It's been said that you can take the boy out of the church but you can't take the church out of the boy. I've had serious doubts about the existence of a higher power for a long time. About 10 years ago, I finally admitted to myself that The whole idea of a "God" is a lot of boojum.
Where does this leave me?
Where does this leave you?
Where does this leave us?
Human beings invented god for a lot of reasons.
Some of them are still valid.
So we invented God.
Then we reinvented God.
And again and again and again...
It's time to re-invent a god without the boojum.
The Christ of Christmas, Christ Crucified and Christ Resurrected are all as dead to me as the family dog we had when I was a child. If you felt sad, Sargie would come to you unbidden, rest his head on your knee and sigh. He watched every school bus that rolled past the house in the afternoon, trembling in anticipation. He bayed with joy when my brothers & sisters and I bounded up the porch steps. He's gone, but my feelings for that old pooch are just as warm today as they were when I was ten years old. When he was a little puppy, all alone in a big cold world, he came to live with us. He needed us and we grew to need him. Now he's just just a feeling that I keep with me. If my siblings and I didn't keep his memory alive, all that would remain of him would be specks of dust scattered to the winds.
The Christ I believed in in my youth is gone. He was real to me but what I took for a higher power was, in reality the shared memory of many generations.
His name has been invoked to justify murder, rape, torture, enslavement and theft.
Had Jesus of Nazareth never lived, the torturers, killers, slavers, rapists and thieves would have invented another Lord and Savior to bless themselves and make it all seem right. The evil and troubles we unleash on each other stick to our rotting flesh and fester in the souls of our great-grandchildren. We give reign to our worst appetites and call it God's will or kismet or karma.
But in his name also, the sick and the hungry have been cared for and fed.
Some saints do good to stay out of hell, some to achieve heaven. Jesus comes to cleanse the temple of their hearts with a carrot and a stick. Peace be unto them.
I started this essay with a declaration of my unbelief in boojum. I must nevertheless admit that candles, incense and stained glass have a certain allure. Rituals, paternosters and preaching address human needs that cannot be satisfied with cold reason. Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps there is some ruler goddess of the universe glaring down at us. If so, I remain indifferent to her. I leave her to be invented and re-invented by the psychopaths and fearful strivers.
Some holy people do the right thing because it's the right thing to do.
There are truly righteous people among us. They do not waste their brief lifetimes dodging thunderbolts or picking out curtains for a heavenly mansion. They fill their days with acts of love and kindness because the joy and gratitude and sadness in their hearts compels them to act. Spite, selfishness and bile melt away in the gaze of common humanity that spills from the eyes of our fellow sojourners. I want to be counted among these public eremites, wandering in the rich desert of humanity.
Whether we step forward on behalf of an otherworldly power or simply for the common good, our acts of love and compassion are never wasted. There is no distinction between personal and political when it comes to binding up wounds, bearing grief or sharing joy. My neighbor is the multitude.
No matter how stiff-necked,
hard-headed
or bloody-minded,
my brother is my brother is your brother too.
My sister is my sister is your sister too.
To assert that there is no deity and no heaven out there to bless and keep us, is to accept the responsibility of blessing and keeping our brothers and sisters on this planet. We shall never go to heaven, but we can save this world from going to hell.
You are the water.
You are the dust.
You are the air.
You are the rays of the sun.
Heal the Earth.
Greet your sisters and brothers.
Wrap them in your best coat.
Share your bread.
Your name will be forgotten.
The good you do will live on.
The stardust of which you are made is eternal.
From the glistening mud sprouts emerge.
Their tendrils wave in the stink of morning.