The Sum of It
We live, we die.
We don't know why.
I was a holy boy, living in a holy house. Every week, I went to Sunday school, where I in fact received gentle, affirming attention. Mine was not a fire and brimstone church, and I loved going there. I paid attention to scripture, and I worried about the things the religious worry about--if I sin in my mind, is it the same as if I'd actually committed the sin?
I was taught that life on Earth, being temporary, was less important than preparing myself for the eternal life to come. Don't gain the world and lose your soul. I firmly believed that when I was a child.
But soon the little doubts asserted themselves, and I would ask my mother. "If all the religions of the world think they are the only true one, how do we know ours is?" We just do. "If God made everything, who made God?" You'll just drive yourself crazy asking questions like that. Just don't worry about it.
I wasn't satisfied with my mother's answers, of course, but I figured that the smarter, more educated Christians would eventually give me better ones. But as I grew older, and started participating in Bible study with grownups, I began to understand that their answers weren't much better than my mother's. I began to wonder why, if the beliefs I grew up with didn't square with other facts we all take for granted in every day life, people spent so much time and effort trying to fit the square pegs of faith into life's round holes.
I've come to think that what is planted in our minds in childhood is hard for many to uproot in their later lives. In fact, far from wanting to do any uprooting, many people water and fertilize as much as they can.
In my case, the seeds fell on rocky soil. I have no talent for religion.
Now, my believing friends wonder how I can stand to live without the promise of eternal life and the comfort that comes with that promise. I have no choice, I reply. Salvation and heaven are only comforts if you can believe in them. I am incapable of belief.
In the olden days, philosophers attempting to prove the existence of God reasoned that the idea of God couldn't exist in our minds without having been planted there by God. But thinking about that, I can see how certain ideas might arise. There are two things about the world that all beings (at least the animals) are aware of once they have a little experience of it: First, the world is a place of beauty and delight, and it meets our primary needs abundantly. Second, the world is a dangerous place, a terrifying place where, if you're not careful, you could be dead in the next moment. I think that, perhaps, these twin facts might be the origin of most prayers. "Thank you for this bounty." "I am in danger. Please don't let me die now."
Now, I came to a lot of these conclusions over time, and I am lucky not to have suffered much trauma over my loss of faith. I really don't think the loss of what never existed is much of a loss. Only recently, however, have I been struck forcefully with the question of why other people in these modern centuries can believe in absurd things that can only have made sense to the ancient, prescientific mind. I never believed in scoffing out loud at the beliefs of others, because I am a kind person and I don't like to hurt people's feelings.
But sometimes I want to shake the world by the shoulders and say, "Wake up!"
The more mystically inclined would miss the world of miracles, virgin births, resurrections, but not me. The mundane world contains more wonder than a person can absorb in a lifetime. I think the greater sin would be to not embrace the world while I have the opportunity to live in it.
