JUNE 19, 2020 – Cont.) “Your question about human prayer,” I said, “also inquires about religion, a subject I’ve already touched upon, one that largely defines humanity, however many people have opted-out of organized religion.”
“Organized?”
“Sorry, that’s a technical term describing religion that coalesces around a vast network of priests, pastors, rabbis, imams, or other holy people, and a hierarchy of leaders who set and implement rules, collect large sums of money, build impressive physical structures, and oversee a range of institutions dedicated to worship, charity, spreading the faith, and above all, consolidation and projection of earthly power.”
“Yikes!” said the alien, its filaments sparkling.
“More than ‘yikes,’” I said. “So much of our history, our collective psyche, and, I would argue, our predicament, is inseparable from religion.”
“I’m still not understanding what religion—organized or unorganized—is, exactly.”
I felt a surge of self-doubt. I harbored strong, skeptical beliefs about religion—ironically, given that every religion itself revolves around a belief system. On the other hand, I hadn’t studied religion in depth despite its indelible influence on human history. I possessed a shallow understanding of the world’s most established religions, including the one into which I’d been inducted thanks to the circumstances of my upbringing. And yet I’d represented to the alien that religion was critical to understanding humanity and implied that I knew more than I did. In fact, all I knew was that I was ignorant. But what of all the other ground I’d touched? What did I really understand of history, economics, psychology . . . football . . . anything? (At least my ignorance of math and science was less important, given the alien’s extreme proficiency in those areas.)
“I think it’s helpful—if not critical,” I started in, “to understand that of all life on earth, humans alone are able to contemplate their demise. Sure, the barnyard hen chased by a fox understands that to lose the race is to become the fox’s chicken dinner, but that’s hardly the same as sitting quietly in the shade of an olive tree, thinking great thoughts and morbid concepts, such as . . . one’s death—when, how, and most important, whether an afterlife exists, and if so, the barriers to entry. These questions are so deep and troubling that from the earliest time, humans worked long and hard to devise explanations, mostly by story-telling. Stories became legends, which later became scripture, morphing into the word of a higher power. In time, the story-telling, the legends, the scripture were transformed into belief systems infused with notions of divinity.”
The alien emitted a soft, level-pitch hum as the filaments glowed steadily, alternating between blue and green.
“Are you tracking?”
“I need more information before I can answer that,” said the alien, hedging its bets.
“Fair enough,” I said. “Reminds me of what my dad once said about my youthful exuberance over the crackpot philosophy of Ayn Rand, or Iron Hand, as he jokingly called her: ‘Never accept any belief hook, line, and sinker,’ he said, ‘with one exception: the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth.’ The teachings, I took Dad to say, were distinct from the religion that later developed.”
“Who’s Ayn Rand?” said the alien.
I wasn’t about to run off a tangential cliff. “An eccentric,” I said, “who was full of herself . . . Back to organized religion.” (Cont.)
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
