The God of the Gaps

I once worked for a man who was baffled by the fact that a cow could eat green grass and produce white milk. He saw it as a great mystery, a miracle, giving certain evidence to the existence of a deity.  

The “God of the gaps” is a phrase used in science to explain the unexplainable. When earthly evidence hits a wall, God fills the void. Isaac Newton couldn’t fully explain the orderly motion of the planets using laws of gravity so he conceded to divine intervention.  For millennia, lightning was attributed to the likes of Thor and Zeus until Ben Franklin flew a kite in a thunderstorm and discovered charged electrons. Physical illnesses were seen as God’s punishment until Louis Pasteur introduced germ theory.  Mental illness and epilepsy were works of the devil until our understanding of brain activity, neurology, and genetics provided an explanation. The incredible diversity of life on Earth wasn’t created instantaneously but can be attributed to evolution by natural selection. Earthquakes, volcanoes, and violent storms don’t indicate a wrathful God but are natural occurrences driven by plate tectonics, geology, and weather systems.

Some fear that science and its capacity to unravel mysteries questions God’s existence. Theologians disagree, and argue that using God to explain the unexplainable holds us in ignorance rather than pushing us towards better understanding.

I heard a priest say that a loving God isn’t responsible for an earthquake that destroys lives, that natural disasters were part of creation. God does not intervene when fault lines reach their limits or twisters rip through towns.  “God,” the priest said, “is there for the rebuilding, for the strength and healing needed by survivors.” 

Faith is belief in the absence of proof, a confidence even when the odds against us are high. It keeps hope alive. But it’s not an excuse to take life sitting down, for concluding that injustices and prejudices are beyond our ability to change. 

It doesn’t take a theologian, philosopher, or academic to find the God of the gaps inspiring.  Thanks to man’s drive for knowledge and understanding, gaps are steadily whittled away. In the process, our preconceptions of the divine can evolve into something greater— more mysterious, powerful, and humbling.  Modern science asks us to be open to the possibility of a multiverse, multiple big bangs, universal consciousness, alternative realities and dimensions, reincarnation.  Rather than being threats to religious convictions, such theories suggest we might be selling our divinity short. 

There’s a parallel between our reaction to the God of the gaps and our willingness to dissect and challenge long held beliefs and practices. Most if not all world religions advocate peace. Buddhism teaches mindfulness, compassion, and detachment from desire. Christianity promotes love and forgiveness: “Blessed are the peacemakers.” “Salaam”, the root word of Islam, means “peace”, and the Quran favors reconciliation over violence. Judaism sees peace as a divine ideal. Hinduism emphasizes tranquillity and peace as a personal and cosmic goal. With peace a universal objective and wars dominating the world stage, something fundamental is long broken. 

Atheism is not a religion in the traditional sense but provides a framework for understanding life in much the same way religions do. It took me a while to accept that some of the most moral and generous people I know are atheists. Their motivation to “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is out of common sense and decency, not eternal destiny. Too many organized religions subscribe to a slightly altered version: “Do unto others as the bastards would do unto you,” and it changes everything. 

There is no arguing the value or benefits of a spirit-filled life, but living it with stubborn righteousness is a problem. Often without realizing, we fall into lock step with misinterpretations or weaponization of scripture  to defend our positions, and justify hatred or violence against those whose beliefs are different. Religious texts were written by men with their own ingrained cultural notions regarding slavery and women’s rights and societal divisions. And over centuries original scrolls were misinterpreted in translation, rewritten, and letters and gospels withheld to satisfy scholarly attitudes of the time. 

While a college student, I heard a housemate say when we die we will meet the God of our faith, regardless of religion.  I considered it blasphemous but now see the merit in his reasoning. It allows mutual respect and understanding in a world where multiple traditions claim exclusive access to eternal destiny.

As a fourth grader, I remember a nun asking our class, by show of hands, if we lived in homes with a non-catholic parent. “Oh, pray for them,” she said, and a half dozen impressionable kids went home fearing their moms or dads were bound for hell. 

Benjamin Franklin is often misquoted to have said, “Beer is proof that a loving God exists.”  He was actually referring to wine, but either way it garners broad support regardless of religious preference. Maybe it’s a starting point, common ground for realizing we have more in common than we think.

Tonight, shortly after sunset, the light took on an orange hue, illuminating the landscape with a soft glow, highlighting the yellows and reds of early autumn. Wilderness activist Sigurd Olson wrote about it in his book, Runes of the North, after spending time afield with photographer Frank Ross. Frank would wait patiently for that rare evening light that could change the ordinary into something magical. 

Sig coined it the Ross light, and for decades the Scheidler household has used the term to describe an unworldly and satisfying evening glow. We don’t need the God of the gaps to explain the phenomenon— meteorology has it covered.  And when the Ross light bathes the countryside, people notice and are moved. Some credit their God and others say it’s just a strange and inspiring light. Either way it reveals a beauty that was always there— we just have to open our eyes to see it.

 

Abundance

We dug potatoes yesterday, a chore Lee looks forward to. I run the fork while she kneels on the ground snatching up tubers. She grins like a kid on an Easter egg hunt, squealing now and then. Every spud is a trophy. They were small this year, most the size of duck eggs. Much of the summer was extraordinarily dry and our watering efforts were half-hearted, so the yield matched expectations. But we have enough— the shelves of the root cellar are full. 

In September the sweet corn is tucked away in the freezer and the pantry is stocked with green beans, pickles, and tomatoes diced and juiced and sauced.  Labeled jars line the shelves like rank and file soldiers. Onions and garlic bulbs are fully cured, kraut and hot sauces fermented.  A year’s worth of goodness lies at the ready.  

And still the garden lives. Peppers and tomatoes and sweet potatoes will do what they do until frost shuts them down. If we were better gardeners we’d have fall crops of carrots and greens, cabbage and broccoli. But by late season we’re buried in abundance and our enthusiasm wanes, so weeds have their way.

The giant ragweed and pokeweed hide the compost piles and garden table. The smartweed and pigweed and foxtail claim every neglected space. And as wildness encroaches crickets sing, butterflies flit about the zinnias, finches feast on ripened sunflowers.

The September garden is both disorderly and inspiring, reminding us that our efforts to impose order are temporary.  The garden gives us tomatoes, sweet corn, and green beans, but a lapse in tending invites a riot of growth, diverse and aggressive with a beauty of its own.

Abundance extends beyond the garden. In early September there were thousands of demonstrations to celebrate workers over billionaires. A million seconds pass in 11 days, but a billion requires 32 years. It’s a big number, particularly when it refers to money. And the idea that a person or corporation can lay claim to so much is absurd. It is the epitome of capitalism gone berserk, inequality at its worst.

Collectively, billionaires control nearly 50 percent of the world’s wealth. Most fail to acknowledge that their fortunes were made by the working class and use their money for political leverage or personal power.  Some are directly linked to environmental and social woes, standing at the helm of corporations responsible for deforestation, oil and mineral extraction, sprawling development.  They are consumed by an inextinguishable drive for more profit.  Always more. With the ability to shape the world’s response to climate change and social justice, it seems most are more interested in bigger yachts and mansions. 

MacKinzie Scott, ex-wife of Jeff Bezos, is a standout. In four years, she gave away 14 of her 38 billion dollar divorce settlement. Sixteen hundred organizations benefited— community colleges, food banks, women’s shelters, racial justice groups. No fanfare, no philanthropic galas, just quiet, radical giving to organizations dedicated to making the world better. Her approach mirrors the generosity in nature: seeds scattered, harvests shared, growth without expectation of return. I can imagine MacKinzie planting a vegetable garden, getting her hands in the dirt, growing greens, tomatoes, and carrots— a woman grounded in reason and compassion despite her fairy tale wealth. 

The other day I saw an AI clip of the White House occupant dressed in torn trousers and a ragged jacket. He was astride an old tractor, harvesting potatoes, and I’d never seen him look more respectable. A garden humbles a man, providing food while illuminating broader planetary concerns and obligations.  Nature gives freely while greed and hoarding, with rare exception, are human tendencies.

In September, with the pantry and freezer full, we let the seeds of chance have their way. In the treetops a loose gathering of kingbirds pause on their journey south. A toad hops from under a clod of soil. Asters and tickseeds bloom. Locusts sing. 

Life in its infinite forms reminds us we are all in this together.  We are outnumbered, but fully capable of damaging environments supporting all life. Our efforts to displace and control are temporary but causing long term harm. A highly functional living planet awaits our next move. 

A Reason to Write

 

I can point to an experience seven or eight years ago that explains why I write. On a warm summer evening my wife and I were on the dock solving world problems with our good friend Scott Johnson, when Scott and I realized a mutual interest in writing. We made a pact to get together every couple weeks to share something we'd scratched out, and it became routine. Not long after, a local writer's group formed and our dock meeting moved to a monthly gathering at Black Dog Coffee, which continues today.

Beyond the obligation to have something to share with Scott, I started writing for at least three reasons: 

— I'm not good at thinking on my feet. I need alone time to ruminate on a topic before forming an opinion. 

— I write because it’s a dread, a challenge, and a passion rolled into one. The most difficult and rewarding thing I know. The last thing I want to do and all I want to do.

— I write on matters that concern me most, that threaten the ecological systems supporting life on Earth. When those systems break down, which they are doing, there are life altering consequences. That’s worth writing about. 

I was recently asked to give a presentation on the state of wildlife today, but it became more than a talk on orioles and raccoons and lightning bugs. Concerns for wildlife are a segway to the sixth mass extinction, rising sea levels, desertification, loss of habitats, increased frequency of destructive weather events. Inevitably, it leads to climate change and its effects on national security, trade, economics, and the hopes and dreams of every person alive. 

 

For several years I made an effort to steer away from politics. But the reality is the environmental threats we face are time sensitive and not likely to be addressed with speed without government mandates and incentives. To this end the US is failing miserably. China, with full government support, is installing solar fields at a rate of 1 gigawatt every 8 hours— the equivalent of an average nuclear power plant— while we prop up antiquated coal-fired facilities, reduce environmental safeguards for oil and gas, and remove incentives for renewable energies like wind and solar.  

I don’t write to change closed minds or argue facts supported by overwhelming evidence. Those who see climate change as a hoax, who use a blue jay in the backyard as proof songbird populations are good, who won’t accept that extreme weather events are increasing, are likely beyond persuasion. I write for those undecided, who doubt things could be as dire as predicted, or who feel powerless to respond. 

We have technologies that hold tremendous promise and no shortage of skilled and dedicated engineers. If given full support, they’ll find solutions beyond our dreams. 

It’s complicated and challenging and requires commitment from every industrialized nation. But rather than leading the way, the US is doubling  down on fuels and practices that pump more heat trapping pollutants into the atmosphere. Rather than harnessing clean, free energy, we’re still shoveling coal. 

Alexander Von Humboldt warned of the influence of human activities on climate in the early 1800’s. ExxonMobil scientists recognized the threat of atmospheric CO2 more than 50 years ago but kept their findings under wraps. The impact that greenhouse gases have on global temperatures is not new information, but time has caught up with us. We delay at our own peril. 

In his new book, “Here Comes the Sun: A Last Chance for the Climate and a Fresh Chance for Civilization,” author Bill McKibben puts it all in perspective:

— In the past two years, 95 percent of new electric generation came from wind and solar. Once viewed as costly alternatives, clean, renewable energies are now the most economical.

— Half of the corn grown in the US is turned into ethanol. Farming produces one crop of corn per year. The ethanol rendered from one acre of corn powers a traditional Ford F150 25,000 miles. In one year, a single acre of solar panels will power an all electric Ford F150 for 700,000 miles. 

— More than half the cars sold in China last year were electric and powered by sodium ion batteries. Sodium is abundant and readily available. 

— According to the Rocky Mountain Institute, an organization focused on energy and efficiency, the amount of mining required to satisfy world demand for lithium through 2050 is less than the mining done for coal last year. 

— Forty percent of ocean freight involves transporting carbon fuels— oil, liquified natural gas, and coal. 

— The US is the second highest carbon emitting country in the world.

— States, counties, and local jurisdictions are free to move towards clean energy without federal support. Deep red Texas is installing renewable energy faster than any other state.  California reduced its reliance on natural gas for electricity by 40 percent in one year as a result of solar development. 

Solutions within our reach, yet we waver— paralyzed by politics, short term interests, and willful ignorance.  It’s maddening.

And so I write, venting frustrations, mourning losses, hoping against hope that those of us occupying the most powerful and wealthy country in the world will become aware, alter our behaviors, and demand change for the sake of a living planet. Numbers provide power and with power comes momentum.  We can still get it done. It’s too late to avoid a lot of discomfort— it’s not too late to avoid the worst. 

As I wrapped up this piece I stepped out for a swim in the pond. The heat index was 105, the pond still low following several inches of rain.  An osprey appeared out of nowhere, struck the water near the island and climbed skyward with a spunky bluegill in its talons. Twice it paused mid-flight to shake like a dog before disappearing over the treetops.

It was a snippet of something timeless. Predator meeting prey. Much more than a bird catching a fish, it was a beautifully refined transfer of energy relying on endless connections between the living and nonliving. Perfect in function. Marvelous to behold. All of it, threatened. 

Berries, Butterflies, and a Big Bad Bill

In mid-June we went raspberry picking for the first time this year. A two-inch rain a few days prior fattened the wild fruits and brought them to peak sweetness. 

The morning was drenched with heavy dew. It was hot. A south wind puffed and sent ripples across the pond and shimmered the cottonwood leaves but did little to dull the heat. The air was thick. Heavy. We were soaked with sweat by 9 AM.  As the first berries landed with dull thuds in our pails we were privy to an impromptu concert: an ensemble of vireos and warblers and cuckoos. We were hunter-gatherers, engaged in a ritual as old as humankind. Strangely, there wasn’t a mosquito. Not one, and I didn’t know if I should be grateful or concerned. 

There’s a line of thought that says a healthy and balanced ecosystem should have few mosquitoes, because predators—fish and frogs, bats and birds— keep numbers in check. It’s logical, but why, in the far north, where some of the cleanest and healthiest environments still exist, do mosquitoes cloud the sky?

Why does our evening porch light attract so few moths, June bugs and lacewings? How is it we take a drive on a warm summer’s night and return with a clean windshield? Why have dragonflies, butterflies and grasshoppers nearly disappeared from our landscape?

Insects are the foundation of terrestrial food webs and their services and value are beyond measure. We might think we can live without them, but we can’t.  Yet their absence, when noticed at all, usually causes little concern. We might prefer that most were gone. 

Monitoring insect populations is limited to a select few. Pollinators, responsible for much of the food we eat, top the list. Next are those that threaten crops or timberland, especially when the threat comes from an introduced pest like gypsy moth or emerald ash borer. If an insect seems dangerous it gets our attention. Most do not. 

In the world of insects there are over a million known species.  The actual number may be 10 times higher as so many are yet to be discovered. Each fills a niche, plays a role, and most are in decline.

  

The Krefeld study measured flying insect numbers in German nature preserves. Over a 30-year period, observers found a 75 percent reduction in total biomass with no clear explanation. Another long term study, this one at the Guanacaste Conservation Area in Costa Rica, links a dramatic loss of moths and caterpillars directly to climate change. Renowned entomologist E.O. Wilson called insects “the little things that run the world,” and those little things are disappearing.

 

By the 4th of July the law of diminishing returns put an end to our pursuit of raspberries. The heat dome occupying the eastern half of the country sat like a brooding hen. The rains were spotty, and the corn fields missed grew pale, their leaves curled into spears.

  

We had seen exactly one monarch butterfly and were still awaiting the first grasshopper of the season when the Big Beautiful Bill was signed into law. The scalawags that pushed it through hailed it as the Golden Age of America, despite opposition from the majority.  At its core was a permanent tax break for the wealthy at the expense of healthcare, education, foreign aid and food assistance. It removed incentives for electric vehicles and renewable energy, dismissed an assortment of science-based services, gave the fossil fuel industry the green light— all while threatening to add three trillion to the deficit and nudging us ever closer to authoritarianism.

 

For those of us who want to simply live, work, dream, and have a legitimate hope for a long and prosperous future, the bill has the appeal of a nuclear winter. It’s tempting and much easier to ignore it, embrace ignorance, and believe all will be well in the end. The good people of 1930’s Germany did exactly that. 

Government incentives and mandates are essential to meaningful environmental policy. Capitalism won’t rise to the call on its own, at least not quickly. And with all the turmoil and confusion, the cries for justice and fairness, the chaos of tariff uncertainty, there is zero probability the current White House will intervene for the sake of butterflies or anything that hints of environmental wellness. 

My former boss would say, “Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.”  It’s not the most joyful motto to live by but can offer unexpected comfort in the face of overwhelming odds, encouraging us to better appreciate the people in our orbit, the song of a wood thrush, a ripened peach, a perfectly chilled monastic brew…

Quiet resistance. Savoring what’s left. Sometimes it feels that’s all there is.