The Gospel According to Snoopy

Today, I would like to talk to you about religion.

*CLICK*

Did you hear that?  That was the sound of all my readers (both of them), navigating to other pages. 

Nobody likes to talk about religion. 

No, that’s not true.  Really, most people don't mind talking about religion.  It’s just that nobody wants to hear someone else talk about it.

You know the feeling.  There you are, poking at your in-flight meal with a plastic hybrid utensil, trapped in your window seat by a stranger on a plane.  Or maybe you’re talking over lunch with a co-worker.  Suddenly, the subject turns to God.  Your conversation partner becomes animated and enthusiastic, speaking with authority and conviction.  They might be Mormon or Methodist, Assembly of God or Atheist, Jewish or Jehovah’s Witness, Scientologist or…some other belief that starts with “S” that I can’t be bothered to think of right now.  It doesn’t matter.  They are certain that you agree with them, or if you don’t, that you will agree with them by the time the conversation is over.

And you are too polite to interrupt.  Your eyes start to glaze over.  You find yourself nodding and saying “Hmmmm!” and “Really!” while your mind is racing for an exit strategy (I wonder if I can break out the passenger window with this spork?) or ways to change the subject (“My goodness!  I believe I’m choking to death on my falafel! That reminds me of a time when…”)

On the internet, it’s simpler.  If someone posts a remark about religion that you disagree with, you can anonymously "dislike" their comment and then say he or she has the intelligence of %#&* and that everyone who agrees with them, including the poster’s mother, is a *#&@$@.   Then you can chastise them for their intolerance.  At least that's how it works on "Yahoo!"

The problem is that, when it comes to matters of faith, we all believe that we are right.  The corollary is that this makes everyone else wrong, although most of us are too civil to actually come out and say that.  Even when we, in the spirit of tolerance, listen to an opposing viewpoint and say things like “I respect all beliefs” or even “all ways really lead to the same place,” there is another voice deep in our psyche that is whispering “what a chowderhead!” and quietly snickering.

However, in this time in history, we need to be able to talk about faith.  The world is much smaller than it was even ten years ago, and we are being constantly confronted with differing viewpoints.  Avoiding the conversation abandons it to the extremists--the self-righteous Koran-defilers and the puerile amateur movie-makers and the Kalishnikov-toting embassy assailants.  The absence of your voice and mine leads to misunderstanding and demonization and hate, and ultimately, as we have seen too often this last week, to violence and death.  Glazed eyes or insulting jabs are no longer an option.

In one Charles Schulz strip, Snoopy sits atop his doghouse, clicking away on his typewriter.  “I hear you’re writing a book about theology,” says Charlie Brown. “I hope you have a good title.”  “I have the perfect title,” thinks Snoopy smugly in response, then types, “Has It Ever Occurred to You That You Might Be Wrong?”

I think Snoopy is on to something.  We are all so sure that we are right about our beliefs.  After all, that’s why we believe them.  Nobody ever thinks, “This is what I believe.  I know it’s as false as my grandmother’s teeth, but I believe it anyway.”  We believe what we believe because we think it is right, whether it was because of something we read, something a respected teacher said, something we were taught when we were small, or something we experienced that profoundly shaped us. 

But let’s be honest, can any of us really know everything about something as big and mysterious as the notion of God?  And rather than just saying everyone is right in their own way, isn’t it more likely and more honest to say that every single one of us is, at least partly, wrong?

And that includes me.  That’s where I need to start if I’m going to have a productive and respectful conversation with someone about a subject as sensitive as faith.  I’ve discovered that I need to tuck my pride into my back pocket and approach the exchange with the attitude that maybe this other person has something to teach me.  That doesn't mean I will necessarily agree with them or that I will surrender my beliefs for theirs.   It just means that we can both learn from each other if we embrace some humility and attempt to see with each others' eyes, if even for a few moments.

Sad to say, it’s not always been the case with me.  I have been that proselytizer on the airplane or in the restaurant (and if that was you that I was annoying, I now ask your forgiveness).  Conversations turned confrontational and combative, mainly because I felt a need to defend my faith and be right at all costs.

But over the last few years, I’ve had some fascinating and respectful discussions with friends and strangers of several different faiths.  Often, as I’ve offered respect to others, they have returned that respect to me.  I have come to realize that "sharing faith"  is not a one-sided affair, but a dialogue, an exchange of deeply personal convictions accomplished with "gentleness and respect", as the Apostle Peter puts it.  It bears pointing out that Pete also resists the notion that we should aggressively confront others with our ideas about faith.  He seems to be saying, "have your answer ready, but don't give it until somebody asks."*

I remember a discussion with a Muslim professor that shook the foundation of my preconceived notions about Islam.  I have had talks with dear Jewish friends, talks that have opened up breath-taking vistas of my own Christian beliefs.  I have had long conversations with atheist friends that helped me to wrestle with some of my own pig-headedness and hypocrisies.  Then there were the dialogues with a self-described "New-Age pagan" that left me yearning for the same hunger and thirst for truth that she had.  And forgive me if I brag a little bit, but not once, in any of these conversations did the word “chowderhead” even cross my mind.

Once, at a music festival, two lovely Mormon students I worked with, nervous about an imminent performance, breathlessly said to one another “We should pray!”  When I asked if I could join them, they were delighted.  In a quiet hallway, we bowed our heads.  I said nothing, savoring the simplicity and sincerity of their prayers.  It felt no different from hearing students from my own church’s youth group pray.  I knew there were irreconcilable discrepancies between my faith and that of these two young ladies...

...but at that moment, I was more struck with what we held in common.



*You can look it up in 1 Peter 3:15.  

A Thousand Words

AUTHOR'S NOTE: They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  Because of rain, I did not have a camera when the following took place, so this will have to do.  At the traditional exchange rate, you're actually getting a little bit of a bargain.  Just take my word for it.

***

July 11, 2012

For two days the clouds had just teased us; playful giants garbed in gauzy lace, crouching on our horizon, dodging or outrunning us as we sped across the salt flats of Utah.  In Salt Lake City they taunted us with a puff of cool breath in our faces as they peered over mountainous hiding places, like they were contemplating a dazzling display of sound and fury.  However, as we put the Great Salt Lake into our rearview mirror and headed into Idaho, they abandoned us, as if a vacationing family of four was beneath their interest.

But as we pulled into Yellowstone, the clouds gathered themselves and pounced, stabbing the ground with fluorescent blades and roaring their pleasure with a deep and throaty chuckle.  A stiff, cold wind hissed in the pines and spattering raindrops chased us into our room in the Old Faithful Inn.

Before we even started to settle in and admire the rustic redwood paneling of our room, we dashed to the window and threw it open to watch the trees kowtow to the wind and listen to the growl of thunder.  From our second story room we could see steam rising from across Upper Geyser Basin as each fountain waited for its turn to impress the park guests, but these geothermal wonders were unable to hold our attention against the gathering storm. 

The Old Faithful Geyser is different from any of its brothers.  Its eruptions can be predicted to within fifteen minutes, as opposed to several hours, days, or in some cases, years.  The park rangers told us that Old Faithful used to be even more predictable, but a couple of earthquakes over the last century caused it to mellow a bit, no longer sticking to so strict a timetable.  As the storm intensified outside, a thought germinated inside my mind…what would it be like to watch Old Faithful erupt in the middle of a thunderstorm?  I find ideas like this difficult to ignore and it wasn’t long before the idea blossomed into action.  I pulled on my coat and announced I was going outside. 

“What?!”  My younger daughter Meredith was incredulous.  Anneka, my sixteen-year-old, regarded me warily, as if my sudden bout of insanity might be a disease that could spread if I got too close.  But my wife Jenny seemed to understand, and almost expected it.  “Have fun!” she laughed. 

The raindrops crackled against my hood and stung my legs as I walked the 100 yards or so to the viewing decks.  Normally, the faux-wooden structures are groaning under the weight of hundreds of park guest waiting to view the latest eruption, but in the middle of the storm only a handful of us were foolish enough to be there now.  

The cauldron hissed and steamed and occasionally gurgled up a splash of boiling water.  The eruption could happen in a matter of minutes, or delay as long as a half an hour.  I could sense the rain starting to abate and I feared that what I came to see, this symphony of storm and steam, would fail to materialize.  Sure enough, the wind began to die and the rain slackened even more.  It seemed the thunderheads had tantalized us with the promise of a spectacular display, only to now impishly withdraw the offer.

But it turns out they had other things in mind.  Like a giantess daintily raising her skirt to step over a puddle, the clouds lifted off the horizon, and the setting sun peeked shyly through.  The small knot of people gasped and cooed as a rainbow appeared, as if growing out of the cauldron itself and arcing its way across the sky into the forest where pines waited with outstretched arms to catch it.  Gaining confidence, the setting sun smiled, drenching the forests, the spectators, and the steam in orange as the rainbow's hues deepened.  Unable to contain its own brightness, another rainbow spawned and began hovering over the first protectively.

Meanwhile, the cauldron frothed and bubbled, roaring, hissing, subsiding, as if it had decided to pick up the game of hide-and-seek that the storm had abandoned.  The few of us huddled on the deck cheered, urged, and groaned.  We laughed and joked together, a tiny family brought together by this potential masterpiece-in-process.

Old Faithful sputtered.  "She's teasing us now," said an elderly gentleman in khaki shorts and a Yellowstone sweatshirt.  "I bet the rainbows fade before she blows,"

"It'd be amazing if they didn't though," a young father with a child on his shoulders responded.  We all murmured in agreement.  We held our breath, but the geyser only belched lazily.

I glanced at the sky.  The gap between the sun and clouds had grown, and the storm was skipping gleefully to another part of the park.  It looked like the old man would be right.

But the cauldron gurgled again, spat, and then, suddenly, roared.  It spewed a stream of boiling water high into the sky, right on time.  The geyser threw steam into the arc of the double rainbow, an orange, glowing cloud.

Liking what it saw, the sun threw back its head and laughed, and the rainbow brightened, hardened, and crystallized into a perfect semi-circle of ruby, amber, garnet,  emerald, sapphire, and amethyst.  Even as the geyser reached its zenith, the wind diminished to a breath and the raindrops ceased, the sky flashed one last time and the storm chuckled its approval, crackling lightning down behind the glittering arch.

“Can you believe it?” we all gushed.  “The double rainbow!...wasn’t it amazing?...The sunset!...The geyser!...then the lightning!...”

 It’s times like this I find it easy to believe in God.  He was palpable here, a master artist using every color in his palette and every tool in his workshop, rolling up his sleeves for the sheer joy of creating something beautiful yet ephemeral for the delight of his sons and daughters.

Sometimes you just have to be willing to brave the storm and take a closer look.

***

AUTHOR'S NOTE (AGAIN):  No, I didn't make this up.  If these 1000 words aren't good enough and you really want to see a picture, go to this link:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/83252649@N04/7626482128/sizes/l/in/set-72157630704493958/

I'm the guy in the black coat to the right of the gentleman in the grey shirt.

Thank you to Matthew Gordon and flickr.com