uhhh ... what did I mean by that ...?

(or "What's that Lassie?  Is Timmy trapped in an old mine shaft!?")

This morning, I found a writing notion scribbled on my idea pad from sometime last week - I'm guessing early Friday morning.  I wrote simply "through a glass darkly" trusting that when I came back to it in an hour, I'd remember enough to fill in the note with more info and tuck it away.  Of course, there are any number of things I could've been trying to tell myself, from the utterly hackneyed to the utterly sublime.  Somewhere along that continuum is the idea I'd had.

I'm normally a lot better about scribbling notions down.  I'll at least get two connecting thoughts on paper before setting it aside.  Not to worry, though, I've got newer things to ponder (which I'd better write down as soon as I finish this).  If the darkened glass returns to me, then it was at least a little insightful.  If not, it was probably crap to start with, right?

My next dog

I want to name my next dog "After the War" - y'know, like the Paul Simon song "Rene and Georgette Magritte and their dog, 'After the War.' "  

I suppose it would be classier to call it "Apres le Guerre" though.  

Definitely not "Nach dem Krieg" - that might make it sound like the war was still going on. Despite it being almost seventy years since WWII, Americans are probably still a little bit skittish about people yelling strange German phrases into the air at twilight, even if you're just calling your dog inside for the evening, back to home and hearth.

Communist Party - always makes me laugh

Years ago, I had a t-shirt with this image on it.  I wonder if it makes Kim Jong-Un mad that he, his father, and his grandfather were all left out of this party.

Where did Elijah's Chair go... and why?

I’ve been in a bit of a spiritual crisis lately (“a bit” of a crisis?  Sounds like a logical conflict right off the bat ...  like “a bit” pregnant.)

But before I digress too much, let me get back on track.

I could give pages and pages of background, but really, nobody needs that.  You don’t want it and neither do I.  Let me summarize.  Bla-bla I got shocking news about something my father did years ago. Bla-bla really shaken bla-bla sense of self bla-bla trust issues with God bla-de-bla-bla-bla.  Now you’re up to speed.

I’m really not going to fault other people’s perception of their relationship with God.  If they find it nurturing and warm and positive, I’m very happy for them.  It’s not my place to intrude on other people’s relationships, be it with their pets, their family and friends, their co-workers, or their God.  I’m not one of those people who argue that only their experience is valid, or that because I can’t get along with someone, nobody else should be able to. 

I’d always felt God and I had a good relationship.  I’d talk and listen; he’d listen.  He’d always been a great listener for me.  Lots of silence, lots of space to think.  I’m an introvert at heart.  I just thought He and I were in tune.

After my terrible news, though it started to dawn on me that all he really seems to do is listen.  Other people say “I talked to God, and this change happened.  Thanks, God!”  I can’t say that.  I can say “I talked to God, and while I was talking to him, I kinda figured out what I was going to do.”  That, or "I talked to God, and while I was talking to him, I decided that I just had to do something.  Pick a thing and step forward." He was welcome to step in, but … y’know … he never said much ... well, anything.  I'd like to say I felt him standing by me, sheltering me, nurturing me.  I'd like a lot of things. I’d like to be able to fly. Still, I believed.  The truth of a vast, loving presence in the universe that I embraced was bigger and more indomitable than each individual disappointment.  I refused to be give up in the aftermath of disappointment, which included refusing to let go of things I was convinced were supposed to be true.

I always gave him his space, and was always openly grateful for what was already around.  I’d have a bad day – or a bad year, and I’d think “I may not be completely satisfied with how things worked out, but hey, all of this is a free gift anyway, and there are plenty of things to like about it.  It certainly could be much worse.”  So, I thanked Him for everything, good and bad.  Honestly.  Life is good and bad, and even the bad could be so much worse.

But it’s always been like a long distance relationship.  Not because I wanted to feel that He was nowhere near, the distant God who was dwelling in our tabernacles two thousand years ago, and then hasn’t been back yet.  I trusted and I waited.  I kept a chair for him, like Jews keep a chair for Elijah at circumcisions and Seders.  There is always hope that the prophet will come, that Elijah will join in the sacred moment unfolding, being truly present.  No, that’s untrue.  Hope is not the word.  Faith is the word.  Hope may be a bird, a thing with feathers, as Emily Dickinson said.  Faith is both small and vast and has anchors into the core of our being.  Elijah is invited by centuries of faith planted deep in the hearts of a pilgrim people.  One day, he will come, and he will sit in every chair saved for him, in every home and every synagogue.  I actually believed that, deep in my soul.  Do I still? I don't know.  I believe it could be very true ... for some people, anyway.  

It’s not like I was even making demands for myself. I didn’t ask God for a pony or for riches.  I’d have been happy with peace of mind and a sense that what I did mattered.  I was most frustrated when others lost so much more than me, and seemingly so much more alone than me.

I always had a place reserved, a quiet space set aside, trusting that He would be there.  Any moment, He would take a personal interest.  Any moment, I would have that feeling that other believers talk about, that moment when they feel the soothing, enveloping presence of the divine.  Any moment, I would feel embraced.  But every moment passed, and the space, the chair, the embrace, stayed empty.  Even in my darkest moments, long stretches when I felt I was inches away from losing my heart and giving fully into despair, I was convinced He was out there, even though He wasn't "in here" with me. Either I'd win for now (because I refused to surrender) or I'd lose and find myself in His presence.  In the case of the latter, the two of us would have a long conversation, our own special version of a "come to Jesus" meeting wherein I would express my chronic disappointment and frustration, and He would acknowledge it.  Then He'd give me a acknowledgment that not all things turn out great, share my disappointment that they didn't, and then ... hell, I don't know, God and I would go have ice cream or something.

But before that final going home, I had trusted that I would do what I could, and it would matter, that something good would come of it, and maybe some manna would fall from the sky.  

But where I am now says, "Sorry, that doesn't happen.  Good try, though.  You still have your self respect and your stubbornness, though.  Be happy, right, like Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the mountain, that story that gave you decades of noble hope that all was in some way right, that the struggle was its own reward. Keep doing good to others; keep offering them solace. Do what you know is right, whether the universe knows or not."

So maybe I don't know what to do.  Maybe I never knew what to do, or how to do it right.  Maybe I never came close to the mark I saw.

I think of this story from Elie Wiesel that for a long time fortified me, even at the same time it made me wonder and fear:

This is from his book Souls on Fire, and he's retelling a story he first told six years earlier in his book The Gates of the Forest.

"When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews, it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted.

Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: 'Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer,' and again the miracle would be accomplished. 

Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Lieb of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: 'I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.' It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished. 

Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: 'I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is ask You to redeem us, and this must be sufficient.' 

And it was sufficient. 

[ but now, he doubts ...]

It no longer is.  The proof is that the threat has not been averted.  Perhaps we are no longer able to tell the story.  Could all of us be guilty?  Even the survivors?  Especially the survivors?"

As he says ... perhaps we are no longer able to tell the story.  Could all of us be guilty?  Even the survivors?  Especially the survivors? 

I feel like a survivor of something, like I'm eking out non-failure from the pile of rubble, and nothing more.  The story I tried never seemed to work, and now it seems to work even less.

What to do? What to do ...??