Still, I knew that there was some “reality” to religion: I was mostly just turned off by some of the excesses of my friends, who would do things like ask God to give them guidance by letting their Bibles fall open, expecting their finger to land on a passage that was pertinent to their situation. (It never did; they should have spent more time actually reading the Bible, and less time letting it fall open.) But the thing that repelled me the most was that a lot of them were all caught up in this thing they called “The Rapture,” which was something that the TV preachers and “Christian fiction” all talked about. At some friends’ request, I read a book called The Late Great Planet Earth by Hal Lindsey, but was completely unimpressed; he obviously believed that the Rapture would have taken place no later than 1981, so that “Planet Earth” would have been no more by 1988, so obviously he was (by his own definition) a “false prophet.” When they referred me to his more recent books, I said I wasn’t interested.
One night, a group of my evangelical friends took me to a church to see a film that someone had made about this whole “Last Days” thing. The film was so cheaply made, and the acting and scenery were laughable, that I almost laughed out loud. Afterward, when they asked about my reaction, I said, laughing, “Surely you don’t really believe all this stuff? You really think that all the ‘true’ Christians in the world could suddenly disappear at exactly the same time, and no one would understand what it meant? What’s to stop them from watching this film, or reading the books about it? And how can you really believe that animal sacrifice will be reinstituted? Don’t you think the Animal Rights people would have a fit?” But in fact, they did believe precisely that; so eventually, they stopped asking me to attend these kinds of events. (Frankly, supernatural horror movies like The Exorcist and The Omen probably had more “spiritual” meaning for me than any of the films I saw at churches. The self-sacrificing nature of the Catholic priest who lets the demon possess him at the end of The Exorcist in order to save the little girl’s life always brought a tear to my eye, for example.)
But to me, the strangest and most incongruous thing was that almost all of these “Christian” friends drank, smoked weed, and were sexually active, just like the non-Christians. There weren’t any Christians (that I knew, at least) at school that were really “different”—the only difference was that they went to church on Sunday morning before and after they went out and partied. They seemed to have just as many unwed teenage pregnancies as anyone else in school.
Still, although I wasn’t known as a “religious” person myself, I couldn’t understand at all my friends that were anti-religious. One of my best friends claimed to be an atheist, for example, which just seemed crazy to me: If God doesn’t exist, then where did the world come from? I asked him. “It evolved,” he said, smugly. But to me, evolution was just the means that God used to bring about life. Maybe he put Adam and Eve here specifically (although after I saw a production of Inherit the Wind that our high school drama class put on, I was kind of doubtful about the factual reality of Adam and Eve), but if God created the immortal soul only when Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon came along, what of it? Anyway, lots of the kids who claimed to be atheists were into Black Metal music and Goth bands, and I wasn’t into that scene at all. (The pseudo-Satanist imagery of these bands not only offended me as being blasphemous, it seemed stupid; why would you worship Satan if you don’t believe that God exists?) Kids who would have mocked someone for taking the Bible seriously would solemnly (and uncritically) recite some meaningless mumbo-jumbo that was supposedly a “Satanic chant for power”; kids who laughed at Christians who wore crosses around their necks (“powerless symbols,” they called them) would expect that wearing an inverted pentagram had some special powers. (It didn’t seem like it kept them out of the Vice Principal’s office any more than anyone else.) To me, the anti-religion extreme was as stupid as the ultra-religion extreme.
After graduating from high school, I figured that I’d become a teacher, like my Dad was. So I went off to college, majoring (for lack of any better ideas) in Social Studies, which was one of my favorite subjects in high school. And religion just didn’t even seem to be in existence on the university campus. Oh, sure: they had some kind of “Collegians For Jesus” group that put up flyers here and there about their meetings and Bible Studies. But when I happened to walk past one of their meetings once while passing through the Student Union, it just confirmed my opinion: they were nothing but all the “weirdos” and geeks on campus; they did-n’t have any of the more intelligent people on campus (certainly none of the Asians that spent every free moment in the Library studying), or the best-looking girls, or even the biggest jocks. They were all the people that sat in the back of the room in class and stood out to the rest of us as being kind of strange: always dressed kind of behind-the-times, with ugly (and definitely not “stylishly” strange) hairstyles—just generally bizarre-looking and strange-acting people. You didn’t see any of the brilliant kids on science scholarships, or the overseas exchange students, or the star athletes, having anything to do with these “Christians.” So for me, attending the university was like a 5-year “leave of absence” from the need to even think about religion.
* * *
God, it’s been so long since I’ve even thought about anything like this. But now that I have, I can see what a shallow person I’ve been, from a religious perspective. Although I certainly would have answered a pollster by saying, “Oh, yes, religion is very important to me,” I’ve certainly been untrue to whatever degree of “inner light” I had. I’ve known and been presented with things, and yet I’ve never even lived up to my own beliefs—not even to the extent to which I myself believed them. I admit it; I’ve never been any sort of “spiritual giant”—far from it. The only way that I would even come close to getting a “passing grade” from the standpoint of religion would be if you graded on a curve.
Sophia was raised completely different. She was brought up in the Catholic Church, and (except for a couple of Pentecostals) practically her whole family was Catholic. She went to parochial schools through high school, never missed Mass on Sunday, or any of their special holidays. Family weddings and funerals were almost all held within the walls of the Catholic Church.
So, God, I think I could almost understand it if you had decided to take my life. If I had contracted a fatal illness, or something like that, I wouldn’t even be bothering you about it, now. Sure, I would be upset, but I could hardly call it “unjust,” or anything like that. If you had punished me like this earlier in my life, I could maybe understand it; back when I was a self-centered high schooler, or an arrogant first-year college kid. (Or is that why you took away my parents?) But the way it is now, the question remains unanswered.
Why did you take Sophia?
She hadn’t done anything wrong. Quite the contrary, religion meant a great deal to her—that’s why she insisted that we raise our children as Catholics, and why she was so happy when I decided to convert. She even refused to use any birth control other than the Rhythm method.
Prior to this, the only other tragedy in my life had been when my parents were killed in that car crash before my second year in college. But while that was a shocking, horrible event, it was nothing compared to this. My parents had both lived reasonably full lives, seen their children grow up, and even saw their first grandchild. Their life insurance provided well for my sister Sandra and I, enabling me to finish school and get us started in our careers. So that tragedy, terrible as it was, was nothing compared to this.
And the thing that confuses me the most, is that you should have let this happen now. Wasn’t I moving in the right direction? Wasn’t I doing the sort of thing that you are supposed to want? I was enrolled in RCIA classes, I was agreeable to letting our children be raised as Catholics, I regularly attended Mass with Sophia. I was even getting used to her saying grace before our evening meal; in fact, she even got me to say it a couple of times.
With Sophia as my guide, I would have thought that I was developing into the kind of person you are supposed to want us to be. If you had just let things be and continue to progress, I would have undoubtedly been confirmed into the Catholic Church, and you would soon have had a whole family of pious, church-going Catholics.
So what happened? Wasn’t that enough for you? Couldn’t you at least have just waited to see if things had worked out?
Or maybe you can foretell the future, and you saw that I would have fallen away from the faith. So you decided to just go ahead and kill Sophia right now— instead of waiting—fearing that I would lead her astray. Is that the way it is?
Or is my aunt from Louisiana correct? I hadn’t heard from her since the death of my parents, but when she heard about Sophia’s death from my sister, she suddenly wrote me a letter to tell me that “Roman Catholics are idolatrous, and those that really understand and believe their religion are damned to Hell for all eternity. So, God was really blessing you by not allowing you to be drawn deeper into that false religion.” So according to my aunt’s theory, I’m supposed to feel happy that my wife died? And our unborn son? I’m expected to be happy about my chance to spend eternity in Heaven, while my beloved wife is suffering the torments of Hell? No thanks, Aunt Rubie.
But is that the way things work? That one’s eternal destiny just depends on whether you happen to have the right religion or not? No matter that some people are raised in one tradition, and some in another, and some are raised without any religion at all. It’s all a matter of “dumb luck,” right? Some people are raised in good Christian homes and they find salvation, and other people are put in environments where they grow up to become unsaved heathen. So it all just depends on where you are “planted,” right? Just like in Jesus’ parable of the Sower—if you happen to have been planted among the stones, or among thorns, you’re lost for all of eternity.
If that’s the way things are, God, then that’s a pretty shitty system you’ve got here—no offense intended. The religion you have as an adult is usually just the same one you were raised in; you have no real “choice” in the matter. If you were unfortunate enough to be born into the “wrong” family, then you’re damned, that’s it. At least, that’s the way people like my aunt seem to view it.
But aren’t you supposed to be the one that’s creating eternal souls? (At any rate, we all feel that we should thank you when a woman gets pregnant.) But if the child she gives birth to is just going to be damned for following the religion of its parents, how is that fair? Why would you create an eternal soul for a child, and then place it in a family where it will just grow up to be damned? Why would you ever let such a child be born? Do you get some sort of sick pleasure from seeing souls damned to Hell for all eternity?
If that’s the way things are, then to Hell with you; I don’t want your kind of “salvation.” Go ahead, sentence me to eternal damnation in your “Lake of Fire,” bind me in your chains of torment forever—I just don’t give a shit, you heartless bastard.
What do you want, anyway—just a bunch of obedient puppets? Then why don’t you just create them? Or maybe that’s what you did when you created angels: Seraphim, I think they called them in my RCIA class. Supposedly, the Seraphim just sit around your throne all day praising you, saying, “Glory, Glory, Glory to the Lord God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth. You are so wise, you are so good, we owe everything to you. We just love to sit here all day and tell you how wonderful you are, over and over again, for all of eternity—especially since you’ll send us to Hell if we don’t…”
What a Cosmic Egotist you are; it makes me sick. You tell us to beware of pride and vanity, but what about your own? Do you get off on having your obedient little robots telling you how great you are, twenty-four hours a day, for all of eternity? Doesn’t it get “old” after a thousand years? Or a million years? Or fifteen billion years? (Of course you get off on this kind of thing; that’s why you created angels, isn’t it? And isn’t that why you created us, too? Just to “worship and glorify” you?)
Maybe the ones you kill off early are the ones who refuse to be your “Yes” men; the ones that aren’t afraid, that have the moral integrity to stand up and tell when they think you’re wrong, and to hell with the consequences. What’s the matter, is your vanity too great to allow anyone to criticize you to your face? Is that why your surround yourself with fawning, pansy-ass priests, and gutless sycophants? With little old ladies who faithfully drop their coin in the box and light a candle every day?
What’s the matter, you can’t even take a little honest criticism? Are you afraid that maybe something we say might even be true? And you just can’t face up to it, is that it? So that’s why you damn us to an eternal Hell, to provide an example to our fellow humans that, “you’d better toe the line, or else!”?
If you would just come out and damn me for writing this, even that would be better than this fucking silent treatment. Really; if the floor were to open up, and I found myself falling into the fires of Hell, at least I would have one moment of understanding before you started tormenting me in the fiery furnace forever and ever.
Where are you when we need help? Where are you when we are crying out so desperately, from the deepest reaches of our soul? Where are you when we need answers, need reassurance, need some means of going on? Through it all, the heavens are silent, the sky remains darkened. There is no “still small voice,” gently leading us on to greener pastures. Everything is empty, pointless, futile. Maybe that’s why books about “guardian angels” are so popular these days— because people hope that maybe angels will care enough about us to actually intervene in our lives. (Whereas we know that you won’t do a damn thing to help us.)
Or maybe I’m wrong. Some people claim that God is miraculously intervening in the smallest details of their lives, from getting their house mortgage approved, to keeping their cheese casserole from burning. If someone survives a car crash, they may claim that “The hand of God reached down, and saved me.” But there’s a question that is left unanswered: Why would God save one person from a car wreck, yet let someone else in the same car die? I thought God was supposed to be “no respecter of persons.” (Acts 10:34) Why this kind of favoritism? Some people claim that God found them a job or a school, a spouse or a house, and yet why doesn’t he find the same things for other people? Why are there so many “Christian Singles” groups? Why does God let drought cause starvation in Africa, while other areas have too-abundant rainfall? Where is God when it comes to stopping war, pestilence, or AIDS? He’s AWOL, as usual.
But of course, my “good Christian” friends and family think that they have answers to all these questions—my Aunt Rubie isn’t the only one to offer her unsolicited opinion. An evil-looking old crone from Sophia’s church (who always looked at me suspiciously when I attended Mass with her, even after we were married) told me solemnly after the funeral that I’m the reason that Sophia died. This horrid old woman said that being around me would have been an “evil” influence on Sophia, and God was afraid that she might have been damned if she had been around me for much longer. (After all, marrying someone “outside the faith” is frowned upon in the Catholic religion; Sophia’s parents certainly didn’t like the idea, especially at first.) So God “mercifully” took her why she was still in a state of grace, according to this old hag.
But then, why didn’t you kill me? Why would you punish her? Why wasn’t I the one to die? That, I could understand. And why would you take the life of our unborn son? How could he have been guilty of any sins?
Or maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe you’re punishing Sophia for my sins? Or maybe that’s why you took her away—because you knew that was the way you could hurt me the most. You, God, the Master Strategist of torture, skillfully figured out how you could really get me in a way I wouldn’t be able to deal with, to hit me at my weakest link: Sophia. And then you also took our unborn son at the sa
me time, as kind of a twisted “bonus.” That’s it: you found the weakest link in my armor and you exploited it, as skillfully as a chess master with his Bishop, or a master surgeon with his scalpel. You knew that I would be able to find a way to deal with pain or torment in my own body, so you struck down the body of the woman I loved more than life itself, because you know that’s the one thing you could do that would hurt me the most. Check and Mate; game over.
Well, if that’s what you were trying to do, you succeeded masterfully: you win the game of life; I surrender. I’m now a broken, defeated man, for whom life means nothing. Are you happy now? Are you sitting there on your throne—surrounded by angels who are praising you—smirking as you think, “Hah! I really got that Jobran Winter fellow!”?
But if you are supposed to be “good,” how could you hurt an innocent person like Sophia, because of someone else’s guilt? That would be like an earthly court sending the wife to jail because of something her husband did—or like whipping a child for something its parent did. If that’s how you are, then what kind of God are you? Do you really expect that we could freely “love” or “worship” a being like that?
Beyond Heaven and Earth Page 4