The mallet raps gently against the rim of the bowl. The bowl rings, sings, high and clear.

            The sound slowly fades. Do I still hear it? Or do I just imagine that I still hear it? Sound consists of molecules of air vibrating against each other; I know their ripples continue to spread and interact, even when they are no longer audible to my ears.

            There is no clear break between hearing and not-hearing.

            I suck honey off a spoon. I roll the sweetness around in my mouth. It slides down my throat. I find I can still taste the sweetness, even after I have swallowed. Or can I? Am I simply imagining the sweetness of honey, after it has gone?

            The boundary, if there is one, is as fluid as honey itself.

Deceptive senses

            At Canadian Thanksgiving, our house was redolent with the aroma of turkey roasting. Each herb and spice in the stuffing added its own special scent. “Oh, that smells so good!” our daughter exclaimed when she arrived for dinner.

            I can’t smell it the next morning. But I’m sure the smell lingers for days. Perhaps longer. Like smoke, it gets absorbed into the fibres of the furniture, the draperies, the walls. Perhaps smells never disperse entirely -- they just get overlaid by other smells.

            Do I stop smelling turkey dinner only because I have grown used to it?

            And when do I stop feeling someone’s touch? About a year after my mother died, I was surprised to feel myself wrapped in a loving embrace.  I know what a hug feels like -- I like being hugged! -- but this was more. Like love personified. I don’t remember having that feeling since I was a small child, enfolded by embodied love.

            Can I still feel her touch, long after she’s gone?

            There should be boundaries for these experiences. Definable limits between what’s real and what’s imagined, between good and bad, between subjective and objective.

            But there aren’t. Senses merge into memories. Analysis blurs into emotions.

            At what point does a wet cloth become dry? When does grey make the transition from being more like black, to more like white? When does cold become warm? When does a relationship end?

Not out yet

            When does life begin? The end of life has clear markers -- a heart stops beating; a body stops breathing; a brain stops thinking. But those markers don’t appear together at the other end of life. Does life begin when a heart starts beating? When a brain starts processing sensory inputs: touch, taste, smell, hearing, sight?  Or does it only qualify as life when all three markers function, when a new baby first draws a breath?

            When does existence become life?

            When is enough, enough?

            A candle glows on the table. Its flame dances softly in the surrounding gloom. Someone blows it out. A wisp of smoke spirals upward.

            How long can I still see its light, after the flame is blown out? Only for a fraction of a second, with my eyes open, as the image fades from my retinas.

            But I can still see it if I close my eyes.

            Maybe, as long I can discern something in the mirrors of my mind, it is still there.

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Copyright © 2017 by Jim Taylor. Non-profit use in congregations and study groups, and links from other blogs, welcomed; all other rights reserved.

            To comment on this column, write jimt@quixotic.ca

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YOUR TURN

Last week’s column was about lying -- pro, con, and sitting-on-the-fence.

            Clive Simpson reminded me that I’m not the first to explore this topic: “One of the phrases that I remember from my New Testament Lectures with J.S. Glen was ‘Lying within the truth.’ (i.e. telling the truth but doing it in a way that creates a lie in the mind of the listener).”

            I’d love to see an example or two….

Cliff Boldt also noted that others had gone there before me: “I believe it was Mark Twain who said: ‘If you tell the truth, you don’t have to have a good memory’.”

Old friend Ray Shaver thought someone else could benefit from the column: “On this one about lying, you should send it to Trump!  Not that it would change him, but it may contribute to a small reduction of his lying 84% of the time he speaks about his self-centered issues.”

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PSALM PARAPHRASES

The lectionary calls for reading Exodus 33 this Sunday, the story of Moses wanted to see God face to face. Not possible, said God. This paraphrase of Psalm 99 suggests that we should look for God in a different way.

1          Like a halo of holiness, the spirit of God envelops the earth.
In the stillness of space, God's spirit gives life;
let us acknowledge our insignificance.
In the emptiness of infinity, God's spirit creates life;
let us acknowledge our interdependence.

2          Look up if you would see God;
raise your sights beyond your repetitive routines.

3          But do not attempt to face God as an equal--
Fling yourself face down on the earth
Before the creator of the heavens.

4          Universal God, you love to do right.
In your dealings with your creation, you are always fair.

5          We humans grovel before your greatness.
Humbly, we kiss the humus from which you fashioned us.
You are holiness itself.

6          The humus holds the recycled cells of those who came this way before us;
Step by step they searched for you, until you found them.

7          By the pillar of fire and the whispering breeze,
by bonfire and whirlwind, by prophecy and parable,
you showed them your way.

8          Because they tried to follow you, you forgave them their failings;
But those who laid traps for them, you did not tolerate.

9          So pledge allegiance to the Holy One!
Gather at the foot of the mountain, where even the rocks reach up towards our God.
Our God is holiness itself.

For paraphrases of most of the psalms used by the Revised Common Lectionary, you can order my book Everyday Psalms from Wood Lake Publishing, info@woodlake.com.

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TECHNICAL STUFF

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            I write a second column each Sunday called Sharp Edges, which tends to be somewhat more cutting about social and justice issues. To sign up for Sharp Edges, write to me directly, jimt@quixotic.ca, or send a note to sharpedges-subscribe@lists.quixotic.ca

            I’m leaving out some of the links to other blogs and pages, to see if those links have caused the recent blockages, preventing some of your from receiving the columns at all, and preventing others from sending responses. We’ll see.

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