Danger, Will Robinson!
Friends, I’m obsessed with popcorn.
What’s not to like about it? It’s the crunchy ambrosia of movie theaters and carnivals.
Over the years I’ve invented my own gourmet flavors, like buttery ginger. Usually these days I make it with olive oil and salt, sometimes with nutritional yeast to give that cheesy taste.
Air-popped, it’s reasonably healthy, unless you drench it in butter. And it fills you up.
Each kernel is unique in shape, I’ve been told.
As a kid, I remember referring to unpopped kernels as “old maids,” and my mom was displeased. “I don’t like calling them that,” she told me. “That makes it sound like, if a woman doesn’t get married, she’s an ‘unpopped kernel’ and she’s not worth anything.”
I was annoyed that popcorn had become political. The next time we were eating some, I carefully referred to “unpopped kernels” instead of “old maids.” My mom thanked me for using better language. I wanted her to just let it go.
But now I see that she was onto something.
Some Christians—and others whose religions include an afterlife—see all of us, here on Earth, as unpopped kernels, waiting to be thrown in the kettle of heaven to explode into our true, full identities. (Though I guess the fires of hell might have the same effect.)
I don’t see buy into this “waiting room” theory. Our heaven and our hell are alive within us at all times, just waiting to be activated. And we’re not in God’s waiting room. We’re in God’s world.
So what does it mean to pop?
Unpopped kernels feel smooth and cool to the touch. They’re appealing to plunge your hands into a huge bucket of.
But if you bite one unexpectedly, it’s awful. You’re expecting a delicious crunch, and instead, you get a broken tooth or a loosened filling.
Those little kernels have a mission in life: to scatter to the winds, and create more corn plants. Or, to be eaten by humans or animals, and to return to the earth as fertilizer.
As humans, we can “pop” through doing good in the world. We can pop through finding something we enjoy doing, and immersing ourselves in that experience of deep flow.
We pop through getting married and having babies.
Or through becoming a soldier, and putting our life on the line for our country and our brothers and sisters in arms.
Through throwing ourselves into a creative endeavor, even though we think the story or song we’re writing won’t make sense to anyone else.
There are many sources of heat to transform us.
Maybe our job, as earthly kernels, is to subject ourselves, as much as we can, to the right kinds of fire. The loving kind. The kind of the spirit.
The kind that takes us out of ourselves, like a popcorn kernel, whose insides become its outsides.
If kernels could think, would they fear that transformation?
Or would they be excited?