Okay, back to being 30. So I was still teaching, though losing my enthusiasm for it. I was still interested in science, but I was more and more curious about the why of things. Science is great at explaining how things work – how organisms function, how the physical world operates.
But I was becoming more fascinated with why: why is nature so delicately balanced? Why is every species and life form on Earth provided for? Why does any of it exist in the first place? I kept coming back to the assumption on the part of many scientists that all life forms on this planet evolved from gas and dust.
It became a favorite saying of mine: gas and dust. Each time I stepped back and considered the idea at face value, it grew increasingly absurd to me. Somehow a bunch of gas and dust swirling around in a meaningless universe came together and evolved into a human being that was now pondering how a bunch of gas and dust came together and evolved into me. With no guiding hand or fundamental ordering force to facilitate that. And during moments of clarity, I saw the absurdity of that.
So there I was, contemplating the why of things while trying to maintain my enthusiasm for a teaching career that no longer interested me. And it began to wear on me. Each day I got out of bed dreading the day ahead. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t feel like pretending to be excited about what I was discussing in class that day. It was horrible.
Eventually my frustration turned into depression, and I began to call out sick. I hadn’t missed more than a handful of days due to illness in the nine years I had been teaching, but I was now missing at least one day a month, some months three or four. I saw what was going on, but because I had no idea what else to do with myself or my life I kept right on going. I kept trying to muster the enthusiasm for another day, trying not to give up and call out sick once again.
There were rumblings at school regarding my attendance problem, though no one actually said anything to me about it. But I received looks from time to time – looks that implied my frequent absences were being noticed.
But as I said, I was clueless as to what to do about it. Teaching science to teenagers was all I had ever done. I felt stuck, trapped, and depressed.
The only thing that saved me, that kept me going at that time, was my growing passion for spirituality. As my outside life grew less interesting and fulfilling, my inner landscape was moving in the opposite direction. I once again wanted to understand things. It was a return to that same experience I had in church a decade and a half before – desperately wanting to understand, unwilling to accept the things that others were willing to accept.
On a whim, I approached the school about the possibility of teaching a religious studies course. And the response was a resounding NO. I lived and taught in a very liberal area, one where many parents and school board members refused to allow anything even close to religion to creep into their schools.
I was surprised by the strength of their rejection, though I hadn’t actually expected the idea to fly. It was an impulse, and I followed it. But I was rejected, and so I went back to teaching science and wondering if I would ever be able to incorporate my passion for religion and spirituality into my life pursuits.
I gradually began to grow cynical toward science and the scientific community. And here’s why: the schools allow and even encourage the teaching of scientific theories. Science is a constantly expanding realm, crossing into many different fields of study. And there is constant theorizing and testing of theories, all of which is openly discussed in the classroom.
But spirituality is completely shut out of school, at least in the district in which I taught. No mention was allowed, other than casual references in history and the social sciences. Besides that, spirituality had no place there. And the obvious implication, in terms of the young minds attending school, was that spirituality had no role in day-to-day living.
It wasn’t mentioned in school, it wasn’t addressed on the kids’ television shows. It had no role in their lives whatsoever. Unless, of course, they attended church on Sunday, or church functions during the week. But I never once, in all those years of teaching, heard anyone make a reference to spirituality.
The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I grew. I found myself sympathizing with the conservatives out there who railed against the removal of God from our schools. Which was quite ironic, considering I had stopped going to church fourteen years before. And yet there I was, advocating religious discussion in a school setting.
Are you familiar with the ongoing debate regarding intelligent design? Some people argue that our theory of evolution is incomplete, that it does not account for God. They claim that there is an intelligent force at work in the universe, a force which many people refer to as God. But evolution, as it is taught in our schools, makes no mention of such a force.
That is what the intelligent design debate is all about: some people want that intelligent force accounted for in the classroom. They do not want their children being taught that they live in a meaningless universe, one in which they evolved from gas and dust. Or from monkeys, for that matter.
After a great deal of pondering, I arrived at the root of the problem: those who advocated the presence of God in school insisted that their view of God be the one presented. They were not promoting a critical discussion or exploration of religion; they wanted their beliefs given priority. And that ruined the whole thing.
Intelligent design supporters often had an ulterior motive, and the evolutionists could sense that ulterior motive.
Fortunately, I was not involved in such debate. I had come to see quite clearly that both sides were right on some points and wrong on others. But, as humans often do, both sides were insisting that their view was the correct one.
I began to see why I was drawn to the science/religion debate. I was learning something from it. As the debate raged on, I was beginning to see the futility of argument.
If people are unwilling to open up and consider other perspectives, other possibilities, then they are, for the time being, stuck. There can be no movement, no growth for those who insist that their position is the right one.
I was learning the role that an open mind plays in the expansion of knowledge and understanding. I was learning the importance of honestly considering other points of view. By watching both sides of the intelligent design debate present their assumptions and facts and arguments, I learned one of our fundamental problems as human beings: our insistence that we are right. Our insistence that someone who disagrees with us is wrong. Such thinking not only prevents progress but breeds resentment, hostility, and in certain parts of the world, violence.
I remember thinking at the time, Perhaps I can do something to help us move beyond this dilemma. Perhaps I can offer a different perspective, one that can bring clarity and resolution to this debate.
And that was really the beginning of it all for me. That thought was the seed that would grow into my life’s purpose, my contribution to the human race.
Clarity and resolution. That’s what was needed. That’s what I needed.
Of course, before clarity can arise there must be a period of sorting out, of examination. Honest examination. Being honest with yourself, about what you really feel and what you really believe, does not come easily in our culture. There is a process that one must go through, and the ego stands firmly in the way of that process.
The intelligent design debate is symbolic of a fundamental and unresolved dilemma within each of us: Are you a physical being, or are you something more than a physical being? Does your consciousness arise from your physical form, or does it exist independently of it?
This is essentially what the intelligent design issue boils down to. The evolutionists see evidence that we evolved through natural selection, physical adaptation, and genetic mutation. These do not require an unseen hand or supernatural force.
On the other side, the advocates of intelligent design see evidence of that unseen hand. And although they lack the scientific proof of it, they can sense it, feel it, experience it.
So there is our dilemma: we have to decide, one person at a time, who and what we actually are. Science insists that it has the answer, and so does religion. And all the arguing that goes on between the two sides represents the arguing that goes on within each of us. Who am I? What am I?
Ah, good stuff. And there you have it. It was during that year, my 30th year, that my life’s intent and purpose came into view. I would come to realize, in the years following, that I had been collecting information, perspectives, and experiences throughout my entire life, all in preparation for what would be my life’s primary endeavor.
Big words, I know. But this is a big story. One that applies not just to me but to every one of you.
Who are you?
Why are you here?
Do you know?
Are you sure?
