A Few Stories...

[cnorman18]

(This will be a very long post, but I hope worth reading. The most important part is toward the end.)

Here are a few personal stories that might be relevant to my personal belief in God.

Don't get ahead of me on what they might mean; I don't offer them as "proof" or anything like it. We shall discuss their possible significance presently.

I swear on my life that every word of what you are about to read is entirely true.

Story 1:

Some years ago, when I was between jobs and rather down on my luck, my car broke down with a blown alternator. Now, I can replace an alternator myself; the problem was that a rebuilt alternator would cost $40, and I had only $5 to my name.

I had an appointment to interview for a new job on the following day, and it was imperative that I show up and not offer excuses. I knew none of my neighbors well enough to ask for money, and I was not on speaking terms with my family then (it was shortly after my conversion to Judaism). I was pretty much between a rock and a hard place.

With no other options, I set off walking to a nearby pawn shop with all the worldly goods I could gather--an old clock-radio, a cheap watch, a few other items. I knew I would be lucky to get $10-$15 for the whole pile, but I had to do what I could.

On the way there, I passed a bar. At 10 AM, it was closed, but I noticed a good deal of trash scattered in front of the door. I ignored it and walked on.

Then, for no reason I could ever tell you, I stopped, walked back, and looked at the trash more closely. Among the napkins, drink coasters, used Kleenex, and other miscellaneous paper--it appeared that someone had spilled a waste-paper basket and not bothered to clean it up--there were a handful of scratch-off lottery tickets. They were already scratched off, of course. Again, for no reason I could have expressed even at the time, I began to look through them.

I distinctly remember wondering, "Why am I doing this?" Other than that, I felt nothing, certainly no hope of finding anything of value. After all, the tickets were all already scratched off and had been discarded.

The fifth or sixth one I looked at was a winner--in the amount of $40.

Apparently someone had been too drunk to see it the night before. (I have played the lottery here in Texas for many years, and in all that time, before and since, I have never myself had a winner for more than $12 on a single ticket.)

Anyway, I walked on to the 7-Eleven, then the auto-parts store; I bought my alternator, then walked back to my apartment. I fixed my car and got the job on the following day.

Story 2:

In the second church which I pastored as a Methodist minister, one of the members was a very memorable old woman with a wonderfully 19th-century name: Beulah. She was 86 when I knew her, and she was one of the most deeply Christian--and one of the wisest--people I have ever known. When we had our adult Sunday-school class before services, and a discussion arose, sooner or later someone would ask Beulah her opinion, and the discussion would invariably end; she would clearly and succinctly say what she thought, and she was always so obviously right that no one would have anything else to say.

Example: this was in the late 70s, when "forced busing" and integration of the public schools was still a huge and contentious issue. A group of us were standing around outside before church discussing it, and we saw Beulah approaching, leaning on her cane. As she drew near, someone asked her, "Mrs. C----, what do you think of all this 'busing' mess?"

Now you would expect that an elderly white woman in rural Oklahoma might be at least a little prejudiced. Not a bit of it. Without stopping, she replied "My Bible says, "Ye shall reap what ye have sown!" End of conversation.

About a year later, Beulah was dying. She was in a deep coma, and had not moved, spoken, or even opened her eyes in days--to all appearances unconscious. Her family was taking it in shifts to sit by her bed and await the end, which would no doubt come soon. She had chosen to die at home, and her little house was across the street from the trailer that served as the church's parsonage, where I lived.

It was midwinter, and there was about two feet of snow on the ground; most of the county roads leading to our little town were blocked. Her son came over to ask that I sit with her while he went to fetch the doctor in his 4x4. So I went.

I was sitting in a chair across the room from her bed as she slept. I had brought a book to read--a murder mystery, as I recall--and hours passed with nothing but the sound of her breathing. I was the only one, other than herself, in the room.

Suddenly, she sat bolt upright without the least sign of effort, eyes wide open and strangely bright, like those of a young girl and not of a very old woman nearly blind.

She spoke one word: "Yes?" as if in answer to bring called. She was looking at the air above the foot of the bed, as if someone were standing there. A moment later, she nodded firmly and said, "I'm ready," and after another moment, she lay down again.

She did not move nor speak again, and in a few hours she died.

I told her children of what had happened, and they were, of course, comforted--though none of us doubted where she had gone, anyway. If anyone I have ever met is in Heaven, Beulah is.

Story 3:

Similar to #1, in a way, but--well, you'll see.

To make a very long story very short, my 20-year marriage was a nightmare from Day One. Though I knew pretty quickly that it was (and remains) the biggest mistake of my life, I'm wired to keep my commitments, and I did my very best to make it work for two decades that seemed like five. Still, I struggled every day with the question of whether to leave, or to stick it out.

About 10 years in, halfway along, I ran into an old friend, a former teacher whom I knew had recently left her husband (for another woman, as it happened). Without prompting--she had my number, for some reason--she said, "I know exactly what you're going through. 'Should I stay, or should I leave?'" I could only nod, speechless. She continued: "Don't worry about it. A day will come when you say, 'I can't live another day like this'--and that's when you leave. Till that day comes, you're not ready."

And she was right. From that time forward, I still thought about the question, but I felt a kind of peace about it that I hadn't had before.

Finally, ten years later, that day finally came. I knew it was time to go. But I was immediately faced with another problem: How?

I wasn't the kind of guy to just clean out the bank account, take off with our only vehicle, and leave her destitute and stranded (We lived on 50 acres out in the country, 10 miles or so from the nearest town). That would be heartless and cruel, and leaving her was already going to be the hardest thing I'd ever done.

I needed money. I needed to rent an apartment, buy a car, and have something to live on for a bit till my next paycheck (my then-wife also worked, so she would be all right with the bills for the moment with what we had in the bank). What to do?

On the day, and in the very hour, that I made this decision, I was sitting in the teachers' lounge at my school, just beginning to think about this--and the phone rang.

"Lounge," I said.

"Call for you on one, Mr. N."

"Thanks." I pushed the button and gave my name. It was repeated, and I said, "Yes?"

"This is ----- at [our local community college]. Did you teach night school out here awhile back?"

"Yes, I taught there for six or seven years. But that was a long time ago. What's the problem?" I didn't need another, just then.

"No problem. But did you know you have $2000 in a retirement account out here? What do you want me to do with it?"

It took about a second. "Cut me a check. I'll be there this afternoon."

I called a substitute for the next day, when I bought a cheap car and rented a little place in town. I was gone that night and haven't looked back.

To finish the story, I cashed in my teacher retirement to pay off our debts, leaving my ex with nothing to deal with but a very small mortgage payment on a loan that had only a few years to run. I walked away with nothing, but that was OK. I was free.

Now so far, these stories are nothing special; coincidences, accidents, a random act by a dying and no doubt irrational woman. True enough, and I don't say they are, any of them, anything more than that. I have many more such stories I could tell, and none of them prove anything either. These were just a sample.

As I said, this is not offered as "proof" of anything, but merely to give a bit of perspective and background on why I believe as I do.

Now let me tell you the story that preceded them all, and that has colored my thoughts and experiences ever since. It's not proof, either, but it means something to me, as you will see.

Story 4:

This happened, again, while I was serving my second church in East Oklahoma, a few months before Beulah's passing.

It was a Sunday, before evening services, late afternoon. I was sitting alone in the sanctuary, as I sometimes did to think, meditate, or pray. I was doing none of those--I was merely feeling depressed.

Besides my difficult marriage, I was troubled by the fact that it was becoming clear to me that the Christian ministry had been the wrong path for me to take in life.

My first church, in north Texas, had been a very difficult "charge," as we called them in the United Methodist Church; the people were mostly elderly and did not take a "kid," as I appeared to them at 25, seriously as a spiritual leader or teacher. They seemed to be disheartened and depressed, and nothing I could say or do seemed to help them.

Only later did I discover that that church's "pillar," its leading member, chief contributor and congregational leader, had committed suicide a few weeks before I arrived. No one mentioned it until after I had left, two years later.

That time was difficult, but I ascribed it to the church. My second charge, by contrast, was filled with warm, committed and happy people who welcomed me and my wife and were eager to hear what I had to say and teach. I was well thought of and appreciated, and had many friends among my congregants. It was a good place.

Still, I was deeply unhappy and could not say precisely why. The role of the minister in Protestant churches is a complex one, and varies from congregation to congregation; suffice it to say that I knew by that time that it did not suit me, and that I did not suit it. This was very hard. I had spent, at that time, most of my adult life preparing for this work, and had no idea how I could continue to do it--or what else I might be able to do.

(This was truly a crossroads in my life, and not because of what would shortly happen to me. I did not know it then, but a few months later I would leave the ministry for good and begin the first of many "new lives." It became clear to me, much later, that much of my problem lay in my being unsuited to the Christian faith itself, and that I had somehow been born Jewish; I have written of that elsewhere. But at the time of which I am speaking here, that insight was far in the future.)

So I was sitting in the nave of my little church, basically just feeling sorry for myself and wishing I knew what to do. I felt very lost, very alone, and very, very far from God.

I had my Bible in my hands, with the reading for that night's service marked with a scrap of paper. As people do, I idly flipped it open; as I recall, I was about to look for a particular passage that I had found comforting at similar times in my life in the past.

(I had no intention of engaging in "Bibliomancy," or looking for "messages" in a random passage. That had always proven futile to me in the past--one finds a page of "begats," or a list of obscure laws that have no relevance to anything. That practice is about as "spiritual" or "religious," not to mention "rational," as using a Ouija board, and about as productive.)

Now, this experience was subjectively the most striking and powerful of any I have described here--in fact, of anything I have ever had happen to me. I have never had anything I could claim was an unmistakably supernatural experience, and I do not claim to know, for sure, that this was one; that said, I have no other explanation for it. It remains absolutely unique in my life, and to this day I ponder whether it had any meaning, and if so, what that meaning might be. I think, today, that I know; but again, I am as sure of that as I am of anything else in the religious realm, and that would be "sure--but not THAT sure."

I had, as I say, flipped my Bible open. Before I could begin looking for the passage I sought--before I could even look down at the page--it was as if my head were suddenly seized by a force outside myself and bent toward the book, and my eyes directed to a particular passage as if by magnetic attraction. I was literally compelled to read, line by line, unable to lift my eyes from the page; and then, when I reached the end of the passage, the force vanished and I was abruptly released by whatever it was that had held me in its grip. It was just gone.

The feeling was as definite and as vivid as if someone had literally taken over control of my body and my eyes, and was most certainly not my imagination. It was preceded by nothing and vanished the same way. I have never experienced anything like this before nor since.

After all that, one would expect the passage I had been mysteriously forced to read would have some soul-shaking message for me, some brilliantly shining clarion call that would make everything clear and put it all into perspective for me.

No such luck. It made no sense at all!

I remember the words as if I had read them an hour ago:

Haggai 2:15-19 (NIV)

" 'Now give careful thought to this from this day on—consider how things were before one stone was laid on another in the LORD's temple. When anyone came to a heap of twenty measures, there were only ten. When anyone went to a wine vat to draw fifty measures, there were only twenty. I struck all the work of your hands with blight, mildew and hail, yet you did not turn to me,' declares the LORD. 'From this day on, from this twenty-fourth day of the ninth month, give careful thought to the day when the foundation of the LORD's temple was laid. Give careful thought: Is there yet any seed left in the barn? Until now, the vine and the fig tree, the pomegranate and the olive tree have not borne fruit.       
" 'From this day on I will bless you.' "

No sense at all. The first part was a pretty good description of my life up till that time (and indeed would remain so for many years to come); nothing I ever worked at bore much fruit, and nothing I ever tried to do came out very well. But so what? What did any of this have to do with anything? Was I to be blessed, starting--

I suddenly wondered: What was today's date?

I had no idea. I ran to my office and looked at the calendar.

That day was Sunday, September 24, 1978. The twenty-fourth day of the ninth month.

I suppose I should say now that I felt a chill, or some such; but I didn't. I felt a strange, wondering sense of--

"Huh? What? What was that again? What did I miss? I don't understand!"

Then, I prayed. Then, and in the days following. No answer. It was over.

I had a very definite sense that I had been Spoken To, but beyond that, there was no content to the message.

Looking back, after almost thirty years of reflection on that very strange moment in my life, I think that that was the message:

"I am really here. And I know you."

Nothing more than that.

David Steinberg once said, in an old stand-up routine, "If God ever said to me, 'David Steinberg--'" And then he stopped, and said, "If God ever said to me, 'David Steinberg,' that would be enough!"

That essentially happened to me. And he was right.

Note that I bring no Word from the Lord. He didn't give me anything to pass on to anyone, no Teaching, no Wisdom, no Divine Advice or Admonitions. I have no assurance about the Next Life, about which I generally add, "if any." He didn't tell me anything about anything, and even if I claimed the right to speak for God because of this experience, which I don't and won't, I would find that I have been given nothing to say.

Nor was I "blessed" from that time forward--except, perhaps, by that strange certainty that I carry with me to this day, that He really is there and knows who I am.

Beyond that, I know and claim to know nothing, and it's no accident that I now practice a religion that has little to say about God's nature and does not believe in the supernatural intruding into the real world (not any more, anyway). In Judaism, we're pretty much on our own.

He may have spoken to me--but all He did was clear His throat. He didn't tell me what to do, which was what I needed, or thought I did.

I said at the beginning that I do not offer these experiences, not even this one, as "proof" of anything--and I don't. This proved nothing--not even to me. I did not require proof of God's existence before it happened, and, as I have written so often, I do not require it now.

Others can say, and no doubt will, that this experience was a combination of simple coincidences and some sort of "brain fart," a small, entirely subjective electrochemical short circuit or other accidental event in my brain; and of course they may very well be right. I certainly can't prove it was anything more than that. As "proof," this story is no more definitive than some tabloid miracle tale, and probably much less so.

But for me, myself--I live in this head, and I know what happened. I know what I felt at the time, just as I described it here; and I know what I knew, before and after the fact, about what I read. I had never, to my memory, ever seen that passage before, and I had no idea of that day's date till I read it on the calendar. Of all those things, I am absolutely certain.

You can try to argue me out of giving this experience any significance, but I can tell you in advance, it will be a waste of time. In some ways, it was the most profound and significant event in my life, and that perspective is not going to change because of what anyone else tells me.

From my point of view, then--am I sure there is a God? Absolutely, 100%, beyond any doubt, go-to-the-stake-and-be-burnt-for-it certain?

Yes.

Could I be wrong?

Same answer.

I think that's the nature of being human.

Anyway, that's my little story. Make of it what you like; but don't sneer at me as a fool, or dismiss me as an illogical naif. If you weren't inside my head with me on that afternoon, you have no right.

I know this proves nothing to anyone, so don't bother to tell me that. All I can tell you, from behind my eyes, is this:

Logic and rhetoric and arguments and scientific deduction are all very well, and vital to human understanding and progress, not to mention preserving and enhancing life; I value them as much, or more, than anyone here. But on this one question, they suddenly become very much less important and authoritative when you actually feel that Hand on your shoulder.

We all speak from what we know and have experienced and learned. What else can I do but tell this as I know it?

[Confused]

I like it when have a verbal conversation, but written words lose much because of the many meanings a single word can take on. It leads to mis-communication and wastes precious time while the various parties keep blundering past one another until they realize the issue they are debating on they actually agree on but because one ascribes one meaning to a word and the other ascribed a completely different meaning. Ugh, I hate word games.

As to why soap boxes, it may be that they just happened to be most prevalent boxes available at the time so convenience led to it. Isn't it funny how some of the most mundane, seemingly insignificant actions can shape an entirely new concept decades later?

How strange life is. You will see why I say that in a moment.

One of my earliest insights, at the age of no more than four, was that we can never really know what another person is thinking or feeling. Inside each of our own heads, we are profoundly alone, and must be so always. I wonder, even now, if that is as true as I thought then and still think, or if it's just true of me.

I understand, intellectually, what you are saying about words; but it is a perspective I can never share. I have a kind of neurological condition, akin to Asperger's syndrome or perhaps to high-functioning autism. I can bond emotionally with no one, have obsessive interests that come and go, and other peculiarities; but the most troublesome thing is that nonverbal cues like facial expressions and body language, tone of voice, etc., are a language I do not speak or understand.

I've gotten better at it over the years, but it's all cognitive; I have to consciously figure out what an expression or a gesture means. Conversation in person is hard and halting for me, still. I take things literally too often, and miss cues and clues that others take for granted. I misunderstand often, and am misunderstood just as often--and I usually don't even realize it at the time. It comes back to bite me later.

People sometimes comment on my language skills. They come with the syndrome; I could read at a high-school level before I was six. I have to be skilled with words. Words and their meanings are all I have.

So, I am much more comfortable on the Net than I am in person; nothing but words here, you see. I can communicate at the same level and in the same way as everyone else.

I wish I knew what it is like to communicate in some other way, but it's like being colorblind. I have no idea what I'm missing, not really, though I see it all the time in the people around me and on TV and in the movies. Emotion looks like more trouble than it's worth, to me.

It's hard to explain. I have feelings and emotions, to some small degree--think pastel colors instead of primary ones--but they mean little to me, and I seem to be detached from them somehow. Even when feeling them, I operate from conscious thought and merely observe what I am feeling as if from outside. They are just one more datum I must take into account when thinking about what to do next. To me, that's normal. I gather that to others, it's not.

I am fortunate in that I have known love, or think I have; I am not sure. For me, love has been as much, or more, about pain as about joy. Of that I will say no more.

I have never felt grief, though there have been times when I know I should have. The deaths of my parents, for instance. I know that that is not as it should be, but how do you make yourself feel something? If you burn your hand and it doesn't hurt, how do you fix that? I once felt guilty about that. Now I know it's just the way I am.

My belief in God, my faith--whatever that really means--in Judaism and my affirmation of its teachings--they are all cognitive; intellectual, theological, of the mind and not the heart. I have no more of an emotional commitment to Judaism than I did to Jesus. I live in my head, and there only. I don't know how to get to any other place.

Go back and look at the stories I told again. On a second reading, you might notice that I did not speak of my feelings as those things happened to me. That is because in a very real way, I had none. My perceptions are limited to cognitive thought.

I say I felt that Hand, but if you read carefully, you will see that that was an intellectually driven conclusion and not an emotional one. Remember? No "chill," just--"What? Huh?"

I wish I could communicate to others what it's like inside my head. Even more, I wish I knew what it is like inside yours.

Don't get me wrong. I like who I am, and I like my life; it seems simpler than being wrapped up in emotion and feelings and nonverbal messages all the time. I suspect I'd overload.

Ray Charles was once asked if he'd like to be able to see, and his answer was much like the way I feel: "Maybe for a little while, just to know what it's like. But then I'd rather go back." I understand exactly what he meant; this is who I am and how I live my life. I'm OK with it.

How strange. Who knew a throwaway remark about a soapbox would lead to this?

Please forgive my getting so personal. It's late, and it's been a hard and peculiar day.

My 8 year old son shares your dilemma. May I say that your functioning here gives a lonely mother hope for the one thing she dare not get too high of hopes for in her sons life, his future.

[QED]

Anyway, that's my little story. Make of it what you like; but don't sneer at me as a fool, or dismiss me as an illogical naif. If you weren't inside my head with me on that afternoon, you have no right.

I know this proves nothing to anyone, so don't bother to tell me that. All I can tell you, from behind my eyes, is this:

Logic and rhetoric and arguments and scientific deduction are all very well, and vital to human understanding and progress, not to mention preserving and enhancing life; I value them as much, or more, than anyone here. But on this one question, they suddenly become very much less important and authoritative when you actually feel that Hand on your shoulder.

We all speak from what we know and have experienced and learned. What else can I do but tell this as I know it?

I just dropped by here to check-up on a reported post and found myself reading the whole thing. cnorman18, thanks for telling it as you know it. I found the stories of your experiences contrasting adversity with heart-warming moments reminiscent of the tales of Charles Dickens -- a part of our Christmas tradition that I very much enjoy.

I hadn't intended to comment at all but, by one of those peculiar coincidences, the advertising banner at the bottom of the page showed three books -- one of which was "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!". Now Feynman would be your archetypal critic when it come to interpreting such "signals" from the world and he had many anecdotes of his own to share. Naturally, as a no-nonsense Nobel-grade physicist and superb lateral-thinker he could do the stats and work out the "tricks" for every occasion. Don't get me wrong -- I know you just put this out "for what it's worth" -- and I have no intention on doing a Feynman on you here... except for relating this particular odd coincidence.

[cnorman18]

Anyway, that's my little story. Make of it what you like; but don't sneer at me as a fool, or dismiss me as an illogical naif. If you weren't inside my head with me on that afternoon, you have no right.

I know this proves nothing to anyone, so don't bother to tell me that. All I can tell you, from behind my eyes, is this:

Logic and rhetoric and arguments and scientific deduction are all very well, and vital to human understanding and progress, not to mention preserving and enhancing life; I value them as much, or more, than anyone here. But on this one question, they suddenly become very much less important and authoritative when you actually feel that Hand on your shoulder.

We all speak from what we know and have experienced and learned. What else can I do but tell this as I know it?

I just dropped by here to check-up on a reported post and found myself reading the whole thing. cnorman18, thanks for telling it as you know it. I found the stories of your experiences contrasting adversity with heart-warming moments reminiscent of the tales of Charles Dickens -- a part of our Christmas tradition that I very much enjoy.

I hadn't intended to comment at all but, by one of those peculiar coincidences, the advertising banner at the bottom of the page showed three books -- one of which was "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!". Now Feynman would be your archetypal critic when it come to interpreting such "signals" from the world and he had many anecdotes of his own to share. Naturally, as a no-nonsense Nobel-grade physicist and superb lateral-thinker he could do the stats and work out the "tricks" for every occasion. Don't get me wrong -- I know you just put this out "for what it's worth" -- and I have no intention on doing a Feynman on you here... except for relating this particular odd coincidence.

Thanks, QED. I've heard of Feynman; I've been meaning to read his stuff for years, and I think on my next trip to the bookstore I'll pick one up.

"Synchronicity," isn't that the term? Those things happen, like the ones that happened to me, and prove nothing. I know that.

That last one, though--i think you'd have to have been inside my head to understand that one, and maybe know a bit about how that head works. I'm sure it wasn't my imagination, because where that sort of thing is concerned, I don't have one. Wasn't an emotional thing, either. Like I said in my last, emotion doesn't do much for me. That wasn't an emotional experience; I don't really have those.

Example: as I write at this moment, I'm standing in the emergency room at Medical City, where I've been with Morry since 4 AM. He's bleeding internally, and at 98 that's no small matter. I've been with him 24-7 for 2 years. I care about him very much, but at this moment, I feel nothing. Like I said; I live in my head.

I know that that experience proved nothing, but it sure as Hell didn't disprove anything, either.

They're moving Morry. Gotta go.

[wrekk]

I too, read the entire thing, and have to say that you are a great story teller. Please don't misunderstand me, I am not saying that what you told was fictional, but I am complimenting you on your delivery and style. You should write books on this stuff. You could probably do very well.

[cnorman18]

I too, read the entire thing, and have to say that you are a great story teller. Please don't misunderstand me, I am not saying that what you told was fictional, but I am complimenting you on your delivery and style. You should write books on this stuff. You could probably do very well.

No fear, I understood what you meant and thanks very much.

I've actually written several novels, none published--though one was good enough to get me an agent. Just never scored. That one is no longer extant, alas. I have one I finished a couple of years ago, a love/quest/adventure/SF story with dolphins as the main characters, but it's so off-center I've never even tried to sell it.

Thanks for the kind words.

[Fallibleone]

I will make no comment except that I enjoyed reading that, cnorman. Thanks for sharing it.

[cnorman18]

My 8 year old son shares your dilemma. May I say that your functioning here gives a lonely mother hope for the one thing she dare not get too high of hopes for in her sons life, his future.

I'm sure you know more about this spectrum of disorders than I. What I do know is that much is not known, research is ongoing, and nothing is carved in stone.

I was not diagnosed till I was in my fifties. I understand now what makes me think and feel as I do, and with this knowledge (and a course of cognitive therapy, the best thing since UNsliced bread), I no longer suffer from the chronic severe depression, which has plagued me all my life (I have a tattoo on my arm that commemorates my survival; an armored, broken heart that burns, with the legend "Invictus" in Celtic lettering).

I wish the best for you and your children. I have no fatuous words of phony comfort to offer; but what I can offer is a simple truth that you already know. As long as there is breath in us, there is hope; and sometimes the future brings not only what we hope for, but much more for which we never dared to hope. I can prove that, but it's not a story I tell in public.

Dare to hope.

And stay "Confused"--those who are certain of everything are usually the ones who prove by their actions that they know nothing of importance.