USA: We’re so religious, even our atheists believe in God

An article in the Washington Post today discusses the results of a recent poll on Americans’ religious beliefs.

Apparently, the poll indicates the following brain boggler:

More than 90 percent of Americans — including one in five people who say they are atheists — believe in God or a universal power.

Emphasis emphatically mine.

The Post says this poll exposes the “depth and complexity” of our “deeply religious” nation:

For example, along with 21 percent of the people who describe themselves as atheists but express a belief in God or a universal spirit, more than half of those who say they are agnostic express a similar conviction.

How about the oxymorons of a deeply confused nation?

Technorati Tags: stupidity, religion

Don’t drive angry!

Happy Groundhog Day, everyone.

I love this movie. I love the idea, the story, the characters, the humor, the romance, Bill Murray and Andi MacDowell.¹

In the DVD commentary by director Harold Ramis, he tells a very interesting story.

When this film first came out, he received letters from believers of nearly every major religion - Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, Wiccans, etc.

All the letters said the same thing:

“Thank you for making this film. It’s message perfectly expresses the heart of [insert name of religion here]: Loving one another is the only thing that really matters, and true change can only come from within.”

As an anthropologist, this makes perfect sense to me.

Religions are 100% man-made constructs that have developed in every culture for many reasons, 99% of which have nothing to do with god, spirituality, or love.

It’s that 1%, that spark of the divine - or basic human goodness or whatever you want to call it - that unites us. That’s what makes life worth living. Makes this movie so compulsively watchable.

So says the angel on my shoulder.

The devil on the other one likes playing chicken with the train.

Technorati Tags: Groundhog Day, Bill Murray, religion, spirituality, anthropology

1. Even though now, thanks to some snarky reviewer in The Stranger, whenever I see Andi I will always think “horsey cracker.” [↩]

There’s something about Harry

Unless you are only just visiting this solar system on holiday from your home planet of Alderan, you know that this summer is The Summer of Harry Potter.

The latest film, “Harry Potter & the Order of the Phoenix,” came out last Wednesday. (Saw it, loved it.) That’s exciting enough for fans, but the real frenzy is about the release of the last book in the series: Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows.

As you might have deduced by the count-down banner I’ve had on this blog for several weeks as well as my link to the book on Amazon.com, I am a fan.

I know this may seem odd. In life-experience, let’s just say I’m way outside the target audience for Scholastic Press. I also have no children of my own to inspire me to sympathetic enthusiasm for a fantasy about a boy wizard whose destiny just happens to be to save the world.

Ah, grasshopper. There are many fans like me, a fact that still amazes me. I’ve spent a fair amount of time pondering why grown adults all over the globe should be just as hooked on Harry as their eight-year-olds.

I could opine it has a lot to do with J. K. Rowling’s magical world, the fantastic product of an imagination so rare, as Stephen King said, it should be insured by Lloyds of London. I could suggest it’s due to Rowling’s uncanny ability to capture the idealism, joy and pain inherent in every childhood and coming-of-age. I could insist cynically that it’s all about the marketing - from Legos to lunch boxes, the merchandising machine has simply burned the brand of Harry Potter into our brains.

I think all of that is true. But I believe there is something about Harry that gives him the edge, something about his story that gives it the power to catapult from good story to global phenomenon: a direct line to our collective unconscious. Harry’s is the universal story of good vs. evil, with the classic hero’s quest and Unconditional Love in all its divine faces: wisdom, compassion, loyalty, bravery, truth and friendship. Combine all this primordial goo with the aforementioned creativity, insight, and marketing, and you’ve got a potent psychological speedball.

And now we are all down to our last fix.

It’s clear to even the youngest of fans that Harry might actually die in the final battle. It’s arguable from a literary standpoint that an ultimate sacrifice is the story’s most natural conclusion. But I don’t put a lot of stock in literary tradition; it ain’t like Harry’s been particularly high-brow up until now, and JKR pretty much does whatever she wants to do, traditions be damned.

Personally, I’m betting Harry doesn’t have to die to save the world, though I’m not really sure why I’m so sure. Naturally I don’t want him to die; I like Harry. But I guess I’m also fed to the teeth with the whole sacrificial lamb thing. Martyrdom is melodramatic as a literary device, overused as a plot climax, and misguided as a spiritual cornerstone. Don’t we have enough Christ figures? I hope JKR dreamed up a more creative conclusion to the classic conundrum.

But enough with the speculation, as I’ll find out in a mere three days anyway.

This Friday night, I will be at the Midnight Magic book release party at my local Barnes & Noble, making wizard hats and playing Pin The Tail On The Pettigrew with my nephews.

And Saturday will find me back at Hogwarts, fighting the good fight with Harry and friends.  I don’t intend to stop until I turn the last page.

Will I see you there?

Technorati Tags: Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows, fiction, fantasy, collective unconscious, sacrifice

Purple Haze

Yesterday was the first day in I don’t know how long that I had all to myself. No employer to please, no friends to entertain, no family to visit, not even a sweetie with whom to coordinate activities, as mine had his own agenda. I slept in until 8 am, and the day stretched out before me like a vast, unfamiliar landscape.

So unaccustomed was I to a day without obligations, I spent the morning cleaning house. Around noon, I came to my senses. “What am I doing?!” I thought. “I’m freeeeee!” And with that revelation, I grabbed my coat and beat feet to my spiritual second home: the bookstore.

Being a true extrovert, I find long stretches of time by myself rather draining. As Anne Lamott would say, my mind is not an altogether safe place; I shouldn’t go there alone. But I’m never alone in a bookstore. The most scintillating, witty, moving, funny, astonishing company beckons there, literally (ha ha) every few feet. After a day in a bookstore, I return home as refreshed and energized as if I’d spent a day being pampered at a spa.

As much as it fills my soul, however, a bookstore also typically empties my wallet. I do tend to hemorrhage money at bookstores, but for the most part, it doesn’t bother me. Can we really put a price on knowledge? (Kevin, don’t answer that.)

So yesterday I spent a blissful six hours browsing Barnes & Noble. When I got peckish, I went to the adjoining Starbucks and sat down at a table with a soy latte to read one of my treasures. It was a book on the paranormal, with which I have had some experience (but that’s another blog post).

As I read, people came in and out of the little café and eventually I was doing more people-watching than reading.

This particular Saturday the Starbucks was full of families. Parents herded their children in for hot chocolate while they drank their own cup of strength to help them make it through the remainder of the Christmas vacation.

One couple came in with a baby, just on the cusp of toddlerhood, sitting bolt upright in a stroller. The baby’s big, round eyes in his big, round head seemed to be taking in everything - which, judging by his facial expression, he did not find terribly impressive.

Now as everyone knows, babies are the most psychic creatures on earth. I wondered if he saw my aura, and if so, did it sparkle in a divinely purplish-gold haze like my book said, or was it brackish and in need of a good cleaning?

I decided to do an experiment. As the baby sat silently surveying the café, I projected my aura. Not my unsightly blemishes, but the good stuff: the energy from my god-center, the white, gold and purple light that, according to my book, hugs my body like a celestial glove. I projected the shit out of it, all the while watching for the baby’s gaze to rivet upon me, the Glowing Gal of Goodness.

Nada. The baby ignored me, apparently the least interesting aura in the room.

So much for that, I thought, as the mommy, her caffeinated sustenance in hand, rolled the baby away.

I went back to reading my book. It wasn’t long, however, before I was once again distracted by another kind of stroller. This one contained an old woman. I couldn’t stop looking at her: imagine Cruella DeVille with a change of heart. She had bright red, rather wild short hair, a big leopard-print coat, moon boots, and a wide, painted mouth. Even hunched in her wheelchair, this broad stood tall.

As I sat trying not to stare, Cruella rolled her wheelchair slowly across the floor. Old people in wheelchairs – really, anyone disabled - have always made me nervous. They seem so fragile. I never know what to say to them; how to relate, even less. In essence, I’m always afraid I will accidentally hurt them.

So it was inevitable that Cruella would roll herself right next to me.

There wasn’t a lot of space between my table and the one next to me, but Cruella wheeled through there anyway and stopped right in the middle. Her leopard-print shoulder brushed mine. She was so close to me I could smell her: fresh fruit.

“My doctor says I have to leave the dressing on for a whole week!” she fretted to someone sitting behind me.

I stared unseeing at my book. Cruella and her wheelchair had completely blocked me in to my corner of the café. I felt the panic of someone trapped. What if I had to go to the bathroom? What if I spilled my drink and needed a napkin? What if she tried to talk to me?!

It didn’t take long for Cruella to become bored with the subjects of injuries and dressings and home nurses. “I want to go to the art books.” Slowly, she began wheeling herself backwards.

She stopped briefly and said, “I’ll do this carefully so as not to disturb you. I am so sorry.”

I murmured something about not at all, no trouble, no worries.

She rolled herself to the doorway between the café and the bookstore, and stopped. The doorway is rigged with one of those detectors designed to prevent shoplifting, and the wheels of her chair had gotten stuck between the metal rods bolted into the floor. Cruella rocked back and forth, trying to build enough momentum to roll over them.

It’s an annoying cliché, but it really was before I knew what I was doing. I found myself behind Cruella’s wheelchair pushing her over the threshold. “I’ll just give you a boost,” I half-apologized.

Cruella didn’t look at me, but said, “Oh, thank you so much.”

This is where I woke up, and instantly wanted to flee back to the safe haven of my corner.

“I want to go to the art books,” she said and started to wheel away.

“Art is over on the back wall,” I heard myself say, and off we were, navigating the pathways full of people, displays, and tables, both of us propelled by something other than ourselves.

“You seem to know right where they are!” she said.

“Uh, I’ve been here a lot,” I answered sheepishly.

Every now and then, I had to pause for people to get out of our way, and Cruella would put her moonboot down, as if she half expected me to abort the mission. Her foot caught on the carpet as we started up again and I would wince, sure my worst fear was coming true. But she would only say, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” and we continued on our way.

We arrived at the large display of art books on the back wall. “These are the big ones,” I stammered, “and the regular ones are on those shelves there.”

Cruella smiled up at me. “Why thank you so much,” she said.

I said you’re welcome and turned, walking away more quickly than perhaps was polite.

“You’re so sweet!” she called after me, but I was too far away to answer and too shy to look back.

In my mind’s eye, though, I could have sworn I saw a little bit of purple shimmering in my wake.

This post is dedicated to Eric, with many thanks.