The Kindness of Strangers

I loved Johanna Eurich's blog post on Alaska Dispatch today (courtesy of WitchVox). It's a rare piece that managed to inspire simultaneously a gleeful giggle, a touch of jealousy, and even some small bit of pity for the poor, protocol-laden Catholics of her area. I hope her article gives those church-folk a much-needed poke in the ribs.

I know it poked at mine. In some respects, I've not been very charitable lately, so it's good to be reminded of my duties now and then.

Last week, I had my own encounter with a stranded foreigner. When I boarded the shuttle bus to our parking lot at the end of the work day, there was an unfamiliar young lady sitting near the front with a huge backpack that was itself about half her height. With a lovely Irish accent, she asked if any of us had any water -- unfortunately no one did. By the time we reached the last stop, she and I were the only passengers left.

The young lady had a rather forlorn look on her face as we disembarked, clearly searching for something, so I asked if she was lost. Apparently our kindly shuttle driver had told her she'd be able to catch the city bus near that stop; however, to do so, she'd need to hike over to the library, which doesn't precisely look like a library -- and anyway the bus stop isn't visible from the far corner of the lot, where the shuttle drops us.

I offered her a ride to the bus station, and she crumpled into my car after stowing that huge pack in the back seat. As we chatted, I managed to glean that she was ultimately trying to catch a train to Chicago. After a quick stop at a gas station to get her something to drink, we skipped the bus stop and drove to the airport on the other side of town, where she could catch the South Shore train to Chicago -- or if that had stopped running, one of the Greyhound buses.

It was a pleasant ride. We chatted for a bit about the immigrant waves of the area, South Bend's adopted affinity for the Irish, and her looking forward to coming back to town to see a friend perform at Fiddler's Hearth. We didn't discuss religion, although we did find some amusement in her assurance that her grandmother would've been waxing poetic about the rewards I'd surely receive in Heaven for my kindness. Like Eurich, we agreed it was far better to enjoy the tiny contentments of this life rather than to hold out for mansions of gold.

Heck, I'm pretty sure Maeve -- a self-confessed "itchy foot" -- would be off in search of more interesting venues within days of finding herself holding the keys to such a celestial abode.

Maeve, it turned out, was an actress and director, mostly of small stage productions; she had been in Paris before coming to the US. She'd just come from New Orleans, and was planning to spend a little time in Chicago before heading back to NYC to work on a new project with some friends. I was honestly (and pleasantly) surprised, though, when she said that she loved America. Apparently she'd been impressed by the kindness of strangers during her travels, and declared she'd happily dispute any snarky comments about American hospitality once she headed back to Europe.

I'm okay with that plan. I imagine we Americans need all the good press we can get, these days ... though I'm wondering whether we're currently ranking higher or lower than the Brits in, say, Latvia and Greece.

In any case. As Maeve struggled to pull her enormous pack from my tiny backseat, I invited her to stop by my office if she found herself on campus again -- to refill her water bottle, if nothing else. She agreed that she would, and stowed her bottles of water and juice in the pack, and disappeared into the train terminal with a cheerful wave.

I hope the strangers she meets -- Christians, Pagans, or whomever they may be -- continue to treat her well. And here's hoping, too, that there will always be another Maeve (or perhaps a stranded Polish priest, or a sassy Alaskan journalist), the next time I need a reminder that a little kindness goes a long way.

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The Pagans are coming ... oh, wait ...

"I think this is one of the most critical moments in American history. We are living in a period where we are surrounded by paganism."

Gee. For some reason, I think Mr. Newt Gingrich considers that a bad thing. And his buddy Mike Huckabee and the other pious attendees of last weekend's "Rediscovering God in America" conference most likely agree.

What's interesting to me is that rather than being outraged by the comment, I find myself in a strange simultaneous mix of amusement and frustration, pity and chagrin, instead. He's the curmudgeonly old geezer muttering about hoodlums on his lawn.

Then again -- this is why I don't like most sitcoms. Watching self-absorbed, self-righteous people make fools of themselves just makes me uncomfortable. Hm.

Granted, the comment was a cast-off, meant to pander to his audience in that lowest sort of insular fear-mongering over the vaguest of nebulous threats. It was undoubtedly meant to get his Christian brethren fired up and active in politics again. Perhaps, say, frantically protesting equal marriage or camping out at abortion clinics. It wasn't meant as an insult to an actual group of faiths -- in fact, I'm betting the idea that there are more and more people out here who happily accept that "pagan" accusation never even occurred to good old Newt.

I feel like I should be able to muster up more amazement that he really is so oblivious. But ... nope. Mild surprise is all I've got.

There's been much discussion about this in the Pagan blogosphere, of course, ranging from the obligatory outrage to outright laughter. Outside the PB, not so much, yet. Although I must say columnist Tony Norman over at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette had an interesting reaction to the comment. First, he contrasted the comment to one of the themes of Obama's Cairo speech -- strength through religious pluralism -- and second, he expanded on the appearance that Gingrich seems to consider "pagan" a catch-all for anything that might possibly be a threat to his entrenched right-wing fundie agenda. "Pagan" is the new "liberal;" a code word for domestic terrorists and anti-religious vandals, traitors, marriage-mockers and war apologists.

Now that I think about it, I'd probably feel even more sorry for the barmy old fool if I could be sure his ignorance and spite existed in a vacuum. Alas, quite the opposite is true.

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The Path: Musings on Eclectic Panentheism and Faith

I've been having an interesting discussion with someone who contacted me out of the blue after seeing my profile on a Pagan site (which I'd completely forgotten about, naturally). He's a Buddhist and a seeker; currently non-religious, if I'm reading his tone right, but with a Christian background. He's also curious about other people's religions -- what they believe, and why. Lately it sounds like he's been talking to people of varying Pagan bents about their paths, and asked me to explain mine: eclectic panentheism.

I don't think it's a concept I articulate very well to other people, unfortunately, so this was a good excuse to ponder the meaning of it all. I first came across the word "panentheism" (as opposed to panthesim) in Pagans & Christians: The Personal Spiritual Experience by Gus diZerega. A few years ago, I'd read that and Michael York's Pagan Theology: Paganism as a World Religion in the hope that I'd find some clues that would allow me to talk to my mother about religion again -- no luck in that, but they did cause me to re-evaluate and re-define my own path, so I consider it a win.

Here's the gist of my original reply, tweaked slightly after some rethinking.

Panentheism, as I understand it, is the concept that the Divine is both immanent (pervasive within the material world) and transcendant (above/apart from the material world) at the same time. Which sounds contradictory, but ... take this example. I look around and see a beautiful lake, surrounded by trees and rocks and ducks. The wind blows, clouds dance across the sky, and the sun beams down on me and five of my closest friends. As a Pagan, I see my gods and goddesses as the core of being within all of these things. Sometimes I may think of that infusion as Spirit; other times, just the subatomic attraction that holds molecules together. For all I know -- or care, honestly -- they're the same; in any case, that connection is a thread of the Divine; the common element that runs through everything in creation. It is the gods, inherent within nature.

At the same time, I also pray; when I pray, I'm not addressing my prayers to that common binding thread that runs through the lake and the tree, but to specific deities who are individual faces of the Divine. They have personalities, and duties, and power to shape this world. We learn from their stories just as we learn to respect the forces they represent. Oya may be the storm crashing down on me, but she's also the wife of Chango, and a mother, and a psychopomp, and so on.

I think the concept is pretty familiar to most Pagans, it's just that, for the most part, we understand it intuitively without bothering to pin it down and define it in theological terms.

There's a dearth of scholarly writings on modern Paganism, as far as I can tell, but that's slowly changing under the guidance of writers like diZerega and York (both on the faculty now at Cherry Hill Seminary), Chas Clifton, and a handful of other names and publishing houses (e.g., AltaMira) that escape me due to the vagaries of this allergy-med fugue. For me, that's a welcome change from the over-abundance of books on witchy spell recipes, dream interpretation, past lives, crystals and astrology that currently make up 90% of any given bookstore's "metaphysics" section. I still rely on the anthropology and sociology shelves for most of my purchases, since I'm more interested in the history and mystery of Paganism (ancient and modern) than in recreating someone else's ritual. 'Cause honestly, let's face it -- how many stores actually include Paganism in their Theology section?

In any case... As mentioned above, it was diZerega's book that initially helped me re-evaluate and better understand my own approach to spirituality, as well as the approaches of others -- for example, how panentheism differs from pantheism, polytheism, etc. I suspect the distinctions are largely of interest to scholars and geeks, but it seems reasonable that anyone who follows a particular philosophical or religious path should take the time to think through the whys and hows of their beliefs and practices. Not only for the purpose of intelligent discussion, but also for your own personal understanding. Faith is an intensely personal aspect of a person's worldview-- or at least, it should be, in my opinion. I still can't help but cringe inwardly when it appears to be an excuse for lemming behavior or willful ignorance.

Mind you, I know I don't have all the answers -- and neither does anyone else, as far as I can tell. But faith, to me, does not mean you check your brain at the door. It should not be blind, nor should it be unyielding. What it should be: an evolving understanding, tempered by experience, evidence (when available), perspective, and a willingness to question and re-evaluate.

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