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Holy Semantics! I’ve been lurking, of late ~ eavesdropping on the myriad of on-line message boards hosting hot debates about the identity of "God." Last year's alleged "moral values" election evidently ignited our mass human consciousness, so the internet is rife with attempts and refusals to establish some spiritual commonality.
If we could only get over that name thing.
Alas, the most striking characteristic of the current cyber quarrel is the chronic conviction of the people who are posting the messages. Be they Christian, Pagan, Muslim, or "Other," their rabid defense of dogma does little to bring anyone closer to God and much to deepen the religious chasms that sunder one human heart from another. And it seems that all this righteous ruckus boils down to, anyway, is an eternal dispute over semantics.
Think about it. Over the millennia, official human history (vastly different than the unofficial version) references thousands of names for a male deity. When one also recognizes the manyfold ancient and sacred Goddess names, as well as the more obscure divine monikers, one realizes that humanity is absolutely awash in different perceptions of God.
How can only one of them be right?
Just for a moment, let’s suspend our devout defensiveness and look at this whole name thing with some logic and compassion. First of all, we must remember that every indigenous culture is defined by its environment. The native animals and vegetation determine the cuisine, the architecture, the colors used in art . . . ad infinitum. The intrinsic value of anything is relative to the local resources. Even linguistics and cultural metaphors spring forth from the landscapes and seasons.
How, then, can we expect the inner symbology of a Tundra-dwelling man to mirror that of a Tahitian girl if the very dirt beneath their feet is different? How can they possibly squeeze an abstract concept like God through limited words that are constrained by imperfect translation?
Further, since each of us occupies a very circumscribed position in reality, how dare we presume to speak for All That Is?
A friend of mine says I have a convoluted mind, and I believe him. It’s not an insult, either. He simply means (and rightly so) that I see patterns and relationships in the world at large where others see only randomness. To my peculiar perspective, there is no discrepancy between quantum physics, elemental magic, and mainstream Christianity. All of them say the same thing: Your faith determines your experience.
Everything else is dogma or cosmic semantics based on the truly disheartening notion that God has an ego as fragile as man’s.
The Stone Heart
I would say I’m on intimate terms with my hearth. These twenty years passed, it has served as the womb of our house. We’ve gathered there in the warmth of the fire to visit, to cry, to offer prayers. The fireplace dominates the west wall of our house, an edifice of native moss rock that climbs from the living room to the loft. One huge slab of sandstone serves as a mantel where Jambhala, our Nubian fox goddess, presides over our prosperity. Below - on a wonderful little rock shelf that Gale built around our pellet stove - we burn incense and light candles. Those dear stones have boasted plants and holiday lights and dust and steel wool (to keep the mousies out), but they have never included a heart. At least not until a blustery day in 2000.
Although a frigid west wind wrapped our home in horizontal snow, we were snug and warm as we noodled out the final touches for our soon-to-be-launched web site. Gale paced back and forth in front of the fireplace (as is his Virgo wont) and I typed ideas on my computer in the office. His footsteps ceased, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a whispered, "Well, I’ll be damned! Kitty, you’ve got to see this."
 Now, I must digress to explain that the preceding days had been colored by stage fright and intermittent anxiety. Second Messenger was due to be released within the week. So naturally, the Universe, in her infinite wisdom, honored us with a review of our deepest fears and most private insecurities. We revisited issues that ranged from how well we walk our talk to whether investing our life savings in this project was an entirely sane decision. My personal favorite, of course, was the dread certainty that I had somehow overlooked a gazillion blaring typos in the blue-line. But despite our yearning for Divine reassurance, spiritual etiquette dictated that we not ask for a sign from above.
That’s why I didn’t see it at first.
Gale stood pointing at the hearth, his eyes wide and his mouth frozen in awe. I scanned the beloved rocks for a moment. "What?" I asked.
"Kitty. . . What’s our book about?" Gale hinted.
"Living from the. . ." Then I saw it. Right there in the center of our rock wall, a perfect stone. . . "heart!? Gale, how on Earth did that get there?"
Of course, he couldn’t answer. Neither could I. Nor could our children.
One thing we all agree on is that the stone heart did not exist before that snowy day. And even though it isn’t even a very large heart - maybe three inches tall, tops - it serves as a huge reminder that we dwell in a living medium where miracles often arrive unannounced.
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