On Miracles
Tuesday night I attended a presentation of the Dow Sustainability Fellows, a cohort of faculty, postdocs, and doctoral students at the University of Michigan whose work touches on sustainability in some way. One of the presentations was by the Director of the University of Michigan Energy Institute Mark Barteau. He presented a basic overview of energy use across the world and the US, and showed that based on current projections we are headed towards a global increase of 3.6 degree Celsius, even if the world is able to stick to its current greenhouse gas emissions reductions commitments. In addition, he showed us graphs illustrating how drastically the world would need to deviate from its current course to attain a 2 degree Celsius limit.
It was a stark and depressing presentation. One member of the audience fought with Professor Barteau about whether or not the University of Michigan should install solar panels on all its parking areas, something that would reduce UM's carbon emissions by about 3%. The argument grew heated and personal, and Professor Barteau shrugged his shoulders as if to say you cannot argue with the facts.
Then I went home and lit candles to celebrate an ancient energy miracle. One day's worth of oil stayed lit in the Temple of Jerusalem for eight days; if we were able to replicate this miracle at scale - to obtain 8 times as much as energy from a given amount of fossil fuel as we currently do, we just might be able to meet the global 2 degree target.
Why do we light candles every year to celebrate the military victory of one small tribal Middle Eastern sect against another? I have never found the story of Hanukkah particularly uplifting. The successful slaughter of my ancestor's enemies has never felt like cause for celebration, even if it were absolutely necessary for their survival. Shouldn't we be mourning the divisions that rend humanity, mourning the persistence of war in our world?
But I think Hanukkah is about more than a military victory. The symbolism in the keeping the lights going during a dark time, in persistent light, continues to touch me. The story of Hanukkah is about another kind of miracle: It is about persisting in the face of long odds, staying true to the cause most deeply embedded in one's own heart.
Any rational person knows that the miracles do not happen, by definition. We all know that the miracles in the Bible did not happen. They are just stories.
Except that if you look over history, you find miracles happening in every era. The invention of the printing press. The rise of scientific knowledge. The Civil Rights movement.
In my own lifetime I have witnessed several miracles happen. The fall of the Berlin Wall was inconceivable when I was a small child. As a result of the fall of the Berlin Wall millions of people were liberated to a new era of freedom and democracy (despite the fact that Russians themselves may not have benefited much).
The recent turning of much of America to accept gays and lesbians as full members of society, that was a miracle. So unexpected and so sudden, like a soul turned over by confession.
We absolutely need an energy miracle, a technology miracle, a policy miracle. We need miracles that I cannot even imagine at this time. I don't know if this will happen, and my rational mind thinks that it probably cannot happen.
But there is another part of my mind that thinks in a different way: If it is at all possible to have an energy miracle, then I must play my part it in. I must act as if it is possible even if it is not. That's the only way that miracles happen - if a small group of persistent people continue to believe in the impossible.
That's why I light the Hanukkah candles every year. Because we need miracles now as much as any time in the past. We still need to believe in miracles. We still need miracles to believe in. We probably always will.
It was a stark and depressing presentation. One member of the audience fought with Professor Barteau about whether or not the University of Michigan should install solar panels on all its parking areas, something that would reduce UM's carbon emissions by about 3%. The argument grew heated and personal, and Professor Barteau shrugged his shoulders as if to say you cannot argue with the facts.
Then I went home and lit candles to celebrate an ancient energy miracle. One day's worth of oil stayed lit in the Temple of Jerusalem for eight days; if we were able to replicate this miracle at scale - to obtain 8 times as much as energy from a given amount of fossil fuel as we currently do, we just might be able to meet the global 2 degree target.
Why do we light candles every year to celebrate the military victory of one small tribal Middle Eastern sect against another? I have never found the story of Hanukkah particularly uplifting. The successful slaughter of my ancestor's enemies has never felt like cause for celebration, even if it were absolutely necessary for their survival. Shouldn't we be mourning the divisions that rend humanity, mourning the persistence of war in our world?
But I think Hanukkah is about more than a military victory. The symbolism in the keeping the lights going during a dark time, in persistent light, continues to touch me. The story of Hanukkah is about another kind of miracle: It is about persisting in the face of long odds, staying true to the cause most deeply embedded in one's own heart.
Any rational person knows that the miracles do not happen, by definition. We all know that the miracles in the Bible did not happen. They are just stories.
Except that if you look over history, you find miracles happening in every era. The invention of the printing press. The rise of scientific knowledge. The Civil Rights movement.
In my own lifetime I have witnessed several miracles happen. The fall of the Berlin Wall was inconceivable when I was a small child. As a result of the fall of the Berlin Wall millions of people were liberated to a new era of freedom and democracy (despite the fact that Russians themselves may not have benefited much).
The recent turning of much of America to accept gays and lesbians as full members of society, that was a miracle. So unexpected and so sudden, like a soul turned over by confession.
We absolutely need an energy miracle, a technology miracle, a policy miracle. We need miracles that I cannot even imagine at this time. I don't know if this will happen, and my rational mind thinks that it probably cannot happen.
But there is another part of my mind that thinks in a different way: If it is at all possible to have an energy miracle, then I must play my part it in. I must act as if it is possible even if it is not. That's the only way that miracles happen - if a small group of persistent people continue to believe in the impossible.
That's why I light the Hanukkah candles every year. Because we need miracles now as much as any time in the past. We still need to believe in miracles. We still need miracles to believe in. We probably always will.
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