--by Mike Murray

It has been my habit for more decades than I care to remember to commemorate holidays with celebratory runs. In years past, higher levels of fitness allowed me to enter races and to compete for hardware -- trophies, medals, plaques, and such. Hardly a Thanksgiving Day went by, for example, that I wasn't entered in some Turkey Trot.

When I was relatively young (when I was under thirty years of age -- and for a little while longer, when I was 29 "plus shipping and handling"), I chased overall awards. As the passage of time took its inevitable toll, I settled for age-group glory. Eventually my aging body -- and, sure, my increasingly less-rigorous training regimen -- forced me to slow down still further, relegating me to pedestrian jogs through parks and residential neighborhoods.

Thank God.

I found solace on runs along deserted wooded trails, on sojourns down empty city streets. During those solitary runs, I found peace.

Never one to embrace the dawn (my inclination has always been to hoot with the owls, rather than to soar with the eagles), I have nevertheless periodically rousted myself out of bed at five a.m. in order to get in a run -- while much of the world around me slumbered.

I developed the habit while attending West Tech High in Cleveland, Ohio (a school, it saddens me to report, that no longer exists). Back then, I awoke bleary-eyed each day and hit the pavement in order to squeeze in an extra workout. It was my way of trying to get a "leg up," so to speak, on my track and cross country competition.

In later years, I arose early simply because I craved the quiet of the pre-dawn stillness. My general morning lethargy was overcome by an intense desire to commune, undisturbed, with the natural world.

Those who know me well know that I am not religious. When I entered the Army, my dog tags indicated that I was Catholic. Before the expiration of my term of service, however, I had a new set of tags stamped that changed the designation to Christian.

But that wasn't really accurate, either. Since dog tags served as ID (name, service number), revealed blood type (for obvious reasons), and indicated religious affiliation (should a service be required if worst came to worst), I didn't resist listing a preference, inaccurate though it was.

Besides, it wasn't like I didn't believe in God in some form. I did. I do. I'm just not sure that Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus -- or anyone else, for that matter -- have gotten things exactly right. Not that I begrudge any of them their beliefs. Quite the contrary; I admire their devotion.

I chafe, for example, at the notion that some in our society insist on calling a Christmas tree a Holiday tree. (Do those same folk believe a Menorah to be a Seasonal candelabra?) Silly, silly stuff. As is true with all things sullied by politics (and, make no mistake about it, the Red State / Blue State issue is involved), absurdity results.

But, though I cannot bring myself to conform to any specific set of religious tenets, I respect the beliefs of others. Further, I am appreciative of any belief system that leads people to endeavor to behave more humanely. So God bless 'em, I say.

I do believe in a "higher power" -- even if I am wholly uncertain of the form He, She, or It takes. Like so many others do, I see God in the natural world.

I am a huge fan of the late Carl Sagan. Sagan, as you may know, did not believe in any Supreme Being. When asked on his death bed if he then, at long last, was willing to acknowledge a "maker," now that he was about to meet him, he declined the invitation.

As disquieting (one of Sagan's favorite words) as the notion is that there might be no creator, the scientist in him could not accept what he could not prove. Despite a robust cosmos, despite the implied presence of a "watchmaker" (given the empirical elegance of the watch that is our universe), he could not bring himself to relent. He held firmly, if sadly, to the notion that --even if a God provided the material to initiate "all that that there is, or was, or ever will be," there was no absolute proof of one's existence.

As a co-founder of SETI -- the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence -- Sagan was profoundly hopeful of finding life elsewhere in the universe. But, not having found concrete evidence of it, he could not fully acknowledge it. Still, he steadfastly contended that it was overwhelming probable that life outside Earth exists. That contention required Sagan to take a leap of faith, one that he was not prepared to make in the matter of a creator-watchmaker. (For what is probability-based belief, if not faith -- legitimized by an arbitrary "confidence-degree" coefficient?)

And so, for all my admiration of Dr. Sagan, I diverge in the matter of creation. If no firm explanation exists for where a God would have come from, neither does one exist for the physical matter that would have been required to initiate a Big Bang (or whatever kicked everything off).

No stars would have been formed, no supernovas would have spewed forth the heavier elements (the "star stuff") from which we evolved, had not some initial material existed. Where, exactly, did that come from?

Sagan's challenge to creationists was thus: If we accept the precept that the initial matter in the universe was supplied by God, then we must courageously ask the next question, that being, "Where did God come from?" No one knows for sure.

But equally unknowable is the answer to the contrasting question: "If God did not create the initial matter of the universe, from where did that come?" It is no more unscientific to say that God "always was" than it is to say that matter was ever present. Each contention requires adherence to unverifiable dogma.

There is no belief system -- scientific or religious (or any combination thereof) -- that escapes the requirement of faith.

Given that, given the beauty of all that is around us, and given the wonder of consciousness (cells can divide and molecules can combine ad infinitum ...but how the hell does that lead to awareness?), I'll put my money on some kind of superior being. I'm just gambling, I suppose, on the notion that he won't hold it against me that I have largely failed to worship in any conventional manner.

Which brings me back to my holiday runs.

Most especially on those days, as I've taken in the wonders of the world around me, as I've been alone with my thoughts, as I've engaged in deep contemplation of matters that too often elude my attention, I have found peace. I have healed.

In recent years I have taken to inviting along a canine companion. Doing so has been no slight to human running buddies. It's just that, on those special days, I have preferred to share the experience with a creature who speaks no human language. I have hankered to be in the company of one of God's creatures with whom communication requires no words.

On this year's Thanksgiving morning, I worried that I would have to forgo the pleasure. A prolonged illness had refused to yield, had left me weak. But my desire to share a run with Janna on that gloriously snowy morning was overwhelming.

And so we ran. And it was heaven. Sure, I struggled to finish the last mile. I was exhausted for days after. But the thrill of being out in the cold and snow, of seeing the child-like exuberance of my dear canine friend, is not adequately describable.

Although spring brings welcome relief to many, and the Earth seems to come back to life, I view this time of year as the one of ultimate renewal. Regardless of the degree to which people are or are not "religious," there is a palpable effort by many to better understand and to appreciate others.

There is generosity, as people share with creatures less fortunate. There is celebration at the reunion of family and friends. Otherwise reserved adults are reduced by joyous children to youthful silliness.

However you commemorate this special season, I hope you are able to achieve for yourself -- and for others as well -- some comfort, some peace, some healing.

Copyright © 2005 Michael F. Murray -- All rights reserved.