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.