Perpetual Apostasy
I am haunted by the religious impulse. A quirk of evolution, a product of childhood indoctrination? Attempts at uncovering its roots have been stymied by my own idiocy. Decades of study, practice, and reflection, all for naught.
To be clear, this isn’t a question of god(s), or even religions per se. My antitheism is up there with antinatalism as one of the few ‑isms on solid ground. The Abrahamic god is an amalgamation of Near Eastern myths and superstitions. The resultant religions are pathetic death cults and money-laundering schemes. So opening my heart to a failed Jewish cult leader isn’t the answer. Don’t email me about it.
No, this impulse is a bit more nebulous. Attempts at defining it become exercises in hollow verbosity, word salads that leave you wanting. It’s just a feeling, and damn it all if that isn’t the most frustrating thing to wrap your head around. But here I sit, trying to do it anyway.
It’s something at the periphery, just out of sight; more intuited than realized. A vague impression of the transcendent. I catch glimpses of it in nature, art, and poetry. Fleeting moments of impending revelation. Spiritual blue balls.
And then there’s the desire to engage it, with its whispered promises of divine beauty, fundamental truths, and freedom from the chains of birth and death.
This has all led to me being a spiritual tourist, a fickle adherent and a perpetual apostate. If gods exist, I’ve burned all their bridges. Every time I think I’ve found the way, it’s only a matter of time before the novitiate fervor fades and the restlessness sets in. Endless cycles of devotion and disillusionment.
Currently on the chopping block is Buddhism. Last night, I virtually attended a Jōdo-shū otsutome, streamed live from a small temple in Tama-shi, and felt that wanderlust begin to stir yet again. Too many assumptions, too much to take on faith.
Why can’t I just sit still? Why does nothing seem to satisfy?