No, not really.
Ever since my grandmother died I’ve been what I’d call “spiritually unsure.” My grandmother was a good Christian and believed in Jeebus and all the “good person goes to heaven” stuff. Before her death, I didn’t think about spirituality or religion too much. I suppose I was of the frame of mind that something started it all and if it’s that big and huge and God-like, how could a mere mortal wrap her mind around that greatness.
Let me make one thing clear right now: I WANT TO BELIEVE IN GOD.
I do, because the idea of my grandmother dying and being fooled bothers me. It actually makes me angry. The reason I’m having so much trouble, I think, is literally a week or two after her death I went to see Eddie Izzard perform live. The show was about how ludicrous it was for us to believe that God exists. His entire comedic act was based upon the concept of us creating God, not the other way around. He pointed out the humor behind believing heaven is above us when we know there’s cloud and space and no angels. Rocket ships have shown us what’s truly above, yet we still insist upon believing the unbelievable. This, in his mind, makes us stupid.
It was the WORST time for me to see his show. Not only did I have a hard time enjoying the comedy, I had a really sinking suspicion he was onto something. I didn’t need that then. Not when I’d lost the person I was closest to. If anything I needed faith more than ever at that time of my life, yet here was this snarky British guy talking about the preposterous notion of some big dude with a white beard throwing monsters and volcanoes on the earth, then killing them off, then making monkeys, then making monkeys talk, then making monkeys fight, and . . . never coming back after he started it all and how that made zero sense.
I’m still wrestling with this, six months later. I’m still wrestling with the idea of God not existing, and I hate it. I want to be able to be okay with some kind of god in my life. I want to know that my grandmother didn’t just fall over and there’s nothing magical, or wonderful, or heaven-like waiting for her, because that doesn’t seem fair. The idea of that doesn’t sit well with me, even though I know there’s nothing I can do. Sooner or later it’ll be me that’s gone, and I suppose my fears for her are fears for myself. What if I live my life trying to be a good person and it’s all just over? No pay off for my troubles? I suppose I won’t know about it because I’m just a lump of dead meat but . . .
Yeah. I want my faith back, and I don’t know how to go about getting it.