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My dad (pictured here with me in 1960) continues to hover between life and death. Whenever he’s made some progress over the past few weeks, Dad’s then hit with two or three new ailments. Each time, he’s a little weaker for it and so the downward spiral goes. He’s like a mountain climber who can’t drive his pick ax into the ice as he slides down the mountain face.

Though in pain and so tired that he sleeps most of the time, he seems to be at peace with where he’s at. Dad doesn’t doubt he’ll soon be in heaven, where he’ll eventually reunited with my very alive mom, his wife of 56 years.

Being close to the edge of death tends to focus one’s thoughts intensely on the world’s biggest mystery: what happens when we die? Which, if any, of the thousands of religions, got it right? I’ve got my theory — that we feel nothing after we die, much like we felt nothing before we were born — but it’s only a theory. It will be interesting to see how durable that theory is when it’s my turn to be on the edge of death.

We’ll see.

So I’m spending time with my dad, who is 83, in the ICU unit at Stanford Hospital. Without going into the gory details, he’s in bad shape. The only thing keeping him alive, I’m convinced, is that he’s one tough, depression-raised, millionaire-by-his-own-bootstraps, mother-effing son of a bitch. I’ve seen more than one doctor look at his chart, see the man breathing in the bed and shake his/her head.

OK, so today, my dad’s razor-sharp mind gives way to the zillion drugs that are being pumped into him. He isn’t quite in touch with reality at the moment. Now, you have to picture the scene. His body is swollen from infection and kidney problems. His belly is freshly stitched and minus its colon. He’s got eight bags of medicine being pumped into his body, and tubes in nearly every orifice to carry the waste away.

So Dad looks at me and says sincerely, “Am I still alive?”

My father is a believer, and I suppressed a grin.

“Dad, don’t worry,” I said. “You’re alive. You know how you can tell? Look all around you. This surely isn’t heaven.”

His eyes took in his surroundings and he replied, “I guess you’re right.”

In a story in the Edmonton Journal, a professional football player credited God with his miraculous escape from a fire.

Albert Reese plans to check into a hotel tonight provided by the American Red Cross in his hometown of Saraland, Ala.

The former Edmonton Eskimos defensive tackle lost virtually all his belongings last Saturday when fire ripped through his apartment around 8 a.m. in the suburb outside Mobile.

The 35-year-old managed to grab his Grey Cup ring before jumping out a second-floor window to escape the flames and smoke.

“I’m OK,” Reese said this morning. “It was a close call for me. I was sleeping at the time, so God must have been watching over me.”

What does this drive me crazy? Because what about people who have died in fires? Was God “watching over” them? It seems to me, you can’t have it both ways.

The legalization of same-sex marriage in California has caused, predictably enough, concern throughout most of the Christian community. One of my favorite riffs comes from a Pat Robertson-esque World Net Daily column by Bob Unruh.

He quotes Concerned Women for America call to prayer to battle the plague of gay marriage.

“Prayer is the key to this battle. We need to see hearts changed by God at the same time that we’re trying to change minds,” said Phyllis Nemeth, state director for CWA of California. “That’s why I’m inviting my fellow Californians especially to join CWA in prayer and fasting for our state and our nation.”

If someone can show me scientific evidence that prayer works, I would think this was a good strategy.

Concerned Women of America then warned that same-sex marriage will cause “long-term problems” and “damaged lives.” I just don’t see it, and the prediction has a vibe to it that harkens back to Pat Robertson’s and Jerry Falwell’s statements that the terrorists’ attack of Sept. 11 were because God had lifted his protection from America because, among other things, an acceptance of homosexuality.

“CWA was founded on ‘prayer and action,’” said CWA President Wendy Wright. “The decision by the California court on same-sex ‘marriage’ is an affront to God and His plan for marriage and family. It will cause long-term problems and risks for families, churches, and agencies that work with children, and many others – leading to more lawsuits and damaged lives. While many will be working to protect the true definition and meaning of marriage, our first action must be to pray for God to intervene. Please join us in prayer and fasting on June 17.”

I think history will show gay marriages won’t do any more or less damage than “traditional marriages” — which historically haven’t been all that traditional (we’ll hold that for another post).

They live among us. Check this out.

Theodore Cardinal McCarrick, the retired Archbishop of Washington, recently spoke on MSNBC about the life and death of one of my favorite journalists, Tim Russert. After talking about what a great man Russert was, McCarrick offered an explanation on why the Lord would allow him to die in the prime of his life: “God wanted him now.”

That’s as good as McCarrick could do? God wanted him now? Does God need him more than Russert’s wife and son or millions of Americans who depend on his journalistic expertise? What kind of God is that?

How about: we don’t know God’s timing or plans and won’t be able to until we meet Tim in heaven? That would at least be somewhat satisfying.

Of course, I think I’ve found a better answer. Stuff happens. Tim had the bad luck of having a major heart attack. Nature gives no favors. My guitar teacher’s beautiful 3-year-old son can died of a brain tumor NOT because “God wanted him now.” He died because something went haywire in nature’s order, got cancer and died. It sucks hard, but the randomness of nature is more satisfying than the randomness of God.

I went to heard Roman Catholic Bishop Geoffrey Robinson of Australia speak tonight at a Voice of the Faithful meeting in Orange County. He’s the single bishop out of more than 1,000 (I don’t know the precise number) who has actually challenged the way church hierarchy’s dealt with victims of clergy sexual abuse. Not coincidentally, he’s a victim of sexual abuse (not by a priest) and frowned upon by his fellow bishops.

Bishops in Southern California and elsewhere have ordered Robinson, who has a book out, NOT to speak in their dioceses. This would be amusing, if it wasn’t so pathetic. Robinson — not exactly a rebel — is simply asking the church to investigate the causes of clergy sexual abuse and go wherever the truth leads. If it means questioning celibacy, the all-male priesthood or the artificial separation between  the priesthood and laity (all man-made conventions), so be it. Truly revolutionary stuff that needs to be snuff out, yes?

The good news. An overflow crowd of about 200 people packed a Costa Mesa community room. Bad news: The average age was somewhere north of 60, to be generous. I had to ask myself: where were Orange County’s other 1 million Catholics, especially the people who could be charting the church’s future?

When I was considering writing an essay for the Los Angeles Times about my lost of faith, a good friend in ministry begged me not to do it. He thought the fallout would be too much. Talking about religion was a dangerous thing. But I felt like writing about my spiritual journey was something I had to do, even though criticism of my articles always bothered me. A lot. My skin was thin.

Luckily, I didn’t get much criticism. Amazingly (to me, at least), maybe 1% of the 2,700-plus people who wrote me were critical of the story. I did notice some haters on the blogs, but they didn’t bother me. In fact, I didn’t care if millions of people hated my story. It was my journey. In my mind, it couldn’t be right or wrong. It just was.

Now that some publicity has begun about my book, I’m noticing a little backlash here and there. My wife’s business lost one of its original subscribers (it’s free, sign up now!) because she didn’t want to be even associated with the wife of such an ungodly man.

Today, my son and I traveled to Stanford Hospital for a study on Type 1 Diabetes (which Tristan has). When I was out of the room, the nurse asked my 16-year-old son what I did for a living. He (proudly, I think) said I was a journalist with the Los Angeles Times and had just written a book due out in February. When he told her the subject of the book, she grew silent for a moment and then asked him about his own beliefs.

When Tristan said he really didn’t believe in God, she confided in him that at age 16, he should make up his own mind by reading the Bible himself and NOT be influenced by his father.

I may have influenced Tristan (it’s hard to put anything past the kids), but I’ve tried hard to keep my disbelief between my wife and me. I’ve never gone on about my godly doubts in front of the kids. I agree with the nurse; my kids should make up their own mind.

When my son told me what happened, I kept thinking: Why am I not more angry with the nurse? She shouldn’t be poking her nose into my son’s religious views. But I understand that religion is a passionate subject. And people are willing to take chances when they think a soul is at stake.

I’ve always liked the notion of the marketplace of ideas. This goes for religion. Debate is great. Let the better idea win.

How great does this look? It will be on bookshelves in February!

OC Metro Business, regional magazine based in Orange County, featured me on the cover of its latest edition. You can check out the well-written profile by Craig Reem here.