Believing in God is nothing to do with proving or disproving h(i)r existence…


Illicit processes of the major and undistributed middles have nothing to do with it (‘With respect Professor but might I point out that if p equals q then…No, I take your point but on the contrary, it is just because q equals p that…)’).   It’s looking on a stormy sea or gazing up at the stars or feeling the freshness of a summer morning and asking yourself – why am I loving this so much?  What is it about these kinds of things that escapes the frameworks of genes and molecules and chromosomes that are the provinces of science?   I don’t know about you but when I look at these kinds of things I don’t feel I am looking at objects but communing with mysteries.  You can only commune with persons, not with teaspoons or golf balls or even genes or chromosomes.   Com = with, and une comes from uno, one, I suppose, a sort of withness that makes two one.   You can only have that sort of intimate withness with persons.  Perhaps nature is a bit like your grandmother giving you a pair of socks for Christmas.  Oh no, not another pair of mouldy old socks, I was so hoping for Professor Zonk’s Introduction to Formal Logic.   But of course they aren’t just mouldy old socks.  They’re soaked, you might say, in her love – thanks Gran – in a way they’re extensions of her almost, and as you stow them away in the back of the drawer  – wouldn’t be seen dead in these – you’re deeply grateful.   I guess there’s something of that in all the lovely things of nature.  Soaked in God, extensions of God, perhaps you might say.  The universe is a person, a truth so mysterious we can only refer to it by a meaningless syllable.  Not ‘the clever controller who organizes everything’ or ‘our founder who bequeathed us all these nice things to eat’ but just this syllable, as it might be Ug or Ang, or as the Buddhists so perceptively say ‘Om’.  We don’t know who you are.  But we feel your presence everywhere.


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