Lift Up Your Hearts!

Once again leaving the rest of my life to fend for itself for a while, I return to my commentary on LaMonte M. Fowler's Huffington Post article.

Mexico isn’t going to pay for the wall, and we’re not going to deport millions of people and break up families. If you think either one is a good idea, you’re not smart and probably not a person I want to hang out with.

Aside from the rudeness, I agree with him here. It ought to be glaringly obvious that Mexico has too many problems of its own to finance something that only helps its rich neighbors to the north. If they have any leftover pesos, I'd rather they put them towards conquering their drug lords and ameliorating the conditions that make their citizens take desperate risks. And deporting millions of people isn't any more of a solution to our problems than the creation of Liberia was to the problem of slavery.

Nonetheless, focussing on these extremes misses the valid and important points behind the bombast. I can name a few.

• Illegal immigration is ... illegal. We keep missing this point. It's possible that, as with Prohibition, immigration restrictions are so unpopular that they only breed a nation of scofflaws and fuel organized crime. I don't think so—other countries manage better—but we either need to muster the national will to enforce our existing laws, or else change them to something we are willing to uphold.
• Illegal immigration is slavery. First, it unnaturally depresses wages by providing an unending supply of workers. Even legal immigration has that effect. When it's illegal, however, the workers are powerless because of their status. I heard an otherwise upstanding citizen brag, in my presence, that his workers do as they're told, because they know that if they don't, he'll pay a visit to the immigration authorities.
  
  To the farmer who insists he needs his undocumented workers because he can't afford to farm without them, I say that was the excuse the Southern plantation owners gave for owning slaves. To the commentator who said that without such workers we'd be paying $45 for a head of lettuce, I say I don't believe it. Switzerland pays good wages and their prices, though high, aren't that much more than ours. Less, in some cases. And even if our prices did skyrocket—is it right to allow slavery just so we can have cheap lettuce?Illlegal immigration is unfair to all those who have gone through the effort and expense to obey the law. In the case of poor immigrants, it is cruelly so. We know a family of refugees who built an honest and successful HVAC business that thrived until they could no longer compete with the companies that use cheap, illegal workers. Thus a real-life, recent example of the American Dream come true was scuttled by our collective unwillingness to enforce the laws meant to protect such people.
• The problem of breaking up families is largely the product of a policy I'd change if I could—although that's hard, because it's in the Constitution. Most countries do not grant automatic citizenship to a child simply because he is born there. Our Swiss grandchildren are Swiss because their father is Swiss, not because they were born there. Granting American citizenship to minors whose parents are in the country illegally, or even legally as tourists, has become the root of many problems, not the least of which is the inability to enforce immigration laws without either breaking up families or illegally deporting citizens.

Unless you can trace your family line back to someone who made deerskin pants look stylish and could field dress a buffalo, you are a descendent of an immigrant. Please stop saying that immigrants are ruining our country. Such comments are like a giant verbal burrito stuffed with historical ignorance, latent racism and xenophobia, all wrapped in a fascist tortilla.

As it happens, I do have ancestors who wore deerskin pants and could dress a buffalo. But how is that relevant?  Everyone who came to this country, Native Americans included, was an immigrant. (As an interesting side note, if you want to see a hotbed of illegal immigration, look no further than present-day Boston and the Irish.)  Who says that "immigrants" are ruining our country?  

Where people see ruination, or the potential thereof, lies in the coincidence of (1) an uncontrolled flood of immigrants, most of which are very needy, and (2) our modern society with its greatly expanded governmental services. No longer are immigrants supported solely by their own hard work, their families, their churches, and their communities. It's a good thing to have an additional safety net, but that net is not infinitely stretchable, especially in an era when the country and the economy are no longer expanding.  Even leaving aside the social safety net, ordinary governmental and infrastructure services—such as schools, police and fire, water and power, and roads—are stressed by rapid population growth, especially when that population will not for a long while represent a commensurate increase in tax revenue.

We don't just need a solution to our immigration situation. We need a solution that's affordable and above all sustainable. The United States is like the Earth itself: vast, rich, and full of resources. But those resources are not inexhaustible, and it's as irresponsible to act without taking that into account as it is to continue consuming as if fossil fuels were going to last forever.

To be continued....

The Facebook status of a young relative made my day this morning.

She had posted a Huffington Post article by LaMonte M. Fowler, and I was not surprised that what he wrote rubbed me the wrong way. Nor was I surprised, from other things she has posted, that she commented, I agree with everything written here.

It was the remainder of her comment that so thrilled my soul:

If you don't, awesome. Let's have an open and civil conversation about that. Maybe one of us will change our minds. Maybe not. Let's find out!

Open and civil conversation. It's what those who visit here frequently know I've been advocating since before I started blogging over ten years ago. Indeed, it's what this blog is officially about. (Though I confess the blog frequently meanders here, there, and everywhere.)  Most of all, it's what I find pitifully lacking in our political and social media conversations—and what our society needs so desperately. On top of it all, this call for reasoned discourse comes with a bright, young enthusiasm you can all but hear in her words.

(Maybe I just have a tender spot for bright, enthusiastic, young voices. I'm missing the grandchildren I had to say goodbye to yesterday, not to mention the ones I left behind in May.)

Well. I shouldn't be building up such high expectations for this "open and civil conversation."  In truth, what it has done is inspire me to write reams and reams of commentary on the article, 'way too many words for a decent Facebook conversation. 'Way too many even for a single blog post. That smacks more of pompous monologue than conversation. But writing is the way I think, and at least it is something in response to Stephanie's happy challenge. I hope she will forgive me for giving her a torrent when she asked for a glass of water.

Dear Stephanie,

I’ll take on your challenge, because I’m thrilled someone wants an “open and civil conversation.”  If you’ve followed any of what I’ve written, you know I’m appalled at the lack thereof in recent times. (Yes, I know there were plenty of other times with such lack of civility, but these days, if there’s less tar and fewer feathers, there appears to be more genuine, irrational, virulent hatred.)  I think the writer is rude in places, but he’s a whole lot less rude than most of what I’ve read expressing similar points, so I’ll be grateful for what I can get.

I’m not going to try to change your mind, or anyone else’s, on the issues raised.

Not that I’m one of those who believe truth is malleable, different for one age, one culture, or one person from another. Truth matters. I’d be a fool if I didn’t think that what I believe is true. Worse, I’d be a dishonest writer. But I’m not trying to change your mind, at least not directly, because that’s not my job nor my privilege. The mind is a sacred space. Besides, however convinced I am that I’m right, I may, actually, be wrong.

What I hope to do is to take some of the author’s points and show a side that he doesn’t appear to appreciate. I’d like to show the humanity of those he considers “stupid,” “not a nice person,” and one of those who “should not be dressing themselves or caring for children.”  In most cases, I believe he’s setting up straw men, or at best stereotypes, taking as representative those who use extreme rhetoric in order to make a strong point, or to inflame others, or—as he himself suggests—to entertain. The problem with this is that if we waste our time and energy distracted by these straw men, we are likely to miss the real points that real people are trying to make.

Fowler's article has so much meat in it, so many points where I think him simultaneously right, wrong, and misunderstanding, that I'm going to walk through it, one small step at a time. To begin:

We don't need to take America back. No one stole it. It's right here...you're sitting in it. Chillax.

Who, besides the above-mentioned entertainers, crafty politicians, and inflamed mobs wants to “take America back” as if we needed some violent, citizen uprising? When people I know mourn the loss of “America,” it’s the loss of e pluribus unum—an America built of many peoples, cultures, ideologies, and opinions that was, nonetheless, one country. Of course that ideal was only poorly realized in practice, but it was the ideal. I’m not sure it still is.

An artist friend of ours, who lives in France, made the point all the clearer to me. The French, she said, are shocked when they visit the U.S. and see the aggressiveness with which people flaunt their “identity.”  In Paris, one’s identity is French.

Or as a young man in The Gambia told me, “We have Mandinkas, we have Wolofs, we have Fulas, we have Muslims, we have Christians, but you cannot see the difference, because we always do things together.”

Switzerland has four national languages, and their German is divided into one language for writing (High German) and countless others for speaking that change significantly from one city, or one mountain pass, to another (Swiss German dialects). Yet their Confederation is most definitely Swiss: the best of France without being French, the best of Germany without being German, and the best of Italy without being Italian, but overall, absolutely and proudly Swiss. 

I grew up in an America that had that spirit, where being an American was a cherished identity, a responsibility, and a goal. Take back America? I agree with Fowler that it hasn't been stolen, exactly, but it is certainly being ripped apart, and that's nothing to chillax about.

To be continued....

Nature is awesome. Nature is beautiful, and wonderful, and essential to our very existence. But whenever we forget that nature is at her very core wild, and that good does not necessarily mean safe, we are making a grave and possibly fatal mistake.

In 2004 many Floridians learned the hard way what their long-term neighbors (and insurance companies) had been trying to tell them: a hurricane is a lot more than just a strong wind.

People in our neighborhood are learning that the highly successful program that brought the Florida black bear back from near extinction means that we must take extra precautions with our pets, our children, and ourselves.

We have all been reminded recently that wild animals in a zoo are still wild and unpredictable.

And last night a family paid the ultimate price to learn that even the Happiest Place on Earth is no shelter from Mother Nature at her cruelest.

I've seen people complain that no signs warned of the possibility of alligators in the lake where a toddler was snatched by those fearsome jaws. "No swimming" is not good enough, they say. I say that if Disney World is at fault, it is in its complicity with all who profit by tourism and try to make people forget that this is Florida, and Florida has wildlife, and some of that wildlife is dangerous. We who live here are saddened, but not shocked, when we hear, as we do at least once a year, of yet another little dog, cavorting happily at the edge of a lake, suddenly snatched and dragged under the water. It happens. We know it, and we try to take precautions. But Disney would rather its guests not be thinking about death.

Florida is not uniquely dangerous. Colorado has grizzly bears. Arizona has rattlesnakes. Even the farmer's apparently placid cow could easily kill a careless child. Nature is risky wherever you are. No matter how they are portrayed in movies and as stuffed animals, once past babyhood wild creatures are simply not cute and cuddly. They are definitely not our toys. They deserve respect, and that includes recognizing their wild nature.

In all likelihood, that Nebraska family's tragedy was largely the fault of unknown tourists who treated the lake's alligators as toys. By and large, alligators will avoid people and the places where people congregate—unless they have been fed. The tourists who repeatedly toyed with the alligators by tossing food from their balconies, taught the beasts not to fear humans, and to come to the beach hungry. In consequence, a two-year-old boy paid for their sport with his life.

And so did several alligators, who have since been trapped and killed in the effort to find and recover the child.

Nature is good, but it is not safe.  We ignore that to our peril.

The recent tragedy in Orlando appears to prove everyone's point.

Depending on your particular views, it proves that Muslims are terrorists, that homosexuals are a hated, targeted minority, that we need to ban guns, that we need more armed citizens, that Republicans are evil, that Democrats are idiots, that we'll continue to have mass killings unless we spend a lot more on mental health issues, that we'll continue to have terrorist attacks unless we bomb ISIS into the ground.... Take your pick.

It also proves my own point:  To view another human being as something less than human is to stand on a precipice in a hurricane. And the problem with America today is that we are all doing this. There is no "America"—there is only Those Kind-hearted, Intelligent Folks Who Agree with Me, and Those Good-for-Nothing, Moronic, Evil-Minded Others Who Don't Deserve to Live.

After the attack, a rant popped up on my Facebook page listing someone's random, gut-level thoughts. I can't be too hard on him, given that my own immediate, gut-level thoughts in any situation are rarely as they would be if I took time to think about them. But I thought it notable that one of his thoughts was: To those of you who disagree, I'll say "[expletive deleted] you" now, since after you comment I'll immediately unfriend you so you won't see my response. And he ended his list with: I love you all.

Hello?

At a minimum, if you love someone, you listen to him. Respectfully.

In this video, Amaryllis Fox is speaking primarily about foreign policy, but her words are at least as important domestically. Probably more so—beginning not with governments, but with ourselves, and in our own relationships. (Thanks, Maggie M.)

It was not labels that died in Orlando on Sunday. It was people. One by one by one, each born into a family, each with friends, neighbors, and coworkers. Each loved and needed by someone.

This time it happened in a gay nightclub in Orlando, in the wee hours of the morning. I'm hoping that the reason no one has asked me if I'm okay is that they know that the last place I'd be at that hour is where there would be ear-splitting rock music. But that is so far from the point. If you're looking at avoiding a mass shooting, I'd say it would be better to stay out of schools than gay bars. But it could happen anywhere. We won't avoid terrorist attacks by having or not having a certain label. Ask most of the Muslims in Africa and the Middle East how sharing a religious label with many of the terrorists is working out for them.

Listen to each other, folks. Please. If we don't recognize our common humanity, we're toast.

We visited so many churches in Venice (Italy, not Florida), and each one had to be seen twice: first as a museum, because everywhere you turn there's a famous work of art, and then as a church. From the art to the architecture to the acoustics, each of these ancient, monumental buildings is a soul-expanding experience.

The Frari Church affected me the most. It's stunningly beautiful, with glorious arches and windows and columns, and famous artwork everywhere. Titian worshipped here!  And here is he buried, as is Monteverdi, and Canova's heart. (Canova is spread around a bit.)  Titian's Assumption of the Virgin is the high altarpiece.

But it was a side chapel that captured me. It was open for private prayer, so I walked in and knelt, alone. I have no idea how much time I spent there, but it was long enough to gain an unsought appreciation for the value of icons, and pictures, and other physical representations of people and events—so important for conveying information in times when the written word meant nothing to most people. It was not information that was given to me, however, but an environment conducive to meditation, thought, and listening. It's easy to talk too much when I pray, as if I expect the experience to be a one-sided conversation. This was something entirely different, and when I stepped out of the chapel and walked back into the nave it was as if I had been altogether elsewhere—I mentally tripped over a threshold. I'm sure I was gone only a few minutes, but the feeling of time suspended was intense.

A few days ago, in a conversation about childrearing and discipline, I was reminded that it's as important to remember where we were and how far we've progressed as it is to see where we are and how far we have yet to go.

That idea came to mind again as I began to read a Facebook post by someone whose church affiliation I thought I knew. "Wow," I thought. "That's an amazing statement that must have come from some deep soul-searching. I wonder if it reflects the thoughts of the church in general, or if she'll feel some heat because of it."

Then it occurred to me that I was probably wrong, and that she was not from Church A, but was instead a member of Church B. Suddenly the post was no longer a brave and bold attempt at understanding and radical inclusiveness, but a reiteration of words and attitudes one hears daily from "the other side."

It's possible that I have met this person, but I certainly don't know her. I'm not sure of her church affiliation. My comments are no judgement of her; she is just the trigger, not the subject of my ruminations. But I was startled by the change in my own reaction.

I believe it was C. S. Lewis who spoke of a man standing on a path in the middle of a hill, who may be going up, or going down; it's impossible to judge without knowing where the man came from. That's what happened to me. It was the same words. It was the same writer. But she fell in an instant from brave, compassionate thinker to mindless conformist as my view of her background shifted.

Although our choir director might think me heretical, I'm not much of a fan of Broadway shows.  It's not that I don't like musicals; I loved playing in the orchestra pit of the Rosemont Rollicks community theater back in the 70's, and have even enjoyed watching the occasional live performance or movie version.  But I don't go out of my way to see them, and I can't imagine why people would pay outrageous prices to attend a show in New York City.

Maybe that's because whenever I've been in town, I've spent as much time as possible at the New York Public Library.  It's the same with Boston, where I'd skip most of the other sights to have more time at the New England Historic Genealogical Society's library on Newbury Street.  Crazy, I know.

Be that as it may, an Occasional CEO post about entrepreneurship has against all odds made me excited about a new Broadway show.  I'll be happy to wait for a production that is less expensive and closer to home, or on video.  But I want to see "Hamilton."  Check out the opening number (NSFG - language).

Do you remember Kathy's friend B. who met us at the airport in Banjul?  He's also a math major who sometimes comes to her for tutoring.  I'm certain that Kathy and I arrived at this plan independently, even though we were both math majors and roommates at the University of Rochester, but it turns out we each sweeten our tutoring sessions with cookies.  We even have a particular kind designated as "math cookies"!

Having enjoyed Kathy's math cookies when we visited, I thought it would be a good idea to send B. a package of my own math cookies.  You know, to see whose work best.  :)  But apparently our cookies are doomed to avoid that head-to-head contest.

I knew it would cost much more than the cookies are worth to mail them to the Gambia.  But for years I've been mailing care packages to college students and Hallowe'en candy and other trinkets to our Swiss grandchildren; I don't mind occasionally paying more in postage than the value of the items sent.  But the cost to send the wonderful Priority Mail Large Video Box is now $33.95!  Sadly, this is still the least expensive way to send cookies, by a considerable margin.  And that's not just because it's more expensive to mail something to Africa; the cost to send the box to Switzerland is exactly the same.  When I wrote about it in November of 2011, I could use that box to send up to four pounds of goodies overseas for $13.25.  

This is crazy. What else has gone up over 150% in less than five years?  Are you making 150% more than you did in 2011?  Does gas cost 150% more? Bread? Houses? Anything?  Apparently the IRS is not the only Federal agency to have a grudge against ex-pats.

So dear B. will not be getting his cookies, unless I can persuade Kathy to use precious luggage space to bring some home with her next time she visits the U.S.  Even dearer grandchildren will also suffer from this USPS outrage, I'm afraid.  It's still cheaper to mail packages than to visit in person—but a lot less fun.

It's no accident that Aesop's Fables have been popular for millennia.  Great truths revealed in brief, memorable stories are powerful.  I have some modern-day favorites of my own.

The Million-Dollar Child

For a number of years, we attended the same church as Pat and Patsy Morley.  I wish I had known Patsy better, because this story from her husband, as told in his book, The Man in the Mirror, shows her wisdom and strength.

When our two children were toddlers, I was uptight about new scratches showing up on our coffee table. This was a real point of contention with my  wife, who could not care less about such matters. Finally, she said, “You leave my children alone! I’ll not have you ruin a million-dollar child over a $300 table!” Wow! It finally connected. I was more interested in a $300 table than the emotional welfare of my kids. I asked Patsy to forgive me...

The Daffodil Principle

A friend introduced me to the daffodil story, told by Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards, which is too long to reproduce here.  Here's an excerpt that gives the gist of this remarkable, true testimony to the power of small actions done repeatedly over time.

Before me lay the most glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns—great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. There were five acres of flowers. ... We walked up to the house. On the patio, we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline.

The first answer was a simple one."50,000 bulbs," it read. The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."

The Ruby Ring

The story of the ruby ring came to me from a friend just the other day.  It is her story, or rather her grandparents', and true both in fact and in its powerful message.

My grandmother rarely asked for anything for herself, but for whatever reason she wanted a ruby ring.  My grandfather talked about it for years but kept putting off buying it.

When he finally was ready to give her one, she said, "Sorry, too late.  My hands are old looking and I don't want it anymore." 

Now, when you hear me referring to a "ruby ring" situation, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

Do you have any modern Aesop-wisdom to add to this collection?

Do you dream in color or in black and white?

This question, common in my childhood, must seem nonsense to the next generations, as to people throughout most of history.

I clearly remember dreaming in color, but just as clearly I know I frequently dreamt in black and white. The one vividly-colored dream I remember well occurred before we had a television set, and that's significant.  What possible reason could there be for black and white dreams except the influence of black and white television?

I thought of that recently as I observed the curious phenomenon that dream time apparently bears no resemblance to real time.  I wake up and look at the clock.  Fifteen minutes later I awaken again and realize that although only fifteen minutes have passed, the dream I had awakened from had seemingly covered hours of time.

How does the brain do that?  Is it natural, or is it, like the black and white dreams, a product of familiarity with the time-compression common to movies and television shows?

More than 40 years after Porter assisted a University of Rochester professor in the search for gravity waves, predicted by Albert Einstein 100 years ago, evidence of their existence has finally been found.

What are you not giving up on?

On January 28, 2016, we were preparing to land at the end of our flight across the Atlantic from Paris to Newark, the penultimate leg of a journey home from the Gambia that had begun with a take-off from the emergency Space Shuttle landing site that serves as the Banjul Airport runway.

Thirty years ago, that same Atlantic received the shredded remains of the Challenger and all her crew.

What Reagan (and Noonan) knew, as did Winston Churchill, was how to inspire people to be better than themselves.  You don't make children learn more by telling them how stupid they are; you don't make people love others better by insisting they are racist, sexist pigs; you don't encourage the weak to become strong by pointing out their failures.

Nor do you regale them with how strong and smart they are, and insist "you can be anything you want to be."  You don't imply that success should be easy or that love doesn't require sacrifice.  You don't suggest that the best way to fight terrorism is to continue buying and selling as usual (President Bush after 9/11) or partying on (some Parisians after the recent attacks).

A good leader is not afraid to insist that there is no gain without risk, no success without effort, and no victory without battle.  The way is hard, the road is long, and it is not safe.  A great leader goes on to encourage others to believe that they are the kind of people who will rise to meet the challenges; that the benefits will be worth the cost; and that the way, though difficult, will be sprinkled with joy.

I made a discovery last week:  I don't fully experience an event until I've had time to process it—ideally, to write about it.

When I'm preparing for a trip, people say, "You must be so excited to [fill in the blank]."  But I almost never am.  Doing something is rarely exciting; having done something is what thrills me.  I've always thought this to be weird, and even felt guilty about it.  How crazy is it to appreciate an experience—even one I really enjoy—only when it's over?

The revelation I had last week is that it's all a matter of processing.  Experiences bring a flood of sensory information that needs to be dealt with, and if I don't have that opportunity, the pressure builds up like a bad case of indigestion.  This is why, for example, when I'm away from home for an extended baby-birth visit, I will sacrifice an hour or two of much-needed sleep to write a blog post.  If I don't, more often than not my mind will rebel and not let me sleep anyway.

When I write about an event—even if the writing doesn't actually take physical form, though that's best—the experience coalesces into something coherent and memorable.  That's when it becomes real.

Is it right for a Christian to carry a gun?  Or even own one at all?

I'm not here to debate pacifism.  For centuries, even millennia, there have been debates both among Christians and in general society over the legitimacy of war and even self-defense.  I can't settle that here.

Nor, despite the subject, is this about gun control, gun safety, or the Second Amendment.  It's about something much more important.

What I want to address is an idea currently making the rounds in the Christian community:  that a Christian who buys a gun to protect his family is proclaiming his lack of faith.  That he doesn't trust God to take care of him and the people he loves.

Such a statement is absolute nonsense.

I've heard that logic before.  I wonder how many of those who loudly proclaim that buying a gun means you don't trust God for your safety would agree with the following similar claims:

• People who use birth control don't trust God to determine the size of their families and provide for them.
• People who use doctors/hospitals/medications aren't trusting God to take care of their health.

I acknowledge that certain elements behind those ideas ring true.  There is in modern society what I'd call a "birth control mentality" that I believe has done great harm (blog post on that to come eventually, I hope), and blind trust in medicine has done its share of damage, too.  But the above statements, as they stand, are dangerous nonsense, and so is the same logic applied to guns.

God gives us resources, and the ability to develop and use tools.  It is our responsibility to use the tools wisely.  Embracing them uncritically and rejecting them out of hand are both extremes that risk insulting the Giver.  Even worse than insulting God (he's already handled more than we could possibly dish out), is belittling the faith of those who don't share our opinions.  "To his own master he stands or falls."

Do Christians and Muslims worship the same god?

Of course they do!

Are you nuts?  They most certainly do not!

Wait.  Stop.  You're right.  You're both right.  You can say almost anything and still be right if you don't define your terms.

This question keeps making the news, with fervent opinions being expressed regardless of whether or not the speaker knows anything about Christian or Muslim theology.  There's no shortage of commentary, for example, on whether or not Wheaton College should fire a professor they believe is deviating from the statement of faith that she signed when she was hired.  Personally, I think that's Wheaton's business, not mine, and I don't know enough about the specific situation to have an informed opinion.  I will say that I respect Weaton a lot, not the least because they come under attack both for being too liberal and for being too conservative.  They must be doing something right.  But the issue of whether or not Christians and Muslims worship the same god is at the heart of that controversy.

Just what does that phrase mean, worship the same god?

Does a Christian worship the creator of the universe?  Absolutely.  Does a Jew?  Certainly.  A Muslim?  I'm sure a Muslim would say he does.  So would a good many (though not all) pagans (old-style; I'm not too familiar with the writings of new-style Pagans).  And, I venture to say, so do many who call themselves atheists (I was one), whose passionate admiration of the forces of nature (and science, their prophet) is as ardent as anything I've seen in church.

Do we all agree on the basic characteristics, let alone the details, of whatever/whoever caused this world to exist?  Absolutely not.

On some issues, and in some situations, we can all stand on the common ground and make progress together.  That's not the same thing as saying that we're basically in agreement, or that the differences don't matter.

It's Christmastime, and a group of happy vacationers is on an airplane bound for St. Petersburg.  We know they all share a hope that the pilot has gotten enough sleep the night before, and that the maintenance crew has done its job correctly.  We watch them eat together, and wish along with every one of them that the baby in seat 20B would stop crying.  But as we listen to them discuss their vacation plans, we begin to realize that there are some big differences in what they believe about this "St. Petersburg" that they're heading toward. 

The art students in 14D and E have packed boots and heavy coats, and are eagerly discussing their upcoming visit to the Hermitage.  The family in row 15, with their bathing suits and sunscreen, is looking forward to time at the beach, and the children hope to talk their parents into a side trip to Disney World.  Up in first class, a middle-aged couple is wondering how life has changed in their tiny hometown in Western Pennsylvania since they've been gone.  And the writer in the back of the plane is absorbed in visions of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.

The passengers have a lot in common.  They are in the same airplane, and have many of the same interests and concerns.  They all know they are going to St. Petersburg.  The plane is, indeed, going to St. Petersburg.  But somebody—maybe everybody—is in for a surprise when the plane lands.

Commonalities matter.  So do differences.  Above all, truth matters.