Sister Mary Tey feels that there is a reason why we met as we did – the way she whatsapped me, out of the blue, just when I was thinking of contacting her was more than coincidence, but a chance for her to guide me back to god (my words, not hers).
I admit that I was ready to see it as a sign. I feel desperate enough to want to be convinced that I will be saved, and that Don and I will be fine if I pray. However, I don’t think it’s (me going to church and stopping being an atheist) is going to happen. I can’t believe. I don’t believe. I won’t go through the motions of believing on the off-chance that all will be well if I say and do the ‘right’ things.
Today she sent me a message containing a story that was supposed to inspire me, but it just made me angry. It was a story about a man whinging about having had the worst day and god telling him why each thing that went ‘wrong’ was actually god stopping something even worse happening. What the actual fuck? This story is supposed to inspire me? Let’s not even go there.
I get that if there were an all-knowing creator who had our best interest at heart, we wouldn’t be able to comprehend their logic and purpose, and lots of sucky things that happen in the world would just seem unfair and even plain dumb. I also get that it will take faith to accept the existence of this creator and that what they do is always best for the world. I don’t have that faith, why would I?
Once upon a time, I thought I did have ‘faith’, or what passed for it. I found it easy enough to just believe, but I didn’t have a reason to believe. I mean, I was told that this was what I should believe and so I did. Believing didn’t actually mean anything to me. It didn’t make me feel anything. What was I supposed to feel? Peace? Joy? I did love the rituals, and the pomp and ceremony of the mass, and the beauty and poetry of sacramentals, devotional articles, and non-liturgical prayers, but I still appreciate all those things, without having belief in god.
If I were to attend mass now I would just be annoyed by the modern liturgy, the sung parts sounding like the worst kinds of pop melodies. You need to believe to excuse such ugliness. I suppose you would need to be able to ignore the poor word choice and the trite tunes, and focus on their meaning. I couldn’t do that. I’m shallow that way.