I do not believe in God. I don’t believe that there is a mighty power out there nor do I believe that the Earth was created by God or that we were created in God’s image.
The concept of God doesn’t even cross my mind during the average day. In fact, I won’t even think about it unless someone sticks a picture of Jesus Christ on a crucifix in front of my face and asks me whether I think that he is in fact the son of God. I wouldn’t suggest anyone to do it since a) that person would inevitably be religious and b) my answer would hardly be something they would want to hear.
One of the closest times I’ve ever gotten to acknowledging the existence of a higher power was when I wished that my soccer team would win the Seattle city soccer tournament for our 6th year in a row. This was during my senior year of high school. It would have been a nice way to end our career as club players. We all huddled together during that last championship game, our faces flushed from the exertion and the biting cold. I remember I couldn’t feel my legs or my fingers. We all held hands as we kneeled during the shootout. Unfortunately we didn’t win that last year. And no I do not blame that on God.
I listen to my friends’ point of view when it comes to religion. I respect the decision to believe or not to believe. I have listened to friends as they would tell me what their relationship with God has meant to them while we walked around a shopping mall. I have been told that those who do not believe in God will not go to heaven. But I think that there is something entirely wrong with that concept.
I believe that religion is a way to accept the fact that we are all going to die. I believe that it comforts people to believe that we will go to a realm where we will exist forever as angels within the pearly white gates. It definitely appeals more than the alternative. The thought of being buried seven feet under with nothing but our best attire and whatever else our offspring find necessary is hardly a cheery way to say goodbye to our lovely yet short time on good old Mother Earth.
I prayed to God was when my neighbor was diagnosed with cancer. I prayed that he recover. But once his cancer was considered terminal, he decided it was too much and became another illegal solicitor and contented receiver of assisted suicide. And no I do not blame that on God.
When I hope for anything, my wishes are not directed towards God. They are more based and dependent on the mercy of the future. I don’t expect anyone, may it be the next person or God, to positively affect my life. I am not dependent on anyone to bring about my well-being.
I like to consider myself a realist. In my reality there is no God nor do I think that people are always inherently good. It disgusts me how easily dismissed people are based upon their sexual orientation or their beliefs or preferences when it comes to the miracle of birth. There is no one in the world that can impose their beliefs upon another person or group of people unless it is someone with a God-like ranking of power. And if the supposed God Himself chooses to actually do so, then that is no god that I would want to believe in.
I remember when a close friend of mine tried to kill herself. I prayed to God as I wrestled the scissors away from her that night, begging Him to make her stop. Begging Him to make her realize how amazing she was. But soon the incidents began increasing and instead of scissors, it would sometimes be a bottle of pills that I would find in her backpack and confiscate or a suicide note that a friend would catch a glimpse of in her notebook. The situation got so out of hand that she was kicked out of school and told to get some help. And no I do not blame that on God.
It has always fascinated me how as kids we deify our parents. We shine this sheen of light upon them and in our eyes they continue to glow until we turn twelve or thirteen and realize that, in fact, they have their weaknesses and their faults. It is unfair. We grow up with this mental picture of our parents’ perfection, but once we hit adolescence we realize that that perfection is just a front and that what lies behind those perfectly white teeth are harsh words and a mind that doesn’t know how to filter out the kindness from the rudeness. It’s a cruel awakening to arise sleepily from a peaceful childhood to a tumultuous adolescence: one that requires staying away from the house at times because you know that once you arrive home, the words will never cease to fly.
My friends tell me that they talk to God. That He listens to them and that they truly do have conversations with Him. I respect that. I respect their beliefs and I will not question them. But if they are able to talk to Him and I have repeatedly failed to hear His ‘voice’ then apparently we are on completely different wavelengths: I am on FM radio and He is on AM and we’ve never overlapped.
I was diagnosed with a certain blood disease when I was in high school. A disease that has no name because it is the first time doctors have ever seen such a thing: a combination of Von Willebrand’s Disease and Thrombocytopenia where my blood doesn’t clot well or have the normal count of platelets. Having believed myself healthy for the majority of my life, I suddenly found myself visiting the doctor’s regularly, getting my blood drawn on a weekly basis and having to routinely check my body for any excessive amounts of bruising. I prayed to God that I would just be healthy again. But once the doctors realized that neither my platelet count nor platelet coagulation would ever be normal, I learned to deal with it. And no I do not blame that on God.
Biological issues are interesting things. Though I have never found the sciences to be my forte or my main center of interest, I liked how straightforward it was. There were always explanations for everything. In chemistry, if a certain chemical mixes with another chemical, we can deduce what the result will be. In biology, if a cow mates with a cow, we don’t get a lion, we get a cow. So what was the point of God?
Let me rewind here. I have been told that God listens to us and if we pray long enough, things may come true. But evidently one can skip asking for anything biological to change. It is not as if God can suddenly insert in my veins an innumerable amount of functioning platelets and suddenly be cured. It is not as if God can suddenly walk up to my friend and tell her to not be depressed and ‘Whoop-de-doo!’ stop being suicidal. I wish I considered myself a pessimist because then I could actually believe that this was true and the whole purpose of writing this essay would have gone to wrought.
My grandmother fell ill from colon cancer when I was seven years old. She was lying in a room filled with her crying sons and daughters. I never knew a single room could hold so much grief. My mother had ushered me into the room to say my final goodbyes. I told my grandmother for the last time that I loved her. And as I turned my back to leave, tears streaming down my cheeks, she whispered that she loved me too. I prayed to God that those wouldn’t be her last words. I half-expected her to jump up in her bed, yell “Gotcha!” and start laughing, tears streaming down those beautiful blue eyes of hers, crinkling with mirth. But it was just a figment of my imagination and she passed away the next morning, having said her finals words to me. And no I do not blame that on God.
My mother told me that sometimes she still has conversations with my grandmother. That sometimes when she’s really stressed she would talk to her and she would comfort my mother and tell her that everything was going to be okay. I dislike this. I did not approve of the fact that my mother was talking to dead people nor did I approve of the fact that I secretly was dying to see whether I could converse with her too. I tried the following evening. But of course I could not hear her voice, only the beat of my own heart as I felt as if my being was going to be split in two from the agony. I’ve never let myself believe such a thing again.
After my grandmother died, I became mute. Not all day and all night, but when I was by myself, I wouldn’t even think. When my grandmother had walked into a room, it was like Christmas came early. She had been bright and charming and warm but she also had that something about her that just made you want to be her best friend. Her confidante. It was as if everyone who met her wanted to be the steward of her smile and the protector of her laugh because she glowed beauty. And what broke me the most was that she had planned to move to Seattle to be close to me. I felt robbed.
My grandmother’s death is the reason I don’t believe in God. I lied when I said earlier that I did not blame that on Him. I acknowledge that it seems childish and immature, but take it or leave it. The possibility of my having faith in any superior power had been shattered long before I even really learned about the concept of God or religion. It had been broken because I could not possibly believe that the life of someone so pure could be cut off at the early age of 62. And it sounds anticlimactic, I realize. It sounds as if there should have been a deeper reason for my denouncement of any attachment to a religion. But as it goes, that event, though now accompanied by a few others, stands as one of the most painful moments I have ever experienced. And neither a reader of this essay or God can say, in any way, that that is not a justified reason.
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