I went outside and enjoyed the warmer temperatures today. It has been far too long since I did any trail running. My winter routine has kept me confined to an indoor track on campus. Like a caged animal, I would circle around and around, back and forth. I waited and watched the sky for the tell-tale signs of spring and the time when I could break loose from the indoor cage.
Slowly, the earth comes back to life after a cold winter.
I first knew spring was coming about a week ago. The day was cold and snowy. But, as I rode my bike home in the late afternoon hours, the clouds began to break in the west. I peddled through a heavy snow squall, and I watched as the sun broke free from the February sleet. I gazed in awe as its radiant face slipped behind Lolo Peak to the west of Missoula. This was my first glimpse of the sun since early February. It changed everything. Despite the falling snows and cold wind, the birds began to sing. At first it was only one voice. But soon an entire choir joined the lone soloist. It reminded me of how the birds would sing after a summer rain storm. At that moment, I knew the world was coming back to life. The seasons will change, and barrenness is always overshadowed by new life.
I was thinking about those birds as I ran down the trail today. The temperature has warmed considerably since that snowy afternoon just over a week ago. As I ran, the signs of spring seemed to be everywhere. Even the air smelled of rebirth and life. The wonders were stimulating, and I was so consumed by the sights, sounds, and smells, that I forgot to watch the ground in front of me. Only a quick hop made me avoid a rather large and nasty pile of animal droppings.
I turned to have a closer look at the pile before continuing on my way. I instantly recognized the droppings as those of a bear. They were fairly fresh. I guess this means that our furry friends are beginning to stir from hibernation. It won't be long until I see black bears wandering through the streets and yards of Missoula's outlying areas. (Which is something I've found as an intriguing, albeit sad, juxtaposition between their world and mine, but that's another story...)
The temperature warms. The birds sing. The bears go about their normal routines. The world is awakening with precious and fragile life. Creation begins again. If you look closely, if you listen hard enough, you will see the world rub its eyes and yawn. And, if you are very lucky, perhaps you will even see the face of God.
Showing posts with label Religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Religion. Show all posts
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Voices...
“I am afraid, but I still pursue my quest. The further I go, the less I understand. Perhaps there is nothing to understand.”1
“Answers: I say there are none...Answers only intensify the question: ideas and words must finally come up against a wall higher than the sky, a wall of human bodies extending to infinity.”2
If He wanted me to be dust, why hasn’t He left me as dust? But I’m not dust. I’m standing up, I’m walking, thinking, wondering, shouting: I’m human!”3
“I want to know why human beings turn into beasts...I want to know how good family men can slaughter children and crush old people.”4
“Trapp asked the men not to talk about it, but they needed no encouragement in that direction. Those who had not been in the forest did not want to learn more. Those who had been there likewise had no desire to speak, either then or later...At Józefow a mere dozen men out of nearly 500 had responded instinctively to Major Trapp’s offer to step forward and excuse themselves from the impending mass murder. Why was the number of men who from the beginning declared themselves unwilling to shoot so small?...The battalion had orders to kill Jews, but each individual did not...To break ranks and step out, to adopt overtly nonconformist behavior, was simply beyond most of the men. It was easier to shoot...The reserve policemen faced choices, and most of them committed terrible deeds. But those who killed cannot be absolved by the notion that anyone in the same situation would have done as they did. For even among them, some refused to kill and other stopped killing. Human responsibility is ultimately an individual matter.”5
“I distrust miracles. They exist only in books. And books say anything.”6
“Any hope must be sober, and built on the sands of despair, free from illusions.”7
"Let us offer, then, as a working principle the following: No statement, theological or otherwise, should be made that would not be credible in the presence of the burning children.”8
“I stand in awe before the memory of the k’doshim who walked into the gas chambers with the Ani Ma’amin –– I believe! –– on their lips. How dare I question, if they did not question! I believe, because they believed.”9
“Tell me: Where is God in all this?”10
----------
1 Elie Wisel, “A Plea for the Dead.”
2 Ibid.
3 “Berish the Innkeeper,” Elie Wiesel, The Trail of God.
4 Ibid.
5 Christopher R. Browning, Ordinary Men: Reserve Police Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland.
6 “Berish the Innkeeper,” Elie Wiesel, The Trial of God.
7 Irving Greenbeerg, “Cloud of Fire, Pillar of Smoke.”
8 Ibid.
9 Eliezer Berkovits, “Faith After the Holocaust.”
10 “Mendel,” Elie Wiesel, The Trial of God.
“Answers: I say there are none...Answers only intensify the question: ideas and words must finally come up against a wall higher than the sky, a wall of human bodies extending to infinity.”2
If He wanted me to be dust, why hasn’t He left me as dust? But I’m not dust. I’m standing up, I’m walking, thinking, wondering, shouting: I’m human!”3
“I want to know why human beings turn into beasts...I want to know how good family men can slaughter children and crush old people.”4
“Trapp asked the men not to talk about it, but they needed no encouragement in that direction. Those who had not been in the forest did not want to learn more. Those who had been there likewise had no desire to speak, either then or later...At Józefow a mere dozen men out of nearly 500 had responded instinctively to Major Trapp’s offer to step forward and excuse themselves from the impending mass murder. Why was the number of men who from the beginning declared themselves unwilling to shoot so small?...The battalion had orders to kill Jews, but each individual did not...To break ranks and step out, to adopt overtly nonconformist behavior, was simply beyond most of the men. It was easier to shoot...The reserve policemen faced choices, and most of them committed terrible deeds. But those who killed cannot be absolved by the notion that anyone in the same situation would have done as they did. For even among them, some refused to kill and other stopped killing. Human responsibility is ultimately an individual matter.”5
“I distrust miracles. They exist only in books. And books say anything.”6
“Any hope must be sober, and built on the sands of despair, free from illusions.”7
"Let us offer, then, as a working principle the following: No statement, theological or otherwise, should be made that would not be credible in the presence of the burning children.”8
“I stand in awe before the memory of the k’doshim who walked into the gas chambers with the Ani Ma’amin –– I believe! –– on their lips. How dare I question, if they did not question! I believe, because they believed.”9
“Tell me: Where is God in all this?”10
----------
1 Elie Wisel, “A Plea for the Dead.”
2 Ibid.
3 “Berish the Innkeeper,” Elie Wiesel, The Trail of God.
4 Ibid.
5 Christopher R. Browning, Ordinary Men: Reserve Police Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland.
6 “Berish the Innkeeper,” Elie Wiesel, The Trial of God.
7 Irving Greenbeerg, “Cloud of Fire, Pillar of Smoke.”
8 Ibid.
9 Eliezer Berkovits, “Faith After the Holocaust.”
10 “Mendel,” Elie Wiesel, The Trial of God.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Notes from a Night on a Bald Mountain
Recorded Sept. 4, 2005
From the eastern summit of the ridge line west of Sheep Mountain, Missoula County, Montana. Elevation approximately 7600 feet. Distance covered about 10 horizontal miles and about 4000 vertical feet in elevation.
The sun went down. To one side I saw the encroaching darkness of night, to the other was the last ray of light falling behind the Bitterroot Mountains. Night’s hand cradled the valley below. I stood at 7600 feet above sea level. The night’s grip grew tighter as daylight vanished. I was alone, without another person for at least ten miles. Soon the world would be clenched in a dark, cold fist.
I made camp on the eastern summit of a barren ridge line. There were only a few shabby trees for shelter, and the ground was covered in shale. I anchored my tent with a stone tent ring. I put on my long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, and wool beanie. The temperature had already dropped several degrees since my arrival that afternoon. And the wind speed had increased dramatically. This would be a cold, windy, and solitary night.
I watched the world as the sun set. Blackness covered the land behind me. To my left, the barely visible lights of Missoula were beginning to flicker as if in battle against the coming dark. To my right, the sun still reflected off of glacial capped peaks on the northern horizon. In front of me, the sun inched its way over the Bitterroots.
In this harsh altitude, I was overcome with thoughts. I recalled something I recently read. From the epilogue of Elie Wiesel’s play The Trial of God:
“So great is humanity’s capacity for evil that the God of justice is indeed silenced by humanity’s evil deeds––but the God of the sun and moon and stars, of time and space and the fifteen billion years that brought humanity into being, the God of life itself, of the horses and lions and mountain goats that caught Job’s attention––that God is not silenced. The God of cosmos is not silenced.”
Suddenly, I felt captured by the physical and visual wonders that surrounded me. Beautiful and malevolent forces that never cease. And it was for me alone. I had no one with whom I could share this spectacle. It was all mine, just as if this moment was created solely that I might witness these things.
I suddenly had words rushing through my mind. I needed to write. I grabbed pencil and the only paper available to me, my copy of Wiesel’s Night which I brought for reading material. I opened to the last page and began scratching the paper with lead. Prompted by the wonder before me, and by the above passage that had been on my mind for over a month, I wrote the following words.
“HaShem Elohim: Blessed is your name. The sun rises every morning and falls every night. The moon and stars are in their courses and never fail. The wind blows across my face and the aurora dances in the north. It is twilight, a chance to begin again. Blessed is your name for these constants engulfed in a world of chaos, madness, insanity. Because the constants never fail, I will know that you are haShem. Blessed is your name.”
I said these words as the last rays of sun fell behind the Bitterroots. The temperature dropped to freezing. The wind blew across the bare peak like a freight train. After watching a show of the aurora borealis, I returned to my tent in the darkness both happy and content to weather the frigid and cloudless wind storm.
In the morning, I watched the sun rise over the valley. For the first time in many months, the world looked beautiful. What had changed? I spent a night in the frigid wind. Yet I knew the sun would return in the morning. Night is only a season. The sun will always rise in the morning. Yet those who lived through the night have an obligation to tell their story. Those who didn’t experience a night such as this (or any other metaphorical night) will never understand what the minutes and moments were like. Yet those who are willing to listen to the stories will, hopefully, become better individuals having heard and reflected on them. The stories of such nights provide countless others a chance to learn. Perhaps the greater gift in life is to listen to the stories.
From the eastern summit of the ridge line west of Sheep Mountain, Missoula County, Montana. Elevation approximately 7600 feet. Distance covered about 10 horizontal miles and about 4000 vertical feet in elevation.
The sun went down. To one side I saw the encroaching darkness of night, to the other was the last ray of light falling behind the Bitterroot Mountains. Night’s hand cradled the valley below. I stood at 7600 feet above sea level. The night’s grip grew tighter as daylight vanished. I was alone, without another person for at least ten miles. Soon the world would be clenched in a dark, cold fist.
I made camp on the eastern summit of a barren ridge line. There were only a few shabby trees for shelter, and the ground was covered in shale. I anchored my tent with a stone tent ring. I put on my long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, and wool beanie. The temperature had already dropped several degrees since my arrival that afternoon. And the wind speed had increased dramatically. This would be a cold, windy, and solitary night.
I watched the world as the sun set. Blackness covered the land behind me. To my left, the barely visible lights of Missoula were beginning to flicker as if in battle against the coming dark. To my right, the sun still reflected off of glacial capped peaks on the northern horizon. In front of me, the sun inched its way over the Bitterroots.
In this harsh altitude, I was overcome with thoughts. I recalled something I recently read. From the epilogue of Elie Wiesel’s play The Trial of God:
“So great is humanity’s capacity for evil that the God of justice is indeed silenced by humanity’s evil deeds––but the God of the sun and moon and stars, of time and space and the fifteen billion years that brought humanity into being, the God of life itself, of the horses and lions and mountain goats that caught Job’s attention––that God is not silenced. The God of cosmos is not silenced.”
Suddenly, I felt captured by the physical and visual wonders that surrounded me. Beautiful and malevolent forces that never cease. And it was for me alone. I had no one with whom I could share this spectacle. It was all mine, just as if this moment was created solely that I might witness these things.
I suddenly had words rushing through my mind. I needed to write. I grabbed pencil and the only paper available to me, my copy of Wiesel’s Night which I brought for reading material. I opened to the last page and began scratching the paper with lead. Prompted by the wonder before me, and by the above passage that had been on my mind for over a month, I wrote the following words.
“HaShem Elohim: Blessed is your name. The sun rises every morning and falls every night. The moon and stars are in their courses and never fail. The wind blows across my face and the aurora dances in the north. It is twilight, a chance to begin again. Blessed is your name for these constants engulfed in a world of chaos, madness, insanity. Because the constants never fail, I will know that you are haShem. Blessed is your name.”
I said these words as the last rays of sun fell behind the Bitterroots. The temperature dropped to freezing. The wind blew across the bare peak like a freight train. After watching a show of the aurora borealis, I returned to my tent in the darkness both happy and content to weather the frigid and cloudless wind storm.
In the morning, I watched the sun rise over the valley. For the first time in many months, the world looked beautiful. What had changed? I spent a night in the frigid wind. Yet I knew the sun would return in the morning. Night is only a season. The sun will always rise in the morning. Yet those who lived through the night have an obligation to tell their story. Those who didn’t experience a night such as this (or any other metaphorical night) will never understand what the minutes and moments were like. Yet those who are willing to listen to the stories will, hopefully, become better individuals having heard and reflected on them. The stories of such nights provide countless others a chance to learn. Perhaps the greater gift in life is to listen to the stories.
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