existentialist cafe

life is sacred

Tag: jesus

the kingdom of dog

Thoughts toward a theology of creation.

I have a friend who has given her life for dogs. Not literally of course, though if her blood – bottled and sprinkled accordingly – could save the life of even one four-footed animal, I think she would do it in a single last drained heartbeat. Almost literally though. Her life is overrun with dogs. The way she describes it, she lives in a veritable half-mad, halfway house kingdom of god/dog, where not a single abandoned or abused soul is turned away to gnash its teeth in the darkness; where the last are first and the first are last; where dogs get the bed, and the humans survive on whatever scraps can be bought with the leftover money after every dog-belly is filled. Her love is an absurd love, as love must be – abused dog with advanced stage cancer? Nothing is denied its recovery; and if it can not recover, it is given a death worthy of its life. I’ve begrudged her this. In my “philosophy” and “cost-benefit analysis” I have considered how many dogs a human is worth, and whether time and energy should be better spent. In the end, I think such questions will be left unanswered. At least I do not think that my friend has a need to defend her case, even if she had the time.

Today, driving back from stuffing myself at the Shady Maple Smorgasbord, I came across an idiotic collie, idling its way across a busy highway, greeting every car as though it were a friend – running up to nuzzle the front bumper as the car screeched to a stop, then trotting around the rear to smell what could be smelled. Uttering a quick prayer to the patron saint of my dog-loving friend, I pulled over, got out and grabbed it by the collar. It HAD a collar, which was good news, with numbers on them. The dog license registry service was of little help on the 4th of July, but I did eventually get through to a vet who said he would be in the office “later this afternoon,” which meant she was mine for a little while. I stopped to get her some food, and a leash which was freely given by the little clinic there along with advice about who to call, etc. They surmised that she had been missing a long time, and that she had some kind of flea-induced skin condition as evidenced by a large bare patch on her back. The world of the lost dog seems full of dewy-eyed, eager-to-empathize folk, who have assembled themselves in an impressive network of photo-pass-alongs. Surely though, the grittier work of dog rescue and rehabilitation is a bit more sparse. At home, she did general dog things, like befuddle around my room, eat, drink, lay down, and smell bad. I continued to make phone calls, hoping that I would get a hold of the owner before having to drive back to Honey Brook to the vet. Plus, truth be told, I was nursing a bit of a fantasy of an ecstatic family, greeting me as a kind of hero. I am not a dog, after all, and I am quite subject to vanity.

Eventually, and surprisingly, I was called by the owner after the police passed along my information. I was not enthused. Or, rather, he did not seem enthused that his dog has been found, and I was not enthused by his lack of enthusiasm. I got off the phone with a touch of suspicion. He uttered phrases like “gets off her chain,” “whenever she runs away,” and “I don’t think I can send someone to get her today” that made me confused/concerned. Also he seemed more upset by the fact that he would have to try drive all the way to West Chester (*gasp,* half an hour) then upset that she had run away, or excited that she had been found. I did feel better after I met him. He talked about their on-going fight against the flea and skin problem, and what the vet had recommended. Regardless, I was aware that these are creatures with minimal rights. They are, at the end of the day, property, not people and one would need pretty damning evidence to bring a charge of mistreatment.

It was strange to realize that, as little as I did, it COULD have been energy spent reuniting a dog with an abusive owner. It made me think of social workers and others who work for human welfare, who might see, for example, emotional neglect of children but can not do anything to intervene. And I thought of my friend-of-dog friend, who daily interacts with the stunning results of dog abuse. She specializes in boxer and pit bull rescue, dogs which apparently have a special place in hell designed for them by their human owners. She does not save herself from seeing first-hand the devastation wrought by human cruelty. By the time these animals end up in her arms, they are clinging to the last threads of life. It wears her out. I could be wrong, but it seems like the sad endings outweigh the happy endings 10 to 1.

A proper theology must be built from the ground up, beginning with a recognition of this natural world into which we have been born, and which has been around for a lot longer than us. David James Duncan, in his fabulous My Story as Told by Water, writes such a theology, his theology of salmon, in service to his Loraxian work defending the integrity of the natural world against corporate interests. He writes of the love affair between sun and sea that birthed, among other things, the salmon, which alone among all creatures bewitch both salt and fresh water, and which have been lifeblood for animals and people alike in the Pacific Northwest. A lifeblood that is now running to dry, thanks to hydroelectricity and advancements in mining and drilling operations. We are guests on this planet. Speech and rationality are the gifts that were given to us by our hosts. In a cruel twist of fate we are using those gifts to burn the house down, with ourselves still in it. This we have done, rather than claiming our birthright to “speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues.”

Is there a higher calling? Against the corporate religious opinion of the day, Jesus gave what has been called, in typical theological understatement, “preferential option of the poor.” “Do for the least of these.” That the “these” Jesus spoke of were most certainly people is not important; what is important is that they had been officially granted outsider status by the powers that be. The same powers that be today measure the value of fish and tree by the open market, evaluate dogs only as extensions of the whims and desires of their owners, and yes, continue to mark certain people as ‘not worth saving.’ Only when we have acknowledged our deep-seated connection with all life in this world can we take our place among it. This is not just an ecological connection, as though our care for the world is only about sustaining it for our own sake. It is a  biological connection as well. All flesh is the same flesh; the same star stuff that makes up the neural networks of your brain compose the chemosynthetic bacteria that inhabit deep sea hydrothermal vents and that live off of the highly toxic (to humans) hydrogen sulfide found there. How wonderful that our particular biology comes with self-awareness. How wonderful that, after millenia, the earth has grown a nervous system. How ironic that this nervous system is now in the process of committing slow suicide.

“The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.” (I Cor 12.21-26)

It occurred to me while I was at the bar that some goods can only be attained absent of the immediate intention to have that good. At the moment the most obvious one was humility. It is nice for me to decide that I am not a very humble person and would like to, and perhaps to carry that consciousness around with me and to set up trying to attain it; however in order to be humble it is necessary to lose a sense of myself as a person who is humble or not humble. Humility seems to be a virtue which happens vicariously, especially when the invest yourself fully in some worthy activity. It requires a certain kind of losing of preoccupation with the self and its status, but instead a face-to-face encounter with the greater-than. Humility is the limp that one gains in wrestling with an angel; it is not the blessing which one demands of the angel.

So people have told me that only when they no longer cared whether they would fall in love that they did. So others have told me that only when they have ceased being concerned with finding happiness that they found it.

Attention and consciousness is a mental program which is initiated by an unsettled state of affairs. Our focus is pulled onto that problem in an effort to detect the source and the solution. Self-consciousness is tripped when a problem with the self is detected. When you are not happy then you were aware of the thing called happiness, and you desire to be happy. Happiness is the one thing which utterly defines the situation you are in, and happiness as a goal fills up your field of consciousness. But if happiness can only be found by not seeking happiness, then you are in trouble. This may be way Zen Buddhism practices the attainment of non-attainment. What more do we have that we ought to give over? I’m afraid that the quest for self-actualization is in the end a vacuous quest. If the ‘self’ is what we aim for, then we should not be surprised if we end up thoroughly self-involved. But Jesus says, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.

There are things that I would like to write. I would like to write about the way the hawk wheels on his wings, and his shadow scatters the birds. I would like to write about the way the evening settles in, with its blanket of lilac and makes the beer sweat. I would like to write about the desert. Most of all, I would like to write about religion, but this is the thing that I know the least about. To be clear: I know all about religions. Not as much as some, but enough. I know about the ascendancy of myth, about the liturgical dramas of word and ritual that arose to tell those myths. I know about the crosses that people bow down to. I know about the gods and goddesses and about God and Godde.

But I do not know about religion, which is what the hymn-writer wants who wrote “give me that old time religion.” I know about having a faith, but not about having faith. Someone once said, “God, I do not love thee. I do not want to love thee. But I want to want to love thee.” Thrice-removed faith.

Does this seem somewhat bloated? Perhaps it is a little, or more than a little. What does faith matter? Faith may not be something which can be seized or held on to. I have always thought that faith is like the docking station between the human and the divine. “Faith is being certain of what is unseen,” which is taken to mean, “Believe in this thing which you do not have evidence to believe in,” or “Have a feeling when you whisper to yourself the name ‘God,’ and then call that feeling God.”

Did Jesus always have constant consciousness of the presence of God? It says that he was “like us in every way, tho was without sin.” If there is no experience of doubt, how could he be like us? But it also says that “we shall be like him,” and that he is the “first fruit.” Perhaps then it is not that Jesus did not doubt, but that he did not despair in doubt; though he slogged through this human swamp he was not mired in non-being as we are. He suffered the same confusions that we all experience as we move through the phases of childhood, adolescence and adulthood, but unlike us he was not confused about his confusion. He bore it honestly and authentically, without apology and without pretension. I think that I let my doubt sit in my stomach like a stone, it distracts my attention, I stumble over it. There may be a time when faith is like a pen writing words across the page of our mind – we look, and there it is. There may be times when faith is like a fire, far away, which we can see but there is no warmth.