Well, I’m still here, along with all the people I care about and those I don’t; the big day came and went, but near as I can tell the world is still overstocked with true believers. In a sense, I’d almost hoped there was something to the whole rapture thing—just the thought of an evangelical-free world gave me a brief thrill—the same feeling I get from buying a lottery ticket, even though I know I won’t win. But maybe, I think.…
Talking with my dad and Jeannie about the recent fervor, I knew what kind of response to expect from him. “Please—let them go,” he said. Even my stepmother, although nominally a Christian, thought the idea was silly. “Isn’t this the 10th time or so something like this has been predicted? Anyway, I’m not ready to go” she added.
My father’s total lack of religious impulse was transferred to me early on, without a hitch. When I was about 5, I remember wondering why we didn’t go to church, and asked if “we” believed in God. “I don’t,” he answered. “But I won’t tell you what to believe. You can decide that when you grow up,” almost guaranteeing that I would adopt his attitudes.
Later, there were a few harmless flirtations—a short-lived involvement with a Christian youth group, mostly to hang out with my friends. Sensing danger, my dad then introduced me to our local Unitarian church, which for the uninitiated is a church in name only. I felt at home with the humanist, often humorous messages from the pulpit; the calls for social action and fairness made up for the silly bowdlerized hymns, any reference to Jesus or the trinity carefully plucked out.
Traditional wisdom holds that people become more religious as they age; in fact, that turns out to be largely a myth, according to surveys. I see my parents giving the same amount of attention (or lack of it) to matters of faith that they always have. My dad, normally tolerant of others’ foibles, has often referred to religion as an addiction, no different than any other drug. The other day, I mentioned the gullible souls who have been paying $135 per pet to obtain “post-Rapture pet insurance” from certified atheists, who promise to care for abandoned animals once their guardians have been whisked off to glory. “Isn’t it funny how people believe that stuff?” I asked. “Actually it’s pathetic,” he grumbled.
For her part, my stepmother feels some kind of faith is crucial. These declarations, which come out whenever the topic is raised, always start with a preamble: “Well, I’ve always felt that people need to believe in something greater than themselves…” or words to that effect. She is hard pressed to explain why such a need exists, but maintains that it’s just what she believes. I guess religion is like that—no real way to explain it rationally.
Or maybe it can be explained: life’s pain and uncertainty inspire some to imagine that there must be something better ahead, a reward for playing the game well, or at least a sense that mysteries will be solved and questions answered. The universe is a big, lonely place; it’s easy to feel lost. No wonder people create cosmic roadmaps and hand them out at every corner. But I think I’ve found my own map, with a pretty straightforward message:
