A Whisper Named Faith

Today was a mental health day, as I woke up feeling more mental than healthy.

I received a whole pile of cookbooks from Caspian's mother yesterday, and thumbed through them until I found something a) easy, b) interesting and c) tasty - island chicken with papaya. Only, I bought a mango and not a papaya, because I like mangoes more. I had a very domestic day, full of cleaning and shopping and soon, cooking. Insane! I feel like I'm playing dress-up.

Last night, Caspian and I were lying on the floor beside each other in the music room in the dark, talking about humanity's God-belief - that universally-present psychological aspect within our species that causes us to need God and develop religions. I described us as a race of schizophrenics, each with our own instinctive, inborn little voice. The one that tells us that there has to be a reason, something more, some explanation for our existence and suffering and pleasure. Something beyond our comprehension, inexplicable, something that defies science and enables us to say with finality, "because God says so." Something to blame when we run out of words, something to thank when our joy overcomes our logical capacity.

Our little voices are influenced by our upbringing, and by our society. Every religion out there promises salvation, invokes fear, threatens separation from that Other that we are so desperate to connect with. One of the main reasons, other than to satisfy our little voices, is simple societal control and organization of power - through fear or love or what-have-you. From my perspective (and limited exposure, perhaps), I can't spot a correct religion. They are all appealing, and they all disgust me in at least a few ways. Why did you buy a Toyota and not a Honda? Because your parents are Toyota fans? Because the price is convenient for you? Because everybody else is buying one? Because you fear an accident and Toyota vehicles have high safety ratings? Do you like the features? Does it make you look all snazzy and classy?

Caspian is content in his almost-atheism. I say atheism, but he doesn't disbelieve in the existence of a God; he simply doesn't feel a need to know. Whether there is or there isn't a God doesn't affect him. He is committed to life on this earth and helping its beings to live more fulfilling lives, here and now. He somehow doesn't mind the thought of nonexistence and doesn't feel a need to stock up on hail marys, good deeds or scripture verses. He finds just as much inspiration in the music and words and lives of people living and dead as in any book of faith. His love, goodwill and good deeds find their value through what they accomplish through him, either directly or indirectly as they change the way he thinks and acts, which in turn may affect the way others think and act. He is an instrument of benevolence and holds himself solely responsible for his thoughts and actions.

I asked him, then, what the value of prayer is.

Frustrated and sad, I started to cry and told him of the vast waste of it all. All of that energy, directed toward nothing, accomplishing nothing. He told me that it's not a waste. It's so strange, that he can be so free of any inclination toward religiosity, yet so cognizant of its beauty. Sometimes all I can see is the propensity for religions to generate racism and sexism and discrimination. Prayer does something here and now. For the pray-er, and sometimes for the pray-ee. It changes the way people who pray think and act, and it functions as meditation and the propagation of good will towards our fellows and the creatures of our planet by affecting our attitudes and actions. It comforts the faithful, and that is important to Caspian even though he doesn't require that kind of comfort, because unhappy, fearful people affect his life and the lives of those around them.

It makes sense, but there's something missing in my mind. I hope hope hope that there's a higher plane we're operating on when we pray and meditate, and that this other place or other state can reach us, somehow. Maybe because I'm selfish. Maybe because I've taken too much philosophy and religion and have read so many books. Maybe it's because I am so full of life that I can't imagine life ending. I am compelled to hope, for no reason I can describe, even though it makes me unhappy, disturbed and afraid half the time. Why? I don't know. Because I have that crazy whisper in my head named Faith?