I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter

Winston Churchill

It’s surprising how many Americans can’t fully grasp mortality. Somewhere in the recesses of our noggins, all of us know the road eventually becomes a cul de sac, leaving us stranded in a car without gas or a map. But the true realization of one’s own mortality remains, for most folks, something that happens to others, not us. We’ve made it this far, with a little help from antibiotics and reflux medication, haven’t we? Why not another eon? Pass the nanotech juice; let’s do another decade! Alas. Most Americans have become so remote from the true nature of death that they’re willing to pass the buck, leaving the thorny questions about extinction to someone more qualified. Like a priest, for instance.

Recently, I attended the funeral of an old friend. His was a rich life with few regrets. There was a fine eulogy honoring our dearly departed comrade, followed by a preacher, who, after acknowledging that he hadn’t been particularly close to the deceased, began a long-winded sermon on the nature of salvation. Being saved is tricky business, and our man in white had the shtick, complete with ready-made punch card answers to Life’s most dazzling (read: troubling) questions.

"Saved from what?" he asked us. "From death," he replied. Of course. From whence he launched into a blog about the power of Jesus, life eternal, our room in the heavenly home. Etc. [Follow me as we sing Hymn Number 334, out of key and with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.]

After being briefed on the ravages of death and the Christian vision of Eternity, I’m now quite certain that a little LSD in the proverbial chalice would be of much use to the average Episcopalian. Why would an otherwise intelligent Homo erectus asphaltus willingly choose to believe in an afterlife that only Walt Disney could construct? Isn’t there something patently weird about the idea of spending who-knows-how-long with a bunch of spooks in The City in the Sky? Do they have cable TV up there? Will there be an endless (free!) supply of Cheetos and Budweiser? How will the Super Bowl work – won’t the loser be mad as Hell to be in a Paradise where one team gets kicked in the ass in front of a crowd of drunken angels?

My spin on the preacher’s sermon is this: Many Christians have swallowed the idea that, assuming they don’t screw up too bad, and repent while the getting’s good, death will be a mere shift in emphasis. A dropping of their skin and bones. A change of scenery that makes a Carnival Cruise seem downright pedestrian. By making a bargain with (the Church’s concept of) Jesus, they will die, simply to pick up where they left off, their egos intact for Round Two of Mojo Salvation Theater. [Join me as we turn to our Book of Common Prayer for another rendition of "Mumble to Thee."] Where’s the good ole Holy rollers when you need em? Seriously, robots could do a more convincing job of liturgical fervor than the average American Protestant.

Do we really believe we’re all going to join some sort of Cosmic Party after we’re whizzed off to glory? "Of course not; the sinners will be frying in the Mondo Oven where they belong! Only the elect get invitations to the Righteous Rendezvous!" Ah so – how could I forget the hopeless sinners? And what, exactly, is a sinner? Isn’t the most basic sin to create all sorts of suffering for the rest of creation while you hunt and gather to suit your whims? Sounds kind of oxymoronic, doesn’t it? We’re indoctrinated from the moment of birth to fixate on our selves (ergo ego). We measure our success by how much we’re able to acquire, whether it’s in the form of currency, sensory pleasure, travel, even spiritual satori. It’s all about accumulating experiences, which generally can be had for a buck. He who dies with the most toys wins. I think, therefore I spend.

It’s no mystery that we’re trashing the only planet we’ve got; egocentric monkeys can hardly do otherwise. Which brings up a point – maybe it’s time to reevaluate who and what we are. Perhaps the old song and dance routine we’ve been spoon fed since the emergence of patriarchal juju "civilization" needs some serious scrutiny. And very soon. The alternative is to find ourselves needing gills and a couple of new livers simply to tread water (no pun) as the majestic oceans rise and turn Miami and New Orleans into America’s newest underwater amusement parks. Global warming might seem a tad goofy now (think Al Gore), but the joke’s on us. 7 billion consumers (and their concomitant piles of waste) tend to muck up everything in their trajectory. And that includes air, water, food supplies, even our own habitats. Charming, eh?

To begin, I suggest we ask our so-called religious "leaders" a few pertinent questions. Here’s a few that came to me in a dream (seriously): "Why isn’t pillaging the planet in exchange for a handful of shekels considered a Class A sin? Or, are we excused for our behavior, at least during business hours? What’s a little rape and pillage as long as it’s done in the spirit of a growing economy?"

I asked a preacher those same questions once and he said something along these lines: "Son, I’d get tossed out the back door before you could shout Hallelujah!" At least he was honest. Just imagine what would happen to America’s economy if folks actually began implementing the stuff attributed to The Prince of Peace. Within a few hours the malls would start emptying to the sounds of One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus, followed by total mayhem.

But the facts remain – our blue green orb is in deep doo-doo, thanks to the self-centeredness of a few billion hominids. In spite of all the spiritual baloney out there in Radio Land, we’re still Homo erectus asphaltus. And we behave accordingly. Consumption is the crux of our mental activity ("Shop till ya drop!"). We hunt and gather because we’re hard-wired to do so. It’s a monkey thing. Which is OK, as long as there’s a balance between the number of monkeys and the ability of the environment to provide for our needs. (Or, in our case, demands). The new chic is to call the requisite balance - sustainability. But that’s just another con. There’s nothing sustainable about what modern humans are up to. Monkey Island with computers is still Monkey Island.

I forget which President referred to our situation as a spiritual crisis. Probably Jimmy Carter, the last honest man to inhabit the White House. Whoever said it, they were right. America is spiritually bankrupt and in need of a good-old-fashioned butt kicking. The idea that we run around all week in gas guzzling hogs, neck ties strangling our carotid arteries, all the while in pursuit of the green stuff, so we can spend our free time in front of the tube enthralled by the most banal jive ever devised by man (take your pick: American Idol, the NASCAR race of the week, MTV, football, the Porn Channel…..) – it’s enough to make you holler, "Honey, pass the Prozac!"

But, alas, all is not lost. One day each week we file like zombies into the nearest church in order for some guy who knows better to tell us that we’re forgiven for being such air-headed fuck-ups. And, to top it off, not only are we forgiven by a God who used to be angry enough to make it rain frogs as the plague was passing through town, but we’re invited to an swinging party in the sky – like, dude – forever! Now, that’s a bargain! Too bad our fellow non-humanoid species aren’t on the invitation list. Or maybe they are….. let’s be sure to run that by Noah, next time he’s in town. Land ho!

OK…. I’ve done my Andrew Weil deep breathing exercises and am now under moderate control. So let’s get back to where this started all those words ago. We were talking about mortality, the Big Sleep. It’s a subject we all ponder from time to time. Which is logical, seeing how much effort we put into chasing pleasure and avoiding pain. Not to mention the cost of a funeral!

So let me get out of here with a fun death poem by my favorite 14th Century Zen master – Ikkyu:

I won’t die.

I won’t go anywhere.

But don’t ask me any questions.

I won’t answer.

Salut!