I talk to God.
I don’t believe in “God the bearded father of Christ who benevolently overlooks Heaven and Earth.” Or any other version of the god-concept you encounter in churches and temples around the globe.
Still… I talk to him and he talks back.
Don’t be silly, of course I don’t need medication.
Actually one of a host of personalities may talk back, and many (if not all) of them are, I’m sure, convenient personas by which I advise myself.
I would stop listening if I didn’t find it mostly helpful.
For the past year or so I’ve been trying to develop a self-help/New Age schtick. I use that word, not out of cynicism, but because it would be that and nothing more. Most of us “spiritual but not religious” folks are piecing together a spiritual survival kit based on 8% experience and 92% fingers crossed.
God has not come down from the heavens and prescribed a new path, yet we know the old paths are bullshit, so we’re left inventing some kind of patchwork quilt of meaning.
I wanted to inspire people, to help them avoid some of the bullshit I’ve stepped into. The trouble is that trying to codify what I knew just made me realize how little I knew.
And, more importantly if you’re trying to make an “inspirational” video that doesn’t make people weep into their beer: I’m a basket case. Just getting the mail causes me to reassess my entire life plan. If there were rewards programs for existential crises, I’d have the yacht and the timeshare in Vegas by now.
Maybe Jesus sucked at dusting too, and was afraid to answer his phone, and talked to his cats. I’ll never know. But that’s my point…
It really bothers me that I don’t know.
I can’t accept that life is birth-graduation-marry-401k-maybe run into Mick Jagger in a hotel elevator near Penn Station.
I insist on more.
I insist that life be a quest.
I insist that we influence each other’s quests, that there is such a thing as alignment (I dig the idea of “neutral good,” aka “Wild Card Mofo”) and that quests can be awesome or crappy based on the choices you make.
I insist that we fight trolls, develop an immunity to Iocaine powder, and learn the mystical art of Grandma-pleasing, even if doing so means we journey far over the three mountains for the purple velvet Cape of Knowing.
I insist that there be someone or something “out there” who hears and understands the words we mutter into our souls while washing the dishes on a lonely Thursday night.
I insist there is a point.
I just don’t know what it is yet. But believe me, the minute I find out, you’ll be the first to know.