Another "I"

April 6, 2016

ANOTHER “I”

I sometimes wonder if it’s me or those around me who are confused or insane. Life seems so inconsequential and shallow. We talk a meaningless language but no one really listens. Most would rather engage in twiddling blather than listen to our babbling. Do we even listen to ourselves?

As I look around at others, I wonder what they are thinking when they look back at me. Could be nothing, but do I wish to be like them and them me?

I am told that we humans are built for relationships and the religious tell me to get right with Jesus, but what the hell does all this mean? How does one get wrong with Jesus and which Jesus are they talking about—the Jesus of Matthew, of Mark, of Luke; surely not the mystic John; perhaps it’s the Jesus of Paul—oops, Paul never met Jesus.

I never understood the Baptists—even after six years of seminary training in a Baptist seminary—and the Methodists were even more confusing with their appeals to following John Wesley. I’m sure that if Wesley had farted three times while delivering a sermon, the Methodist would have turned this into some kind of religious symbolic practice. They put ashes on foreheads, on caskets, wear robes and elaborate stoles to assure us of their connection to God. They change colors in the sanctuary following the so-called Christian calendar. They bless animals as if my dog could give a shit. Institutionalized religion keeps reinventing itself IN ITS OWN IMAGE! Do they think we’re idiots or something?

Standing in my garden, the street lights are blinking and the lights of the local bar seem to be calling. Who is in there? What can they offer a troubled soul and inquiring mind? Is relief to be found with them or in the bottle that sits before me?

Self-reflection I am told is for the brave or the crazy and I don’t consider myself either; yet, as I peer hesitantly into the future, I see nothing—no purpose to life, no real friends—just people scrambling to make life bearable and doable. Are they the crazies or is it I? But who instructs us in the meaningfulness of life? How is meaning to be discovered: in friendships, doctrines, beliefs, or is meaning just another crock of bullshit we are told is important to our self-concept—whatever the hell that means?

So, in my garden I pause for a few moments, look around, take a deep breath, and dread further human contact. What do people think about all day long? Why do they hurry and scurry around buying things they’re told they need, but really don’t? Why is clothing with visible labels important? Why has material life grown so important? Is this where meaning is found? What about what’s inside our heads and hearts; is there something in there crying to be tilled and cultivated. My garden anticipates