This wasn’t the work of ghosts, but it sure looked like it.I snapped on the kitchen lights at 3:00 a.m. to find one of the counters dripping with slime.It looked like the basement of the New York Public Library.As I grabbed a damp rag and a roll of paper towels, I thought about Ghostbusters and fresh produce.The slime, you see, came from a burst freezer pack.During the pandemic we’ve been using Misfits, a service that delivers fresh fruits and vegetables to your door.Early on, back in March and April, it looked like various shortages, apart from toilet paper, were here to stay. Every couple of weeks we’d get a Misfits box, so we’d at least have that.
Since fruits and vegetables are perishable, and since there is a time lag involved, they are packed with freezer bags.These cold-pack bags are reusable and we began sticking them in our ice-box.We have no free-standing freezer, so the unit atop our fridge was getting full.The last week’s pack had begun to leak in transit, and, being too busy, I’d set it aside until I could figure out how to dispose of it in the most environmentally friendly way.We don’t generate a huge amount of trash.We compost our food scraps, and being vegan we don’t have smelly animal byproducts to toss.And we recycle all that we can.I guess just “throwing it out” has become a kind of last resort.In the dark, the freezer bag made the decision for me and so I found myself mopping in the middle of the night.
It’s a small price to pay, really, to try to help save the environment.The past four years have contributed unconscionably to global warming.We tend not to care because those who’ll bear the brunt of it in the short-term are the poor.Industrialists can afford vacation homes in the mountains.Our lifestyles have an impact everywhere.We need to learn to think differently about things.Of course, that leaky freezer pack did cause quite a mess.The gooey slime was everywhere, but it was everywhere with a conscience.I have to wonder what happens to the world when leaders lack conscience.Unfortunately I don’t have to wonder long since I have the headlines to read.No, this wasn’t the work of ghosts, but unless we change our ways it could well be. And when those treating you like enemies are your leaders, who you gonna call?
As intimated several posts ago now, my wife and I are rewatching The X-Files.Neither of us has much free time, so this proceeds slowly over many weekends, and we’re now nearing the end of season three.This exercise brings me back to an article I wrote on Sleepy Hollow, the Fox series that ran from 2013-2017.That article, published in The Journal of Religion and Popular Culture, I later adapted into a chapter in Holy Horror.At the advice of my editor I dropped that particular chapter and wrote a different one.In the lost chapter, if I recall, I made the case that Sleepy Hollow was biblically based in a way that other monster-of-the-week series, like the X-Files, were not.While I still have to hold to this, I must admit the X-Files are far more biblical than I recollected.
Somewhere about halfway through season one I started to jot notes when the Bible was mentioned or quoted.Soon it became obvious that religion was a major theme in The X-Files pretty much from the beginning.I’ve mentioned here before that some scholars of religion have begun to address the paranormal seriously.One of the reasons for this seems to be that the two fields are related.Some of the x-files derive from folk traditions, and these traditions often hold religious elements.When those themes derive from American folklore the Bible creeps in.There are quotes, visual displays, and even biblical themes.How had I not noticed this the first time around?
I didn’t watch The X-Files during the actual airing of the series.As a kid I was endlessly teased for having an interest in the strange and unexplained, and it bothered me that it had become mainstream afterI’d already paid the price.When the series became available on DVD, though, I had second thoughts.My wife and I watched it all the way through some years ago, and, having finished rewatching another series several months back, we began slowly to make our way through again.When I wrote my article on Sleepy Hollow I had vague recollections of X-Files episodes with some biblical content, butI’d forgotten how extensive it was.Religion is that way.It tends to permeate society, and even though we’re proudly secular, the base of it all is religion.This should be obvious to anyone who takes the time to tally just how often it appears in the most secular of spaces.Instead, there’s little interest in it.Like the paranormal, lack of concern about religion is something we just can’t adequately explain.
Apart from being Shakespearen click-bait, the title of this post reflects a present-day fear.We live on the edge of rural Pennsylvania.If you’re not familiar with the state, let me assure you, there are tons of woodlands and rural communities. You can drive for hours in a straight line and seldom leave the forest.When my wife sent me a warning email—I go to bed early and can’t seem to sleep late—I paid heed.A bear has been ambling through our town.My usual morning jog is along a trail at the edge of the woods.Bears are crepuscular.I watch horror movies.Put it all together and a Shakespearean level of anxiety quickly builds.It wouldn’t be so bad, but the photos show the bear romping through backyards and one of the reasons I jog the way I do is to avoid other people.
I see wildlife on my jogs.I see deer frequently, along with feral cats, rabbits, and, in season, ducks.I’ve seen raccoons, foxes, groundhogs, and even snapping turtles and salamanders.It’s not much of a stretch to think a bear could be lurking there.So instead I took to jogging the human streets.The danger out here, of course, is the human-borne kind.Covid-19 lurks, and even though I jog at 5 a.m. there are other elderly out and about.I hear a cough and wonder whether my chances might be better with the bear.The broken sidewalk’s a problem too.I have tripped before in the half light, but without Superman’s knack for flying. Or at least landing gracefully.
Thinking back, I wonder what has happened.As I child I lived in truly rural Pennsylvania.My brothers and I used to sleep on our open porch in the summers, even though we could occasionally hear bears going through the trashcans around the side of the house.Our place was hard up on the woods, right at the edge of town.I didn’t worry about the bears back then, though.We’ve perhaps become more afraid of nature because we know we’ve not been good to it.The episode of the X-Files we watched before bed last night had Scully saying that nature’s always out to get us.Perhaps we’ve drawn too solid a line between ourselves and brother or sister bear.We’re not above nature; we are nature.But still, I’d rather not be pursued, or eaten by a bear, no matter how much I like Shakespeare.So I’ll jog in town for awhile, taking my chances with the dangers of my own kind.
Photo credit: Manitoba Provincial Archives, via Wikimedia Commons
I’m thinking about indexing my life.It might help to keep things organized, don’t you think?One of those odd disconnects that a biblical studies editor faces is the discipline’s love of indexes.I have volumes on the shelf behind me right now that have five or more indexes.You can look up subject, author, biblical citation, non-biblical citation, and even for some, places mentioned.The thing is such books were produced before the internet.If you’ve read a few of my posts you know that I’m no fan of ebooks.I like a book in my hands, and a book, in my definition, is made of paper.Still, I do occasionally look things up in an index.If at all possible, however, I try to find an electronic copy so I can type what I’m looking for in the search box and come up with the exact reference.In this I’m not alone.
A great deal of my editorial time is spent trying to explain this to other biblical scholars.In the post-Covid world academic libraries are going to be closed for quite a while.They’ll likely increase their electronic holdings while cutting back on paper books.When someone wants to look something up, they’re not going to scroll to the index and scroll back through countless pages to find it.They’ll use the search function.That’s what it’s for.So it goes.When I index my life, the early part will be all about looking things up manually.The latter years will be searchable.To be fair, I would’ve never come to know this if it hadn’t been for working in publishing.
Indexing points to milestones.Earning a Ph.D. from Edinburgh was one, I suppose.For a guy who grew up with ambitions to be a janitor, that’s something a little different.Some things I’m not sure how to index.The abrupt transition from professor to not-professor, for instance.What are the keywords you’d put down to search for that?Or the part about being treated like a lackey by former colleagues?I guess that’s not really a milestone anyway.Besides, it’s in the internet half of life, the searchable bit.The earlier years, many biography readers note, are the most interesting.They set us on a trajectory that we type up in our curricula vitae.When I write my fiction the characters are often janitors.Unless I put my pen-name in the index nobody will ever know.Of course, I haven’t got to the last chapter yet.
Beliefs have a way of shifting with time and learning.A regular part of my job is to spend time on college, university, and seminary websites.Indeed, an editor in my field has to know quite a bit about institutional affiliations.No matter how much secularists dislike it, our institutions of higher education tended, historically, to be founded by religious organizations.That’s not unexpected since the very idea of higher education grew organically from the concept of monasteries as the places that preserved learning.Many, if not most, universities have grown away from their founders’ faiths.Harvard University, for example, was founded largely for the supply of Congregational and Unitarian clergy.Not officially affiliated, it nevertheless owed its founding vision to religious needs in the colony.The fact of moving away from religious traditions is understandable in the cases of universities because learning is essentially a secular enterprise now.
Seminaries are a little different.When searching for my first (and, to date only) full-time teaching job, I was acquired by Nashotah House because I was Episcopalian.All the faculty were.I’ve been turned down for a good many jobs over the years by seminaries silently stating that I wasn’t Catholic, Presbyterian, Methodist or ________ (fill in the blank).Ironically, as I’ve come to know many seminary faculty members through work, most of them are not of the same denomination as their institution.Quite often they are Bible faculty, which, when you think about it, is pretty surprising.Denominations, especially Protestant ones, draw their lines in the sand over their interpretation of Scripture.
All of this leaves me wondering what it really means to belong to a religious body.After Nashotah House sympathetic Episcopalians were difficult to locate.Even those in the academy seemed to accept my sudden disappearance with a studied lack of curiosity.I’ve sat on the sidelines for a decade and a half now, watching others play the game.Some win.Many do not.Some have denominations that open up for them.Others do not.Looking back at the origins of higher education, those of us who studied the original academic field are now considered non-essential even among the non-essentials.And yet society feels like it’s reeling because of its lack of understanding regarding what religion is.There are few places to go to learn what your particular brand teaches.But then again, beliefs do have a way of shifting over time.
I don’t remember its title or its author.I do recall that there was a character, or perhaps there were characters, who kept saying “etwas muss getan werden”—“something must be done.”You see, we read quite a few existentialist short stories in German IV in high school.There were so few of us left from the freshman intro all the way back in ninth grade that our teacher could put us right in the middle of German literature and have us read.I wish I still had that facility now.Although I can work my way through many languages academically (German, French, Spanish, Italian, and, of course, the dead languages of koine Greek, classical Hebrew, Ugaritic, and assorted other semitic dialects), the fluency of sitting down and just reading atrophied long ago.Still, etwas muss getan werden.That sense of anxiety feels like it’s permanent now.
Every now and again, when tensions are running high—this past week is an example—I find myself nervously checking online news sources frequently to see if anything dramatically good has happened.This gets to be almost a tic.I need to have some assurance that we’ve not become a dictatorship, or that there are those in power with enough humanity left inside them have tried to do something to make things better.Being a nation of throw-away people is ethically wrong no matter what scale you use.Skin color and national heritage do not lessen the worth of any human being.We can’t even get out to protest properly because a pandemic, which is still being mishandled, rages.The days are full of such sameness.Etwas muss getan werden.Please.
I wish I could remember the stories I read in high school.Some have stayed with me through the years.German class was my introduction to existentialism, a philosophy with which I still mostly identify.That was the reason I would pick up books by Kafka, Camus, and Dürrenmatt when I would find them in the once plentiful used book stores.I remember the latter’s Der Besuch der alten Dame. I recall seeing the play performed and being reminded that we are all players in a drama whose only sense comes from our assignment of the same.Now I sit inside on sunny days.Afraid of economic insecurity—who knows how long the jobs will hold out?—I don’t go to stores and try to order as little as possible online.I keep waiting for something to happen.As I learned in high school etwas muss getan werden, no matter where I read it.
The other day I was searching through the CDs we have and came across the Pet Shop Boys’ album, Actually.Curious, I googled them and was surprised to learn that they are considered the most successful British pop duo ever, by some metrics.Who knew?I lost track of them after 1987.As I played the album—and synth-pop really isn’t my style—I began to wonder why I’d bought it.Then “It’s a Sin” played.The Pet Shop Boys’ second number one hit from ’87, that song was part of my personal history that has led, indirectly, to my last two books.Let me set the scene:
In 1987 I graduated from seminary.I was just a small town boy, having grown up in rural northwest Pennsylvania.My exposure to big cities was limited, and that was one reason I’d chosen Boston for said seminary.It was there that I began to realize just how much popular culture referenced religion.“It’s a Sin” is emblematic in that regard.Everything the boys want to say or do is a sin.Sounds like Calvinism to me. Still, the song was heard by millions.I bought the album because of it.
As I recall, there were several pop artists singing about religion at the time.Joan Osborne’s “One of Us” was still eight years away, but it was becoming obvious to me that people took religious cues from pop media.I once described the ability to find references to the Good Book as “Bible radar.”If you’re raised in that culture you learn to spot religion in the most unlikely places.The concept of sin is a purely religious one.We all have consciences (I hope) but to make an act Hell-worthy requires religion.And according to some forms of Christianity just about everything is a sin.
That idea lay dormant for decades.I read novels and found religion embedded in them, often in biblical form.I saw it on television.And in movies.Even horror movies.While I sometimes elected to expose myself to intentionally religious media, these references often came from secular sources.As I began to research this, I came to realize that religion is intricately woven into the fabric of society.Try to tease it out to isolate it and the cloth starts to come undone.We like to think of ourselves as more sophisticated than that, but the truth is at some level we still believe it’s asin.
The pandemic, like any news event these days, has generated a whole new vocabulary.I had to look up PPE on Google (Personal Protective Equipment, if you live in a cave like me).I want to help with the effort to curb the coronavirus, but being a non-essential worker, I’m not sure what I can do.Then my wife found an organization making PPEs.In this case the equipment they make is face-shields.And they were looking for, believe it or not, transparency paper.Well, it’s really not paper, but acetate.Although we’ve had to move several times since being pushed out of the Nashotah House nest, when I went looking for that box of transparency film that I paid for out of my own pocket in the PPPD (Pre-PowerPoint Days), I found it without too much trouble.We still had 25 unused sheets left, and we donated them to the cause.
Nashotah House used to have one semester of required Hebrew and one semester of Greek.Since the curriculum was highly regulated in those days, there was no opportunity for further courses in either language.If you teach Hebrew you know that no textbook assumes just fourteen to sixteen weeks to learn it.I quickly gave up using textbooks and had students begin translating as I walked them through it.I had to use an overhead projector since Nashotah had no internet connection until the turn of the millennium.It was such a small account that the cable companies didn’t want to go all the way out there to lay the physical lines then necessary for connectivity.So I bought transparency film.I even learned how to run it through my printer which, thankfully, wasn’t dot-matrix.
Over the years I bought quite a few boxes of the stuff.Then the Enlightenment.Let there be PowerPoint.I converted all my teaching to PowerPoint slides while others made fun.When my services were no longer required, I had to purchase a projector so that I could continue to teach on a freelance basis.But I kept that expensive transparency film.Now it is out there covering faces, and hopefully, unlike seminary education, saving lives.As an erstwhile teacher of Greek and Hebrew I’ve found myself having to make some flashcards to learn the new words the crisis is giving us.It’s a good thing, then, that when I was looking for transparency film I also found a couple packs of unopened index cards.Sometimes antiquated pedagogy is commodious after all.
“Ne’er cast a cloot ’til May be oot,” as we heard it in Scotland, was a warning, loosely translated, to “never take off a layer until May is over.”That bit of lowland wisdom fits this spring pretty well.As I was donning full winter regalia for my jog this morning my thoughts naturally turned toward the weather.Memory distorts things, of course, but I keep coming back to my youth and thinking late May used to be reliably warm.There were chilly mornings from time to time, but yesterday held a touch of November in the air, as if the world somehow switched axes.Even the usual animals I see—deer, groundhogs, ducks, and the occasional fox or raccoon—all seemed to be sleeping in this morning.Who could blame them?
I postulated in Weathering the Psalms that the weather is somehow connected in our psyches with the divine.It’s God’s big blue heaven, after all.The weather is something we can only control in a bad way, though.While other people are fixated on surviving the coronavirus outbreak Trump has been quietly (although well documentedly) been relaxing environmental regulations so that when this is all over the beleaguered wealthy will have further income streams.And so global warming gets a head start on opening the doors of industry again.Those older than even me tell me the weather is far wilder than when they were young.Perhaps it’s just the Anthropocene hadn’t had time to settle in yet.Or maybe environmental degradation is spitting in the face of God.
First light is beautiful.I’ve been awakening before the sun for so many years now that I can’t recall what it’s like to stumble out of bed when blue begins edging the curtains.When it does I pull on my sneakers and head out the door.It’s easy to pretend out here that everything’s okay.When I do spot a deer, statue-still until I’m mere feet away, I wonder what life was like before the koyaanisqatsi of industrialization.When our human impact on the earth was humble, like that of our fellow animals.Now the weather has turned.It’s chilly out here this morning.I’m wearing a stocking cap and gloves and I’m watching my own breath forming the only clouds in the sky.The weather is a kind of psalm, I guess.I should pull on another clout and consider the wisdom of my elders.
Moving is a process that really has no end.I suppose if working folks took a few weeks of staycation and really concentrated, getting everything unpacked might be a possibility.Although our move was nearly two years ago it didn’t happen that way, and the self-isolation of the pandemic has led to only more time drains, not fewer.We still have boxes waiting to be unpacked, and, of course, like many people we store memories in boxes.Life is an accumulation of things that aren’t valuable but somehow aren’t disposable either.While putting some things away in my study after work recently I spied something that has been in storage probably since I graduated from college.I stopped and stared at it because even glimpsing it took me back instantly to my childhood.What was it?A devotional card.
The memory it prompted was sad, in a way.We didn’t have much money when I was growing up (some things never change), so what we could afford was inexpensive stuff.My faith, rather than being the optimistic, happy kind of fundamentalism, was rather the fearful, wrath of God kind.I was a scared little boy.Phobias ran deep and wide.I bought cards like this to assure me that things weren’t so bad.This particular card has three reassuring verses from the Bible, all taken out of context, on the back.Seeing the card reminded me of the several others I once had.Our homelife wasn’t peaceful, and I often had to retreat to where I could look at my devotional cards for reassurance.At college I started to grow optimistic only to have my career prove that I was right at the beginning—life is scary and insecure.
I picked up the card.I put it on my desk.My mother had returned it to me, I recalled, when she moved into the trailer park.A box of my stuff had been left at home (unfortunately not the box with all the 1970s baseball cards I had as a kid).And two or three of the devotional cards had been tucked into it.When she gave me the box I didn’t have time to sort through it.The vacation time was all used up by driving all the way there and back, and so it got loaded on the truck with everything else, the flotsam and jetsam of a childhood spent being afraid.This card was only one of several, and if I’m honest I’ll admit that it has reopened a box that may have been left by Pandora.
Every once in a while I return to Moby Dick.I’m not sure why exactly Melville’s classic has such a hold on me.Perhaps because I first read it while living in Boston.For a land lubber like myself being so near the ocean was a kind of epiphany.I read the novel as part of a course on wisdom literature in the Bible.Harrell Beck, who was an influential person in my life, insisted that if wisdom themes were truly wisdom they would be found outside the Good Book.We were assigned a list of modern novels from which to choose and I selected Moby Dick.The thing that immediately struck me about the novel was just how biblical it is.Ahab and Ishmael aside, the many references to Jonah and Job and incidental asides referencing scripture made this an intense reading experience.
I started reading it for the fifth or sixth time just before the pandemic became a crisis.It is a large book and I didn’t want to rush through it.I tried to pause and appreciate it this time around and I noticed just how remarkable it was that a man who made much of his life as a laborer, without any higher education, was so incredibly literate.Classical references that I had to look up, and citation of sources blend together in a story that is compelling as it is unsettling.Long explanations and descriptions are part of the tale, and the soliloquies are so philosophical that you have to sit back in a reverie after reading them.I’ve read many novels in my life, but no others like Moby Dick.
As metaphorical stories go, the book is remarkably natural.The descriptions of whales are as scientific in their own way as they are literary.For an author with no scientific training this too is remarkable.Indeed, a good part of the draw of Moby Dick is Herman Melville himself.Although I have gathered a few degrees over the years, in my mind I am, like Melville, unlettered. I’m sure he would’ve understood.The fiction I write, although in a very different style, is a tip of the hat to him.Friends used to tell me that nobody writes like that any more and that no publishers would show an interest.The latter has proven to be true, and so much more’s the pity.We could use more novels like Moby Dick.And were my days not even fuller during the pandemic, I might even have a few moment to pursue my own white whales.
Academic writing tends to be limiting.Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy reading a well-crafted academic work, but when facing a new one I always experience that sinking feeling that this will be difficult work.That doesn’t stop me from getting a little thrill when something academic I’ve written appears.Pickwick, an imprint of Wipf & Stock, recently released the cover of Some Wine and Honey for Simon, the Festschrift for Simon Parker to which I’ve contributed.As I’ve written elsewhere, this was an orphaned article that required some polishing up to be able to submit.Thinking back on it, I reflect on how much has changed since then.How I’ve left the land of Festschriften.How my own research has changed.
Research, traditionally wrought, requires an academic library and lots of time.You need to be able to spend your hours requesting books and articles that you can’t afford—really publishers?$40 to purchase twenty pages that I won’t even enjoy reading?Access to JSTOR will cost you if you don’t have a university post.Now I trawl Academia.edu hoping to catch what I need in my net.Sometimes it works.Other times you bring up a coelacanth.That’s the way of research outside the academy.Also, I find myself reading books that appeal to me rather than strictly books on topic.Many of them aren’t academic, but they are informative.Part of research, it seems to me, is learning to access sources you wouldn’t normally find.There’s the element of discovery.
Monsters appealed to me as a research area since there hadn’t been much written on them academically and I’d read most of what had.The field is starting to take off now, which meanshigh-priced monographs and inaccessible research.Working in publishing I think I understand the mindset—employees are expensive, especially in the United States.They require salaries so they can live, and medical coverage so they can continue to live.And most books sell so few copies that they really aren’t profitable.But I like to think people would read about monsters, if they were priced down around the level of the demographic that appreciates them.So one of my academic articles is about to be released to the world along with some wine and honey.I’m still trying to sort out how to contribute from the margins.And I hope Simon, who was always kind to me, appreciates the effort to honor a scholar and a gentleman.
It’s amazing how often J. D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy comes up in conversation.The book struck a nerve.Reading it wasn’t easy because there were so many shades of my own childhood that I felt uncomfortable at several points.Not from the same circumstances as Vance (his family seems to have been better off than mine, from the descriptions), I was more a hillwilliam (shoutout to the author of Verbomania for the portmanteau) than a hillbilly.We weren’t educated people, but my mother’s family wasn’t as poor as the one she married into.We were socially mobile alright, but in the wrong direction.Anyone who hasn’t come home from school to find carp swimming in the bathtub simply can’t understand.The way of the poor is inscrutable, but something Vance gets spot on—it is almost impossible to improve yourself without a leg up.
The chapter where this really hit me was as he was describing how easy his life was after being admitted to Yale Law School.He made connections and learned to work them.That part never came in my case.Like Vance I grew up without a father.Unlike him, I didn’t have grandparents to come to the rescue.It’s a long story, but when I left home my life became a search for a father figure only to discover than nobody really wants to help somebody else’s kid.Although I was accepted into the high profile schools, I had no one to coach me to go there.Even now people barely recognize Edinburgh for the wonder that it is.It didn’t connect me the way Yale Law apparently does.My career has been in freefall a time or two because of this lack.As Vance explicitly notes, when you grow up poor you don’t have the training or family experience to know what to do.
Many people, I realize, are much worse off than I was growing up.What Hillbilly Elegy, written by a Republican, shows is that the government simply does not care for the poor.In what used to be the wealthiest nation on earth there is a tremendous amount of poverty.Vance has a keen analysis of what the abnormal psychology of want does to people.I grew up more of a Pennsylvania redneck than a full-blooded hillbilly, but many of the same lessons apply.While some of us can muster the willpower to escape, we know we are in the minority.We learn as adults that others don’t share our concern for those who struggle daily to get by.This is an important elegy, and if only it were read seriously by those able to make policy there might be some glimmer of light in these dark hills. The right leg up can do wonders.
If you’re like me, and I sincerely hope you’re not, you spent your childhood worrying about killer bees.You see, I was stung a lot as a child, having stepped on a yellow-jacket nest hidden in an old tree stump.That event was one of the most formative of my life.Oh, I act brave, shooing wasps and carpenter bees away, but that’s all a front.I was repairing a piece of furniture out in the garage over the weekend and a big old bee got in and started buzzing around.It drove me to distraction.I once had a bee land on my back and sting me for no apparent reason.Alone in the garage I had no one to watch my back.I decided to do some repairs back in the house instead. Let it have the garage.
During this pandemic, then, the last thing I needed to hear was that “murder hornets” have made it to the United States.And Republicans are bad enough!The murder hornet is responsible for double-digit deaths in its native land, and now my childhood nightmares of killer bees have reemerged.We had a warming trend over the weekend.There were so many wasps and bees around outside that I could even hear their buzzing with the windows safely closed.Insects are the future, of course.They adapt better and more quickly than we do, and there are many, many more of them.The Bible often uses insects as vehicles of divine wrath.No wonder horror movies often make use of them!
Image credit: SecretDisc, via Wikimedia Commons
More rational minds soothe us, saying that murder hornets seldom attack people or pets.If provoked, however, they can do so fatally.Perhaps it’s the anger of stinging insects that bothers me the most.The yellow-jackets that attacked me certainly seemed angry.My stepping on their home was an innocent accident.It was also a learning experience.I don’t step on old stumps any more.I haven’t since the incident.Such early traumas can stay with you all your life, and the buzzing co-inhabitants of the earth, I have to remind myself, have as much right to be here as we do.In cases like killer bees, we invented them.When we play Doctor Frankenstein nature responds in kind.The monster was angry.Bees, wasps, and hornets may be intelligent but they can’t reason out the motives of bumbling humans who accidentally disturb them.And now a bigger variety has moved in.It’s probably best to keep calm and not get anybody angry.
I spend a lot of time struggling to figure out the fundamental basis of reality.I’m hampered in this by a brain that was evolved—optimized—to help me survive in my environment, not to penetrate the depths of what’s really real.That’s why I began studying religion in the first place.The connection was organic.Raised as a fundamentalist daily reminded that an eternal hell of torment awaited, it made sense to study the antidote (the Bible) as much as possible.When I prepared for college, which wasn’t the plan at the beginning, I could think of no other major beyond religion.In Paul Tillich’s nomenclature, it’s all about ultimate concerns.I didn’t accept the very evolution that had made me this way.That required thinking through.
Attending a liberal arts college wasn’t really a conscious decision.Nobody in my family had been to college and I didn’t know the difference between a research university and a stand-alone liberal arts institution.Somebody has to teach you these things.Religion, I found out, is a pretty good way to work toward perceptions of reality.These days the award for that goes to philosophy, but the two fields are closely related, as much as philosophers socially distance themselves from theologians.They’re both seeking the same thing, really.Public perceptions of theology, however, trail after televangelists and their ilk, leading a wrong impression in the minds of the masses.Even professors are prone to accept this facile supposition.Seeking reality doesn’t mean you won’t get laughed at along the way.
Although there have been some among religious leaders who claim to have found the answer, the rest of us continue to struggle.The more I read both of science and of religion the more complex it all seems to grow.And of course human agendas require the keeping of secrets.Knowledge that is for employees only because they kind of have to know.The price on the sticker represents a mark-up that could be cut down.What is this item really worth?So it goes with the search for reality.There’s no end to the searching.Even after Siddhārtha Gautama was enlightened, he continued to have to work at it.Christianity used to teach that love was the point of it all.That message seems to have changed with the arrival of the messiah known as Trump.Those of us who can’t stop searching even if we find can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something more worthy on which to spend our time.