There used to be a merry-go-round in the park where I would play as a child. About eight feet in diameter, its smooth metal deck sat centered on a very well-worn and well-lubricated hub, so that there was almost no limit to the speed with which it could be spun. Grab bars stood sentry at the edge of the carousel, and in the 1980s this was probably considered a safety feature. Today I suspect that these particular kinds of playground installations are considered unsafe, and have become an endangered species, as I have not seen one myself in quite some time.
There was one spot on the carousel that was completely safe from the dangerous action of physics: the center. At the center, the speed of the merry-go-round didn’t matter; the world was still, there, turning gently. At the edge, there was frenzied motion, centrifugal force hurling bodies into the dirt, while they tried to jump on or off, or cling to the bars hoping to not be thrown from the carriage as it went.
As it is with belief. I have friends who believe. Some believe in a higher power, and are devoted to religious teachings, and they look beyond the physical plane for meaning in their lives. Others believe that all of this is nonsense and cannot possibly be worthwhile at all: Atheists. Atheists are interesting because they see themselves as somehow different from religious people. Many of them see faith as weakness, or ignorance, or even evil. They are certain that there is no deity watching from beyond, no soul that survives the inevitable collapse of the corpuscular envelope, and a cosmic origin that will, one day, neatly fit into the tenets of contemporary physics. They seem comfortable in these beliefs, and yet they often react to contrary ideas as if they are somehow perverted, or dangerous. They also might bristle at the suggestion that they are themselves believers, but this is what I like to call them, because from my perspective this is what they are.
The Christian tells me that God most certainly exists. They cannot prove it, but some of them try, in futility. They offer up the Bible as proof, they offer up miracles as proof, or they offer up their own personal experiences as proof. None of it is very convincing. Some of their proof is offensive to the Jew, or the Muslim, and most of it is offensive to the Atheist. In the end, they often confess that there is no proof and one simply must “take it on faith.”
The Atheist, on the other hand, tells me that God most certainly does not exist, but they can’t seem to prove it either. When the lack of tangible evidence is not sufficient, they offer up scriptural contradictions and sectarian bickering as proof, they offer up the atrocities committed by religious people as proof, and they offer up the accomplishments of science as proof. None of that is very convincing either. Perhaps I am expected to take it on faith.
I cannot reach into the beyond to know whether a deity is there watching. I cannot yet witness the moment when life leaves my body to see where it goes, if anywhere, and I’m in no rush to. I cannot calculate the origin of matter in a universe that is assumed to have, at some point in the past, contained none. And I decided long ago that I don’t need answers to any of these questions in order to have a meaningful life.
In the center of the merry-go-round, looking out just beyond the edge where chaos is waiting, I feel comfortable enough that I don’t need to hold on. As soon as I step in any direction, however, I can feel myself being pulled further in that direction, and I wrestle myself back to the center where it is calm, and peaceful, and both of my hands are free to grasp whatever is coming next. If intelligent life is discovered in another star system, I can deal with that. If an old, bearded, Caucasian man descends from the heavens on a flaming chariot to dispense judgement upon all of mankind, I guess I can deal with that too. If nutritionists tell us that saturated fat is healthy to consume, and epicures tell us that white wine is appropriate to have with red meat, and the British tell us that Churchill did in fact order the sinking of the Lusitania to draw America into the War, and America decides to join the rest of the world by converting to the metric system, then I can deal with it. If I have a soul, and that soul is immortal, then I suppose it might know where to go after the body it currently inhabits is no longer a suitable container, and whatever I become at that point will probably not make a whole lot of sense to the people I leave behind. Many of them will cling to whatever they can grab in their corner of the carousel, and while trapped there assure themselves and others that they have found a safe place, and that I am on my way to Heaven, or Hell, or oblivion. If anyone then finds themselves in the center, perhaps they will feel as stable there as I felt, and perhaps their grip will loosen so that they might be ready to grasp whatever is coming next for them.
