Signs and microbes

This week, April 20th marked the first anniversary of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Throughout the Christian world, this week is also Holy Week, a period commemorating the Last Supper, the Passion of Jesus which culminates in the celebration of Easter on Sunday. Whatever we God-directed people believe, whatever our religious differences, I think it is always good to reflect on the signs of God's presence in our lives and feel gratitude for our personal moments of divine intervention. In fact, with all the people who live under my roof, all the projects, the everyday chaos, all the uncertainty of our lives, just the fact that the house is quiet and I have time to write at 11:24 AM on a Saturday is a genuine miracle.

I have read that Muslims distinguish between signs (ayaat) and miracles (mu'djiza). The criteria for mu'djiza are best left for scholars to ponder. But without even knowing I was doing it, I have been spending a good deal of time pondering ayaat, both in my personal life, and in the larger world events. My atheist friends shake their heads and tell me I am crazy to look to nature to justify my belief in the divine.

Their Christian upbringing tells them that if a scientific rationale is available, this necessarily negates divine explanation. They tell me that a true God would not allow suffering. I disagree. I think Nature's laws are God's laws. Because we are flawed and human, our faith can easily be rattled by bad news, and we routinely ignore the much more commonplace happy tidings of our life, the fact that we are alive, and powerful enough to overcome our tragedies. For me, this is the central lesson of Bangladeshi history.

A year ago, as a writer for The Riverside Signal, I wrote a poem called "I am BP" that summed up my feelings about the disaster we'd brought upon ourselves because of our avaricious appetite for oil. After the spill, I remember the despair we all felt over the state of the world. How would the Gulf ever recover? Was this spill the consequence of the mindless instinct we Americans have to consume without thought for the cost? One year ago, I thought this poem was a swan song for the American environment:

I AM BP.

My water comes from plastic jars on local Quickie shelves
My thermostat cause tritium to poison all our wells
My foot accelerates the gas that pours into the sea
So when you ask me "Who's to blame?"
I'll say, "I am BP".

They drill to fuel my plastic life
'Til all the fuel is gone.
So I can fight my endless wars
So I can mow my lawn.
They drill so I won't have to walk six blocks for groceries.
They drill so I can watch the spill right on my own TV.

The oil spills and kills so we can wrap our food in foam.
It kills the Gulf so we can bulldoze woods to build a home.
It kills so I can buy cheap clothes from workers who aren't free.
Big Easy life is leaking death, because I am BP.

Our air is choked, our water spoiled, more chaos is in store
The murky waters of the Gulf bleed greed upon our shore.
I look into those waters- whose reflection do I see?
A man whose lifestyle spins the drills.
It's true- I am BP.

When I wrote the poem, I believed we had killed the Gulf of Mexico. I believed that short of divine intervention, the Gulf could never be resurrected in my lifetime.

I claim to be a man of faith, so why am I surprised when signs of intervention appeared? Have I been programmed to dismiss good news? Still, every now and then, I notice a sign that I can't ignore. As I look deeper, I notice that this is simply the tip of the iceberg, and that perhaps living in such a secular world has diminished my ability to recognise ayaat. Nevertheless, as I researched topics for my article this week, I came across a news item which for me, at least, was a sign.

There it was, some good news. The headline- "New microbe discovered eating Gulf oil spill." The article spoke of a newly discovered microbe which was hungrily gobbling up the oil spill like it was Easter candy. This taken alone may not be enough to sway the sceptic that a Divine Hand is at work. I do not doubt the scientific explanations. But, unlike many Christians here, I do not believe that science is the enemy of religion. For me, the fact that phenomena can be explained in terms that humans can understand amplifies my appreciation of a higher order at work.

I review my poem. One year ago, it is true, that tritium was leaking from our local nuclear power plant, which is the oldest in the nation. A year later, the company which owns the plant has initiated a shutdown. We will no longer have to live in fear of radiation. One year since I wrote about my foot on the accelerator, I notice that, spurred by the spike in the cost of gas, many people here are seeking alternatives to driving, like bicycling to work. The housing market has collapsed and the bulldozers that had been devastating our forests are silent. BP itself is behaving well, all things considered. Aren't these signs for the faithful?

Almost 25 years ago, my then-fiancée was teaching in a dangerous part of Brooklyn, New York, in a project-fed ghetto school. The neighbourhood was so bad that she had to bring her car battery into her classroom each day to prevent it from being stolen. In her class, one special seven year-old stood out. He was not the most scholarly, not the most obedient, but she noticed that he was special. During my courtship with my future wife, we mutually took this boy under our wing.

After we were married, we all but adopted him- would have adopted him. This fatherless boy had become a son to me. For nearly nine years we watched him grow, worried about him, played with him, enjoyed his company. Then, he disappeared. My phone calls to his guardian were not returned. My visits through the housing projects to find him were fruitless. He had vanished. We never stopped searching for him over the next 15 years. As it turned out, he was trying to locate us as well. Then came Facebook.

Last year, 15 years after we'd lost contact, our little boy found us. He had grown to manhood, responsibility and wisdom. He was married, the father of a twelve year-old boy of his own, and a three year-old girl. We encouraged his family to come move in with us. At a time when I really needed a confidante, an objective opinion, an individual capable of working with me to improve the lot of our family, he showed up right on time.

Now we plant the garden together and work with our sons. He married well. His wife's genius for cooking fills our house with the most mouth-watering scents. My 13-year-old son and his 12-year-old son have become inseparable friends, and his little girl is a constant source of joy for us all. We are one big family, all here at my parent's home for Easter sleeping barracks-style over the Easter weekend, happier and more complete than ever. A lost son is found. God is working through Facebook. Isn't this a sign for the faithful?

A year ago, I was desperately trying to find a job, and couldn't find any. I resolved, since I had nothing to lose, to pursue my lifelong goal of becoming a writer, and supporting myself through my words. I decided that if my dream were to come true, I would not hesitate to recognise The Source of my achievements. Just around last Easter time, I got a call from my agent- my manuscript had been accepted. After 20 years of rejections, I had sold a book.

This Easter, I brought the first copy of my new book to my parents and presented it to them. Around the same time last year, a visionary editor approached me and told me he intended to launch a print newspaper at a time when all newspapers were failing. He asked me to write a column for that paper. I had already been writing for his online paper, but seeing my words in print was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. Now, the paper is thriving. Isn't this a sign for the faithful?

In October of last year, what I knew about Bangladesh didn't go beyond a single song written by George Harrison in the '70's. A dear friend in India persuaded me to send an article to an online newspaper to which she also contributed articles, called bdnews24.com. As I started to read about the history and the current events of a resilient and faith-driven people, I felt moved by the beauty, tragedy and triumph of 40 years of independence.

As I communicated with these people exactly half a world away, I began to feel as if I were writing to my own family, that I had brothers and sisters, separated by birth, by culture, by religion, by language, and yet united by faith in a better tomorrow. My association with Bangladesh made me more than a writer. I became a participant. Your concerns became my concerns. My words, foreign as they may be to so many of you, had found a homeland.

I hope my meagre words, like those individual microbes in the Gulf, can dissipate some small percentage of your metaphorical oil slicks, be they political, spiritual, or economic. If in some tiny measure, my writing happens to do some good, then I can claim no part in that miracle. I retain no copyright on the blessings that I celebrate. Tomorrow, a year from now, always, it will be the ayaat that empower each of you to be the choreographer of your own destiny, just as God intended.

No government, no corruption, no excuses can stop people driven by faith from making the necessary changes to lead their nation to greatness. When – not if, but when – that greatness comes to fruition, do not forget to see it for what it is:

A sign for the faithful.

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Frank Domenico Cipriani writes a weekly column in the Riverside Signal called "You Think What You Think And I'll Think What I Know." He is also the founder and CEO of The Gatherer Institute — a not-for-profit public charity dedicated to promoting respect for the environment and empowering individuals to become self-taught and self-sufficient. His most recent book, "Learning Little Hawk's Way of Storytelling", is scheduled to be released by Findhorn Press in May of 2011.