A human's desire for community

I think it is a natural and healthy thing for people to want to be around other people. Maybe it stems from the early development of our species, when we had greater chances of survival as individuals if we stuck together with others — through sharing resources and food, protection from predators, etc. Some would say that a community is truly where we belong because that is where God is present — in people caring for each other and sharing things. Either way, I think a lot about how the number of people around you can drastically affect one's tendency to feel belonged or anonymous. To illustrate, I drew this nifty little chart.

Now this comes from my own experiences, but I think I may share these sentiments with a number of people.  When completely alone for great lengths of time, unhealthy things start to happen to people. It's hard to experience true joy without anyone to share it with. And I think in general the soul gets a bit dried out. Now don't get me wrong, everyone needs a plenty of "me" time to recharge, reflect, study, ponder, whatever; and as an artist and musician I require and enjoy time alone to practice my disciplines. But too much time alone and you start to sort of lose a sense of yourself. You ever try playing a game of catch by yourself? Boy there's a sad game if I ever saw one. The world exists without you; you're just an observer with no voice of your own to offer. You think of fulfilling your own immediate needs and really nothing else.  And you probably end up watching way to much reality TV, which is really no good for anybody.

And this excessive time alone doesn't have to be just cooped up in an apartment like some old hermit. At the other end of the spectrum, I think bouts of loneliness are felt more keenly when surrounded by throngs of people whom you have no interaction with. People-watching is fun, but I think everyone hopes that eventually someone will look back and notice that you're there. Or it's like being stuck in traffic.  You're in your own little bubble of steel and glass and upholstery, inching down a choked river of thousands of other human beings with whom you will never share one single glance, except for the occasional middle finger. It is not a wonderful feeling to say the least.

But enter one other person who says, "Hey you, there you are."  Bam. Someone to engage in conversation with, to cook or share a meal with, to people-watch with. Someone to throw the ball back to you. The beginnings of a sense of community, of souls interacting and feeding each other. Douglas Adams said in one of his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy books, "How do you know you're having fun if no one's watching you have it?" It's the best friend who goes on every adventure with you and shares your inside jokes. It's the girlfriend or boyfriend or husband or wife with whom you look forward to sharing so many otherwise insignificant moments. I mean sunsets can be breathtaking, but how much more enjoyable can it be when you have someone to turn to and say "Holy crap look at that, isn't that amazing." That one person in your life can change you from a mumbling, disheveled hermit to a ray of sunshine in an instant.

I think that's why old people will talk your freakin' ear off if you give them the slightest time of day — because they just want someone to talk to, they're tired of listening to themselves grumble on about their hemorrhoids and how back in their day people actually mailed letters to each other instead of this silly interwebs business that us kids have today.

Enter more people and the community grows and the feeling of belonging remains. I think a small party at someone's house with 10 or 15 people is way more fun and engaging than a raging kegger with 100 people you've never met. Hence my next point — the more people that are introduced into the picture, the more distant the community becomes at that critically personal level. Until ultimately we are a New Yorker crammed into a subway station, standing not but an inch from 1000 people in any direction, and not looking a single one of them in the eye.

My friend Michael was telling me about how when he's a part of a small church, it's so much more connected and fun, and everyone knows each other and it's alive and teeming with fellowship. But comes the mega-church: 10,000 people you've never had a single conversation with, and suddenly you're looking for another small church to connect with.

Anyway that's it.

Jesus and my kitty

Jesus is someone I don't know personally.  And I'm not going to get to know him just because everyone around me tells me I should.  I know a lot about his life and his teachings, which I can respect.  However I must admit that all of my experiences and opinions about Jesus are based off hearsay: lots of time in Catholic churches (which gave my knees quite a workout let me tell you), oodles of small discussion groups, and countless praise-and-worship songs. Which reminds me, people who write praise-and-worship music need to start a global consortium of some kind and learn some new chords, because they all only seem to know the same three or four. Anyway, I digress. 

Per a recommendation from someone in my life that I both care for greatly and highly respect, I started reading the book of John last night. It was the first time in my life that I sat by myself, held a bible in my hands, and read from it.  A notable experience in my life, considering all the racket in my head about religion that's been going on for so many years. I was rather tired when I started last night, and didn't get through much because fatigue forced me to either: A) go to sleep, or B) keep re-reading the same passage with the old paralyzed man at the pool over and over again and not comprehend any of it.

I must say it's not the lavish narrative that I thought it might be. I mean I know it's not supposed to be Hollywood or Steven Spielberg or anything. Which maybe makes me a little spoiled because that's what I'm used to story-telling being like. This just seemed a little dry and simple and short. I felt like I was reading a text book. I was hoping for more dialogue, more details about what Jesus said to people, more of a picture of the miracles he performed. All the things he said seemed like he was reciting lines he read out of a script, rather than the profound words of the Son of God. John, the author of this book, was there as an eyewitness right? You figure events and people this extraordinary would be accompanied by rich and colorful details. I mean even 30 years later when one sat and collected their memoirs, the remarkable things said to have happened in this book would seem just like yesterday. But with each short and succinct episode of Jesus' life being told to me – the woman at the well, the clearing of the temple, etc – at times I felt like I was reading a picture book, without the pictures. But is that the point – if this isn't fiction, if it's supposed to be simple enough to just get the point across, do we need all the lush environment and atmosphere of modern storytelling? 

And though I haven't read much of Jesus' life or teachings yet, since I just barely began the book, I haven't yet sensed the love that Jesus has for humanity. So far, he just seems rather annoyed with people and their silly questions. I almost laughed when he said "Unless you people see miraculous signs and wonders, you will never believe." I picture him rolling his eyes and chuckling to himself with every conversation he has with people. Even when he speaks of the eternal spring inside you after you drink his living water, and being reborn of the spirit, he just seems a tad... condescending.

Wrestling with this demeanor that I'm picturing Jesus to have, I tried to compare it to something I can relate to.  I came up with this analogy: I have a cute little kitty named Raisin.  I love her very much, and I do my best to provide the best things for her and to make sure she knows she's loved. But I can't imagine the laughable task of explaining to Raisin how much I love her, and how she doesn't have to worry about anything in my care. However she pretty much only cares about herself. Sure she loves me and comes to cuddle and be a cute lap cat when it's convenient for her. And oh she certainly comes to me when she wants something – food, to be let outside, whatever. I do my best to give her everything she needs, even when she doesn't ask for them. But she's never truly appreciative, she will never be able to understand the way that I care about her. For to me spend great effort trying to explain myself to Raisin would drive me insane.  But I would still love her in the end, and she would always have a home in my home – whether she believed me or understood me or not.  

Does this make sense to anyone?

Tasting God?

You can't prove that taste exists. Sure, you can measure it physiologically. When someone puts in their mouth a roasted piece of turkey, or steamed broccoli dripping with melted cheddar cheese, or a gooey chocolate chip cookie, there are changes that happen in the body that can be measured, scientifically proven, graphed, and recorded for the better of all mankind. Yet on a separate, more emotional, almost ethereal level, the person just feels it. There's no way to prove or even quite explain the kind of feeling one gets when eating a delicious food. The way a moist, hot brownie smothered with vanilla bean ice cream and warm fudge can just make your body melt and shudder is something that touches the soul and can't quite be measured physically because it exists on a different level. Also, everyone tastes things slightly differently. And there may be a way of calculating the certain neurons in their brain receptive to certain foods, and determining which taste buds they have more of, etc. But in the end, it's something they alone feel inside and we just have to take their word for it.

I'm wondering if feeling God is the same thing. When a person speaks of feeling God, or having some sort of likewise contact with the higher being(s) of the ethereal and unprovable, I'm sure there are many changes in their body that can be measured physiologically. And those reactions can trigger other responses in the body that can be said to explain the emotions they may be feeling. However in the end, I think the person just feels it in their soul; a joy that swells in their heart as if the sun itself were inside their chest. And many other wonderful experiences that the deft and agile words of man can feebly attempt to describe. In the end, people just know the feeling exists and we have to take their word for it. Similarly, everyone feels God differently, and there's no way we can prove or disprove the way these experiences make people feel.

We try to describe God in the boundaries of our physical world: we tell stories, we draw pictures, we use words. Even the personified sense of God seems kinda silly sometimes, and assigning him a sex, as if he were some old man in a white robe waiting in the clouds, sitting on a big throne of cherubs or some other silliness. Those ideas make for great Renaissance paintings, and good for Michelangelo for that whole Sistine Chapel business. I just think that's our best attempt at explaining a force greater than ourselves that exists in a place where we only have such intangible and immeasurable contact with. We try to define God in physical terms, and it works to get the story across, but I don't think it quite comes close, and I think sometimes we should remind ourselves of that. We also try to measure God with scientific method, which of course will ALWAYS turn up with a big fat negative on the geigometer, but I think it's because you're using the right equipment in the wrong sport. It's like bringing a tennis racket to a water polo game and wondering why you can't get anything done. We don't have a way of measuring what the soul tells us, so we're just stuck with people's hearsay, and of course our own feelings (which we should either be trusting, or just giving up on life altogether).

And yes, I certainly believe in a soul, in a level of our consciousness that goes beyond the physical world that we know how to touch and measure. Being an artist, musician, dancer, etc, beautiful things in this world stimulate my essence in a way that I don't think anyone can explain. I certainly can't, and they happen to me every day. You can't explain love. You can hook electrodes up to my brain and print the results out on a chart, and that's wonderful because there is something we can all learn from that data to benefit humankind. And furthermore that type of scientific analysis that rules our physical world should never be discredited; in fact it should be praised and diligently continued until we unlock every quark the universe holds. However, the experiences of the soul are just different, and they should be acknowledged and respected as such.