Sydney Sell Me of Little Faith

Once he poured the scalding water over the tea bag the room filled with the sweet relaxing scent of camomile.

Glancing back at the unlabeled tea rolodex, Stu couldn’t help but notice all the empty spaces inside that would never be filled. Shaking his head, he moved back to the seat he had claimed earlier at the island. “He was a good kid, Al.” He wished he had something more comforting, something kinder, something more profound.

Albert set down his World’s Greatest Grandpa mug filled with tea in front of Stu. “Yeah.”

SYDNEY SELL

Me of Little Faith

I don’t remember when I told anybody I was an atheist, but what I do remember is that at least one of them looked at me like I had just kicked a puppy. Just committed a heinous act of animal abuse right in front of them. I didn’t think I was guilty of anything. I was just admitting to my understanding of how the world works, but maybe my real crime is underestimating the role gods play in other people’s lives?

In all honesty, I’m out of touch. I haven’t believed in any gods since I was at least thirteen years old, no spirits either, nor any souls. I hadn’t been to any kind of religious function for equally as long, until my grandfather’s funeral about a year ago. And then I was glad I had grief then because it would’ve been awkward otherwise.

I think that other people think that understanding death as an ultimate end is a sad experience, but it can be an awkward one as well. It’s an experience that interrupts a funeral, and, in the back of your mind, says: “Um, this stuff isn’t actually happening, and my grandpa’s just… gone.” And then you feel like a hateful idiot because you know everyone else knows they’ll see him again. They’ll join him in some kind of afterlife beyond just their memories, and they’re just going to put your ashes in the dirt.

It’s a peaceful realization as well. When I’m done, I’m done. I don’t have to serve in Heaven, be appraised for reincarnation, or haunt the shit out of my old house. All I have to worry about is what I’m doing right now. And it helps that I understand what’s done is done. I don’t have to wait to see Grandpa again, he’s in my memories, and in my mom’s old photo albums. I can visit him whenever I want, even the mornings on vacation when he stomped around in front of my sister and I in his underwear.

Maybe my crime is underestimating the role religion plays in my own life? A memory of someone is a kind of soul. It’s a handful of little pieces of that person you can carry with you, and maybe that’s why some groups believe taking

a picture steals your soul. A picture keeps a memory that can be shared with as many people as can view it, giving the memory away to the viewers.

Memories may not be metaphysical, but they can certainly be spiritual, or filled with profound feeling and meaning. Moments of gut-wrenching sadness, moments of laughter through pain, moments of noticing that the rest of the world is continuing on around you, those create spiritual memories. Those are moments you carry with you, and they teach you things about yourself and the world.

Maybe my crime is not allowing myself to participate in the community? Faith and death both come with great, large communities. Some of the people who gathered at my grandfather’s funeral are people who didn’t even know my name, or my relation to the deceased. I, and my family, felt supported by these people in our loss, and alienated by them. For some of them, this was not their loss, but the community’s loss. They came because they’d known Grandpa years ago as a city police officer or a neighbor with a friendly dog.

A church group would have done much the same. The congregation would have supported me in my loss, but it would become a community loss. Their grief would not be the same as our immediate family. I don’t feel like I need a community to help me through my grief, or to help my family through their grief. We will handle it our own way.

I’ve kept religion in my own way for a long time anyway. I spend quiet, solitary time alone almost every day walking and listening to music and my own thoughts. Sometimes I perform rituals, such as writing all of my feelings down in a diary, so I can deal with them quietly. Sometimes I fashion things out of clay and paint them with my favorite paints as offerings to friends. Sometimes I take long shamanic journeys as characters I’ve imagined and bring their stories back to be saved to files on my computer with sprawling details also captures on paper. Maybe I am not without religion? Mine is simply different than everybody elses. Mine is the religion of enjoying my time and what I’m doing with it. It requires no gods.