The bald truth is that I have made some meaningless statements. Nature exists whether I believe or not. And the laws of the universe are ever-changing to the human mind, as we discover more and more about what makes it tick
I am not a religious person. This sounds like a stark and even brutal statement, and may especially seem abrasive to those who are religious. Am I standing in judgment of them? Am I without compassion? Am I just arrogant? Surely, some do ask, you believe in something? At least some undefined non-denominational form of spirituality?
When I was younger, I was brash. I ripped apart their assumptions with cruel glee. Now that I am older, I have no clue about wiser, I am nonconfrontational. I smile falsely and mumble something about nature and the laws of the universe.
The kinder among them smile sweetly, fooling themselves perhaps that I am not a totally evil atheist. Others may not be so easily duped; perhaps they are not feeling up for a pointless fight either.
The bald truth is that I have made some meaningless statements. Nature exists whether I believe or not. And the laws of the universe are ever-changing to the human mind, as we discover more and more about what makes it tick. New discoveries often overturn the old ones: and that it is always self-correcting is what makes science amazing. Dogmas fail as new research turn them inside out or upside down.
Belief is not what will keep you going here. It is inquiry and questions. Lots and lots of those.
British philosopher and mathematician Bertrand Russell was scathing in his denouncement of religion and religious belief. I had a grandfather like that, who enjoyed nothing more than ripping religion apart. Russell felt that since religion as based on fear, it was exploitative and largely immoral. And that humanism and science were better aims for humans than organised religion.
Cosmologist Carl Sagan was less harsh than Russell perhaps, but while he ducked the question of whether he believed in God, he also made it clear that it was science which answered the questions and dogmatic belief was illogical.
But this is the easy part. You believe. I don’t believe. We could just stop there. But we can’t and won’t. There’s the political, but let’s not go there. On a large scale, that’s about control, oppression, majoritarianism, often leading to violence.
On the everyday scale, there’s the unjustified feeling of outrage at being slighted. I have insulted you by not believing what you believe in. Please note that this arrogance applies only to those who believe in God, many gods, organised rituals, organised places of worship. I am not allowed to feel insulted or humiliated or slighted that you don’t disbelieve the way I disbelieve. Apparently, belief is a superior form of ignorance that gives you special rights.
And still, I cannot do it. I don’t mean to upset you. Even though I can’t understand your right to get upset or even who gave you that right. I am happy to live my life minus your way of doing things. Then, is it your insecurity that makes you unwilling to understand me? Do you fear my freedom from your fetters? Although I suppose that’s my term. Maybe you do not feel fettered? Maybe you are filled with love and freedom and happiness. Well, I hope you are. But nothing about organised religion leads one to believe that its proponents are in a constant state of rhapsody. Rather, they seem to be full of rage and endlessly divide themselves on small points of belief and then fight even more.
But there is another side as well. Was Bertrand Russell wrong? Because the search for some is not just fear and greed and insecurity. Maybe it is a search for answers and the escape in little routines to provide comfort? Big scholars and bigger minds than mine have pondered over this. All those godmen and women, and gurus and self-help books appeal to those looking for solace, and answers to their pain. All of them seekers ripe and ready for the plucking. All those godmen in prison for rape or on their private islands to escape justice.
But my perfidy runs deeper. I cannot even take part in kinder, gentler forms of belief and community and loving gestures. I cannot close my eyes and sit in a circle. I cannot share with strangers. (Okay, you can laugh, I know I’m sharing with you, sort of.) I cannot sing songs. It makes me uncomfortable and untrue to myself.
I cannot also drink turmeric dissolved in milk, search for some particular soothing herb and apply ancient unguents made of animal waste matter to my good self. Nor can I jump into the latest moral and ethical food fads and eat a certain bean with a certain plant-based bubbly thingie to keep with the zeitgeist.
On all counts, I am a loser in these matters.
Like all such losers however, I have a trump card which I flash now and then to show my superiority. Because that’s the game, isn’t it? And even I can play it. Because I did tell the sort of truth in the beginning. My search for peace is in nature. How cliched but how little you can manipulate me because of this, right?
Every few weeks, when I can manage it and afford it, I escape to the forest. Just the silence is enough to calm one. The rustle of the trees, the birds and animals. You get the picture. We lose that world around us, that we are made of, so easily. And when I can’t manage to get to the forest, I take in what I have created around me. I have the privilege of a garden. I don’t need to find a priest and sing loudly out of tune and fold my hands in adulation.
And I have an even better trick when I want to be really sacred. I look up at the night sky. And what happens there is even more awe-inspiring and scary than anything our evil little minds can conjure to keep us in check. Forget the omniscient beings in the sky that people pray to. Wait till that black hole gets you.
It’s okay, it’s okay. It probably won’t. But if only, is what I sometimes think.
