God’s in the Gap

Though I dozed off during the seventeen-minute rain delay in the seventh and final game of this year’s World Series, I had no trouble waking up as the tarps were removed from the field and play resumed. I wasn’t certain about the outcome, but I knew I wanted to view it all.

Less than a week later, I vowed to stay up on election night to view the results. My candidate, Bernie Sanders, had been defeated in the Democratic primary, and though I had misgivings—voting for the Republican alternative was untenable to me—I voted for the woman who defeated Bernie Sanders, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. There was no rain delay on election night, and being certain of the outcome I went to bed, hesitating only slightly when I thought: What if?

Before dawn I discovered that “what if” had occurred. Feelings of despair, disbelief and fear filled me. How could Donald Trump, a man who’d spoken and promoted hateful rhetoric, have won? It felt as if the very foundation upon which Democracy rested trembled, was at risk of being undermined.  With such thoughts I fell back asleep and had a lustful and poignant dream set in the fields of a popular blueberry farm that overlooks Lake Champlain.

“Go down the hill until you reach row seven,” a woman with mesmerizing eyes said, pointing to her right. “You can begin there, but I would recommend walking the full length of the row to its farthest point and starting there.”

“Thanks,” I replied, repositioning the Oakley sunglasses from atop my head to the bridge of my sunburned nose. “I’m Roger,” I said extending my hand.

“And I’m Missy,” she replied as her hand met mine.

“Have you done this before?” she asked.

“No, it’s my first time.”

“The easiest way to do it is to tie this around your waist,” she said, pointing to one of the pails which, like all the others, had a length of twine tied to its metal handle. “Here, let me show you,” she volunteered, grabbing the pail and grasping the end of its attached twine in her two hands.  Reaching around me from the rear, she began tying the twine’s two ends together.

I could feel her body brush up against my tee-shirt as she tightened the knot.

And then, in spite of my burgeoning temporal bliss, I recalled the Apostle Paul’s words to Titus, one of his converts, as he encouraged him to do “what is good:” and “…say no to worldly passions…be self-restrained.”

Paul’s personal admonishment and instruction to Titus, memorized years before in Daily Vacation Bible School, caught me off guard.

Missy turned me around then moved so close that I felt her warm breath on my cheek. With deft hands she adjusted the twine so the pail hung several inches below my belt-buckle.

“There,” she proclaimed, “now you look the part.”

“Nicely done,” I said. “I think you’ve done that before.”

“Every time is a first,” she replied, “I want our customers to have the best experience possible.”

I touched my cheek and then the blue pail with its plastic bag insert, smiled at the attractive young woman, and walked away in the direction she’d suggested.

Some things never change, I thought, blushing with arousal, and looked across the field of blueberry bushes toward Lake Champlain and the distant blue haze covering the Adirondack Mountains. I walked to the end of row seven, where, as promised, I discovered lush bushes with gangly, sagging branches filled with plump, marble-sized berries.

God, I thought, please do not remain silent!

A crisp breeze promised a change in the weather as a cold front made its way across the Champlain Valley.  I’d come to pray and converse with the God whose existence I question as much as I’d come to pick blueberries, and now, as is often the case when it comes to God and me, I was distracted and preoccupied by other thoughts—in this instance, of Missy.

God sleeps when I need Him the most, I thought, as lustful images of the attractive woman vied for my attention.  Experiences of God are never this compelling. As I walked between the rows of bushes my thoughts were drawn to her in ways that thoughts of God’s presence eluded me.

Two crows flew by prompting a hopeful recitation of Martin Luther’s words: “You can’t keep the birds from flying around your head, but you can keep them from nesting in your hair.” They offered little solace. I was alone with my fantasies.

“Roger!”

I turned toward the voice, hoping it was Missy. Row seven and the rows of blueberry bushes to my right and left were empty. My heart quickened and fear overcame me.

“Roger!” This time the voice was deeper, more resonant than the woman’s in my fantasy.

“Where are you?” I anxiously cried out.

“I’m where I said I’d be.”

I spun around in the opposite direction, spilling the paltry contents of my pail as I fell backward into the bushes.

“I came because you wanted to talk with me,” the voice continued.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the one for whom you’ve been searching.”

“You’re…”

“Yes, I am.”

“But I don’t see you.”

“Look beyond the obvious, Roger. You’ll find me in the dark as well as the light. I’m in the openings and empty places where discontinuity exists. There I fill the gaps.”

I regained my footing.  There was no one in sight.

“Talk to me Roger. I’ve missed you.”

I awoke in a sweat.

Later that day, as I acknowledged then put aside the arousing content of the dream, I began to explore the gaps in my provincial, if not myopic, way of viewing the world and God. When despair, flickering moments of despondency, and loss of hope and faith in humankind and democracy grab me, I run from the darkness to the comfortable and known, the seductive world I orchestrate to feel better about myself. That world has lushness and is filled with fantasy that helps me deny what this election made clear: the rise of Donald J. Trump was made possible by people whose pain, anger and hurt had eluded me. I now understand that I’d been listening selectively to the voices that resonate with my positions, and not enough to those whose discontent and disenfranchisement occupy the dark places in the gaps.

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