Finding God in Nature
Theologians have speculated for centuries about how to define God. Theology texts refer to Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas and their discussion of substance, matter, form and attributes. Aquinas defines God as a substance consisting of pure being. I struggled to comprehend these texts, staring at Latin definitions and explanations of everything including God. I continued to struggle until it dawned on me that I could repeat what I had memorized but not make sense of what I was reciting. The more I puzzled, the more I wondered how I could come to know God.
I grew up in the Catholic tradition with its occasional references to God's love. Stressed more than love was a series of commandments and church laws which I must follow or find myself burning in the eternal flames of hell. The message seemed to be, "Love God or else!"
I was bound to follow the catechism since I had been baptized into the Catholic faith. Yet I had no say in the matter. At my baptism, no one asked me whether I wanted to be a Catholic. My godparents spoke for me and enrolled me in a religious way of life from which I had no respite without the risk of eternal damnation.
I was allowed to sin since God gave me free will. If I was to love God, I thought that I should at least do it by choice and not under the duress of everlasting threats. Once I sat in church as the congregation renewed their baptismal vows. Since I had not made the vows in the first place, I wondered whether I would still be bound by this commitment if I did not renew my vows. I sat in silence hoping for the best. As I learned more about my religion, the hopelessness of my silence became apparent.
Sometimes I wonder how I wound up in a monastery with my reservations about religion. Looking back on it, I hoped that learning more about my religion would help me understand it so I could finally be at peace with my religious legacy. At times I did feel at peace with it. At other times I felt more restless than ever. I read Thompson's poem, The Hound of Heaven, imagining God as a large dog pursuing me no matter where I tried to hide.
Something was missing. My last go-around with the issue took place in a natural theology class in the monastic seminary. I pored over natural proofs for the existence of God. The course invited me to use the philosophical principles I had memorized to make sense of God. I spent most of my time in class arguing about whether these proofs actually proved anything. I finally got my teacher to admit that if you start with a belief in God, the proofs make sense. Without first believing, the proofs showed the likelihood of God's existence but were not the same thing as proof to my skeptical mind.
Leaving philosophy and theology behind along with the monastery, I felt freed from the struggle to view God logically. For the first time I enjoyed immersing myself in life without this struggle. No explanations were required. I felt free to experience the universe and world on their own terms. I smelled the fragrance of a chocolate orchid and tasted the salty ocean. I heard cardinals sing and reveled in the endless, breathtaking variety of sunsets in different parts of the world.
Sometimes I wondered what had happened to God but then quickly pushed this question out of my mind. I heard others speculate about the nature of God or argue about what God expects from us. Various religions claim a monopoly on the true God seeing others as worshiping false or pagan gods. These debates failed to interest me. Still my mind sometimes wondered about God.
One day the natural proofs for the existence of God popped back into my awareness and I looked them up to be sure I had them right. Thomas Aquinas listed five proofs. Briefly stated they are as follows:
1. God of necessity set everything in motion.
2. God must have been the first cause of all that has happened in the history of the
universe.3. Something must exist which was not caused by something else. That we call God.
4. Something must exist which causes the existence and goodness of everything else.
That must also be God.5. Something is necessary to account for order in the universe. That is also God. Reviewing these proofs did not help me make any more sense of them than I did when I first heard them. I concluded once again that if one starts with a belief in God, the proofs make sense.
Another time I found myself reflecting on something I heard many years ago in a class on human embryology. "With all that has to happen during prenatal development, it's a wonder anyone is ever born at all." What was the likelihood that two incomplete cells could combine and develop to the point where an independent person existed? I also wondered how the universe stayed in alignment, how people, animals and plants adapt to life's demands and manage to survive.
These observations became for me the beginning of a list of life's mysteries rather than proof of anything. Over the years I have encountered quite a few mysteries. Many of my experiences present an opportunity for wonderment with no readily apparent explanation attached. I began to think about why such fascinating mysteries should wander into my mind. How could each of the trillions of snowflakes all be different? How could life reproduce itself in so many surprising ways? How could human nature be such a mixture of delight and perversity?
Maybe the mysteries of the universe and the mystery of God were related. Maybe they were one and the same. I have learned that it is not always important to make sense of everything, especially mysteries. Sometimes it's enough to be with them and let them fascinate me. I have learned to sit with the mystery of sunsets and sunrises, the ocean, rain forests, music and the endless variety of life forms, especially of the human sort.
God remains a mystery to me. So do the universe, nature, life and the workings of my own body and soul. I have come to see myself as one expression of God’s nature here on earth for a while. Then perhaps I will be absorbed into the larger Mystery of God. I feel at peace with God. I accept myself as part of God’s mystery of nature and enjoy my daily encounters with God’s mysteries laid along my life path waiting for me to discover them. Where my path will take me remains a mystery. But that’s okay. I walk with God.
The Missed Funeral
It was 1963. I had been in West Springfield for three months. Seven years ago, at age thirteen, I had left home and began my studies at the seminary. After six years, I finally moved to the monastery novitiate at St. Paul's Monastery in Pittsburgh, having spent the past year as a postulant or one seeking entry to the religious order. At the end of my novice year, I took temporary vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, to which I had been looking forward for the past several years.
I was now a full fledged member of the religious order and, in one sense, was on the same level as the priests and brothers who lived in the monastery. However, I was still a student. My fellow students and I lived on a separate floor from the rest of the monks. We had no input into how the monastery was run and were still considered to be in training.
After moving to Our Lady of Sorrows Monastery in West Springfield, the routine changed from the one we followed in the novitiate. The wooden clapper did not pierce the 2:00 A.M. silence nightly to wake everyone for Matins. We were no longer locked in on their floor at night. The last year had focused on learning to pray and to live the monastic life. These lessons learned, we were back to the classroom and would now begin the formal study of philosophy.
It took a few weeks to adjust to the new schedule. The rigid daily schedule of the past year was relaxed somewhat, assuming we had internalized the monastic routine by now. The new routine was underway. Prayer and Mass began the day at six-thirty. Breakfast and a solitary walk preceded a morning of classes. A brief recreation period followed lunch. A study period and more prayer rounded out the afternoon. After dinner, another recreation period and another study period ensued.
I gradually adapted to the new routine over the first several months. The isolation of West Springfield and the self-contained life of the monastery kept me from having to face any serious thinking about the direction my life was taking, or from having to face the implications of my vows and chosen life.
One evening after dinner, I was called to the office of the director of students. This did not seem unusual since the director and I often discussed philosophy and history. The director seemed in a more serious mood than usual. After very brief small talk, he said had some bad news. My grandmother had died earlier that day and would be buried later that week.
The news was not particularly surprising. She had been ill for years and had been taking medication for a heart condition, although she had never been hospitalized. I remembered her house as the first place I had lived. My father was in the navy during World War II when I was born. My mother and I lived with my grandmother while my father was overseas. When my father came home, my mother tried to introduce us. Instead of going to my father, I ran to the picture of my father, insisting that this was my father rather than the live man before me.
I thought for a long time that I had two mothers. I did not understand when my father returned from the war and my family moved to our own house. My mother loved him, but also set limits. My grandmother just loved me. After we moved, I frequently visited my grandmother, often staying with her for part of the summer.
My grandmother was a serene person. She always spoke quietly and had a kind word for everyone. Even though I was the third grandchild, I felt special to her. I was the only one who lived with her. She often called me a "minx." I was particularly fond of hiding the agitator cap from her washing machine. Although she would try to scold me, she could not hold back her laugh very long and would soon be well into stories about my uncles' antics. We would then be off to the cellar to see where the cap may have been "lost."
We also had a secret. On family occasions, groups gathered in the dining room, parlor and living room. Liquor flowed freely and each guest was greeted with their favorite drink. My grandmother, for some reason, was embarrassed about drinking in public. I knew somehow when it was time to meet her in the kitchen. We would then split a glass of beer, unknown to any of the relatives.
My grandmother was present at all the major events of my life. I remembered pictures of her at my baptism, first communion, and confirmation. Her presence was not prominent but quietly reassuring.
One of my last memories of her was at my grandfather's funeral. He had been suffering from a heart condition, but insisted on shoveling snow and had died suddenly in the process. Although sad on this occasion, my grandmother was filled with the good memories of her years with him. She could only remember once when he became upset. He got up out of his chair and chased one of his sons through the room before he stopped to laugh. She let him go quietly as she had lived with him in peace.
Although I had not seen my grandmother for over a year since entering the novitiate, I always thought of her as being there for me. It was hard to imagine her as gone. My ultimate refuge was no more.
Funerals in my family had always been a time of family gathering. Everyone dropped work, school or other commitments to come together to comfort each other. Old family stories arose about rooms full of sleeping children, patrolled by an aunt/nun, while the family gathering continued into the night.
My first thought at hearing about my grandmother's death was of being together with my family in grief and comfort. We would all share our memories of my grandmother. Others would hear of my shared beer in the kitchen and I would hear of their experiences of closeness with her.
I told the director of students that I would like to go to her funeral. The director told me the policy was that students were only allowed to attend funerals of immediate family members. I told the director my grandmother was like my mother and I had lived with her until I was three. The director said finances of the Order did not allow for such travel. I said I was sure my family would be willing to pay my travel expenses. The director reminded me that, since my vows, the Order was now my family and I could not go to the funeral.
I left his office in shock. I had not expected this turn of events. I went to my room and wept in desolation. Although convinced I should be at the funeral I had no money, even to call my family. I considered hitchhiking the several hundred miles from West Springfield to Dunkirk and thought I could get to the funeral on time.
I was angry at the director and thought he lacked understanding. Life suddenly seemed unfair. How could anyone keep me from being with my family to share in saying good-bye to my grandmother? As my anger subsided, I realized I had reached a major crisis point. I knew I needed to make a choice between my family and the monastic life I had worked so long to reach. I also knew that if I went to the funeral, I would not come back to the monastery.
I paced for hours in the monastery garden, weighing the possibilities. I did not feel I could turn to anyone to help him with the decision, even my closes friends. The choices were clear. The implications were not. The romance of the monastic life weighed against my love for my grandmother. No matter what I decided, part of me would die.
My first adult decision was to accept the director's authority and to stay in the monastery, rather than attending the funeral. But I felt I was betraying my grandmother and she was being ripped from him rather than going quietly, as was the custom in my family.
At Mass on the morning of the funeral, all of the monks were asked to pray for me, my grandmother and their family. Although this was some comfort, the loneliness was not lessened much. The bonds of the religious community were too new to reassure me. I remained confused and uncertain of my decision. It was now too late to attend the funeral.
I had reached my first crisis of faith. Was my faith strong enough to sustain him? I spent hours in prayer seeking reassurance, finally remembering a conversation with his novice master. Talk had turned to how people knew they were doing the right thing in life. The novice master explained that often there was no way to know for sure, and it was not possible to know how a life devoted to God would turn out. He referred to such a crisis as a "leap of faith" in which a person jumps from a cliff, not knowing where he would land, trusting that God would find him a firm footing. I realized I had just taken my first leap of faith. Where would I land?
Letter To My Grandson
Dear Joey,
I thought about using your formal name, but this is how my Uncle Bob started his letter to me when I was born fifty-nine years ago. Of course, I could not read the letter then, but I have gotten it out from time to time over the years. When I was born, the world was in the middle of a war involving most of the large countries. Fortunately that ended. We have had some smaller wars over the years.
Two years ago, we started a new millennium and everyone hoped for a new beginning with peace in the world. Unfortunately it has remained easier for people to hate than to love each other.
I thought about this yesterday when you were born. You were surrounded by love all day long. You were the most beautiful boy I have ever seen, and the most peaceful, at least until you got hungry.
All of the people who love you have gone through hard times which I will let them tell you about when the time comes. All of them have worked hard to be at peace and to have love fill their hearts, which they now share with you.
I know your mother has worked hard to be at peace and will have much to teach you about how to be successful in life. Your father will be able to teach you the joy of music, which has often brought peace to my heart. Your sister jumped for joy when you were born and will be there to show you the ropes as you grow up. Like your sister, your brother had the unusual privilege of participating in your parents' wedding and I am sure he will be there whenever you need him. When you are growing up, brothers and sisters can sometimes seem like a pain. As you get older, you will come to appreciate them and find out they really care about you if you let them be part of your life.
There are many other people who love and care about you, some your relatives, and some friends of your parents. If I could have one wish for you, it would be that you would always be surrounded by the love I saw around you yesterday and that those of us who love you could protect you from the hard times which all of us eventually grow through. I know the hardest thing for me as a parent has been to watch my children struggle with hard things in their lives, especially when I did not know how to help them.
I do know it is easier to get through hard times when you know you are loved. It is quite clear that you are well loved. We will all do our best to love you no matter what you have to face in life. I hope all of us who love you now can be there for you whenever you need us.
Love,
Grandpa Joe
I Thought I Could
The first book I thrust at my mother when she offered to read me a bedtime story was always "The Little Engine That Could". The engine starts by looking up at an imposing mountain and the tracks climbing it. Starting out somewhat tentatively it chugs "I think I can." Gaining confidence as it climbs and finally crests the mountain, the engine finally coasts down the other side puffing "I thought I could."
The distant wail of a steam engine heralded the approach of a freight train on the outskirts of Dunkirk. My grandfather and I bundled into his black sedan, clattered over the bricks to the end of Park Avenue and stood on the station platform, craning our necks to see the first glimmer of the headlight. Its faint glow grew until the stack emerged, billowing smoke as steam vented from the undercarriage. After a brief stop to unload freight, the conductor waved his lantern, the brakes released and the train inched to life again, gaining speed and disappearing around the bend toward the glass works. Then it was back to the kitchen for cocoa and marshmallows.
My father returned home when I was three and my mother tried to introduce him to me. I ran to grab his picture, the only daddy I had known until then. He was off fighting a war in Guam when I was born.
As I grew up, I remember picnics, taking the Coburg ferry across Lake Ontario from Rochester to Canada and riding a steam train from Rochester to visit my grandparents in Dunkirk. My father arranged and oversaw each of these outings. I relied on him to make everything okay and he did until I started becoming independent.
As a teenager, I was not particularly rebellious but still managed to annoy my father on a regular basis. He developed a pattern of gritting his teeth and wringing his hands and his theme became "What if…" He could see an impending catastrophe in just about every situation.
I began to second guess myself after a while. After several false starts, I finally developed a life plan which felt promising to me. Still my father worried. How would I pay for college? Wasn’t it too soon for me to get married? Was having children premature?
He seemed to have lost faith in himself as well as in me. I began to wonder about myself too. Could I land a bachelor's degree, a mater's degree, a doctoral degree? I refused to worry and forged ahead often plodding uphill like the little engine.
The day I passed my oral exam, the final frontier on the way to my Ph.D., I called my parents to share my good news, sure my father would find something in my success to worry about. He responded by telling me he knew I could do it. All I could think was, "You did?" Had he believed in me all this time? Did my accomplishment bolster his confidence in me? Was he just being polite?
Considering these events after many years, I realized how important stories can be in guiding our lives. Perhaps this is why I started writing them along with other reflections. They have taken me from "I think I can" to "I thought I could."
My Life Song- Solo or Chorus
We're all familiar with "The Me Generation." Once life was a communal voyage we shared together. Over the years, we have come to see ourselves as more independent and less reliant on others. Our life is our individual journey. Other people have become competitors rather than companions. We forget to wonder whether we need each other. Viewing life as "I am" has pushed aside a feeling of "We are."
Why should we return to cooperation rather than competition? Here's what I have learned. In the winter of 1965, I removed my religious habit, placed it on the cot in my monastic cell, put on my new suit and my best friend Gerry drove me to the airport. I returned to Rochester to begin a new life after nine years in the seminary and monastery cloister where I expected to spend the rest of my life.
We had time set aside to socialize with other monks, but our superiors closely monitored how close we got to each other. "Particular friendships" were suspect. No one ever explained why, but I thought it had to do with the dangers of becoming too close and personal with anyone else in our all male environment.
As the plane took off from LaGuardia Airport, I left behind everything I knew. Memories of my family and relatives remained vague and out of focus, like the clouds in the sky. I had left behind everyone I knew to live a religious life. Their lives and mine had not crossed for years. I was just a passenger, a stranger among strangers. I felt a deep sense of aloneness I had not felt since the first day in the seminary when I left my childhood behind. I felt suspended in the airplane cocoon disconnected from the rest of the world. I was again a helpless baby.
I could not have imagined then all the wonderful people I have since met and how they have enriched my life. In the first week back, my Aunt June and Uncle Tom packed me in the back of their Karmann Ghia with my cousin Kathy for the drive back to their house in North Tonawanda. The next day I tried to enroll at the University of Buffalo. Missing the registration deadline for the spring semester by a few days left me with the strong prospect of heading for the Vietnam War in short order. And I thought I was alone before. That night at dinner, my Uncle Dick asked about school. Hearing my frustration, he told me he was a classmate of the Dean of Admissions at UB. The rest is history.
That was just the start. I felt like I had just been reborn and was being raised by people who cared about me and helped me find my way back into the real world. I have never forgotten them. I am still blessed with old and new friends who help me find my way in life. Without them I would be back on that plane, as lost as ever.
What is the ultimate value of life, friendship and connection with others? Manny Fortes, A friend of mine once described spirituality as "awakening to the goodness and joy for which you were created." His words unlocked for me the mystery of why I am on earth. I have also discovered that goodness and joy don't exist until we share our lives with others.
Learning to share my life with others has not always easy. People don’t always act the way I would like them to. But would shutting myself off from them make my life any better? I now know better. Each day I treasure the friends who stand ready to help me whenever I need them.