I suppose it happened when the Good Lord, trying to think of a way to make a woman, decided to use one of Adam's ribs. Adam and Eve have ben arguing about that rib ever since. I don't know where the in-laws came from for that first holiday dinner, but my guess is that they had a beef with each other.
(I have been overhearing conversations, again!)
It is notable how often religious commitment lies at the heart of family differences and, I suppose, at many other disagreements, too. Whether the topic of conversation (or contention) is the President, the status of women, war, sexual orientation, the Tea Party or the Republican primary, someone quotes Jesus or St. Paul, more or less. Muslims are trying to take over our kindergartens, or Jews control the local bank. Or maybe it is the Catholics and that business with little boys. Or Newt's religious conversion to Tea and Callista. The suggestion of evolution will aggravate a division of the house between creationists and scientists.
We fondly, and probably erroneously, recall (or imagine) family dinners and holidays with mashed potatoes and gravy and good humor. It might or might not be true that there was once family harmony and a houseful of Republicans. Maybe. But I guess not. We were probably just conscripted into the same battalion. We were more likely just Italians together, or Norwegians, or members of either the Methodist or Catholic Church, in town.
Now there are Asians at the dinner table, and they are relatives. Now there are tattoos and duck billed caps. The hoodie on the other side of the table is a nephew. Probably. Once everybody bowed in prayer before dinner. If there is prayer, now, some people look around, not to see whether the kids are praying, but to try to figure out what this is about.
For a time in human history, for a long time, but not forever long, people were religious. They wanted to appease whatever it was that denied them food sometimes, and to coax a deer out of the woods, or yams out of the ground. How could one explain a season without rain, or a wind that tore down houses and sank boats? Why did all the sons in a family die, or the wicked prosper?
There were terrible questions, and awful answers. There were mysteries, and apprehensions, more questions than answers, so mysterious answers were much better than no answers.
There are, still, many people for whom mysterious answers are comforting.
But there are others, too. There are people who want to know. They want, really, to know! What makes rain? Why did Magna's children die, and why did she die, too, in childbirth? It had nothing to do with sin, or the fickle favor of God. It was blood type, or genetics, or maybe really a statistical fluke. A statistical fluke is much more comforting than divine retribution.
But, still, we debate mythology and science after turkey, and over wine. It is one of the enduring facts of human life that some people still understand the world as it was understood two or three thousand years ago, while their siblings and cousins and kids and uncles wrestle with uncertainty and chance and necessity and pure, dumb luck.
(I have been overhearing conversations, again!)
It is notable how often religious commitment lies at the heart of family differences and, I suppose, at many other disagreements, too. Whether the topic of conversation (or contention) is the President, the status of women, war, sexual orientation, the Tea Party or the Republican primary, someone quotes Jesus or St. Paul, more or less. Muslims are trying to take over our kindergartens, or Jews control the local bank. Or maybe it is the Catholics and that business with little boys. Or Newt's religious conversion to Tea and Callista. The suggestion of evolution will aggravate a division of the house between creationists and scientists.
We fondly, and probably erroneously, recall (or imagine) family dinners and holidays with mashed potatoes and gravy and good humor. It might or might not be true that there was once family harmony and a houseful of Republicans. Maybe. But I guess not. We were probably just conscripted into the same battalion. We were more likely just Italians together, or Norwegians, or members of either the Methodist or Catholic Church, in town.
Now there are Asians at the dinner table, and they are relatives. Now there are tattoos and duck billed caps. The hoodie on the other side of the table is a nephew. Probably. Once everybody bowed in prayer before dinner. If there is prayer, now, some people look around, not to see whether the kids are praying, but to try to figure out what this is about.
For a time in human history, for a long time, but not forever long, people were religious. They wanted to appease whatever it was that denied them food sometimes, and to coax a deer out of the woods, or yams out of the ground. How could one explain a season without rain, or a wind that tore down houses and sank boats? Why did all the sons in a family die, or the wicked prosper?
There were terrible questions, and awful answers. There were mysteries, and apprehensions, more questions than answers, so mysterious answers were much better than no answers.
There are, still, many people for whom mysterious answers are comforting.
But there are others, too. There are people who want to know. They want, really, to know! What makes rain? Why did Magna's children die, and why did she die, too, in childbirth? It had nothing to do with sin, or the fickle favor of God. It was blood type, or genetics, or maybe really a statistical fluke. A statistical fluke is much more comforting than divine retribution.
But, still, we debate mythology and science after turkey, and over wine. It is one of the enduring facts of human life that some people still understand the world as it was understood two or three thousand years ago, while their siblings and cousins and kids and uncles wrestle with uncertainty and chance and necessity and pure, dumb luck.
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