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281 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 2019
I say I have sloughed off religion like a diseased limb, like it is no longer of use to me, but that's not entirely true. Without it I am unsteady, vulnerable in a way I couldn't be when I was not of this world. The thing about religion is that when you have it, it feels good, like any opiate, the withdrawals are painful.
I do not feel cured or free. Instead I hang in the disquiet of remission. Sometimes, if I visit my hometown and find myself in a room of people singing or praying, I can still feel something, a phantom limb of faith.
-Sara Novic
I had seen one utopia fail. Why did I try to create another? But then, that is the model of the Christian God. Creating a heaven. Then an Eden. And when Eden failed, he opened the rest of the world. "This time it will be good," he said to himself, before erasing humanity with a flood and starting over. And he will try again, or so the Christians believe. The promise of Revelation is that God will set up a new heaven and a new earth. I can't wait to see how those fail too.
That is Christianity, waiting both for the end and for paradise--aren't we foolish to think that the two will ever be separated?
-Lyz Lenz
But as the years passed and I continued to "search," the church felt less and less like home. It became just as strange as the world outside, and then stranger. Eventually, I had no choice. I left the town where I grew up and moved to Seattle. I made "the world" my home. And to my surprise, I didn't die. I didn't devolve into amoral atheistic savagery. I didn't lose all hope. I was warned about the monsters I'd encounter outside the bunker--emptiness, purposelessness, fear of death and hell. But I never met those monsters. It's being in the bunker that gives life to those fears. Once you're outside, they lose their power, they fade into legend, and you carry on with your life.
I won't say I don't suffer the occasional bout of ennui or existential gloom, but it's a clean, honest gloom without cognitive dissonance. I find a quiet absence of answers far less troubling than a noisy abundance of hollow ones.
So why did I leave, if no one drove me out? If I was raised from birth in an aggressively insular culture[...]if all my friends, my family, my entire world was contained in tht compound, surely it tood a violent event to propel me over the walls. Surely I'm angry at God for the death of a loved one or for the suffering of children or some other dramatic betrayal.
Well...not really. Christianity wasn't a soap opera to me. It was real, and I took it seriously. Events in my personal life don't change the structure of the universe. I don't turn my back on the law of gravity because a friend dies in a plane crash. If it's true, it's true, right?
But religion isn't gravity. Religion isn't true or untrue, and that's the point. Religion will never be provable, so all we can ask is for it to be meaningful. For it to resonate with our lived experience. Gravity is meaningful Gravity explains things that I observe in the world around me. It illuminates cause and effect and fits into my experiences in ways that intuitively work. Christian theology--at least the version of it that permeates our culture--doesn't work. It doesn't grow organically from the human experience. It's a strange alien universe superimposed over our own, an awkward assemblage of arbitrary rules and paradoxical concepts shoved roughly over the world we know.
It doesn't fit. The points don't align. Even as a child, I could feel this tension. I questioned my elders constantly, and no amount of Biblical scholarship could bring real answers, because Christianity's physics is fundamentally flawed.
When I think of this global [religious] game of pretend, this vividly imagined reality, it strikes me what a wasted opportunity it is. Because if we're capable of suspending disbelief on such a grand scale and simply deciding how the universe works, imagine what else we could dream up. Instead of angels and demons and forces beyond our control, we could dream a human community that respects itself and its own capacity for good. Instead of an inevitable apocalypse that mocks human progress, we could dream a limitless future that we ourselves are shaping, one that pushes the human experience forward instead of holding it in place, that inspires us to take responsibility for our world and fight to make it better. Maybe humanity does need faith. Maybe we do need a shared dream. But I think we deserve a better one, and it's up to us to build it.