Thundercats

The folly of not listening to what God has already provided for us

Storms are one of the last elusive vestiges of those primordial fears by which man has not subdued to the will of his instruments. The last of the chaos titans that had once oppressed our ancestors with fear and dread, and to which we still are haunted when the season comes and great tempests come to bear their rage upon us. Tornadoes, hurricanes, blizzards, and floods still wreak havoc upon humanity, and for the most part, we are helpless before such raw power. We can only cower and hide before its incredible power. Our technological tools allow us to see it coming, but that is all (a fact that is scandalous to the world of men)—the audacity of a titan that refuses our technological chains.

One such titan descended upon my small village one spring. A light blueish-gray blanket of clouds stretched from lakeshore to lakeshore in the peninsula of Michigan, which was hardly unusual, as any Michigander would readily testify. However, Atticus, our family cat, was acting unusual. He cared we existed. He wasn’t hiding in our bedroom sleeping the day away upstairs but was with us in the living room. He continually rubbed his back along our shins as he stalked back and forth. Once he got our attention and we made eye contact with his fear-filled green eyes, he would let out a small chattery cry, followed by an intermittent drawn-out yowl. A storm was afoot, or at least Atticus thought so.

 Although always ready to attack dogs, cats, small children, rodents of various sizes, and anything else he could swing a paw at, the cat was a fraidy cat regarding storms. He would tuck-tail and hide, usually between my legs or my wife's. His ears twitched and rotated like a satellite dish, trying feverishly to receive some incoming distant signal. Next, Atticus' army crawled as low to the floor as he could, inching his way to me on the couch. Weasling his way under my legs to get as close as he could to me or my wife next to me. If he could unzip our skin and jump in, he probably would; he was a blubbering mess. 

Seeing the sad sight before me of such a large cat fighting so hard to become small, I asked my wife if it was going to storm today? She said she didn’t think so and then proceeded to ask the Alexa device in the kitchen whether it would rain. Alexa stated confidently in its monotone voice, “There is a 0% chance of rain today.” Dismissively, we tried to get the cat away from us and assure him he was being ridiculous. Cats have a hard time understanding words, so he continued his hysterical antics, nearly tripping us as we walked about the house. Atticus was obviously wrong. I checked my phone’s weather app, and it unwaveringly agreed with what Alexa had said. There was no chance of rain; it was just a typical overcast Michigan day.

Then the front porch chimes began to sing, and the garden pinwheels my son loves to watch began to whirl, quite fast in fact. A thought crossed my mind as my eyes relayed the information to my brain. My eyes were saying that it looked like it was going to storm. However, that was ridiculous because the computer had already told us there was no chance it would rain, much less storm. The thread to My confidence began to unravel when the sky lightly tapped my back sliding glass door. The first couple of specks of ice balls that hit my window should have been enough to tell me the storm was indeed coming, but I held firm to my computer convictions because, after all, what does the natural world know about nature? Obviously, my senses, the cat, and the specks of hail that were increasing in number rapidly were not as accurate as my phone or the omniscient Alexa. My kids began to press their faces against glass of the sliding backdoor, looking out, awaiting a storm that we told them was not coming. The yowls of an ignored feline were increasing; his pupils became large black disks of panic as he struggled for safety. The wind began to rant and rave as our house ached and moaned under the strain. Then, what looked like a golf ball hit the siding near the glass door, startling my children and myself. I approached the door, looked out into the neighborhood, and saw a sight that looked like it was right out of the plagues of Egypt. The largest hailstones I’ve ever seen began to pour out their wrath upon everything, pummeling all creation to the ground. I couldn’t believe it. A storm had come. Atticus was right.

My foolishness is a symptom of a great illness in this world of men and machines: Because man made it, it must be better than what already exists. A.I. is better than an artist. Why? 

Man didn’t make the artist, but he did make A.I. 

It is an instrument we have forged and, therefore, must be inherently better. No matter how often my weather app and Alexa have failed spectacularly to predict the weather, I periodically dismiss my natural instincts to the wisdom of wires and silicon. 

Why? 

If I do not ask rocks to tell me these things, why would I trust their wisdom when they come to me in the shape of a smooth rectangle with a touch screen? God has given us so many beautiful things in this world to help us, and I think we often neglect them for those things of our own making. Pride in ourselves and our machines is perhaps our greatest vice. It brings to mind a verse I need to remind myself of more and more, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” (Proverbs 16:18).

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I created this blog to exercise the ideas that have haunted my mind. This blog will discuss and contemplate story, imagination, formation, Christian education, icons, symbols, pictures, and poetry. Journey with me as we delve into the deep cavernous thoughts of J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald, Malcolm Guite, James K.A. Smith, N.T. Wright, Charles Taylor, and The Holy Scriptures. If you are interested in or hate this content, join the conversation, as I will blog about these subjects and authors every Sunday.