Holy Moly

I tried keeping religion away from god.  I put it in another room, in a double-locked chest, and I bolted the door.  I didn’t want religion messing with god, in my house, the way it does outside my enclave, in the world.  I wanted to conduct my investigations without the pressures of religious dogma, or the equally dogmatic anti-dogmas of agnosticism and atheism.

This separation is no mean trick; it seems as though everyone has a dog or pony in the show, from politically motivated moralists to modern-day Pharisees.  Everyone is right, and everyone else is wrong, and, if my research into the number of religions in the world is even in the ballpark, there are only about 4,000 One True Ways about it.

I’ve asked a few people if it is alright for me to come up with my own version of a god or a goddess if I want to, and, boy oh boy, does that get me some looks here, deep in the heart of Anabaptist Acres.  Now, I admit, sometimes I am a little bit jealous of these cute bonneted people who have no cars or electricity, but do have, intractably, all the eternal answers wrapped up in pretty little packages, because I just don’t get it.

Religious views in the U.S.A. are predominantly some form of Christianity, but I think I’d still be in my own little quagmire anywhere I ventured.  Buddhist, Muslim, Rastafarian, Hindu, Jewish, or Zoroastrian, it wouldn’t matter.  I still wouldn’t get it.  The Ona of Patagonia, with their shamans, and the Hopi, with their earth god, weave romantic tales of creation, as do others, so many others that I picture the earth as having once been a swarming hive of Edens.  But I don’t get it.

I have to get away from all the religion, far enough away to think for myself.  The priests and brothers and sisters of my parochial school days didn’t make it easy for me to escape what they took to be the thrall, but, without realizing it, they pushed me away more than they pulled me in.

On my own, I have figured out absolutely nothing, but what separates me from churchdom is that there is no collection box in our house, and I can work or sleep in on any day of the week, regardless of whose sabbath it might be, according to whatever wife Deborah tells me I want to independently decide to do.

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I don’t have any certifiable proof to indicate that I really exist, and even if I do somehow manage to quantify the big abstract, so what?  I understand ashes to ashes, but I don’t need fancy robes or a jewel-encrusted cruciform to get that much.  What I am just sure enough of is that I’m probably going to be better off if I pay at least a little bit of attention to golden rules, with no obeisance paid to sources.

I hear that the super colliders collided, and the only thing that collapsed was the economy; the rest of the earth has yet to fold in on itself and disappear down the rabbit hole.  I had to let this latest end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it scenario go without making any special preparations; I still haven’t fired up the Y2K generator we bought for the turn-of-the-millenium meltdown.  I’m waiting for the Mayan calendar to end in 2012.

I am not trying to trash anybody’s vision of god or creation, or anyone’s religion; whatever floats the boats isn’t for me to harpoon, but I don’t get it.  Theisms, deisms, or Vachel Lindsay’s Mumbo Jumbo, God of the Congo, it’s all the same, and it all eludes me.  That I ain’t been smote don’t matter none, neither, because I got nothing.  My Certainties page is still blank, and not from writer’s block  I don’t see me ever getting it, for as long as I’m convinced I might still be alive.

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I look for proof that god exists, and all I get is a blank canvas.  I look for proof that god does not exist, and, on the face of it, the outlook is more promising.  Recently, I saw a commercial for a television show called Hurl, in which the “premise” (a term I insult by using here) involves eating until regurgitating.  What more convincing argument could even the most ardent acolyte need to disprove the existence of a higher power?  Unless, of course, god is merely taking a long sabbatical.  Then, upon further reflection, I posited that this show, which isn’t on a deliberate comedy channel, must represent the “evil” that provides the foil for all the god-is-good god-is-great woofing I get from my clerically oriented friends.

Reincarnation is a fact on this earthly plane, in that all the ashes and dust end up in another ashes and dust story, nothing wasted, nothing lost.  I live, therefore I live again:  a little metaphysical zen boogie.  Even this little essay is a re-creation; I found a new way (don’t ask what it was, I haven’t the foggiest) to piss off my computer, and The Great One responded by swallowing an entire briefcase.  If it happens again, you won’t be reading this article, and I will be actively seeking members and donations for my new on-line Church of the Holy Byte.  All contributions will be used to build up the on-line church, as well as for my new, really big brick-and-mortar personal sanctuary, complete with ultra-verdant pastures suitable for great barbecues.

May the force do its thing.