergic to cats. A friend of mine has three or four of them, necessitating mass quantities of Claritin if I want to go inside his house. Don’t get me wrong, I like cats – they’re graceful and beguiling creatures – but they turn me into a sneezing snotty mess within minutes. And did I mention I break into hives? No fun. 

Surprisingly, I did share my domicile with a cat years ago. Milo was part of the live-in-girlfriend deal and man, he hated me. So much so, I barely ever saw him. His dander, sadly, was ever present. But, after a few months of cohabitation and habituation, my body somehow adapted and I was finally able to emerge from my antihistamine stoner haze. Milo and I eventually managed to observe an uneasy peace – but he did have an unsettling habit of sleeping in my kitchen cupboard. That led to some interesting mornings. Then one night, as I was reading on the couch, Milo crawled onto my chest and fell fast asleep. Finally, I thought to myself, gently stroking his fur as he dreamed whatever cats dream.  I knew the old feline would come around. I’m irresistible. 

The next morning, however, after my girlfriend went to work in the city, Milo starting convulsing on the floor, suffering from a seizure. Terrified, I took him to the vet, who told me Milo needed a $2000 CAT scan. My girlfriend said no way. The cat was old, she argued, it was possible he’d get over it, and we didn’t have two grand lying around. Since it was her cat, it was her decision – but I cried my eyes out as I paced the floors of my apartment holding him in my arms. After a while, I lined a laundry basket with his favorite blanket, placed him inside with his favorite toy, and hoped for the best. I’ll never forget how my dog Buster kept vigil by his feline sibling’s side as we waited for my girlfriend to come home.  Then, half an hour after she returned, Milo emitted a shriek and was still. His nine lives were up. Luckily for me, I found a pet mortician who made house calls. Damn, and I’d just stopped being allergic to him. 

With Milo gone, my allergic reaction to cats quickly reestablished itself and I figured I’d be catless for the rest of my life. Then, a few weeks ago, my daughter excitedly came running up to me. “There’s a kitty in our house!” she said. 

“Where?”  

“In the living room.” 

My daughter is only seven and has a very active imagination. Her bedroom closet’s been full of monsters since she left the crib and she’s had several imaginary friends. So, my first reaction was that Natalie was experiencing a flight of fancy powered by wish fulfillment. She’s always wanted a cat and has never accepted my claims of a medical exemption.  But when I walked into the living room, a cat was indeed what I found – stretched out on our Persian rug like he owned the place. Good thing our dog Felix was having a sleepover at “Grandma’s” 

“Where’d he come from?” Natalie said. 

“I don’t know,” I said, mystified. The cat was wearing a collar with a name tag attached, so I knelt to look. To my surprise, the cat let me. When I read the name, I figured it out. 

“This is Cletus,” I said. “He’s our neighbor’s girlfriend’s cat.” 

My neighbor recently hooked up with a young woman who lives in Manhattan.  I’ve only talked to her a couple of times but learned she had three rescue animals – a pug, a pit bull and a cat.  So, I figured she’d left Cletus in Jersey for some bonding time with her new beau. 

“Can we keep him?” Natalie asked. 

“No, honey, I said. Then I texted my neighbor to let him know the cat was safe and sound. He came right over and explained that his girlfriend had found Cletus emaciated in Brooklyn and nursed him back to health. Since the concrete jungle is no place for a feline, he’d become an indoor cat out of necessity.  “But he’s really an outdoor cat,” my neighbor said. “He’s always trying to go outside so we decided to let him roam. He’s doing fine.” My neighbor was raised on a farm so, I bowed to his expertise. 

Now, after a few months, Cletus seems to have acclimated to being a “country cat” quite well. He’s also decided to make my house part of his territory. Since my daughter tends to leave the backdoor ajar, he’s a become a frequent visitor. I’ve found him dozing on my bed, rummaging through my closet, sphinxlike on top of the stove, stretched out on the edge of the couch, sunning himself on windowsills and perched on my bathroom sink when I emerged from the shower. Then, when he’s had enough fun, he mews at the door to be let out. He’s also very affectionate and friendly and my daughter’s crazy about him, which worries me. Cletus could go as quickly as he came. But, since he was here now, I decided to enjoy our new friend for as long as we had him.  I told my wife Cletus was like a grandchild; we got to have all the fun and none of the responsibility – and no litterbox. 

Then, a couple of nights ago, sleep was eluding me. So, I retired to my porch with a small glass of scotch; writing on my computer while savoring the cool night air. Deep in thought, I didn’t notice Cletus had joined me in the dark until he announced his presence with a loud meow.

“Hi there,” I said. 

“Meow.” 

“Nice night, isn’t it?” 

“Meow.” 

Then Cletus poked at my computer, which I put aside, allowing him to curl up in my lap. Sipping my scotch, I stroked his fur and listened as he purred contently – realizing that, in all the weeks he’d been coming over, I hadn’t sneezed once. That’s when I felt the tickling in my brain that I’d been experieincing for weeks – a preconscious niggling I couldn’t quite place. But then, as Cletus warmed my lap, it exploded into awareness with the incandescence of divine revelation. 

“You’re Milo,” I said. “Aren’t you?” 

“Meow.” 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get along back then. We didn’t have much time together.” 

“Meow.” 

“Then, just when I thought we were getting along, you died.”

“Meow.” 

“Where were you?” I asked. “Why did you come back?” 

“Meow.”

“Listen, after all the shit I’ve been through, If you have any cosmic insights, I’d really like to hear them.” 

In response, Cletus slowly uncoiled his body, placed his paws on my chest and brought his nose right next to mine. And there, eyeball to eyeball in the moonlight, he spoke: 

“Nothing is ever lost.” 

His sleek fur glistening under the moon’s glow, the cat seemed almost otherworldly. Graceful, mysterious and beguiling, he gleamed like a feline ángelos of truths infinitely strange and yet comfortably familiar. As the cool evening breeze touched us with its kiss, I smiled and scratched him behind his ear, eliciting a deep and satisfied purr. 

“Good cat,” I said. “Good cat.” 

Then Cletus jumped off my lap began scratching on my door. He wanted to go inside but, since Felix was in the house, that would’ve resulted in a nocturnal cacophony that was sure to wake my wife – and she’s not as keen on our part time cat as I am. So, I nudged him aside, went into the kitchen, and returned with a bowl of water and a half eaten can of tuna. Watching as he hungrily devoured his offering, I sighed deeply. I don’t know what happens to us creatures great and small but, at least that night, I was hopeful everything would eventually work out.

“Good night, Milo,” I said, closing my front door.  “See you tomorrow.” 

The post Reincatnation appeared first on Waiter Rant.

Save Me a Margarita

A few weeks back, a COVID denying right-wing Fauci bashing radio host died from the very virus he claimed was a hoax. Of course, the Twitterverse took no time in expressing its glee.  

“Thinning the herd!” 

“Get Wrecked. Good riddance.” 

“One down, many more Darwin award contenders to go.” 

“Read this yesterday & I still don’t care……Anti vaxxers get exactly what they deserve.”

“Thank you COVID for finally getting the right people!” 

“I’ve come to a point where I’m okay with that.” 

“God punished him.”

As I read these snippets, I began to wonder where I’d heard similar sentiments before. Oh yes, from good God-fearing Christian folk. Turns out many of them think the Lord’s plan for salvation involves casting atheists, sodomites and various other reprobates into the fires of Hell where they will be tortured for all eternity. And boy, do they love glorying from the pulpits about some poor slob getting spit roasted on Satan’s never-ending rotisserie. I’m sure they love spewing that stuff on Twitter too. Strange though, because eternal punishment doesn’t jibe with the good and merciful schtick the Almighty’s PR machine’s been cranking out for millennia. In fact, the concept of endless perdition is chock full logical and theological holes you could drive a truck through. And, since I like playing advocatus diaboli, let’s examine a few of them, shall we? 

First off, let’s say you get into heaven, but your child ends up in hell. At some point, after you’ve had enough of drinking from chocolate rivers, dancing on rainbows, playing with unicorns and rapping with Einstein, you’re going to notice Junior didn’t make it up there with you. He’s down there. And he’s screaming like he’s on fire!  That kind of shit could seriously pop your eternal bliss bubble. I mean, this is the little boy you once held in your arms, the tyke whose delightful smile once filled you with joy. Okay, so he turned out to be a serial killer – but how can you possibly be cool with listening to his screams while waiting in the queue for the All You Can Eat Epicurean Buffet? That’d ruin my appetite.  Luckily, theologians have devised creative solutions over the centuries to allow the blessed to keep enjoying Paradise while their babies burn.  

The first is the Divine Lobotomy. In order to spare you bemoaning your child’s suffering in Hades, God will make you forget you ever had a child. Out of sight out of mind, right? Small problem with that, though. If you’re a parent like me, you know how intertwined your child’s existence is with your own. Therefore, removing all memory of them would diminish you – making you less of a person in heaven than you were on earth. And no matter how merciful His intentions, if God needs to hide, fudge or obfuscate reality in order to allow you to enjoy heavenly bliss then He is lying. And if God lies then He cannot be- as the world’s major faiths define him – Goodness and Truth Itself and therefore cannot be God. He’d be somebody else. Maybe a super powerful but nonetheless created being like Q from Star Trek. And he was an asshole.  

Another harebrained scheme to keep you tripping the light fantastic in Heaven is to have God take your horror over Junior’s tortures and turn it into joy. One example of this nifty bit of psycho-theological legerdemain can be found in writings of St. Thomas Aquinas, the “Angelic Doctor” of the Catholic Church. “The blessed,” in Heaven, Aquinas wrote, “Will rejoice in the punishment of the wicked.” You, however, are probably more familiar with its popularized rendering, “The blessed shall delight at the sight of the damned.” That’s right. You’ll celebrate your kid getting microwaved in hell! Of course, there’s more to Aquinas’s thought than that, but ask yourself – if it was your child getting flambeed tableside for Satan’s dessert, then rejoicing in his pain, for any reason, would be the very definition of sadism. I don’t know about you, but most people aren’t comfortable comparing Yahweh to the Marquis De Sade. 

Besides, are the blessed in heaven really going to act like a bunch of tourists visiting a hellish version of the Grand Canyon? Peering over the edge and cheering while watching people they might have known and loved scream in perpetual agony? I mean, will they be selling refreshments? Helicopter tours? Souvenirs? “I SAW HELL AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT?” That doesn’t sound like heaven at all – more like a gladiator pit if you ask me. And besides, we’ve got enough people on earth delighting in people’s misfortune as it is. Just look at Twitter. Then again, God could just hide Hell from our view. You know, tuck Hades out of sight like a run-down housing project in order to allow The Elect to keep sipping their margaritas in blissful ignorance while lounging at the Pearly Gated Community pool. (I hear the cabanas there are to die for!) But now were back to the whole God is a liar thing again. And some angelic wag would probably make an argument that the damned are an oppressed class anyway. Who knew God wasn’t Woke? 

Yes, I know I’m being a tad provocative here, but in all seriousness, the concept of a good and loving God allowing souls to suffer eternal torture for their sins creates such a mass of contractions that theologians have spent centuries trying to quell the cognitive dissonance it creates. It’s like trying to put a square peg in a round hole. it cannot be done. No matter what answer they come up with it’s always, at least or me, intellectually and logically unsatisfying. Of course, this is when somebody starts yelling, “The Bible says this! Holy Tradition says that!”  Since I’m not a Scripture scholar, I’ll leave what Jesus said about Hell (Who never used the word once by the way) to the New Testament academics. And Holy Tradition? I’m all for tradition, but not when it asks me to believe in something morally repugnant. I mean, there are parts of the Bible that’s says it’s okay to own slaves. Hopefully that “tradition” won’t be making a comeback soon.  And let’s face it, the idea of eternal hell is barbaric.

The author who best showed the moral repugnance of never ending hell was Fyodor Dostoevsky in his novel, The Brothers Karamazov. In the book, the troubled character of Ivan asks his friend Aloysha a penetrating question: “Let’s assume,” he said. ‘That you were called upon to build the edifice of human destiny so that men would finally be happy and would find peace and tranquility. If you knew that, in order to attain this, you would have to torture just one single creature, let’s say (an innocent) little girl…would you agree to do it? Tell me and don’t lie!”

“No, I would not,” Alyosha said softly.

“And do you find acceptable the idea that those for whom you are building that edifice should gratefully receive a happiness that rests on the blood of a tortured child and, having received it, should continue to enjoy it eternally?”

“No, I do not find that acceptable,” Alyosha said

In his book, That All Shall Be Saved, the theologian David Bentley Hart really ups Dostoevsky’s ante. Instead of having Ivan’s innocent little girl suffer to bring about eternal bliss, Hart replaces her with Adolf Hitler, who, to be sure, was a mendacious, twisted and evil asshole. Sounds better, right? If anyone deserves to be chewed in Satan’s fiery mouth like an eternal Gobstopper, it’s the Führer. Screw him!  Okay, Hart says, not unsympathetic to the moral revulsion Adolph engenders. But think about it. Even if Hitler is the only person in Hell – no matter how much we think he deserves it – and he’s paying the price for everybody else’s sins, that would make him humanity’s redeemer, its savior – our Christ. And Hart says he’s sure no one is comfortable with that idea. But the logic works whether there’s only one person in Hell or billions. So, ask yourself, will heaven be worth it if the whole salvific shebang requires some people to suffer for all eternity? 

Or, maybe, like that those Twitterers above, you’re “okay with that.” Could be you delight in the dammed – or antivaxxers’ – suffering because you think they’re “getting what deserve.” God punished him. Or maybe you’ve self-lobotomized yourself to forgot all about them lest they burst your socially media cocooned bliss bubble. Who knows? And if you believe sinners will burn unmourned and forgotten in an eternal lake of fire, then that spiritual brutality just makes it easier for you to write off a whole bunch of people you don’t like, agree with or who make you uncomfortable here on earth: antivaxers, gun nuts, LGBTQ persons, blacks, Muslims, immigrants, Maga-hat wearing Trumpers, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Communists, Democrats, Millennial hipsters, Republicans, Asians, Latinos, guys who hang plastic ball sacks on their pick-up trucks, vegans, hunters, people with tattoos, evangelicals and – gasp – bad tippers. All this divisiveness and hatred creates a real hell on Twitter – and on earth. So, it’s no wonder flawed and bickering humans project their grievances, self-righteousness, sadism and neuroses onto what they think should be God’s will.  

Lest you think I occupy some exalted perch of sanctity, trust me, I’m no better than those snarky Twitterati types who delighted in that man’s death. When I heard the tyrannical owner at my first restaurant job had died, I joyfully quipped that I wanted to know where he was buried so I could piss on his grave. Considering how this minor league megalomaniac used to routinely vilify Jews, gays, people of color, mentally torture waiters, threaten undocumented workers with deportation, and insist on us calling him Padrón, I didn’t give my callousness a second thought. That his youngest son was only a teen when he died was beside the point. That bastard deserved to go unmourned. Then something happened to change my mind.  

Several months ago, I was diagnosed with a potentially lethal medical problem. (Remember that “complicated reason” I referred to in my last post?) I prefer to keep the particulars of my illness private but, suffice to say, it was something that could prematurely hasten my exit from this plane of existence. Very scary. So, after a battery of tests, scans and consultations, I underwent major surgery to fix the problem. And, as I was taking my mandated post-surgical walks through the wards, I saw people in much worse shape than me who were suffering immensely. But I didn’t see people who deserved it because they smoked, drank, did drugs, overate or failed to take care of themselves in general. All I saw was scared people wondering what would become of them. Hobbling with my IV past the young and old struggling to survive – some delirious with pain and despair – I realized something. None of us deserve this. While I’m sure some of them did dumb things to put themselves in danger, any desire I had to judge faded away.  As a good friend told me during the worst of my post diagnosis anxiety, “We all end up in the same place eventually.” And, in my solidarity with those patients’ fear and pain, I  realized deep in my bones that I was one of them – just another sinner floundering around this vale of tears.  

But long before my diagnosis, as you can read in this blog, I was coming around to an idea that’s not exactly orthodox church thinking, even though it can be found in the writings of some of the most influential writers of Christen antiquity – there is no such thing as eternal hell. Because as Bentley Hart wrote, “If God is the good creator of all, he must also be the savior of all, without fail.” Why create everything from nothing if He, being omniscient, knew some of those souls he’d summoned into existence would never have a chance? Cruel, no? Therefore, the only way the “Good God” thing works is if He saves everyone. There are numerous examples in New Testament which back up this idea– the parable of the Prodigal Son being the most famous – but biblical hermeneutics aside – it was my illness that truly made me abandon eternal hell. 

We live on this earth for what, eighty years if we’re lucky? When you compare that short span to the infinite vastness of eternity, getting punished in perpetuity for something you did in the briefest flicker of earthly time would be like sentencing a child to death for stealing a candy bar. The punishment does not fit the crime. You see, throughout history, hellfire hasn’t just been reserved for über wicked people like Stalin, Pol Pot and Hitler but, as Hart writes, “[For] all sorts of lesser miscreants: the profligate, the wanton, the unbaptized, the unbelieving, the unelect . . . the unlucky.” If this is true, then salvation is all about the survival of the fittest – or holiest.  I refuse to believe that not only on theological grounds, but aesthetic ones as well. As Hart bellicosely opined, believing in eternal hell is just in bad taste. 

Of course, the most common argument against this idea of “universal salvation” is, if everyone is going to receive a get out of jail free card, then why should anyone try being good on earth? You could rape, murder and steal to your heart’s content without ever having to fear Divine Wrath. Shouldn’t a bad person get what they deserve? But how do you define “person?” There is no such thing as being a person in isolation. “We are as others have made us.” Beyond the formative sphere of family, friends and immediate relations, all human beings are molded by society, culture and language – all human constructs – which, when you examine history, are interrelated on countless levels. 

Every human being who has ever lived has, in ways great and small, been affected their relationship with every other human bring. At the risk of sounding cliché, we are all connected. And if we are all responsible for how each of us has turned out, God cannot save some and not others. For God, to quote Michael Connelly’s detective Harry Bosch, “Everybody counts or nobody counts.” And if God is going to save everyone, then one good turn deserves another – something Jesus’s enjoined in his Great Commandment – “Love one another as I have loved you.” It works both ways. We must take care of each other because we are all in this together. That’s why you can’t do whatever you want. 

Of course, people do what they want all the time with scant regard for others. Where is divine justice if God’s going to forgive everyone? Good question, but I never said I didn’t believe in Hell, did I? Hell is very, very real.It is a place of profound selfishness, ignorance, and disconnection which, if you’re honest with yourself, you know you’ve glimpsed occasionally in your heart; that piece of you that feels cut off from the rest of the human race. It is a place of immense suffering and pain. And, yes, if you’ve been a real shit on earth, that may be where you end up – but not forever.  

I’m quite sure my reservation in hell has already been made and, when I get off the Stygian elevator, I’ll have to see all the shitty things I’ve done, not because God’s punishing me, but because I will be forced to examine my life in the light of God’s perfect and unchanging Goodness. I’m sure it’ll smart a bit but, after some crying and gnashing of teeth, I’ll finally realize that my greatest desire is for what is truly “Good” and then, and only then, will I become the person I was always meant to be. But what about Adolph? Him too? Yep. It might take eons of time, but luckily for him, God is infinite. He can wait until the last black hole evaporates -and beyond- until Hitler gets with the program and can order that margarita in Elysium. Perhaps God’s infinitude is also His mercy and his justice. 

Rest assured; I know that many people will be offended by the idea of Hitler in heaven and in no way should my bit of theological exposition be seen as excusing the monstrous evils of the Third Reich – but I think the idea of eternal hell is fatally flawed. Be that as it may, people are very attached to the idea of sinners getting torched and are loathe to give it up – probably because it’s been such a useful cudgel for keeping the faithful scared shitless and paying up. But there’s another reason why we like hell so much – something Madison Avenue knows all too well – the cachet of exclusivity. Just look at hot nightclubs where only select and beautiful people are allowed in. If you started letting fat dads like me under the velvet ropes, then the place would lose its aura of desirability and turn into a Chucky Cheese. And human beings love being in the “in” crowd because, as Oscar Levant once quipped, “It’s not enough to succeed – others must fail.” Remember how those inoculated Twitter folks gloried in the “big fail” of the unvaccinated? All that polarization, intolerance, ignorance, and cruelty you see on social media are Satan’s little trolls. (Along with the Russians and the Chinese.) But when it comes to salvation, thinking you must succeed where others fail turns the soteriological drama into a cosmic version of The Apprentice (You’re fired, loser!) – with lovely prizes for the winners and dreadful consequences for the losers. That turns Heaven into a place where every soul is just out for itself, which, as Bentley Hart devastatingly points out, “Is the precisely the ethos of Hell.” 

Yes, you should get vaccinated, wear masks and follow social distancing rules because we’re all in this pandemic together. And I also get angry that vaccine resisters, mask protestors and crazy politicians and preachers are helping spread the virus. I don’t want my kid going back to virtual learning because some people can’t get with the program. I don’t want people to perish when they didn’t have to. But snickering at anti-vaxxers when they croak from COVID, saying they deserved it, accomplishes nothing. If anything, it makes them more entrenched in their delusional thinking. They may be laboring under bad misinformation, defective thinking, willful ignorance, political or ideological tribalism and pride, but can you really say they deserve death? Would you be willing to tell them that as they lay terrified on their deathbeds? Would you tell their children, “When you don’t believe in science this is the result?”  Probably not. When you’re face to face with true suffering, that’s just in bad taste. We might be among the inoculated virtuous but, whether we like to admit it or not, we’ve all been guilty of doing other stupid, selfish and hurtful things. We all labor under delusions and illogical passions – what used to quaintly be called sin. You’d like your failings forgiven, wouldn’t you? Then why are we so loathe to forgive others – even to the point of rejoicing in their misfortune? 

I don’t think God is interested in people getting their just desserts. In Buddhism, there’s a wonderful story of bodhavistas refusing to enter Nirvana until they can help every last bit of creation across the finish line. In the Quran, God, says, “My mercy embraces everything.” And when you read the New Testament, it becomes apparent that God doesn’t want to punish mankind – He wants to rescue it. By believing in Eternal Hell, however, we are placing limits on God’s love – and I’m quite sure that’s a contest we’ll lose. That’s because God’s nightclub is always open, transcending the velvet ropes we place around it. Infinite Goodness is His biggest draw, trumping trendy fads – whether they be cultural or theological – every time. He’s simply irresistible. We are doomed to be happy. So, when we’re tempted to “delight in the suffering of the damned,” whether it’s in church or on Twitter, it might be good to remember that we’re all just clueless sinners hurtling towards the same place. 

Save me a margarita. 

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My Birthday. Again.

“Why don’t we try that French place, Reynard’s?” I asked.  

“It’s your birthday, my wife said. “We can go wherever you want.” 

“Reynard’s it is, then.” (Not the restaurant’s real name, but it’s easy to figure out.) 

To celebrate my fifty-third birthday, my wife Annie reserved us a hotel room in Montclair, NJ – a town I used to be very familiar with. When I was in high school a good friend of mine lived in nearby Glen Ridge and we spent many a Saturday afternoon in the 80’s walking up and down Bloomfield Avenue: playing in video arcades, catching movies at the Wellmont or Claridge theater, browsing through book shops and Hahnes Department store, window shopping at the Rolls-Royce dealership and, when we had enough money, eating at Thai Chef and enjoying chocolate souffles for dessert. With its plentiful cheap restaurants and hopping bar scene, Montclair was my go-to destination for dates when I was a young man. I still remember a winter date kissing a pretty young girl on Church Street like it was yesterday. Hiding in the doorway of a closed shop with the snow swirling around us, I still remember the feel of her lips on mine, the smell of her perfume and the thrill of happiness that ran through me. For a moment, it seemed like heaven had touched the earth. Good memories. Maybe, if I’m lucky, my wife and I will make a couple more. 

Firing up my computer, I found Reynard’s website but didn’t see a phone number. Seems they wanted everyone to make reservations online but, when I tabbed over to Saturday night, they had no open tables. Disappointing, but not fatal. It was only Thursday, and I knew Yuppie/Millennials were notorious for cancelling or not showing up for reservations because they reserve multiple tables at multiple locations so they can debate their choices over the digital either, often until the last minute. Using my cell phone number, I put myself on the waiting list for an eight o’clock table. Then I perused the listings for a backup restaurant and read a brief but positive review for a little place called Le Salbuen on Walnut Street. They had a phone number. 

“Le Salbuen,” a man answered. 

“I’d like to make a reservation for two on Saturday night. Do you have anything at 8?” 

“Can you do 7:45?” 

“That’s fine.” 

“What’s your name?” I gave it to him. 

“Okay, sir. You’re all set.” 

“Don’t you want a phone number?” I asked, surprised. Compared to Reynard’s, this restaurant was very laid back about reservations. 

“No, you’re good. See you then.” After hanging up, I felt a twinge of guilt, knowing I was going to cancel if a table at Reynard’s opened up. 

Lo and behold, I got an email from Reynard’s on Friday night, telling me the spot I wanted had suddenly become available. Going to their website, I clicked “Reserve Now” and was greeted by a message saying a code had been sent to my phone. “This code expires soon” the message said. “Please enter it as soon as possible.” Two-factor Identification for a restaurant reservation? As usual, however, I’d misplaced my phone and, by the time I found it, the code had evaporated. I repeated the process, entered the new code and was then asked to submit my credit card information. “We charge $75 for any reservation cancelled after 3:00 PM,” the system cheerily announced. I guess Reynard’s was wise to those unfaithful yuppie/millennial types. Grumbling, I went upstairs, retrieved my wallet and entered my Amex card number, expiration date and security code.  

“Sorry,” the system announced. “We cannot accept this card.” So, I tried my Visa. Same result. Now aggravated, I refreshed my browser and started all over again.  

“We’re sorry,” the system announced. “That table has been reserved.” 

“Goddammit,” I fumed. Then l searched to find the restaurant’s phone number. I found it hiding on Yelp. 

“Hi,’ I told the hostess. “I tried reserving a table, gave your res system two credit cards, and still couldn’t book it.” 

The hostess was very nice, took my name and said she’d try and help me. After hearing a long series of keyboard clicks, she said. “I’m very sorry. Someone took that spot.” 

“Do you have anything?” 

“No sir. Saturdays are very busy. Please try us again another night.” 

Now I was pissed. Struggling to stay polite, I thanked the hostess and then hung up. Then I remembered something I’d written long ago; “The inability to secure a reservation drives yuppies absolutely crazy.” Now I was becoming the very thing I once despised.  How’s that for irony?  Taking a deep breath, I told myself Reynard’s would have to wait for another day.  Then, later that evening, some friends texted and asked to meet my wife and I at our hotel for pre-dinner for drinks. “How about their rooftop lounge?” the text read. “You might need to reserve a spot.” I agreed and called the hotel to do just that. 

“Sorry sir,” the concierge said, “You have to call the bar directly.” and then gave me a number which went straight to voicemail. “For parties four and under,” the prerecorded voice said. “Please use Open Table to make a reservation. For parties of five or more, please leave a message.” 

“Oh, for chrissakes,” I hissed. Hopping on Open Table, I discovered the lounge was booked solid from open to close.  

“Goddammit!” I almost yelled. “Everywhere I turn, it’s a dead end!” Then I had an uncharitable thought – I’m almost going to miss this pandemic. A month ago, this wouldn’t have happened. 

Now seething, I felt my heart rate and blood pressure jump. On my last birthday I had to settle for lockdown takeout sushi. The year before that? I had to get a root canal. And, for reasons too complicated to describe here, I just wanted this birthday to go smoothly. Why can’t I just get what I want? 

“You look upset,” my wife said, upon seeing me a few minutes later.  I told her why. 

“I’m sorry,” 

“I almost want to cancel the whole thing,” I blurted out. Then I saw the hurt look on Annie’s face.

“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her shoulder.  “I’ll be a big boy. I’ve just been spending too much time feeling like I’m being treated like a number. Just give me some space. Hey, how about we take Natalie for some ice cream?” Before my wife could answer, I threw my family in the car and drove to my favorite ice cream parlor two towns over – but there was not a parking spot to be found. The town was crawling with people celebrating the seeming end of the pandemic. 

“President says no masks and everyone’s going nuts,” I grumbled. In the mood I was in, I would have been crabby on VJ Day. 

“Let’s go home,” Annie said. “We can go another time.” Good advice. But I didn’t take it. 

Turning the car around, I angrily hunted the streets until I found parking. One thing is going to go right for me today, I thought to myself. One thing. But, when we got to the parlor, it was also mobbed, understaffed and the line was moving very, very slowly. The temporal sluggishness was being caused by a small herd of high-school boys clad in varsity jackets flirting with and staring at the pretty teenage girl in short shorts behind the counter. Pull your eyes out of her butt, guys, I thought to myself. I want ice cream. Then again, when I was their age, I would’ve been doing the same thing. As the line crept forwards with diabolical incrementalism, pure rage detonated in my chest. I know, I was being childish, but those “complicated reasons” I mentioned earlier were very much on my mind. I almost shouted, “Fuck my birthday! Fuck that hotel and their rooftop lounge! Fuck Reynard’s! FUCK ICE CREAM. Fuck it all to hell.”  I just wanted to go home and feel sorry for myself. But I didn’t  

A few days ago, I was reading a rather dense treatise on the philosophical topics of potency and act – about how possibility becomes actuality. The author talked about God being “Pure Act” in whom all possibilities – kind of like a multiverse where every possible scenario gets played out – are contained within His Infinite Being, dwelling in and beyond time. We of course, cannot explore every possible action and inhabit every iteration of who we might become. We make choices and then that “wave of possibility” collapses the second we make a decision. There’s a theory in quantum physics that a particle occupies all possible positions in reality and it’s only when we look at that particle that it settles on a particular position and becomes observable or real to us. (As you can gather, I’m not a physicist.)  To grossly oversimplify the author of that philosophy book’s views, he opined that God was source of that all those “possible positions” – Possibility & Actuality Itself – and that when we choose, we are, in a fashion, choosing the reality we will inhabit. Standing in the that ice cream parlor with my heart thudding angrily in my chest, I saw all the realities losing my shit could create for me- my daughter crying, my wife upset, getting arrested, eating Jell-O in a psych ward, my birthday canceled and general misery all around.  But I also I saw another potential reality – a much nicer one. And the only way I could make it actually happen?  Keep my mouth shut.  So, I did. 

Because I bit my tongue, the next day began swimmingly.  My wife and I checked into the hotel, made some nice memories and then met our friends for cocktails at the perfectly serviceable bar in the hotel lobby. I had two cocktails and then feeling no pain, we all strolled down Bloomfield Avenue towards the restaurant. As we walked, I noticed how much Montclair had changed over the past forty years.  Hahne’s was long gone, Thai Chef recently shuttered and most of the cheap restaurants and bars of my youth had been replaced by fancier joints. A bit disoriented, I also noticed how the physical landscape had changed. Many of the old buildings I remembered had been bulldozed and replaced with luxury apartments, chichi shops, parking garages and my hotel. It was like a different world. But Church Street was still there and the doorway where I had kissed that girl in the whirling snow. Whatever happened to her? Why didn’t it work between us? Why did my life go one way and not the other? Could I have been happier? Possibility and actuality. Potency and act. Maybe God dwells in every life I could have lived, but I’ve only got this one. Suddenly, sadness started threatening my buzz. Probably vodka trieste.  

Saying goodbye to our friends, my wife and I headed over to Le Salbuen. We were a bit late but were greeted warmly and ushered to an outside table. The waiter asked if wanted tap or bottled water, so I ordered some Aqua Panna. A minute later, a lovely little girl in mask and white dress brought it to our table. 

“And how old are you?” I asked her.

“Six.” 

“And you’re working here?” 

“This is my mommy and daddy’s restaurant,” she said shyly. Then, like a sylph of radiant light, she disappeared. 

“Can you imagine Natalie waiting tables?’ I asked my wife. She chuckled. My daughter’s a wonderful spitfire of a kid, but doing chores is not her thing. Then we ordered off the eclectic menu. As usual, Annie ordered what I wanted but being a gentleman, I diverted to my second choice. Then, as my wife and I were chatting over our appetizer of tahini infused zucchini spaghetti, heaven once again touched the earth. 

I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was my wife’s face beautiful face by candlelight, the wonderful food, the warm night air, the joyous music, the still familiar rattle and hum of a restaurant going full tilt, several ounces of 80 proof alcohol, the old dog sleeping under the next table, the happy murmur of contented diners or that small child weaving between the tables like a seraph of incandescent glory, but I suddenly felt absolutely happy and at peace. “I got upset over nothing,” I thought to myself. “I’m so glad to be here right now.” And all those “complicated reasons” – while not going away – suddenly seemed much less threatening. 

Now that I’m fifty-three, I’m well aware that I’ve made some awful choices. Through my stupidity, anger, willful ignorance, and pride – and sometimes those of others – many opportunities, many possible lives, have slipped through my fingers.  Trust me, I sometimes mourn them to an unhealthy degree. But there, sitting at that table, Infinite Possibility revealed It had always, and always would be, infinitely merciful. Despite all my wrong turns, my life turned out much, much better than I ever deserved. And, floating within that radiant boundary which words fail to describe, between what was, is and could be, I felt like I was glimpsing a new heaven and a new earth – the New Jerusalem where “every tear will be wiped away.” I swear to God, I heard an angel’s trumpet begin to sound, as if proclaiming, “Now, aren’t you glad you kept your fucking mouth shut, Steve?”

Then I ate dinner. Hey, I was hungry. 

After our plates were cleared, the owner came to our table. I complimented him on his cooking and his daughter. “When she stops wanting to do this.” I told him.  “Rent out another kid. It’s your secret weapon.” Then he gave us after-dinner drinks gratis, the little sylph took my credit card, and my wife and I began our trek back to the hotel. That’s when I noticed my phone buzzing to alert me about all emails that had piled up in my inbox. My first restaurant choice had messaged me several times during while we ate at Le Salbuen, trying to get me to grab one of their coveted tables. As Annie and I walked up Bloomfield and passed Reynard’s, we looked though its large windows and saw that it was packed to the rafters. Using algorithms and software, they were trying to get every last dollar out of every last person until the very last moment – and I didn’t blame them. I was in the business once and it’s brutal. But I was very glad my first choice didn’t work out and that my backup turned out so deliciously well. Funny how that happens. Then we took a small detour down a residential street. 

Walking blithely under a canopy of trees past some old houses, my wife and I watched as other people’s lives flickered through lighted windows; every one of them the result of a choice – the possible made actual.  Were they all happy? Did they all make wise decisions? Like me, probably not. And truth be told, I knew my little aura of grace would fade and bad days would soon get my blood boiling again. But as we passed each small revelation, I wondered if the souls in those homes had caught a glimpse of Jerusalem too. Brief as it was, it was a memory I knew I could turn too when the going got rough. We all probably need to start making better choices but sweating the “what-ifs and might-have- beens” is a waste of time. Because maybe in the end, when we are face to face with Pure Act Itself, we’ll discover the possibilities are actually endless. That’d be nice. 

As the spring breeze stirred the new leaves high in the trees, I could almost hear it uttering my favorite line from Scripture – the one after all that talk about a new heaven and a new earth – when every tear, bad choice and “complicated reason” will be wiped away. When who we are finally becomes what we were meant to be. When the impossible becomes actual.  Squeezing Annie’s hand, I softly said the verse aloud. 

“Behold, I make all things new.” 

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