Constancy and Change

The world is a delicate balance of constancy and change. Every 24 hours there’s a new day; at the same time, the daily cycle shows remarkable constancy. The seasons change—and yet they return again, too, in a constant pattern. The tiny zygote bears little resemblance to the newborn—much less to the adult into which it will eventually grow, God willing. Yet its basic genetic identity remains constant from conception to death.

Even our own personhood is a delicate balance of constancy and change. In some ways, we carry our childhood selves with us into adulthood; yet we are called to leave behind “childish ways” as we mature. Have you ever encountered an old friend you hadn’t seen for years—only to find that they were “just the same” as when you knew them 20 years before? Or maybe not at all the same—a “completely different person.” Neither, of course, is true. They are both the same and different.

Although opinions differ on the subject, constancy and change may characterize resurrected life, as well. St Augustine, following Plato, taught us to love what does not change—eternal things—because only in them can we find genuine security. The most steadfast of all, of course, is God: the highest, best, truest, most stable good—the only thing, in fact, that truly exists at all. Everything we see around us—even our own self—exists only as we live and move and have our being in Him.

But in this life, we experience the secure, reliable, constant and supreme Good by faith, not by sight; in hope, not yet in reality. In the meantime—apart from those glimmers of a more steadfast good—how should we think of constancy and change in this life? Either can be blessing or a curse. There is change for the better and for the worse. There is constancy in sin and vice—and love and virtue.

It is a commonplace that we humans tend to fear change and crave constancy, because we attach ourselves to what we know. But if what we know is good and true and beautiful, aren’t we right to attach ourselves to it? Aren’t we right to crave such constancy? If constancy in the good is not fully achievable in this life, don’t we still do right to seek whatever of it we can enjoy, for as long as we can enjoy it?

Maybe. But there are different sorts of temporal goods. The reality of fallen creaturehood is that we can enjoy only some of them, only some of the time. Constancy in one or two (or half a dozen) particular temporal goods fills our hands and hearts to the point that we cannot grasp other, unchosen goods. The price of acquiring more is often relinquishing some of what we have. Enjoyment of new goods sometimes means giving up old ones.

This, too, is part of the blessing and tragedy of created existence. Unlike our Creator, we are not all-encompassing: We cannot contain all goodness in ourselves. We partake of it in limited quantity and quality, as our lives, experiences, and character enable us, by the grace of God. But another part of being limited and fallen creatures is that we are always imperfect—we always contain less than the full good we were created to enjoy. There is always room for both constancy in the good we have and change that relinquishes (some of) the sins, vices, and other deficiencies we bear.

Neither constancy nor change is necessarily an enemy—or a friend. Here, the common ‘wisdom’ is wrong: We should not fear change merely because it is new, nor welcome constancy merely because it is stable. In this earthly life, sometimes change is good, and sometimes constancy is bad. It is no better to be stuck in a rut than to flit aimlessly from one thing to another. Wisdom, it seems, lies in the balance: knowing what changes are worth making and when constancy increases (not decreases) our joy.

St Gregory of Nyssa thought that this human capacity for continual increase in enjoyment of the good remains in resurrected life. Not only will our character as resurrected beings be another instance of the delicate balance between constancy and change (the “same” person we were on earth, yet “different,” like the resurrected Jesus); in this resurrected identity, because we are still creatures (not God), we will have a limited capacity to contain the unbounded goodness of God—yet a capacity ever capable of increase.

In other words, God will always be bigger and grander than we are, and this is good news. We will never exhaust the eternal goodness of God. The abundant life to which Jesus calls us will be one we live in God, and our joy will not be so much “complete” as ever-being-completed: We will spend eternity growing into an ever-fuller enjoyment of the unbounded goodness and beauty of God. Maybe Augustine and Gregory are both right: The good most to be desired is a constant good that is utterly steadfast and reliable—hence, unchanging. But it is best for us who seek this good to experience the limitless joy of unending growth into an ever-greater participation in it.

The Numbers Game

Have you ever noticed just how many numbers we have to deal with in our lives? Social security, drivers’ license, date of birth (self, spouse, kids, parents, friends, etc.), credit cards, PINs, license plates, phone numbers (home, office, cell), FAX numbers, speed-dial numbers, age, number of years in recovery, number of years till retirement (or in retirement), tax ID, lottery tickets, number on the biological clock, number of years till tenure or partnership or residency, number of years till citizenship . . . . Think of our means of evaluating other people: SATs, GPAs, years on honor roll or the dean’s list, years of education, number of degrees, years on the job, sales made, revenue generated, profits earned, net income, credit ratings, number of missed or late payments, amount of funds in savings, IRAs, or other collateral, number of homes or vacations or cars or kids or spouses . . . .

Can all these numbers really tell us what we want to know about other people? Does my GPA say anything definite about whether I’ll turn out to be a productive member of society? Does my credit rating let people know whether I’m the kind of friend who can be counted on at 2am? Does the fact that someone has endured a job they hate for 15 straight years make them any more “stable” or “reliable” or “valuable” than someone who’s eager to break into the field?

Our society expects numbers to provide a shortcut to more intimate information—the kind of information it takes time to find out, the kind that you learn only by actually doing things together, sharing the experiences necessary to get to know someone as a human being. The problem with these numbers is that they operate on probabilities. But people aren’t always that predictable; even when they are, sometimes they surprise you. And some who have been predictable for 20 years may suddenly change under the influence of new life-events, illnesses, or other stresses.

Numbers both over- and under-perform the job we ask them to do. They exclude people who may not have the numbers to ‘prove’ their potential; and they include people whose numbers predict a reliability that their future will belie, for any number of unforeseen reasons. Of course, Benjamin Franklin’s adage that “time is money” explains, in part, our resort to numbers: As a shortcut, society views them as not only a time-saver, but a money-saver.

But are they? How many creative people have had to fight against the numbers game? How many times has society denied original thinkers support because their ‘numbers’ didn’t sufficiently predict success? Albert Einstein worked for years as a patent clerk. T.S. Eliot worked as a bank clerk. Charles Ives was in insurance. Why didn’t society see the potential in these people in their primary fields of endeavor (physics, poetry, music)? Why did it shunt them aside into byways where they had to struggle to find time and energy to offer their unique contributions to the world?

Of course, life isn’t easy. Things don’t always happen as they’re “supposed to.” Maybe Einstein, Eliot, Ives, and others succeeded so brilliantly in part because they had to struggle so hard to find space in their lives for the work they loved. That’s a comforting thought; comforting, but not very likely. It’s hard to believe that people can do a better job of living into the full potential of their God-given gifts and talents without society’s support (and even with its active opposition) than they can do with it. Sure, struggle is part of life, but the numbers game is justifiable only as long as it can actually deliver the information it promises. The numbers game can easily become an excuse for our laziness and fear of acknowledging and responding to the real, live human beings before us.

Time and Eternity

The Teacher wrote that “for everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven” (Eccl 3.1). Christian preachers are fond of reminding their congregations about the difference between two Greek concepts of time: chronos and kairos. Chronos is used for the daily passing of routine or “ordinary” time. Kairos marks a special time pregnant with new beginnings or somehow opportune or fortunate—something promising a change for the better.

Time is a strange phenomenon. When we’re little, it seems to pass so slowly, and each new day is eventful because we’re constantly having “first” experiences: the first snowstorm, the first time at the circus, the first day of school, the first bout of the flu. By the time we’ve seen our fortieth snowstorm, what was once completely enchanting becomes routine—even resented, as we head out the door to shovel the walk again. But the truth is that the fortieth snowstorm really is just as enchanting as the first was. And the very same snowstorm we may resent will be some new person’s enchanting first snowstorm.

Though time can dull the senses, it can also heighten them. A particular experience shared with a loved one in the past, when it returns again in the cycle of the seasons, may strike us differently—perhaps more poignantly, or painfully, or gratefully—because of that past. I haven’t lived long enough to find out about all the tricks time can play on us. I expect there are more to learn.

But I know there are key moments of decision in every person’s life—call them kairos moments, if you wish: moments when a choice is made that bears consequences that cannot be undone, whether for good or ill. Sometimes we are aware of such momentous choices as we are making them; sometimes not. Sometimes the full force of our decision comes home to rest only years or even decades after we make it.

Of course, our choices affect not only us, the “decider”, but countless others as well. Unintended consequences are a regular occurrence—they may be unintended; they are not unforeseeable. Sometimes the effects of choices can snowball. One thing leads to another and pretty soon something much bigger than anyone could have imagined is unleashed. The stone that sets the ripples in motion is often hidden from view; all we see are the outer waves magnifying the initial force.

Good can be magnified by time just as well as evil. The build-up of good choices by one person over time or by generations of people in one place can make a huge difference in the quality of human life and character. The Berlin Wall didn’t come down by the actions of any one person alone, and it didn’t happen overnight. Yet real people made real choices that eventually led to its collapse.

The thing is, such mass movements seem to require some way of coordinating kairos moments—something like a collective kairos. It isn’t propitious just for one person, family, or clan. But how do those individual kairos moments coincide? How does the opportunity for a collective kairos arise? In ordinary interpersonal relationships, it often happens that timing that’s good for one person isn’t good for another. My desires don’t always match the desires of my friends and vice versa.

St Augustine taught that time is created by God along with creation. There is no time in eternity. If time is created, maybe that explains how time can sometimes be a problem in this life: Like the rest of creation, it’s imperfect and fallen. There’s not enough time for some; too much for others. People complain about bad pacing or quality of time and about time wasted: Time that should have been filled with one thing is filled instead with another.

If there really is a season for everything, perhaps the season for some things arrives only in heaven, for only there will we no longer be plagued by the vagaries of time. Only there can we rest secure in a love that knows no bounds, no limits, no exhaustion. Only there can we rest fully satisfied, knowing there is no danger of wasting time or running out of it.

The Book of Nature

Followers of the Abrahamic religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—are sometimes called “people of the book,” because a written text is so central to all three religions: the Tanakh (Law, Prophets, and Writings) for Jews, the Old and New Testaments for Christians, and the Qur' an for Muslims. But from the beginning of Christianity up to the Enlightenment era in the west, Christians customarily referred to two books—not the two testaments of Scripture, but rather the Book of Nature and the Book of Scripture. In fact, the idea of a book of nature dates from before Christian times to the writers of the First Testament.

Psalm 19 begins by affirming the Book of Nature: “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shows his handiwork. One day tells its tale to another, and one night imparts knowledge to another. Although they have no words or language, and their voices are not heard, their sound has gone out into all lands, and their message to the ends of the world” (vv. 1–4). The psalm goes on to extol the goodness of the Book of Scripture: “The Torah of the Lord is perfect and revives the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure and gives wisdom to the innocent. The statutes of the Lord are just and rejoice the heart; the commandment of the Lord is clear and gives light to the eyes. . . . More to be desired are they than gold, more than much fine gold, sweeter far than honey . . . . By them also is your servant enlightened” (vv. 7–8, 10a, 11).

“By them also.” Psalm 19 begins by commending the Book of Nature. This “also” indicates that the Book of Scripture, too, is worthy of our attention. The primacy of the Book of Nature is striking here, since we tend to identify “revelation” so exclusively with the written word. But the psalmist could not be clearer: God is known in creation. The very forms and processes of nature reveal something about their Creator. The words written by human hands in the Book of Scripture—though admittedly inspired by God and highly revered in Jewish and Christian traditions—are nonetheless mentioned second in this psalm.

What are we supposed to make of the grandeur and beauty of nature or “nature’s God” (as Thomas Jefferson wrote in the American Declaration of Independence)? The psalms themselves give one answer. Often, an honest human response to creation is pure awe: “O Lord, our Governor, how exalted is your Name in all the world! . . . When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars you have set in their courses, what is man that you should be mindful of him?” (Psalm 8:1, 4–5)

Gazing at “the vast expanse of interstellar space, galaxies, suns, the planets in their courses, and this fragile earth, our island home,” one common human response is sheer amazement at the immensity and beauty of it all—and a stark realization of the humble place of humankind, particularly one human being, in it all.

Christian writers interpreted this transition from amazement to humility as a salutary and necessary step in the spiritual life. When “the heavens are telling the glory of God,” they are at the same time telling us that “man” is not “the measure of all things.” There is something greater and far better than ourselves—or rather Someone, who is the source of all the goodness and beauty in which we are blessed to partake. This Someone, moreover, does not wish to remain anonymous—that is why his signature is all over the visible world.

According to John Calvin, God “daily discloses himself in the whole workmanship of the universe.” Although God is invisible (apart from the Incarnation), “upon his individual works he has engraved unmistakable marks of his glory. . . . This skillful ordering of the universe is for us a sort of mirror in which we can contemplate God, who is otherwise invisible.” (Institutes 1.5.1). “We are called to a knowledge of God . . . that will be sound and fruitful if we duly perceive it, and if it takes root in the heart” (1.5.9).

The universe, then, is a kind of love-letter from God. It is designed to reveal God in such a way that we fall in love, wanting to know him better—to spend time with him day in and day out. It aims at arousing delight in our hearts and an ardent desire for more. This is not a place we need to worry about concupiscence. There is no limit to the desire God seeks to instill in our hearts for his goodness, beauty, and truth. Here is where turning to the Book of Scripture (and the Christian community that is its custodian) can help. Though it is compelling and delightful, the knowledge we gain of God in nature is limited: It tells of his greatness, ingenuity, goodness, and so on. But it cannot tell of the history of salvation that God has initiated with his human creatures. For that, we need the Book of Scripture.

For Calvin, in fact, we cannot read the Book of Nature properly without the aid of the “spectacles” provided by the Book of Scripture: “Just as old or bleary-eyed men and those with weak vision, if you thrust before them a most beautiful volume, even if they recognize it to be some sort of writing, yet can scarcely construe two words, but with the aid of spectacles will begin to read distinctly; so Scripture, gathering up the otherwise confused knowledge of God in our minds, having dispersed our dullness, clearly shows us the true God” (1.6.1).

God woos us every day in the beauty and mystery of nature, and every human being is naturally capable of responding to this loveliness. But an intuitive response of joy at the magnificence of God is not the whole of the good things God desires for us. God seeks a response that goes beyond delight at nature’s beauty to something deeper: Unwavering loyalty to and trust in the Author of nature’s beauty himself—and, with this faith, a lifelong journey toward holiness of life and love for all of creation, including our neighbors. As Calvin says, the “spectacles” of the Book of Scripture allow us “to recognize God not only as Creator” as we learn from the Book of Nature, “but also as Redeemer.”

Although I have drawn on Calvin today, many Christian writers—from St Paul through Jonathan Edwards and beyond—have expressed similar thoughts about the Book of Nature and the Book of Scripture. Perhaps we shall explore some of this rich tradition in coming weeks. Meanwhile, as you take in the beauty of your world, remember to give thanks to the God who is always wooing us with such delights, always seeking our “yes” to his love.

Here Comes the Sun

Our hazy, gray Monday has given way to a bright, sizzling Tuesday. The park overflowed with kids young and old. Toddlers bustled about the swings, slide, climbing tower, and merry-go-round while their parents squinted at the unfamiliar sun. Dogs dragged their owners around the lake, and older kids dusted off their bikes for a spin. Ducks and geese splashed up a storm where they had walked on ice just a few weeks ago. It must have been near 70 degrees today--I think I got my first sunburn of the season! Funny how quickly things change this time of year. It looks like the flowers will be blossoming just in time for Easter.

Hide and Seek

Today was a lazy, hazy Monday. It seems spring is playing hide and seek with us. A few tentative buds are showing up on the trees, and the green growth of bulbs is beginning to burst up from the ground. A few daffodils are even blooming, making bright patches of yellow against the dingy brown undergrowth. But most of the green growing things are still playing it safe--hiding out against that last bitter storm, or the freak April snow we had a few years back. The birds have returned; their matin songs can be heard at sunrise now. Pretty soon we'll hear the cheeps of their little ones. The rabbits and squirrels are also stirring--even the bears are waking up.

The merchants, too, aren't sure they trust the signs of spring yet. I went to several stores looking for a simple kite. Nobody had them. They said they'll probably come in later in the spring. Well, there are still a few places where you can find piles of snow on the ground, so maybe I'm jumping the gun a bit with kite-flying. But it was quite warm today (about 60 degrees) and the wind was just right: a gentle breeze, but not too strong. When I told my haircutter about my quest, she said I'd inspired her to get a kite, too. Maybe we should all try it. Shouldn't there be a national "go fly a kite" holiday each spring? Sounds like a good idea to me. Just make sure it's really spring--you don't want to get caught in a snowstorm!

What Is Wisdom?

Pilate asked Jesus, "What is truth?" But a better question might be, "What is wisdom?" Knowing certain facts or accumulating a lot of knowledge does not, in itself, lead to a happy, satisfying, or even a necessarily productive life. Something more is required. What? Plato looked to the virtues; Aristotle, too--particularly the virtue of prudence, without which all the other virtues cannot be used properly. Knowing where, when, how, and in what measure to employ the knowledge and skills we've accumulated is just as important as the knowledge and skills themselves. Where do we gain this wisdom? Wisdom is an art--the art of using knowledge well. As with any other art, skill is acquired by dedicated practice, by apprenticing ourselves to devoted masters who have practiced long years before us. Studying and practicing under a virtuoso is how we begin to partake of the virtuoso's art.

Where are the virtuosos of wisdom to be found? Christians call them "saints." They are those who have apprenticed themselves to God, the Source of all Wisdom. By living with the saints, inhabiting their thought-world and their ethos, by observing their art--this is how we, too, grow in wisdom and grace. But it isn't only the "Saints" (with a capital "S") who are virtuosos. There are many secret virtuosos of wisdom all around us, traveling incognito, but visible nonetheless--if we choose to see them: the working dad who never misses a child's baseball game; the mother who knows just what to say to soothe a child's aching heart; the grandmother who quietly tends to the linens and flowers on the altar each week; the young professional who comes straight from the train to pray and sing on a weekday evening; the busy manager who takes time out to make sure a BBQ picnic comes out just right; the retired teacher who still volunteers at school; the man whose health has deteriorated so he can't walk, but who helps others by making recordings for the blind.

There are many more besides these. Sometimes they become very famous, like Mother Teresa of Calcutta or Brother Roger of Taize; but most of the time they remain anonymous--known, at best, to only those few nearby who have eyes to see. And, of course, known to God.

Light & Darkness

"What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of the world. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." So writes John the Evangelist (1.4-5) in a passage Christians read at Advent and Christmas.

What is darkness anyway? So often we personify it, making it seem alive and full of malevolent intent--something scarier, more menacing and dreadful in our augmented fears and terrifying preoccupations. But darkness is only the absence of light. Scientists can measure light, but they can't measure darkness--it has no positive qualities; it is a condition of absence, deficiency, and imperfection. It is the not-being of light.

Darkness does not overcome light, because non-being does not overcome being. The God who is known as I AM cannot not be. The Being in whom we live and move and have our being is Being itself--eternal, ever-existent. As the dark days of winter and Lent begin to wane and the brighter days of spring and Easter approach, remember that we notice the darkness that surrounds us in difficult times because it points out the absence of what we in other times take for granted, what is the source of all our joy, what we cannot live without: the light that is life of the world.

Death with Dignity

They say you can tell a lot about a person by how they live their life--and that's definitely true. But I think you can also tell a lot about a person by how they live into their death, at least for those who see death coming. When I saw online today that Elizabeth Edwards has stage 4 cancer, it reminded me again that bad things really do happen to good people--even truly wonderful people. Politics aside, from what little I heard of Edwards in the last campaign and afterwards, she seems like a genuinely good, caring, savvy person. Someone I'd like to have lunch with.

But cancer is no respecter of persons. Someone close to me had stage 4 cancer not too long ago. Like Edwards's, his cancer was attacking a lung and bones--and he found out because one of his bones unaccountably broke, just like her cracked rib. Like Edwards, he faced his fate bravely, with courage and grace. He also faced it realistically--not hiding from it or pretending it wasn't there, but going about life day to day with his usual sensitivity, generosity, gentle humor, quiet strength, and love. A teacher and healer his whole life, even in death he kept on teaching and healing those around him, the ones who were lucky enough to accompany him down his appointed path.

"Death with dignity" is a phrase sometimes thrown around in reckless ways that have little to do with honoring God's good gift of life and the creatures to whom it is given. To me, death with dignity is summed up in the life of my friend, who courageously confronted the dread truth of human mortality that sooner or later we all must face--the same truth that Elizabeth Edwards and her family now must weather. May God have mercy on their souls.

Collaborative Knowledge & Ordinary Heroes

Did you hear about the team of math and computer whizzes who just solved the 120-year-old E8 symmetry puzzle? They built a theoretical structure described by Discovery News as "geometric origami that comes in 248 dimensions" that will be used to test theories about the structure of the univese.

This integrated intercontinental collaboration would have been impossible without two key inventions: the high-speed computer (for cranking out complex calculations) and the internet (for facilitating collaboration). These two inventions--the computer and the internet--are expanding not just what things we happen to know, but even what things we are capable of knowing. This increase in our capacity to know now gives us access to knowledge about things (like the human genome) that otherwise would be beyond our reach. They make possible meticulous collaboration and integration of knowledge by hundreds, if not thousands of educated people dedicated to discovering new truths.

As cutting-edge as this amazing science is, it reminds me of the way the fifth-century Christian saint Augustine of Hippo thought about human knowledge—especially human knowledge about God. No one person can get it absolutely right about God. We're all human; we have our blind-spots and projections that limit what we can see in others. But when we put our experiences, impressions, intuitions, insights, and hard-earned wisdom together--carefully coordinating our thinking and working collaboratively, like those scientists did on their 248-dimension geometric origami--we usually end up coming much closer to the truth.

The fact is, we need each other. And not just because we're not physically self-sufficient or because we're constituted as "social animals" who crave each other's company. We need each other because only together do we come to know at all. And we know only what we learn from our experiences and conversations with one another. The quality of those experiences and conversations has a profound impact on the quality of our knowledge.

Descartes got mad because he believed his teachers lied to him; what he was taught turned out to be bunk! So he resolved never again to listen to others--only to "think for himself." Rousseau was incensed at the depravity of 'civilized society.' He, too, retreated--not into his mind, like Descartes, but into a romanticized version of ‘nature’ something like Eden before the fall. Here, unsullied by a corrupt 'civilization,' his natural goodness and innate rationality would emerge strong, pure, and free.

Unfortunately, both were wrong. Yes, Rene, teachers sometimes lie--or, what is just as bad, mechanically repeat the same untruths and mistakes that were mechanically repeated to them, without ever bothering to ask why. Yes, Jean-Jacques, society can deform as easily as it informs and reforms. And the harm suffered by those innocently subjected to such deformation is as tragic as it is difficult to cure. Yet these defaults are no reason to abandon teachers or society altogether. If the poor quality of the input yields a poor-quality output, the solution isn't to abandon all inputs, but to improve their quality. We should work toward a better way of teaching and organizing society--not retreat into the solipsistic isolation of our minds or the imagined delights of untamed nature.

Which brings us back to the 248-dimension geometric origami. Contemporary collaboration spans time as well as space. While this particular conundrum may have been solved by people in America and Europe, it undoubtedly drew on fundamental axioms and methods discovered long centuries past in ancient Greece, Egypt, and Mesopotamia. The simple truths that later generations take "for granted" were once the hard-won innovations of our ancestors. Isaac Newton got it right when he said, "If I have seen farther [than others], it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants."

But it isn't only giants on whose shoulders we stand. Ordinary women and men, girls and boys--people who day in and day out continue to act on the assumptions that truth is real, goodness matters, wisdom is worth striving for, compassion is part of being human--the daily humility of these simple, unobtrusive people, who go about living with truthfulness, goodness, and decency, also form the humus on which we all stand, for better or worse.

Our world often focuses on the 'giants' among us, maybe because they are easier to see. But if you look a little harder, you'll find that there are a lot more 'little people' who make it possible for all of us to do what we do--even the giants. Our culture's social and economic rewards often favor stand-outs over communal achievements. But which is harder: pursuing your own pet project isolated from others or subordinating your personal preferences and prejudices to contribute meaningfully to a team investigating a common problem? How will academic departments assess the tenure-prospects of the young scientists (not to mention research assistants) who served on this team? How can they document what part of the project's success was attributable to them? What are the rewards these 'little people' will receive--and what were they seeking?

Maybe our society needs to rethink the social utility of its obsession with anointing superheroes. Maybe what this time in our history requires is a lot less 'superstars' and a lot more solid, dependable team-members--a lot less grand-standing and a lot more quiet collaboration. We hear these days about the need for heroes. I admit, as a child of Watergate, I have a hard time thinking of any heroes. I was too young for JFK or Gandhi; too young, really, for MLK.

So where are our heroes now? Perhaps we've been looking in the wrong places. Maybe they're all around us--so close that we can't even see them. Perhaps they're the water we swim in without even noticing. If a few dozen scientists working on two continents could solve a 19th-century math puzzle just by working together, imagine what all the ordinary heroes around the globe might achieve, if we finally realized that we're all on the same team--and tried playing the game together.

Spring is on the way . . .

I was out and about today running some errands. The signs of spring are popping out all over. See what I mean? Hope you're taking some time to stop and smell the . . . uh, crocuses? Kim

Hello World

Hello world!

Today I am inaugurating my blog, "Kim's Kreations." It will contain my creations in a variety of media--written comments like this, some of my own photography, observations on current events, and longer pieces on topics of special interest to me, such as theology and religion. Meanwhile, let me know what topics interest you--who knows, maybe I'll decide to write on them! So long for now, Kim