Jigsaw Faith

Atheism on the Tire-swing

I suppose you could say my interest in the interfaith movement started in fifth grade. I grew up in South Carolina, a state not exactly renowned for its religious tolerance. Our location in the middle of the Bible Belt does not contribute to a lot of interfaith dialogue. And if you can say this of the adults of this region, you can definitely say it for the children—for it is a sad truth that kids will often parrot the opinions of their parents with far more cruelty and less actual reasoning than the adults.

In fifth grade, one of my best friends was an atheist. She was a superb student, the child of two Chinese immigrants; ours was a friendship that had developed over our academic rivalry to be the best in the class (she went on to get a perfect score on the SAT and now attends MIT, while I graduated valedictorian of my high school and now attend Boston University—it’s ironic that our Southern childhood friendship ended up following us both to Boston, where we continue it still). We bonded over Harry Potter and origami and a shared love for mermaids. Politically active even at that young age, we came up with petitions to save the bamboo on our playground and founded a school newspaper. Our fifth grade teacher humored our antics because he knew we would still excel on all our tests.

I never really knew my friend was an atheist—not that it would have mattered to me—until a group of us fifth graders were playing n the tire-swing at recess. Somehow the topic of church came up. At that age, I still assumed everyone went to church, a kind of universally obligatory Sunday morning punishment. But as the other kids talked about their respective places of worship (Baptist, Catholic, the huge non-denominational church my parents sometimes jokingly called a cult), my friend was asked where she went. And she calmly replied, “I don’t go to church.”

Confused looks. A sudden eruption of tittering. “What do you mean,” one girl asked, “you don’t go to church?”

My friend shrugged. “My family doesn’t believe in God.”

And, suddenly, the mindset of our little group changed. It was no longer a cluster of friends chatting; so quickly, a mob mentality appeared. My friend was singled out against the group. In children, this is even more unsettling than in adults. Because children can be infinitely more cruel. They are less constrained by the varnished politenesses of society. They won’t try to be politically correct.

Subtly, the positioning of the group changed. My friend stood alone, the other girls formed a wall around her, advancing slowly on her. “You don’t believe in God?” one girl spat. “You don’t go to church?” another one prodded. The unkind whispers continued.

I clung to the chain of the tire swing, looking between my friend and the group of girls. I’d been taught that Christianity was the one true religion—I’d heard that since I could remember. I couldn’t defend my friend’s atheism when I claimed to believe in Jesus. But I hated seeing her, solitary against that group of self-righteous spite.

And then, harshly, “You’re going to go to hell.” It was the first girl who said it.

Those words triggered me. I stepped in front of my friend (who, though alone, wasn’t shrinking at all from the hateful gazes she was getting). “Leave her alone,” I shot back. “She can believe what she believes.”

I don’t remember too clearly what happened after that. The angry group broke apart, turning away with a few resentful glares. The venomous atmosphere of the confrontation dissolved. My friend and I walked back to class, probably to fold some more paper cranes or draw pictures of mermaids.

But the image that has never left my mind from the experience is that of those words being spoken—“You’re going to go to hell.” My mother tells me she still remembers a car ride, back when I was very small, when we were talking about another one of my friends, who happened to be Jewish. “Mom,” I asked, “Will she go to heaven, since she’s Jewish?”

My mother, a well-versed Catholic, hesitated, then told me, “I don’t know.” When she recounts the story now, she says that she didn’t have the heart to tell me no, that she isn’t even sure of the answer herself, though the Scripture and church doctrine spells it out.

And that’s the trouble with talking about religion. There’s the temptation to condemn others, to judge their beliefs as inferior. I am a fervent supporter of the interfaith movement. I believe religion is something we need to talk about. But we must remember that this dialogue must take place in a positive, accepting environment. We are not children on a playground, telling another child he or she is going to hell. We are believers of all different types, coming together to see what there is to learn, and to understand.

Fighting the Defamation of Muslim Americans - Wajahat Ali

Barbeque & Bibles

Buddhist Geeks

Godless Humor

• While discussing children the other day with my atheist friend, we came upon the topic of godparents. My friend knows that I don't plan on having any children, but she's always teasing me about having that motherly instinct:
• Me: Godparents? Now THAT'S something I could handle. I could be your children's godmother. Barring the fact that neither of us are Catholic…
• Her: You can be my kid's there's-no-god-mother. Plan?
• Me: Atheist parenting. You should write the book.

Stoveside Spirituality

So here I am, in my kitchen. Literally. As I write these words. I’ve got a nice little setup going on, with my laptop on the counter next to the stove so I can stir my kheer (it’s Indian food night in my house) and a stool pulled up to sit on. This will probably result in an imminent rice-on-the-keyboard disaster, so I’ll have to be extra careful in wielding my spoon. My apron is on and my music is playing. Domestic bliss.

It is in moments like these that I am able to easily reach the mindfulness I have to struggle at other times to find (though the other day, when my father accidentally locked us both out of my car in the grocery store parking lot, I was able to stay calm even when we had to walk home lugging groceries in the 100-degree heat and the “shortcut” my father proposed ending up taking us through a mosquito-infested ditch). But now: the sweet smell of the food cooking. The warmth of the kitchen. The strum of the guitar music. Life is lovely.

It’s been a good day in general. I registered for a class I thought I wouldn’t be able to take originally—Religion and U.S. Foreign Policy. The more I learn about world religions, the most passionate I become about wanting to be involved in international relations in the field of religion. As Islamophobia increases in Europe and the U.S. and conflicts across the world arise from religious differences, I want to foster understanding. Whether that will be through a nonprofit job or through the government remains to be seen. Things will happen as they happen.

The other day, one of my friends asked me if I thought that studying religion would make me more likely to become an atheist (many scholars of religion are). I answered that I think learning about so many different religions CAN cause people to choose that belief. But I also think that it can also go another way: the more one studies religion, the more one sees that there is something greater, something that transcends sectarianism. Maybe studying religions may not make you stop believing in RELIGION, but I think it makes you less likely to believe in ONLY one.

I recently discovered Joseph Campbell, a scholar of mythology. He was an expert on all sorts of religions (I’m basically in awe when reading his books, and every other sentence is highlighted by my overeager pen). But he wasn’t an atheist. He just believed in a greater power, a greater truth that transcends all the human attempts to define it as “God” or a certain religion. In his opinions, religions are sociological constructs to try to understand that greater truth.

A great quote from him:

“Now you can personify God in many, many ways. Is there one god? Are there many gods? Those are merely categories of thought. What you are talking and trying to think about TRANSCENDS all that…God as the ultimate mystery of being is beyond thinking.”

I personally find myself following that path, more than the one of atheism, as I learn more. People often ask me what religion I am, when they hear I’m studying religion. They ask if I want to go to seminary, to or teach. Some warn me to choose the “right” religion in the end.

I really don’t have an answer for them. I was raised Presbyterian then Baptist and Catholic. I go to a dharma center for classes on Buddhism. I study and read about all different types of religion. I feel choosing a religion before learning as much as I can about all of them is a disservice to myself—and to them. And who knows? Maybe I’ll never choose just one.

For now, I’m content to taste a spoonful of my cooking, turn up the volume on my music, and watch the sunlight filter in the window. If there is one thing I can say for sure, it is that there is something divine in this moment right here. 

Internal Love

[As opposed to eternal love. But maybe they can be the same thing.]

My mind has the propensity to be a little—or a lot—hyperactive. This becomes extremely apparent when I do my meditation sessions (which I’m now up to doing twice daily). My thoughts, as if feeling the danger of impending extermination, start doing crazy cartwheels. They flash colors like they’re on an acid trip. They scrawl words across my brain. In general, they refuse to shut up.

This is a problem, because meditation is supposed to be about finding the natural state of the mind, clear of thoughts and emotions, as I have heard so many times from my dharma teacher. Yesterday in meditation class, he told us:

“Peace is being content with who you are, where you are, and what you have. And peace is found through meditation.”

My thoughts, intellectual as they may be at times, have trouble understanding that. And so, with every meditation session, they begin their mad dash of self-preservation. Usually I try to just acknowledge them as they come, and let them go. I am thinking of the things I have to do today. I am thinking of my shopping list. I am thinking of…a purple elephant? And so on.

But today I tried something different. Around the time when one of the thoughts in my mind was pleading with me (and yes, I know it’s strange to hear voices, but you try sitting alone with your thoughts for a prolonged period of time, and you’ll start hearing them too), “I don’t want to go. Please don’t get rid of me,” I got frustrated.

“Look here,” I told my mind, the whole coliseum full of wild thoughts. “I am doing this for you. I want you to be peaceful. To be happy. I am doing this out of love for you.”

And, suddenly, it was quiet. There’s no other way to describe it. All the clattering thoughts melted away, as I began to focus on loving them instead of tuning them out. My mouth pulled into a smile unintentionally. I felt lighter.

And, as I continued my meditation, focusing on the gentle rhythm of my breathing without interruption—I felt at peace.