THE FOLLOWED ITSELF

I am asked this on occasion, and it is a fair question indeed: “What would it take, for you to believe in God?”

It is a tough one: what indeed? Extract a small essence of the divine, in a tube, to be tested, probed, burnt over a Bunsen burner? What would qualify? How then, would a spiritual or incorporeal entity be encapsulated in a manner that would satisfy the most cynical amongst us? Could we view such a thing under a microscope, or capture it via the Hubble telescope? Is there some mysterious code written on every molecule, atom, muon or quark of creation itself? A signature, a magic word properly pronounced that would unweave the very core of the universe, as the ancient Cabbalists would claim? Or is it some Deistic construct, a distant uncaring entity that has done its work, and now rests on the seventh day, one day eternal?

I am quite sure that any deity composed in the imagination of man is simply an effort to cast the universe in the shape of our tiny shadow, an egotistical endeavor, a hubris hope born of our intense self-involvement.

What then, would change my atheism to theism?

This then, is what I require:

To quote Thomas Paine, from his Age of Reason, Chapter II, Of Missions and Revelations:

“Revelation then, so far as the term has relation between God and man, can only be applied to something which God reveals of his will to man; but though the power of the Almighty to make such a communication is necessarily admitted, because to that power all things are possible, yet, the thing so revealed (if any thing ever was revealed, and which, by the bye, it is impossible to prove) is revelation to the person only to whom it is made. His account of it to another is not revelation; and whoever puts faith in that account, puts it in the man from whom the account comes; and that man may have been deceived, or may have dreamed it; or he may be an impostor and may lie. There is no possible criterion whereby to judge of the truth of what he tells; for even the morality of it would be no proof of revelation.”

That is your answer. I require a revelation. If it is only confined to me, then so be it.

When I was struggling with the question, years ago, I was praying, I’d lay in bed, asking, begging for some sort of sign, a revelation.

At one point, I recall hearing a voice in my skull. It was a deep, sonorous voice that one would normally associate with an All-Father. I cannot recall the words verbatim, only that Cecil B. DeMille-style bass tone.

And I told that voice NO.

I told it that I was only a man, a finite man, and that I, like any other human being, was capable of self-deception. I am as capable of delusion as anyone else. That that voice could very well be my subconscious, duping me for complex reasons that I could not parse out, being as they were mine, and so blinded by them.

Of course, being a divine, omnipotent being, it would know that, right?

And so I waited. For what, you might ask? For a sign, a real sign, not some obscure face in cuisine, or a structure of man or nature that just happened to bear some vague resemblance to a divine portent. Something with breadth and depth and length, identifiable by the three dimensions, and perceivable by the five senses. Even if it was confined to me, and me alone.

I waited for a miracle, an augur, a frith or omen. It did not have to be a large one: a small one, a miniscule one would have done nicely. An appearance, a vision, something personal, that would intaglio on my brain once and for all the existence of this deity the bible called God.

I had some dreams, but the first one went not well at all. The second was mostly jagged imagery.

There will be those theists, who say I asked too much. That only a ‘sinful generation will demand a sign’, or that I counted myself too important in the grand scheme of things. I did not fancy myself Saul of Tarsus, to be blinded in the desert, or a Stephen, to be buried beneath thrown stones. I needed no burning bush, or a parting of the heavens. That would’ve been nice, but not necessary.

A loving, caring father would not withhold his hand from such a deed, would he? Being omnipotent, omniscient, omni-whatever, such a being would know exactly my need, and provide for it, no? A simple pointing in the proper direction would’ve done nicely, thanks much.

And there I stood, waiting. For something, anything that would validate my desire to believe. Rest assured, I wanted to. I’d spent much of my wastrel youth on fripperies such as Tarot cards and witchcraft (which I gave up, because of the bible no less), discussed theological matters intently (and getting as worked up as a Baptist preacher on Sunday), studied comparative religions, read the bible, read all sorts of books on the subject, from the sublime to the ridiculous, and anyone who knew me better than a passing acquaintance would’ve told you: “He’s a believer, all right.” Certainly, I’d been to the occasional church, but I’ve always viewed religious belief as a private affair – sharing only with those willing, respecting those who would not. I’d always had an innate respect for all things religious – those Hallmark specials about the apostles, or some saccharine offering from Hollyweird or the glass teat almost always managed to make me daub my eye. I’d even played with the thought of entering a religious order. Which one? Never quite decided. I even read the book of Revelation, and found myself weeping in fear.

And rest assured, had that sign been sent, that revelation revealed, a minor miracle mandated, what you would be reading now would be the complete opposite. I am a passionate person, and a sharing one, and I would have shouted it from the rooftops: I could very well have been pounding a bible on a pulpit, bellowing brimstone and fishing for souls, spreading the good news for all and sundry.

Alas, such was not to be. There will be those critics who claim that I hardened my heart, or that I simply didn’t wish for the ‘good times’ to end (I was on hard times then, and still am, so that’s out the window), or any number of excuses for why this small mendication was neglected, ignored, choose the verb of your choice.

Why then, did I not consult with someone with some experience in this matter? After forty-some odd years on this planet (going on fifty very soon), I was and am well acquainted with my species, and I know that men lie. Not all, but some, and an investigation of religion has proved this to me: it does not make anyone wiser, or more honest.

And so I still wait. For that event that will once and for all burn indelibly into my brain and heart the existence of this amorphous being that some are willing to kill for, die for, wage war over, shackle the heart and manacle the mind for.

Make me a miracle. Send me a sign. Smite me, or soothe me. Write your name in the crackling heavens with lightning bolts, or grant me Daniel’s vision: Mene, mene, tekel upharsin, a ghostly hand or even a ghost. Whisper in my ear the sweet nothings of the netherworld, or have demons dance in my dreams. There are a million methods by which I can be convinced. But like Didymus, I will need to see and touch the wounds.

I place the burden of proof squarely, not on the followers, but on the followed itself.

Come then, and show me. Else, to my grave I go, convinced that this flesh is all that there is, and naught comes after.

Show me you love me.

Or just show me.

Show me.