“To see eternity in a grain of sand...”

As a teenager, I worked late nights at a gas station with some older boys who went to a different high school. We became friends and I, eager to be one of the gang, often overheard interesting plans of which I invited myself to be a part. One day they mentioned something about “going to see the Virgin Mary.” What did this mean, I asked my new friends? What Virgin Mary?

They were hesitant to explain, and it took several days of badgering to find out just what they meant and where She could be seen. One Friday night after closing, fueled by several cans of 3.2 and some of the devil’s weed, I went to see the Virgin Mary. The anticipation caused by their initial reticence had built to an orgasmic peak, the chemicals intensifying every perception. We rode way out north to the end of a road I didn’t know had an end. The car reeked of gasoline and motor oil from our well-stained uniforms. Past the tiny houses, past all the streetlights, to a dark, wooded area that turned out to be a small park. The car’s heater didn’t work, and I needed to relieve myself pretty badly. Being nearly midnight, the park was deserted. As we entered the park, the headlights went out. Down a long straight gravel road we went, then turned and slowly drove back in the direction of town, towards the entrance of the park where a few lonely houses stood. One or two had their porchlights on, just enough to illuminate the space between. And, Lo! there She was-the Queen of Heaven, the Mother of Jesus, Mary Herself, the Virgin. When I gasped in recognition, my friend behind the wheel turned on the headlights and accelerated away. After regaining my composure, I asked if we could go back and see Her again. Naturally the answer was no; a commitment elsewhere was the explanation. The initiation was over.

I really didn’t know how to find that same locale, or under what conditions She would appear (assuming She really had), so I buried the experience along with many others as I pursued higher education and then a career. A decade or so later I was home visiting my parents and had a few spare hours to kill. For whatever reason that night long ago returned to memory, and I decided to drive out after dark and find that same holy spot. Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was providence, but I picked a likely road and followed it north to Hyperborea, to Ultima Thule, and I found the park-Her park. I drove all the way in, turned around and cut my lights. Cruising back, I saw Her and I didn’t see Her. I mean, I saw where She had been, and what had caused the vision, but I also saw the irreality of the original perception. It both was and was not the Mother of Jesus I saw that night. It was the space between two partially-lit houses, one of which had a slight jog right there at the corner. It was clearly Mary, but it was clearly not Mary. If I squinted I could almost make Her out. If I looked straight at Her, She went away. What now?

Flash forward to the present. It is winter. I pick up a collection of oddball, fortean newsclippings, and find therein an article about the miraculous appearance of the image of Christ on some church wall in Central America. Only later was it revealed to be the whitewashed likeness of country singer Willie Nelson, posted there months before to announce some long-past concert, and then forgotten. I thought very little of it at the time, though it was mildly amusing. Maybe Nelson really is Christ, we joked.

Recently I came across an issue of Fortean Times. Some San Francisco guru had come across a broad, cylindrical concrete post discarded by a road construction crew. It was as broad as it was high, and domed at the top. It now resided in an informal dump near a city park. On seeing it for the first time, the guru had instantly declared it to be the veritable lingam of Shiva, and spontaneous pilgrimages had ensued. It was now considered good luck to circumambulate the holy organ and rub its head (good luck for Shiva, at least). It struck me like a flash of lightning-this piece of junk was the lingam of Shiva, every bit as much as the shadowplay I had seen years earlier had been the Virgin Mary. Those who made fun of the Willie Nelson poster or the concrete post simply did not understand; they had lost their childhood perspective on things, a perspective wherein each and every object was a magical one, and mystery was to be found at every turn. The impossible was possible after all.

Needless to say, I was not surprised to learn that present-day manifestations of the Holy Mother took the form of shapes in the clouds. As children we looked for dragons and Snoopy and such, so why not the Mother of God? Many a Christian apologist has attempted to explain the various biblical miracles as natural occurrences directed by a divine hand-so why not today’s miracles as well? Perhaps this is the medium of choice, perhaps Shiva deliberately chose a concrete object (pun intended) by which to manifest His glory for the simple reason that it is more sublime to do so. Any old god could appear in a flash of light with a trumpet sound (or in a flying saucer) and impress even the lowliest unbeliever, but it takes a truly wisdom to manifest as a natural object apt to be overlooked and open to critical analysis, and it takes a dead-eye perception to see what others do not. Mimesis, Phil Dick said in reference to a crusty old satellite from another world-the best hiding place for anything in in plain sight. Without this knowledge, there could be no faith. The use of simple logic would be sufficient to deduce the existence of the Divine from any number of astounding miracles. But a concrete post the manhood of God? That, my friends, requires a true leap of faith. Think of it as a zen riddle.