I was raised in a strict Catholic household. Daily prayers were as normal a routine as brushing one's own teeth; I was told that praising the Lord at the early hours of the morning would please Him as much as creating the universe did. I was not sold. How can God, a single entity so to speak, be everywhere, or listen to everything and everyone, concurrently? If we were created in His image, why can't we, then, be omnipresent as well? Shouldn't we, too, possess divine powers? Where is our spark of divinity? But I can understand why this isn't plausible. Men cannot be trusted with too much power, because, as it transpires, they are inclined to abuse it.
My questions are many. My doubts surpass my questions. I don't remember the last time I prayed or why I prayed. How does one pray anyway? Should I simply kneel and utter words? But I will be talking to the winds. Why should God listen to my pleas when the world--its "finest" creation--is engulfed in a miasma of despair? And if our destiny is controlled by an invisible string, shouldn't we then blame our actions on predestination? According to the Bible, no creature is hidden from God. God scrutinizes us like bacteria under a microscope. We are in a sense exposed and vulnerable. But if nothing escapes His eye, then He must surely see the doubts brewing in me. Right?
During my prepubescent years, when I had set out on a journey of self-discovery, my parents would advise me to pray. Suffering from corporeal ills? Pray. Emotional dysfunctions? Pray. Trouble in school? Pray. God will help you, they said. But, if truth be told, I'm not sure I wanted to pray. I'm not sure I wanted to believe. Rather, what I wanted was reassurance, understanding, and love--all of the things which prayer failed to provide.
The odyssey of Christianity was one of death, violence and torment. I know my Old Testament pretty well, from the Creation down to Moses. There is rape and murder in these books, deceit, incest, madness, and rivalry. The crucifixion was more or less a gruesome representation of Roman brutality. A Father who sacrificed his one and only Son on our behalf was far too extreme (albeit admirable). It displayed a love for us so great, so pure, but also deadly. The Bible tells us about a time when the wickedness of men had seeped into the crevices of earth like poison that God had no choice but to wipe out all of humanity. A catastrophic flood, he concluded, would destroy every living thing on earth. If you're unfamiliar with the story, this is the part where Noah builds an ark, fills it with two of all living creatures, and endures a flood that lasts for a period of forty days and nights. The rest is history.
In these shadows and punishments I first encountered the primal darkness of the world. I wasn't drawn to that darkness. In fact, I was repelled by it. I didn't want any part of it. I wanted to stay as far away from it as possible, but that meant ridding myself of the book which holds the secret to eternal life--the Bible.
The Bible and I go back a long way. It was the first book I'd ever read; the first disappointment I suffered; and my primary source of doubts. Long ago, my religion teacher advised me against taking the Bible literally. The Bible, on the whole, is laden with metaphors and symbolism, he said. I listened. On the opposing team, my parents asserted the Bible is but an accurate reflection of the creation of the world. In a sense I was being pulled in too many directions. I grew up thinking that to spurn one's religion beliefs altogether was to, ultimately, condemn oneself to eternal damnation.
We seek religion because we're afraid of what would happen if we don't. We fear our lives would be meaningless if we suddenly stop believing. We fear the tunnel of infinity. We fear the suspension between the truthfulness of life and the nothingness of death. We want nothing more than to flee into the safety and peace of Paradise, Elysium, or Valhalla, you name it.
At this age my mind is but a congeries of questions. I have a lot of soul-searching to do before choosing a religious affiliation. And although part of me wants to devout herself to worshiping God, an even bigger part believes that, in a desolate spot in the universe, past other worlds and cosmic debris, the gods of old still exist.
The world of Norse gods and men and giants begins with darkness, and ends with darkness. The Norse gods are mortal. Mortal gods. Just as impure, flawed, and unfit as we are. Their flaws of character--vanity, deception, unfaithfulness, pride, cruelty, adultery--proved their undoing. The gods themselves are no better or worse, in the moral sense, than humans. In the Bible, we are blamed for the darkness and everything else that came after it. But in Norse mythology, the gods are just as responsible for setting in motion the events of Ragnarök as we are.
The mortality of the gods--their hopes, fears, and weaknesses--make them all the more endearing to me; all the more beautiful.
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