Especially as I watch events unfold like the university massacre in Kenya--where 150 Christian students were executed for their beliefs by members of a terrorist group pretending to be acting in line with Islam--I begin to think religion is the bane of our world. When a father tosses his child into cold bay waters from high atop a freeway bridge, I doubt there is a god. When thousands of women and children in Nigeria remain missing after being kidnapped by terrorist groups like Boko Haram, I definitely doubt that the god up in his heaven is the one I've long believed I know. Still, my faith remains. Like lint on a black shirt. Like a cat hair interrupting the surface of a fresh cup of coffee. Like a plastic bag tangled in the branches of a tree. Inexplicable. Unexcisable. Inconvenient.
I'm in the midst of a thoughtful and provocative anthology titled Faith: Essays from Believers, Agnostics & Atheists . Little interests me more than philosophical writing by poetic people on their personal systems of belief. Every one feels like a touchstone for me. They remind me to live an examined life. They remind me of all I have in common with the majority of mankind. It is a peaceful, hopeful, thoughtful, reasonable majority, and one I'm happy to point out does exist.
In Anne Perry's essay What Do I Believe? , I came across this gem:
That brings me face to face with my black dog of a word: obedience . I have no respect for disobedience nor for an instant do I advocate it. As children, we must begin by obeying. We are not safe to do anything else. But I want to move as fast as possible to the concept of learning, discovering, eventually doing the right thing because I understand it, and it is who I wish to be! To do something because I am told to and will be rewarded for it--or punished if I don't, or even to please God--is not a worthy purpose. It may have to be part of the process, but my goal is to become the person who does the brave, honest, or kind thing because it is my nature. It is not what I do; rather, it is who I am.
I want to be brave, not just look like it; be honest because I have no wish to lie, above all to myself. I want to help others because I see my own pain in theirs, and I want to ease it--for them, not for me. It may be a long journey!
Here in my safe, happy corner of Oslo, there is little I can do to stop angry, violent people from doing angry, violent things to those who are helplessly located in the path of destruction. All I have are my prayers and my vote to affect the big picture, and often both of these things seem laughably inadequate. But I can work on myself toward a definable end, namely the one Anne Perry so eloquently outlines here. I can examine my own life and actions and affect the people in my path, encouraging them to do the same. Who knows? Perhaps this butterfly effect will reach someone who has known real peril. Perhaps the good can still own the day.
As I close in on the birth date of my daughter, I'm also reassured by quotes like the one above. Life is a long journey, and hers is just beginning. Obedience will be one of her first, cognizant stages in life. She will be looking to Jonathan and me to guide her choices. But I will want her to know that we'll still be learning, too. That all of us are lumps of clay.