Praying for a Miracle for My Sister and New Atheist Falsehoods about Prayer

Please say a prayer for my sister Antoinette, the one with the glasses. 

I am praying for a miracle for my sister.

You can read part one of this story here and part two here.

I invite you to offer up a prayer for my sister Antoinette if you care to. Thank you.

***

New Atheists refer to prayer as "Talking to your imaginary sky friend." Here's one random New Atheist comment about prayer from the web, "Talking to your imaginary sky fairy is the next best thing to doing nothing at all."

That's the second clueless thing New Atheists say, that prayer is tantamount to "doing nothing at all."

When I ask people to pray for me or for my sister, I know I am asking them to do something. I am asking them for something precious. I feel grateful to those who have prayed for me.

***

When I was a grad student at Indiana University, I was attacked by a crazy professor. I didn't know it at the time, but my inner ear burst. I was horribly ill for years afterward, at least partly because medicine doesn't offer any ironclad treatments for those with vestibular – inner ear – disorders. Unable to stop vomiting and often paralyzed, I trekked through three states, from one experimental surgery to another, till a compassionate surgeon broke his Hippocratic oath and "did harm" – he killed my ear, making me deaf that in that ear, but ending the vomiting and paralysis.

Those years were a forced march through hell. My thoughts became as dark as thoughts get. I know what it is to feel so frustrated, hopeless, and betrayed that killing someone else seems to make sense. Believe me, I know.

People I have never met prayed for me. They let me know through the internet.

I *felt* their prayers. I was sure that it was their prayers that kept me going.

And of course the New Atheists would say that I imagined those feelings.

I know the inside of my own head better than the New Atheists do.

So, yes, I am grateful when others pray for me, and I tend to believe in prayer.

***

On the other hand.

Years ago I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Nepal.

Back in the US, my brother Mike had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

I prayed long distance.

I was living in the Himalaya, far from roads, electricity, running water, even outhouses. My dwelling was made of boards and clay; I was being eaten alive by fleas. And I would hunker down at night, trying to conserve warmth (I was always cold in Nepal) and I would pray for a miracle for my brother Mike. And I was confident that a miracle would occur.

Mike died within months. Me, too, a little bit. Mike died just a few short years after my brother Phil was killed on my birthday.

I spent a long time estranged from God. I have never been able to be an atheist. Believing that God loved other people, and not my family, was easier.

***

I am praying now for a miracle for my sister.

New Atheists really don't get what prayer is.

Prayer has nothing to do with the New Atheists' "imaginary sky friend." Prayer has nothing to do with "doing nothing while pretending you are doing something."

Prayer is work. Prayer transforms the body. Prayer is palpable. Prayer is investment.

Praying for a miracle for my sister is one of the hardest things I can do.

After what happened with Mike. And Phil. After feeling so crushed, betrayed, and lost.

Why bother?

Because I do believe in miracles.

And I want one for my sister.

I ask myself, am I guilty of arrogance? Is it wrong to ask that God do this? Wouldn't it be more Christian to accept whatever fate God decrees?

But, I see Jesus performing miracles, and instructing his disciples to do so.

So, then, why not just pray for a miracle and accept whatever turns out to be God's will?

You try it. You try losing your siblings repeatedly to early death and then exercising hope and prayer and then assuming peace in the face of whatever happens.

I dread crashing that hard again.

"Exercising hope": it really is an exercise.

I change physically when I pray. I don't attempt to make these changes happen; they just do, and they surprise me. I can feel changes in my breathing, in how my organs bump up against each other. I can feel changes in my relationship to surrounding reality. I can feel changes in what part of my brain is working, and how it's working.

I just did a google search of "physical effects of prayer" and found an article about research by Dr. Herbert Benson at Harvard:

"Benson has documented on MRI brain scans the physical changes that take place in the body when someone meditates. When combined with recent research from the University of Pennsylvania, what emerges is a picture of complex brain activity:

As an individual goes deeper and deeper into concentration, intense activity begins taking place in the brain's parietal lobe circuits -- those that control a person's orientation in space and establish distinctions between self and the world. Benson has documented a 'quietude' that then envelops the entire brain.

At the same time, frontal and temporal lobe circuits -- which track time and create self-awareness -- become disengaged. The mind-body connection dissolves, Benson says. And the limbic system, which is responsible for putting 'emotional tags' on that which we consider special, also becomes activated. The limbic system also regulates relaxation, ultimately controlling the autonomic nervous system, heart rate, blood pressure, metabolism, etc., says Benson.

The result: Everything registers as emotionally significant, perhaps responsible for the sense of awe and quiet that many feel. The body becomes more relaxed and physiological activity becomes more evenly regulated."

***

I have to wrestle with myself before I pray for a miracle for my sister. I have to give ear to my despair and my sense of catastrophe. And then I have to allow for hope. And then I confront Jesus, and remind him of his promises. And then I ask to be made worthy even to pray. Then I surrender to prayer, and everything changes. I do experience that peace that surpasses understanding.

"The Odd Couple" 1968. How America, and American Manhood, Has Changed

I was at a small local library looking over DVDs. 1968's "The Odd Couple" looked like the best bet in a batch of slim pickings. It's about middle-aged, divorced men. I'm not a man; I'm not divorced. The film's famous running gag about one clean roommate and one dirty roommate struck me as shopworn. Bleh. I took it out anyway and thought I'd give it a try.

Within minutes, I was floored by how excellent "The Odd Couple" is.

I remembered something that Roger Ebert said in an interview with Martin Scorcese. Ebert said that "Raging Bull" was a great movie. People would protest that they didn't want to see it because they didn't want to see a film about boxers. No, Ebert insisted. The subject matter of a film is not the heart of the film. Rather, it's how well a film is made that matters. An expertly made film about boxers is better than a badly made film about a topic you may be interested in. So, no, I'm not a man; I'm not divorced. But "The Odd Couple" was so well made that I fell in love with it. I surprised myself by laughing out loud throughout the film.

"The Odd Couple," of course, is the story of news writer Felix Unger leaving his wife and children and moving in with his friend, sports writer Oscar Madison, who is himself a divorcee. Oscar lives in an eight-room Manhattan apartment, which he used to share with his wife and their kids. Felix is neat; Oscar is messy. Sounds pretty trite.

But the movie is a revelation. The script reveals surprising depth about love, hate, and human relationships. The Walter-Matthau-Jack-Lemmon team is like a well-oiled machine – they seem to have perfected their shtick together through several lifetimes.

Jack Lemmon plays the entire movie completely straight. He gives the exact same kind of performance as he did when he was acting in "The Days of Wine and Roses," a hyper serious film about alcoholism. When Lemmon, as Felix, is upset about his meatloaf burning, he shows as much agony as he showed in the previous film about a drunk ruining his own life. It's hysterically funny to watch this poor schmuck wrestle with his petty obsessions and compulsions, oblivious to how he affects others. Even as you laugh at him, you realize he can't help himself. Felix Unger has Asperger's.

What has changed in America, and American film, that this film from 1968 feels like a time capsule from a lost moment in America? Oscar lives in a spacious, eight-room Manhattan apartment. Manhattan real estate has become more expensive, of course. But it's more than that.

The words that kept going through my head as I was watching the movie were "grown-up" and "intelligent."

Oscar, Felix, and their poker buddies are six white guys. They meet and play poker. There are no scenes where these adult, white men are revealed to be inept in comparison to women, blacks, or homosexuals. There are no scenes where the sassy gay man instructs the straight men on how to dress or create romance. There are no scenes where the "magical negro" shows the men that they can't dance. There are no scenes where a woman puts the men down for not knowing how to take care of children or shows the men up as being blinded by lust. There are no scenes where these straight, white men are made to apologize for being straight, white men.

The men are grownups. They have jobs. They wear adult clothing. They wear white shirts and ties, slacks, belts, and shiny shoes. Oscar does wear a backwards baseball cap, but he is the clown of the group. And he does not wear it throughout the film. When he goes out, he dresses properly.

They speak of their marriages as if marriage were something important. They speak of their children as if they love them.

They go on dates. They ask women out, dress up for the occasion, and make witty banter with subtle double entendres.

While watching "The Odd Couple," I thought of recent Judd Apatow comedies starring men like Jason Segel, Paul Rudd and Jonah Hill. These current male stars all play children; they all play losers. They play failed men. The humor in these films is built around what pathetic creatures they are. In "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," Jason Segel, who is fat and prematurely saggy, is shown fully naked. The nakedness highlights his humiliation when his girlfriend, Sarah Marshall, dumps him. These films all use the F word over and over in a manner that feels desperate and limited.

There is one very sly, very funny reference to the f word in "The Odd Couple." Oscar complains to Felix Unger that he is tired of getting little notes from Felix like "We are all out of cornflakes. Signed, FU." Oscar says it took him hours to figure out what "FU" meant. A funny joke. Delivered deliciously. The only time "The Odd Couple" has to refer to the F word to get a laugh.

I've never felt, while watching a Judd Apatow comedy, that I was gaining any insight into the human condition. There are so many payoff moments of absurd comedy in "The Odd Couple," as when Oscar steps on a vacuum cleaner cord and then takes his foot off the cord at just the right moment to send Felix reeling. But there were so many moments that made me say, "Gosh, yes, that's what human relationships are like. That's what it's like to love/hate another human being."

I can't imagine a film like "The Odd Couple" being made today. A genuinely funny, intelligent, rich, grownup comedy about men that shines light on the human condition and that need never speak the F word to get a laugh. And I can't imagine anyone other than a Trump being able to afford that eight-room apartment in Manhattan.

"Heaven Is for Real" by Todd Burpo. Book Review.

"Heaven is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back" is a deeply moving book with a page-turner plot that addresses big, big issues in a reader-friendly way. It is surprisingly well-written. Before I was even finished reading this book I ordered a copy for loved ones. It's *that* good.

"Heaven Is for Real" is a four-year-old boy's account of his near death experience during emergency surgery for peritonitis from untreated appendicitis. Colton Burpo left his body, encountered Jesus, the Holy Spirit, God, Mary, and his own deceased family members. Atheists and Christophobes desperately want his account to be proven false. Their hopes – or their anti-hopes – are in vein. "Heaven Is for Real" is a credible near death account.

In 2003, Todd Burpo was a thirty-something, small-town Nebraska pastor and agricultural combine garage door salesman. His wife, Sonja, was a schoolteacher. They had two children: Cassie and Colton.

One day, then three-year-old Colton had a fever, stomach pain, and he vomited. His parents wrote it off as a stomach virus. Colton's fever went away, he appeared to get better, and the family left for a trip.

Colton worsened during the trip. Todd decided to drive home rather than visit a hospital on their trip route. This was a mistake. Colton worsened. Todd realized his son was losing his grip on life. The first doctor they saw was so unhelpful I wonder if he was not eventually sued for malpractice. Todd and Sonja eventually drove their son to another hospital. As Todd would learn later, the physicians there decided that there was little chance that Colton would survive, and they instructed the nurses to prepare the family for the worst.

To everyone's surprise, Colton did survive his lengthy hospital stay, during which his open abdominal wound had to be regularly drained of pus.

Some months later, this and other crises behind them, the family departed for a fun-filled vacation. As they passed the hospital that treated Colton, Colton casually mentioned having met Jesus and angels during his surgery. Todd and Sonja froze. They didn't know what to make of their son's announcement. We don't talk much about angels, he realized. Where did Colton get this idea of angels?

Todd did exactly the right thing. He monitored his own speech, making sure that he was not feeding Colton information. He also behaved as casually and as neutrally as he could, in order to get the whole story from Colton without changing it with any kind of feedback reward or feedback punishment that would alter what Colton said. Colton contradicted Todd when Todd attempted to test him by feeding him false information. Todd, as a pastor, was very familiar with the Christian curriculum Colton had been exposed to. He recognized that Colton was reporting data that he had not been exposed to. Of the course of several years, Todd got the story down.

Colton Burpo's near death experience is similar to hundreds of other such stories. He left his body. He could see his father praying in one room and his mother talking on the telephone in another. He entered a heavenly realm and encountered deceased relatives. He also encountered Jesus, God, Mary, and the Holy Spirit. This all occurred during a brief amount of time as it is measured on earth: three minutes.

Todd Burpo was especially impressed by Colton's reporting things that he had no way of knowing. Colton mentioned that his mother had had a previous miscarriage. His parents had not mentioned it. He said that he had met this sibling in heaven. Colton said that he met his great grandfather. Todd showed him a photo of this man later in his life. Colton said, no, that's not what the man I met looked like. Todd asked his mother to send a photo of the great grandfather when he was younger. She did so. Without being told who the man was, Colton identified this photo as one of his great grandfather. Colton told Todd about things that Todd and his grandfather had done together. Todd had never told Colton any of this.

Colton said that Jesus had "markers." I am Catholic, and I immediately knew what Colton was referring to. Todd, a Protestant, did not. Through further conversation, Todd realized that Colton was referring to Jesus' stigmata. Todd explains that, as Protestants, his household and his church do not emphasize images of Jesus' crucifixion wounds. He felt that this was something that Colton, a four-year-old Protestant in a tiny Nebraska town, would not have invented.

"Heaven Is for Real" is surprisingly well-written. Burpo wrote with Lynn Vincent, and Vincent, an author of several books, really knows how to put a story together. Many body-mind-spirit books are execrably written. Not so with "Heaven Is for Real." It has a real plot, real suspense, and real characters.

The inevitable question is, is Colton Burpo's account reliable? I found it convincing. Colton Burpo is very much not the first person to have a near death experience. There are hundreds of them recorded online. Todd's protestations that Colton was reporting things he almost certainly did not pick up at home in his short life as a Midwestern Protestant are convincing. Colton reported stigmata, very much not a Protestant thing, and he reported Mary, also not a Protestant thing. Colton insisted on the many vivid colors in Heaven, colors not found on Earth. This meshes with many other near death accounts. Colton reported that Jesus has a rainbow colored horse. He didn't get that from Sunday school.

Todd and Sonja Burpo are employed, stable, law abiding people. They have no history of farfetched schemes. They are modest people who have done nothing to be in the limelight. Their few appearances on Christian TV are understated and cautious. It strains credulity that they would make up this outlandish tale.

If Todd and Sonja had manufactured this story for fame and fortune, they would not have included ugly, self-incriminating material in the book. Todd and Sonja did not respond adequately to their son's onset of appendicitis. It was their hesitance that almost killed their son. They include this self-incriminating material in detail.

Some are willing to accept that Colton Burpo had a near death experience, but they are troubled by his meeting Jesus. Many want to believe in an afterlife, just not a Christian afterlife. They say that Colton met Jesus, and not, say, Vishnu, Buddha, or Allah, not because Jesus really is divine, but because Colton had been raised a Christian, and Heaven takes on the form of the tradition the person who experiences it has been raised in. That's a whole 'nother debate.

"I was 17 and Worried about My Hair ... I Had an Inoperable Brain Tumor." Guest Blog Post by Anonymous

Source

MRI image of a brain tumor. Source

At seventeen the greatest of my worries should have been finding a prom date, choosing the right car, going to concerts and meeting new people and living life to the fullest. I worried about my hair instead. At seventeen, my doctor discovered an inoperable tumor in my brainstem, but I didn't care. My only concern was, "Is my hair going to fall out?" I could handle being ill because it was something I was very familiar with. However, the thought of my hair leaving my scalp was terrifying.

The nightmares began soon after I received this horrible news. I would wake up in the middle of the night with my oversized Lady Gaga t-shirt clinging to my body and reach frantically for my dark strands and pray that they were still connected to my head. They always were, but I always had trouble falling back sleep with two fistfuls of thick black curls. Eventually, the tumor took its course and I still couldn't shake away the fears. Several therapists and a few bottles of Xanax couldn't stop the panic-attack-filled dreams.

So, I cut it off.

The stylist was in disbelief. "Are you crazy?" she asked. "You want me to just cut it off?" I closed my eyes as she tied it all behind my neck in a thick elastic and began sawing off the precious locks. When it was all over and my hair was in a giant plastic bag labeled "Locks of Love," my nightmares left. I confronted that fear by severing it off and donating it to a girl who wasn't as lucky as I was. 

On the first day of the semester, I ask students to provide me with a writing sample.

These writing samples are written by hand, with pen and paper, not computers, and without any preparation. Students usually spend about fifteen minutes on these writing samples.

Reading these writing samples is one of the most moving things I do all semester. Students always surprise me. When I read these writing samples, so full of hope, vulnerability, self-examination and good intentions, I always think, if everyone knew what was going on in the invisible mind and heart of their neighbor, we would all be less cynical, and more gentle.

I've been asking for prayer here for my sister Antoinette. You can read those posts here and here.

I mentioned to the former student who wrote the above first-day writing sample that my sister has received a scary medical diagnosis.

My former student immediately wrote back to remind me of her first day writing sample, in which she had talked about a brain tumor. I save these writing samples and I went back and found it and reread it.

It's an amazing piece of writing. She wrote this spontaneously, on the first day of class, with a black ballpoint pen on a piece of theme paper.

There's so much in this brief essay. The love of beauty that sometimes surpasses the love of biological existence. The confrontation with fear. The defiant, generous sacrifice of her prized hair as a gift to kids who lost their hair to health problems like cancer.

My student wrote to me, "I know I'm a stranger to your sister, but if she wants someone to talk to about the situation that can relate to it, then I'd love to help in any way I can."

I am more touched by my former student's courage and generosity than I can say.

The charity to which my student donated her hair is "Locks of Love." Locks of Love provides hairpieces to children who have lost their hair to health problems.

The Locks of Love website is here.

"42" Jackie Robinson's Story: Beautiful, Inspirational, Must-See

"42" about Jackie Robinson, the first African American major league baseball player, is a beautiful, inspirational, must-see movie. "42" has been accused of being corny. For heaven's sake, it IS corny. Jackie Robinson was a true hero, as was Branch Rickey, the white man who decided to break the color line in baseball. This is an old-fashioned, all-American, even Christian story that makes you tear up and get goosebumps. "42" is about good v evil. The bad guys in this movie are repellant scum. The good guys are true heroes of historic proportions. I wish more people would see this film.

It's the late 1940s. America has defeated Nazism. It's time for the Civil Rights movement to defeat white supremacy in the US. Baseball executive Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford) selects Jackie Robinson (Chadwick Boseman) to be the first African American player on a major league team. This choice puts Robinson's life at risk.

Pitchers attempt to hit Robinson in the head with their balls. Base-runners drive their spiked heels into his legs. Philadelphia Phillies' Ben Chapman hectors Robinson when he is at bat. Chapman repeats ugly, disgusting insults. Robinson is powerless to silence Chapman. Hotel owners won't allow any members of the same team as Robinson to rent rooms. Robinson's own teammates shun him and sign a petition protesting his inclusion. Robinson must wait until his teammates are done in the shower room before he can shower. While his teammates are given lockers, he is given only a peg with a hanger. Toughs arrive at his house and threaten him so badly he must be driven out of town. Letter writers threaten to harm his wife and child.

Robinson's heroism in facing all this is the inspiration. Branch Rickey is also a hero. He was a devout Christian. He chides an interlocutor, "Love they neighbor as thyself. That is repeated eight times in the Bible, more than any other commandment."

"42" isn't an especially deep film. It does not probe deeply into any of its characters. It presents the history of baseball's integration in a fairly straightforward, easy to follow way. Production values are high. The 1940s era is captured in vintage clothes, cars, ballpark ads and architecture.

Chadwick Boseman is handsome, heroic, and stoic as Jackie Robinson. Nicole Beharie is incredibly beautiful as his wife Rachel. Harrison Ford is a bit hammy as Branch Rickey, but he's Harrison Ford, so he can get away with it.

I loved this movie and I wish everyone would see it. We need more such "corny" films.

"The Great Gatsby" 2013 Baz Luhrmann Forces The Great Gatsby through a Kaleidoscope -- And It Works!

Baz Luhrmann's "The Great Gatsby" is an eye-popping, over-the-top, hyperkinetic, loud, heavy-handed circus, opera, and kitchen sink drama. Luhrmann takes F. Scott Fitzgerald's quiet, brief, cerebral novel and forces it through a kaleidoscope, crashing and scattering images in a peacock-colored, geometric Busby Berkeley dance routine. The amazing thing is, it works. The heart and soul of Fitzgerald's novel are there onscreen, and honored. Underneath the literal glitter – that sticks to characters' faces and shoulders in multicolored patterns – this is a genuinely serious film about big themes. It entertained me, it moved me, and I cared.

I am very sensitive to color and there were scenes in Luhrmann's "Gatsby" when I was overwhelmed by chromatic sensation. There is a hotel room orgy. The women wear vivid, finger-in-your-eye obvious eye shadow that contrasts with their vivid, obtrusive colored jewelry that clashes with their crazily colored dresses which throb in contrast with the hideous, red, patterned wallpaper which I am sure is the wallpaper in the hell that bad interior decorators go to. In another scene, purple, blue, and gold metallic streamers cascade downward on a dancer in a buttercup-yellow, ostrich feather tutu.

And it all moves so fast. That ostrich feather tutu is onscreen for seconds. The camera just keeps moving on to the next visual sensation. The costumes, the cars, the special effects, Bollywood film icon Amitabh Bachchan as Jewish gangster, Meyer Wolfsheim!!!: this movie's fabulosity budget must have been a zillion dollars.

Luhrmann lays everything on with a trowel. Long after the audience has realized that certain characters are users whose wealth protects them from the consequences of their evil deeds, Luhrmann tells the audience that, not just by speaking those words from Fitzgerald's book, but by writing the words out on the screen. Luhrmann shows, he tells, he beats you over the head. Only twice, though, did I feel he'd gone too far. Once when an obviously fake shooting star crossed the screen not once but I think three times, and when a character, struck by a car, is shown hurtling through space not once but twice. Once really was enough in both cases – one shooting star, one hurtling corpse.

There is a scene in this movie that took my breath away. After all that jazz, and color and movement, the movie just … stops. It stops in a hotel room. If you've seen the film, you know exactly which scene I'm talking about. There are no special effects in this scene, no fireworks, no presto changeo. It's just a group of people sitting around talking. And suddenly you feel as if you are on Broadway watching a Tony-winning production of Eugene O'Neill. That scene make my guts churn; it broke my heart. Is Luhrmann showing off here? Saying, See, I could hook you in with fabulousness, and now I will move you with nothing more magical than words and real feelings.

The cast is perfect. Leonardo DiCaprio totally owns Jay Gatsby. DiCaprio manages to be human amidst all the glitz. He conveys Gatsby's power and his vulnerability. His voice is perfect; he sounds like someone trying to sound like a Kennedy. Joel Edgerton inhabits Tom Buchanan's brutality and snobbery. Isla Fisher is solid trash. Carey Mulligan brings Daisy to charming, pathetic, despicable life. Tobey Maguire is appropriately observant, lost, tempted, and jaded as Nick. Gorgeous Elizabeth Debicki channels Kirsten Scott Thomas. Richard Carter conveys quiet menace as a character whose job it is to announce, "Chicago is calling." If you can make that line scary, you are very talented.

The soundtrack mixes genuine jazz age music with rap-influenced music, and it works, too.

Praying for a Miracle for my Sister Part II

Me and my sister

Scruffy, my sister's dog. Please pray for Scruffy's family. 

I asked for prayers for my sister a few days ago in this blog post.

There's been news since that blog post and the news is not good.

So I'm praying even harder for a miracle.

I am also praying for God's grace for my sister, her family, and me.

***

I sent the message, below, to my sister's children.

Your mother, your Uncle Greg (Marlee's father) and I used to sleep in the same bed, and bathe in the same bathtub. Our family was very eco-friendly before it became popular. We also wore the same clothes.

Antoinette and I were in constant contact.

It was a big shock for me when she went off to nursing school. Suddenly I was all alone in the house. I used to be the youngest of six kids. Suddenly, I was an only child. Except for our dogs, Tramp, Artie, and Benjie.

Here's the thing, though. I would think something -- a thought would just flit through my mind -- or I would see a movie I liked, or I would hear a song on the radio -- and the next time I saw Antoinette, or the next time she wrote to me in her elegant, long, loopy handwriting, or the next time she phoned -- it would be as if we were Siamese twins, sharing the same brain.

At the same time that I was thinking X, she was thinking X. At the same time that I was singing along to song Y, she was singing along to song Y. At the same time that I was laughing at a joke, or swooning over a movie star, or remembering some event we shared, she would be thinking the exact same thing!!! Even though we were miles apart!

this happened so often, with such exactitude, and such intensity, that it was ... it was as if we were connected by some invisible, highly sophisticated, electronic wiring.

As time went on, this faded. I'll never forget it, though.

Why tell you all this ... you will never not be in touch with your mom. No matter what happens. I promise you. I know.