Makes Sense…

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Back in February, a famous atheist, whom I follow on Twitter, tweeted a series of comments about religion and/or religious beliefs and ended each of his tweets with the derisive phrase “makes sense.” His actual point, of course, was that the religious “truth” he had just stated made no sense whatsoever.

His actions apparently inspired his Twitter followers, who likewise began to post their own “makes sense” tweets, many of which the famous atheist then re-tweeted. I read them with great interest.

As you might expect, some of the comments were snide and dismissive. More than a few, however, were intriguing and spoke to a vitally important issue today, namely – the question of the moral character of God.

In the wake of the horrific Newtown massacre, one very high-profile Christian leader was quoted as saying: “… I think we have turned our back on the Scripture and on God almighty, and I think he has allowed judgment to fall upon us. I think that’s what’s going on.”

If he was quoted correctly, I find his perspective shocking and woefully misguided. If one were to follow his reasoning to its logical conclusion, Adam Lanza was – in some twisted and disturbing way – doing God’s bidding.

A god who, even indirectly, would will the vicious slaughter of innocent children as a form of judgment on a sinful world would be a monster unworthy of worship.

I find it fascinating when thoughtful atheists and agnostics seem to recognize this truth while many Christians still do not.

One tweet particularly captured my attention because it blatantly called out an uncomfortable contradiction that is often ignored or attributed to God’s “mysterious” nature. That tweet was as follows:

“If you doubt God’s infinite love & compassion he will have you tortured for all eternity. Makes sense.”

No, it doesn’t. That atheist was correct.

Today, as never before, reasonable questions about the moral character of God are being raised by critics of religion, and their voices might actually be recognized as prophetic if the Church would attentively listen.

God is absolutely good; and, God’s goodness allows for no darkness, no ulterior motives, and no complicity with evil.

Adam Lanza acted alone.

Mother and Daughter

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One recent evening, I was walking down my street behind a mother and her young daughter, who must have been 8 or 9 years old.

My pace was a bit quicker than theirs, and, as I approached, I could hear them talking up a storm and laughing. Every once in a while, they would hip-check each other… and then smile.

It was so very nice to see.

Watching their love at work, a thought crossed my mind. In years to come, when their inevitable disagreements arise, it might give them some perspective (i.e., help them find some common ground) if only they could see then what I saw while walking behind them that day.

Coming Home

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Nowadays, arriving home from work lacks the magic it once possessed. Most often, my wife is not yet home from her job, and so I enter without ceremony into an empty space. It can be a lonely feeling; but, it was not always so.

When my children were small, they seemed particularly attuned to the sounds of my arrival. By the time I put my key in the front-door lock, I would frequently hear little voices cry out, “Dad’s home!” And then, the thundering feet… those blessed thundering feet.

Perhaps the relative emptiness experienced when coming home today helps me appreciate more fully what I had in the past. Then again, maybe I’ve always known.

Whenever I see a young father walking hand-in-hand with his small child, I inevitably find myself hoping the man realizes the precious gift in his grasp. I hope he knows and understands the magnitude of his influence, the enormous power wielded by his opinion.

My sensitivity in this matter has deep roots.

I am one of those guys who always cries when Ray Kinsella’s father appears at the end of Field of Dreams. The scene taps into a broken part of my life, a part that, even 55 years into this journey, remains – at least to some degree – wounded and vulnerable.

Today, I recognize the same innocence and receptivity in my grandchildren’s faces that I found on those of my children. Dare I believe that it was once, a very long time ago, on my face as well?

Much good can be realized when working with such marvelous trust… or, of course, much harm!

“You’re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.”

They’re only words. Right?

No. Not really.

Noise?

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In his wonderful book, New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton says the following:

“… every expression of the will of God is in some sense a ‘word’ of God and therefore a ‘seed’ of new life. The ever-changing reality in the midst of which we live should awaken us to the possibility of an uninterrupted dialogue with God.”

One recent morning, I opted to pray on my back porch, where I was bombarded with the sounds of a busy summer day. Applying Merton’s insight, I chose to hear those sounds not as a distraction but as ‘words’ of God that became an integral part of my prayer. And so, I came to understand that sometimes the voice of God sounds like…

The chirping of birds, the barking of a neighbor’s dog, a rush of wind, the distant laughter of children at play, the “noise” testifying to human ingenuity…

The footfalls of a loved one approaching, the words “I understand” spoken compassionately by a friend…

The yawn of a stranger on the train, music, a whispered “I love you”…

A trickle of water, the buzz of an insect, a cry for justice…

A sigh of relief, pages turning in a treasured photo album, silence…

Your neighbor puttering in his yard in the cool of the day, the far-away slamming of a screen door, a mother calling her children home for lunch, the whistle of a tea kettle…

And…?

What a consolation to know that God will not be silent today!

God’s Good Idea!

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Although I have appreciated some humorous ones over the years, I’m generally not a fan of bumper stickers. That especially can be the case when a bumper sticker purports to represent a movement (e.g., “pro-choice” or “pro-life”), even a movement I consider noble and support.

Many bumper stickers, in my opinion, are a manifestation of the communication problem that impairs our polarized world today. We seem so entrenched in our respective social/political/religious positions that we frequently limit our discussion on important issues to the repetition of representative sound bites, which are a dreadfully deficient means of communicating.

Bumper stickers are often nothing more than sticky sound bites.

When I’m in a parking lot and the car parked in front of mine has a bumper sticker expressing an opinion at odds with something I hold dear, I never see that bumper sticker as an invitation to communicate about the issue; rather, I experience it as a barrier, a clear territorial claim.

I identify as “pro-life,” but I do so with anguish because of the division such labels risk causing. I do not have a “pro-life” bumper sticker on my car precisely because I don’t wish to close doors of communication.

I believe that listening with an open heart is genuinely holy.

If given the chance, I would explain that my “pro-life” position has everything to do with what I believe about you. Will you listen? If so, please read on.

I accept on faith that God is unchanging and has perfect foreknowledge. Therefore, I believe that you, blog reader, have been in the mind, heart, and plan of God for all eternity.

At the moment of your conception, God “spoke” you into existence. Thus, you are a “word of God” expressed purposefully as a unique blessing for the world. You embody the good and deliberate intention of the Creator. Your life is itself a message of hope to the world.

You have a dignity and worth that are greater – infinitely greater – than any movement, any cause.

Though you may feel invisible at times, God has always known your name, your face, your strengths and struggles, your favorite color, your most cherished moments, the things that move your heart, and the things that make you cry. God sees your loneliness and insecurities. God knows your vulnerabilities. God hears your voice raised in prayer. God sees your fist raised in anger and frustration… and understands.

You have always been, and will always be, God’s beloved. You are never completely alone.

You are neither an accident nor a mistake! In fact, you are God’s good and eternal idea.

Since you embody the holy and deliberate intention of the Creator, you are forever deserving of my love, my compassion, my respect, my understanding, my patience, and my protection… even when we disagree.

What I believe about you, I also believe about every child in the womb.

When that can fit on a bumper sticker, I’ll proudly display it.

A Special Childhood Memory

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There is a single moment from my childhood that I uniquely cherish, a moment against which all subsequent experiences of happiness have instinctively been measured.

It was a morning in early summer, and I had slept in. I was, perhaps, nine or ten, and life’s complications had yet to dawn on me. So, it was easy to love… God, family, and friends.

I wish I could describe the otherworldly peace I felt while lying there in bed. I was awake and refreshed but felt no compulsion to move. Instead, I was fully content to watch the graceful dance of the curtains and to drink in the sounds and scents of the young day.

After a time, the doorbell rang, and I recognized my mother’s footsteps in response. When she opened the door, I could clearly hear the conversation that ensued.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dalton. Can Steve come out?” It was Philip, one of my closest childhood friends. He was always polite.

“He’s not up yet, Phil, but I’ll see if he’s awake.”

I bounded out of bed. Time to play!

Thereafter, the blessed memory fades.

Hearts and Treasures

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In my life, no day has ever been darker than January 27th of 1985.  That day, my big sister, whom I dearly loved, never woke up from her sleep.

Marianne and I were living in Rhode Island with our 10 month-old daughter, Rachel, when the awful news came.  Grief-stricken, we immediately drove to Massachusetts to be with my anguished mother.  Then, later that day – the details are forever fuzzy – my mother and I boarded a plane to Florida to be with my sister’s husband, Jimmy, and their three children.  It was a very long flight!

Christine was five years older than I, and I grew up under her tutelage.  Occasionally, she’d play a funny trick on her gullible little brother, but never with a hint of malice.  In fact, her natural goodness was unmistakable, and I always felt safe in her presence.

My sister taught me a great deal about kindness and selflessness through the example of her life.  And, even in death, she had one more lesson to share.

When we arrived in Florida, and especially when we walked through Christine’s front door, the pain of her absence was suffocating.  Her inscape was everywhere, but she was gone.  We embraced Jimmy and the children and collectively ached and wept!

Only a few weeks prior, Marianne, Rachel, and I had come for a surprise visit over Christmas.  I was an impoverished graduate student at the time, and my brother-in-law had paid for our airfare as a combined Christmas/birthday gift for his bride, who shared a birthday with Jesus.  We had arrived on December 21st, 1984.  (Keep that in mind.)

Jimmy picked us up at the airport and drove us to their home.  We entered quietly through the garage and sneaked up on Christine in her kitchen.  When she turned and saw us, her face lit up and her first words were: “Give me that baby!”  She had not yet met Rachel.  We stayed with Christine and her family until January 2nd, and it was a thoroughly joyous time.  A blessed time!

I believe that much can be known about a person by observing her/his treasures.  A verse from the Sermon on the Mount comes to mind.

“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” (Mt 6:21)

While in Florida that terrible second time, I found one of my sister’s treasures and gazed, just once more, into her wonderful heart.

Jimmy, knowing my sentimental side, invited me to go through some of Christine’s things and told me that I could keep anything I found that had special meaning for me.  His was a generous offer!

As I searched, I came upon her wallet.  Tucked inside were her license, some credit cards, family pictures, a few dollar bills, and a small folded piece of paper.  Curious, I pulled out the paper and unfolded it.  It was a simple sales receipt from a local store dated December 21st, 1984.  Christine had written on that receipt:  “This is the day that Steve, Marianne, and the baby came for a surprise visit.”

Treasures!

How I loved – and still love – my sister!

Dwelling

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One special evening, many years ago, found my daughter Rachel, perhaps 4 years old at the time, in an inquisitive frame of mind. In one sense, this was not unusual. Bedtime often seemed to inspire a rash of questions from the youngest Daltons – a clever tactic intended, no doubt, to delay the inevitable; but, that night was different.

After family prayers, story-time, and our bedtime song – a nightly ritual joyfully celebrated by all – Rachel and her little brother were safely tucked into bed. I kissed them both goodnight and was quietly leaving their room when the first question was posed.

“Daddy, does God really live in my heart?”

Since this was a concept we had spoken of a number of times before, I smiled and affirmed that it was indeed true.

Rachel paused thoughtfully and then followed-up with this: “When I die will I really be with God forever?”

Recognizing that this was not a time to rush away, I walked back and knelt by the side of her bed. I looked into her wondering eyes and assured her that this too was true.

She then became quiet for a few more fruitful seconds before asking me a question I will never forget.

“Daddy, does that mean that, when I die, I will live in my own heart forever?”

Honestly, I can’t recall how I answered my daughter that night because I was so taken by her thoughts/words.

Many times since, I have asked myself what it would be like to live in my own heart forever. Would it be a well-ordered and peaceful place? Would I find genuine joy there? How about hope? Faith? Goodness? Kindness? Mercy? Forgiveness? Gentleness? Understanding? Patience? Acceptance? Love?

Hmmm.

“Sightseeing”

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She was a wisp of a woman, greatly advanced in years, wrapped in a plain gray coat, and with a simple scarf covering her head.  She slipped into the building unnoticed, except by me.

I had never traveled internationally before and was spending my first full day in St. Petersburg, Russia.  Since the conference at which I was to speak would not begin until the next day, my host graciously proposed a driving tour of the magnificent city.  Along the way, we came to a Russian Orthodox Church, and our driver was instructed to stop so that I could see the beautiful icons therein.

As we entered, I was immediately captivated by the religious imagery all around me.  I walked from icon to icon drinking in the stories each piece told – familiar stories given new life by an artist’s hand.  In another part of the church, a wedding rehearsal was taking place; and, that too drew my attention as I considered the sacred covenant for which two young people were preparing.

At one point, the main door opened just enough to allow the old woman to enter.  I’m not sure why I felt drawn to watch her, but I did.  She crept along the wall purposefully, approaching a life-size icon of Jesus on the cross.  Once there, this frail woman, who had grown up amidst state-enforced atheism, who had survived Stalin’s murderous reign, who had endured the terrible blockade of her city by the Germans during World War II, and who – no doubt – dealt every day with crushing poverty, knelt and humbly kissed the feet of her Christ.  I was awestruck – and, honestly, a bit ashamed.

Since that day, I have visited many countries and seen many memorable sights.  None has ever moved me more.

“Thanks… Giving”

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(The names have been changed in this true story, below.)

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I once attended a weekday Mass at a Catholic parish where I was working at the time.  As I took a seat in the small side-chapel where daily Mass was typically celebrated, I quickly recognized the signs that this would be a funeral liturgy.  Honestly, I thought about leaving, but I finally decided to stay.  I will always be grateful that I did.

A few minutes after the Mass began, someone noisily entered the vestibule just to the left of the chapel.  Some persistent rustling sounds followed, and chagrined faces began turning to look for the cause of this disruption.  Suddenly, the door to the chapel swung open and a homeless woman, carrying her belongings in a few small bags, maneuvered her way inside.  There was a hush.

At first she just stood there, apparently sizing up the situation.  Then, she asked quite loudly: “Is this John’s funeral?”  The priest who was celebrating Mass informed her that it was indeed John’s funeral, to which she responded: “I have one thing to say!”  There was another hush, a bit more uneasy this time.  Had John offended her somehow?  Was an accusation forthcoming?  Her next words broke the awkward silence.  “He was the best cab driver in this city!”  And then she was quiet again.

Smiles began to appear.  The priest thanked the woman for sharing her sentiments and invited her to stay.  She declined, saying: “Nope.  I said what I needed to say.”  And she turned and left.

What a wonderful eulogy!  What a blessing for John’s family!  What an amazing way of thanks… giving!