Introducing the idea of OneFire

Hi Reader,

A reminder: my vision for the future is “a world no longer divided by religion.” This is the context for everything I’m writing now.

I’m tempted to go into a lot of philosophical detail about OneFire this week, but A) that’s boring, and B) I don’t have enough time (typical). Besides, the idea isn’t complicated. In fact, it’s rather along the lines of those arguments kids have about who’s better:

“My gramma is better than your grandma.”

“Nuh uh, my gramma is better.”

“Oh yeah? Well, MY gramma is better times ten.”

“MY gramma is better times a hundred.”

Eventually, the ultimate weapon is unleashed:

“My gramma is better times INFINITY.”

That’s right. OneFire is better times infinity.

And, yes, it’s very childish of me to think so. Just as childish as those imaginary kids’ argument about their Grammas. But, well. I mean, my gramma is also better than yours, so… it’s ok to be childish when I’m right, amiright?

So in that earlier email, where I said it was “the most important email I’ve ever sent you,” that felt true when I wrote it, and maybe it still is in a way. But also, it might not matter at all. Still working on that paradox.

Anyway, here’s what I saw that night in the dark of my daughter’s bedroom. Imagine it with me:

It’s a dark night, lit only by the stars. We’re standing together on an overlook. Below us, as far as the eye can see in the dim light, is a vast expanse of wild land. We can just make out the vague outlines of trees, rustling gently in the soft breeze. The jungle below ripples gently, and could easily be confused with the ocean.

We hear distant animal calls, birds, monkeys, frogs, all either settling down to sleep or rousing themselves for their nocturnal activity. The wind, the jungle, the wildlife: from our distant vantage point, everything seems peaceful.

Suddenly, the orange light of a bonfire appears, a ways to our left. We hear the beginning of a chant. A tribe has begun their nightly ceremony. We don’t know the specifics, but we can imagine them dancing and whirling around that fire in their own unique way, a way that has been passed down for generations, a way that fits their lifestyle and affirms their identity.

A few minutes later, another fire blossoms, this time to our right. We hear the distant echoes of drums, a steady pulsing. We know, somehow, that it will slowly build in speed and intensity, eventually becoming an infectious rhythm. I notice your foot begin to tap. But these drums are different than the chants we heard before. They have a completely different feel to them. A different pathos. It is evident that they express a worldview that doesn’t fit with the chants of the tribe on the left.

As we watch and listen to the fires in the dark, more and more begin to appear, scattered across the landscape. Each fire, we know in the preternatural way of dreams, is a different tribe, a different rhythm, a different people, a different dance. Each people in the valley below are celebrating—and not just celebrating, but participating in—what makes them them. They each see the fire around which they dance as the lifegiving force that allows their people to go on. They each see in that fire the source of their identity as a people. In a very real way, the fire is who they are, and their dance is how they express who they are.

And we, off in the distance, overlooking the scene, can hear how different each song is. How each people embody a different way of looking at the world. What seemed to us a peaceful naturescape a few minutes ago is now a cacophony of different expressions of human identity.

It’s easy to imagine, given this surface-level observation, that if two of these tribes were to encounter one another they would end up in conflict. They are, after all, different. They see the world differently. They dance different dances to different rhythms. Those dances, those rhythms, do not go together. They are in conflict, and so the people who embody them will also be.

It’s easy to imagine because that’s how it’s always been. Ever since the dawn of humanity, we’ve been at each other’s throats. Each of us with our tribe, our particular way-of-being and our comrades in that way-of-being. Dancing our particular dance around our particular fire, if you will. Always aware that there are others out there who are not a part of our tribe. Whose dance is wrong. Whose fire is wrong. Perhaps we use even stronger words than “wrong”: weird. Unnatural. Evil. Abomination.

This is the state of the world now. Divided. Each fire is a different God worshipped by different people (even if they don’t use the words “God” and “worship”). Many of these people are convinced their God is the right one or the best one. Many believe those who follow other Gods are misguided or lost—or even repugnant—for doing so.

Really, this is understandable. Because the world really does look the way it does from where I’m standing, so the easiest conclusion is that if you think it looks different, you’re wrong. And you come to the same conclusion from the other way round: I’m wrong. And that’s the best we human beings could do for a long time.

What I call our old religions are expressions of this way of looking at the world. Certainly Christianity—the religion I was raised in—and its traditional ideas of heaven and hell come from this “in group/out group” “right/wrong” way of looking.

But we know more now than we did when any of these old religions began. We have so much more information about the way the universe works. Our understanding, though still very limited, is nevertheless orders of magnitude greater than it used to be.

We know, for instance, that the same gravity that causes an apple to fall from a tree causes the planets to remain in orbit. There isn’t a “this gravity” and “that gravity.” There isn’t gravity “over here” and “over there.” There is only gravity.

We know that a wave in the ocean isn’t a discrete thing, but just a pattern the ocean takes in response to the wind and the shore. There isn’t “this wave” and “that wave.” There is just the ocean, “waving.”

In the same way, we know that the chemical and combustive processes that cause things to burn are the same the world over. There isn’t “this fire” and “that fire.” There is only fire.

If we return, now, to our imaginary landscape and look down once again upon the scattered fires of the tribes, we can see that they are actually all the same single expression of the universe. They may be spread across a large area, but they are all one fire.

So: OneFire.

At this point, I really wanted to tell you what I got from the vision here. But, I think it will be better not to. At least for now.

Instead, you tell me: what do you see in it?

I look forward to your responses.

The Book Report (haha):

I finished Faith After Doubt. I am of two minds about it. On the one hand, McLaren paints a picture of the “stage of faith development” that comes after what he calls “perplexity” (which is definitely where I’ve lived the last 15 years and am longing to transition out of—and am, in ways, doing so) and what he calls “harmony.” I like the picture he paints. On the other hand, what makes it not just another “what I got can save the world if only everyone got it?” For that matter, what makes OneFire any different than that? Are we forever cursed to become the things we resist?

I started reading two other books: 101 Essats that will Change the way You Think (by Brianna Wiest), and A Joseph Campbell Companion (by Joseph Campbell, of course, though compiled by Diane K. Osbon). Neither are books with a point, really, as much as they are collections of thoughts. I don’t know if I’ll be willing/able to finish either directly. We’ll see.