I walk down to the ocean in the late afternoon just as God exhales, and a long-held breath of fog comes to meet me. White and pure, it gathers itself around me like a cataract in some ancient eye, obscuring all traces of intellect. I start to feel disoriented, wobbly, as my feet, kissed by wet sand, are drawn in.
What is it that grounds us, really? How do we even know where we stand?
I look behind me and make out a faint scaffolding built of driftwood that some other pilgrims and sojourners have built, pointing the way back to the ordinary world like the lamp post in Narnia—but it doesn’t comfort me, because what I really long for is somewhere else, somewhere further into this blinding grace of fog, somewhere closer to the sound of waves like a steady heart beating through some surrounding womb, roaring reassurance.
I am not lost here, but I want to be. I want to lie down in the sand, to feel God’s skin against mine without the protection of verticality and the impervious soles of my man-made shoes, but I’m not yet bold enough to act as crazy as I really am.
Instead, I turn back to civilization, trudge through dry sand, crawl into the human exoskeleton of houses and wires and cables barnacled to the coast, and watch the worst Nicholas Cage movie ever made, three times.
Con Air is playing in Japanese on one channel, and then in English, weirdly, on two others. It’s about a vet who goes to prison before his daughter is even born, for accidentally killing some guy in a bar fight. From prison, he writes to his daughter every day and as the movie opens, he’s finally on parole and catching a ride home in a plane full of hardcore convicts.
Suddenly the cable company develops an intermittent power failure and the screen turns to dirty snow, but instead of giving up, I become mesmerized by the pattern: seven seconds of snow, followed by two seconds of movie, repeated through two hours of John Malkovitch, Danny Trejo, Ving Rhames, and Steve Buscemi creating every kind of mayhem possible in and with a Fairchild C-123 Provider, with John Cusack in pursuit on the ground.
The cable signal becomes steady again in time for Nicholas Cage, made up as Hollywood’s idea of Jesus–all cut up in a wife-beater undershirt, with shoulder-length hair–to reunite with the seven-year-old daughter who has never seen him before. “I was going to get a haircut,” he offers, and I forgive Cage his terrible fake Southern accent, forgive the stellar cast for wasting their time on this terrible movie, and forgive myself when my foolish heart jumps at the chance to watch it again, uninterrupted, when it starts to replay at 2 a.m.
My own father never came back from the prison of alcoholism, never sent me a letter of any kind, never beat out the bad guys. My father’s reappearance in my life was announced not by John Cusack, but rather by a phone call from the Ventura County Coroner when I was twenty-three years old.
Now, even four decades later, I am still a fatherless child, waiting for a letter or a sign of any kind. It’s possible that my reaching for God is entirely explained by this psychological set-up, and of course there are many who would see it that way.
But it’s also possible that my particular emotional background simply highlights in me a natural human impulse in us all—to reach for that which is beyond us, to hope for someone who understands us and can help us understand ourselves, to admit the vastness and importance of the unknown, to move forward into a blinding white fog that reaches for us in this strange world, as ridiculous as it is sublime.