“Do you believe in miracles?”

...I've heard that yes, faith can move mountains--but bring a shovel. 

Better yet, says the King of the Mountains: turn them back into molehills, first

(then use a broom). 

The Real Me says that the world turns amazing with our true natures as the engine. 

I don't know if I believe in miracles, but I do believe in Einstein,

so of course I believe in miracles. 

Einstein is the Bomb. 

Then there are those things that nobody can explain

without positing an intelligence way beyond
what we give even ourselves credit for,

be it a theoretically existing Lawkeeper of Science,

made accessible by the scientific method,

or the theoretically existing LawBREAKER of Science,

made accessible by prayer.

If geologists were also poets, they would see that the heart,

and only the heart,

is capable of injecting miracles into solid rock

--after all the heart is a kind of large, self loading,

four-chambered hypodermic electromagnetic love syringe--Non, Monsieur Pasteur?. 

And another thing: miracles appear only where they are needed.  
miracles don't happen in Eden, before Death (and the ban on nudist colonies) intervened.

--It's the same idea as the Virgin Mary's appearing in massacre-torn Yugoslavia,

or a guy with hip half eaten by cancer growing it back after a dip in the Holy Spring:

The guy with good hips isn't going to get a spontaneous hip replacement;
Mary does not materialize in the royal palace, where contentment reigns.

 

In Heaven, actually, where miracles are the norm,

they're up there praying for non-miracles

--to relieve the boredom that they're never, ever dying of. 

And only if their boredom really requires relief by some extraordinary means

do they receive--with a gasp--the odd non-miracle
--Say, an archangel stubs its pinky toe on a cloud, and it does not heal right away!

("Look, I'm bleeding!")

Still, in spite of their urges and pleas for exciting access
to the dull processes of normal physics,

the Heavenly Host Itself's prayers for the novelty of non-novelty may not be heard,

lest odd non-miracles become too commonplace,

and thereby unappreciated,
and so, some do not even believe that they are real. 

The needy/worthy angels who do witness a non-miracle

feel themselves very lucky
--but many other seraphs and cherubs, alas,
think of them as wing-nuts,
and laugh at them in chorus. 

So, yes, I believe in miracles,
and I believe in non-miracles, too,
when miracles get too boring.

Bring them on!

Plus, I also believe in
the miracle of the mundane,

which is only so if you don’t observe it very closely: 

the complexity and harmony of microbiology, 
to name but one example,

features timing in which a godzillion microoperations fluctuate and coordinate!

This ought to be enough to wow the most cocksure anti-intellectual

[if only he hadn’t felt the icy steel of derision of

self-righteous science snobs and nasty-ass nerds;

if only he use his muscle-truck (and truck-nuts)
to climb the white tower just once;

if only he understood that, in so doing,
he is literally taking a dive into the living cell (begotten, not made)
where, true, he can NOT choose the music

—but man, can those organelles and biomolecules dance!
(like to everyone in New York doing a tango line dance,
and no one bum missing a single step)].

Faith in miracles, and non-miracles, and the miraculous mundane:

these three mean that I

—and you, who agree with me—

have three times as much faith as most. 

Oh, ye of faith times three!

You might just be able to appreciate this moment,

this one here,
right now.