Thursday, February 20, 2014
As usual, when my daughter Margaret and son-in-law Mark are with us, and an appropriate amount of wine has been consumed with dinner, they needle me about what they discern as a creeping religiosity in this blog. To hear them tell it, an aura of iffy supernaturalism hangs about me like a noxious case of B. O.
Cite a case of supernaturalism, I say. Tell me where you detect a whiff of divinity.
"Oh, Dad. You've never gotten over your R. C. indoctrination. You even call yourself religious."
True on both counts.
I readily confess that that my childhood experience of bread and wine, chrism and wax, incense and bells, Latin and Gregorian chant left an impression on my soul -- a sensitivity to the "isness" of things and the mystery that resides therein. I see no reason to put that early experience aside, even as I reject the supernatural premise behind it. As Popeye says, "I yam what I yam."
And as for "religious"? To me, "religious" means living in a constant awareness of the wonderfulness of what we know (scientifically) and the voluminousness of what we don't know.
Which runs rather counter, I confess, on both counts, to what characterizes most people who call themselves religious.
Pass the bottle. I'll have another glass of wine.