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Having A Cup of Coffee with the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob
By Harry T. Cook
5/10/13
 | | Harry T. Cook |
In several articles lately, the Stanford University anthropologist T.M. Luhrmann has brought the subject of prayer to the oped page of the New York Times in much the same way that its regular columnists bring politics, economics and environmental concerns.
Luhrmann insists that she treats of prayer as part of her anthropological research but often ends up saying, in effect, that speaking to an invisible deity or -- more alarming -- hearing the voice of such a deity constitutes an altogether normal pattern of behavior, which even so-called "secular liberals," as she suggests, should neither question nor comment upon critically.
"Prayer," as evidently practiced in the religious communities Luhrmann writes about, is a function of people who tend to be theists, that is those who believe in an omnipotent, omniscient and maybe even loving deity with whom one can converse, whom one can petition to change the course of nature, to do or permit, or not to do or permit that which the petitioner finds either desirable or undesirable. One wonders how that kind of thing can be thought credible in a world of relativity, quantum mechanics and dark energy. Ah, but it will be said that however busy God maybe with such galactic business, he (?) marks the fall of every sparrow. The skeptic will ask why such a deity does not break, cushion or -- perhaps more to the point -- prevent the fall of sparrows. But never mind. The Bible -- no doubt an authoritative source for the subjects of Luhrmann's research -- has a number of words for prayer. One Hebrew word can mean "to interpose" or "to judge." The Greek word most often used means "to approach in the interest of making a request." What if a flight attendant were to observe a passenger requesting aloud the material appearance of cherubim and seraphim? What if that person were to tell the flight attendant that her god just told her to leave her seat in mid-takeoff and start to preach? Would Luhrmann say the person in question should simply be indulged? What would a competent psychiatrist say? There is no doubt as to what the FAA would say. I am a practitioner of silent meditation in the form of deep thought. On my daily morning walks, I deliberately set my mind to the tasks I have before me on that day. I think of those with whom or for whom I have to do them. I call to mind those whom I love: my wife, our children, our grandchildren and members of our extended family. I think of how I am accountable to the various communities in which I live and move and have my being. Whilst thus engaged, I do not fancy that anyone picks up signals from my brain or psyche; I do not address any deity with my concerns and hear no disembodied voice talking back. I wonder if Luhrmann would count any of that prayer. I doubt it because I am not a theist. Do I "believe in God"? Not in any conventional way. I am somewhat of an outlier in the late Paul Tillich's theological neighborhood as I muse over his terms "uncreated creator" and "Ground of Being."
Perhaps the biblical locus classicus of divine-human converse turns up in Isaiah 6: 1-8 where Yahweh is depicted as approaching the prophet himself with a query: Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Isaiah quotes himself as saying, Here I am, send me. The interposition is made by the imagined deity. It is the deity who makes an approach for a request, who is the petitioner-- giving "prayer" quite a different meaning. Isaiah's deity is not like the one described to Luhrmann by those she has interviewed. Their god is one with whom you can sit and chitchat over a cup of coffee. Isaiah's dreamt-of god is majesty looking for help. No serious biblical scholar who deals with this text can miss the clear dream-like nature of it. The thing about Luhrmann's subjects, whom she sees as regular, believable persons, is that their encounters with the numinous are not dreamt. They are belived to be as real as a tweet, an email or a phone call.
A priest friend of mine frequently reminds his congregation that it has "come together in prayer." I sense he means that the liturgy the people are about to share is meant to organize their individual commitments into a communal intention to iterate and act upon the gospel mandates of the liturgy, which include in a paramount way care for each other and service to the poor. The last words he speaks at the conclusion of the mass are: "We go our way to love and serve the Lord." Only hours before, he will have loaded his car with bread and delivered it to an inner-city soup kitchen, which seems to be the way he talks back to God. Or maybe what he has heard are the voices of those, whose stomachs are empty, praying for relief. So off he goes to love and serve ...
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� Copyright 2013, Harry T. Cook. All rights reserved. This article may not be used or reproduced without proper credit.
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Readers Write re essay of 5/3/13 An Almost Lost Technology Blayney Colmore, La Jolla, CA:
Love the train piece. I learned so much. When I was 11, my family moved from Charlotte to Manila. We were to board an ocean liner in San Francisco. But first we boarded the train with the observation roof on the parlor car, slipped into our cozy berths at night, and got our first look at the expanse of this continental nation. We rode to Los Angeles first so we could visit with (The Rev.) Larry Carter, my father's high school classmate who, because he was divorced, was a university chaplain (UCLA) rather than parish priest. A proficient body surfer, he took us to Venice Beach for our first taste of the American end-of-the- rainbow. So many things about that time remain vivid in memory, mainly because the pace of a train trip and a long visit in those days meant one absorbed so much I no longer do as I jet back and forth across the country. Sometimes it's fun to be this old.
Eunice Rose, Southfield, MI:
When my twin sister and I were professional singers, we traveled from our home in Cleveland by train to Detroit many, many times to meet with disc jockeys who were kind enough to play our records on their shows. We left Cleveland at 8:15 a.m. on the Mercury. We arrived at 11:15 at the then magnificent Michigan Central station in Detroit. We would hop on the train and go directly to the dining car for breakfast, always poached eggs over toast, fresh-squeezed orange juice, crisp bacon and heavenly coffee. We made that trip so often, that the cooks in the kitchen saw us board and immediately plopped our eggs into the boiling water. How magical! How wonderful! How sad that this experience no longer exists. I can't even get a train to Cleveland anymore without taking an Amtrak bus at night to Toledo and wait an interminable amount of time for the train going East. Forget about taking that same train to Philadelphia to see my kids and grandkids. If I try, that train doesn't arrive in Philly till 1 a.m. I've taken Amtrak to Chicago as well, and really, it isn't awful, just late all the time. Forget about a dining car, though, with the beautiful white tablecloths and napkins and real china and silver and waiters. Now it's a "cafe car" with a counter, a few unappetizing booths and less-than-stellar microwaved fast food and hardly any fresh salads. I've talked to the food service guy in Washington, and he has told me that somehow the East Coast corridor gets the good stuff. Ours continue to be the forgotten part of the country.
Karen Davis, Royal Oak, MI:
Lovely, warm and inviting piece.
Paul Corscadden, Kingston, Ontario, Canada: Loved this most recent essay on trains as I do most of your writings. My grandmother on my Dad's side was a Stephenson. Many times in my youth, she would remind me that "Stephenson blood also runs in your veins." She was proudly referring to her great grandfather (not sure how many "greats"), George Stephenson, who invented the "Rocket" locomotive in England that really set the Industrial Revolution into full gear. George went on to build many railways in Britain. His son, Robert, is responsible for the engineering of the Victoria Bridge in Montreal. I, too love trains, and in my later business years chose the slower, wonderfully comfortable train route over aircraft at every opportunity. Our "Via One" first-class train service in Canada provides great creature comforts to this day and is a mini-adventure every time! The primary psychology I see here is the desire of folks to return to less hectic, more civilized times when we slowed a little to "smell the roses." Brian O. McHugh, Silver City, NM: I love the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay! I was traveling with some friends two years ago in New York on our way to the Glimmerglass Opera, and came across an historical sign about Edna. Of course we stopped. I also love trains! When I was an infant and up until the age of 16 when we moved to Toronto, my grandmother had a cottage on the lake in the Laurentian Mountains. I was taken there when I was six weeks old. What a wonderful life for a boy. I spent all my summers there until I was 16, and I returned each summer until I graduated from University. There was a wonderful steam train that left Montr�al in the late afternoon and wended its way up to Montfort. There was a wonderful little train station in our hamlet. And I used to spend time there every day with the trainmaster and loved to watch him do the telegraph. He even taught me a little Morse code. He used to let me stand with him as he held up that stick that you described which held the messages. And wonder of wonders, when we were little boys, the engineer would often let us get up into the engine as long as we had shoes on, and we would watch the man throw the coal into the engine furnace. It was very exciting! We would go one mile up to the next station, and then we would walk back on the tracks along the lake. Many thanks for wonderful memories! Fred Fenton, Concord, CA: Thanks for reminding us that our comfortable lives are made possible by the unseen efforts of hard-working people like the railroad agent whose demanding work you describe. It was fun to read all about running a small town depot. You either have a phenomenal memory or some research assistants. My wife's father was a dispatcher at the Santa Fe depot in San Bernardino, California for many years. He once tossed me the book of rules, about the size of a small New Testament. It contained hundreds of numbered rules, arranged in question and answer format. "Ask me any rule," Bill said. No matter what question I read to him, he recited the rule word for word as printed in the book. No wonder Bill was put in charge of the Rules Committee. He often was sent to the scene of railroad accidents to investigate what had happened. As you indicate in your piece, human error rather than equipment failure turned out to be the cause of most accidents. The Santa Fe provided complete medical care and a full pension. Those were the days.
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