When I talked to Tom online, I told him I was going to church and he seemed surprised. "You still go to church?" "Only because they give me solos." "Somehow I can't picture you in a church. Never could."
I become a different person when I step into church. I suddenly go silent. I'm pretty sure the people at my church think that I don't have a personality, and I'm almost certain they think I have no friends. But they think I'm a genius, so it's not all bad.
And they're all really friendly to me. Especially John, the minister. Every time he sees me he seems to just light up, and he says "Hi Aidan!" like I'm the most pleasant surprise he could have hoped for. Reverend John is actually one of the most fascinating people I know. I guess I got to know him better than most when I was in conformation* class. I could tell he was more like me than the rest of the idiots in the class and the idiots who sponsered us. I think he knew this too. He comes across as being somewhat socially awkward, but he pretty much radiates intelligence. When you talk to him, you can tell that he's one of those people who thinks about everything logically and means everything he says one hundred percent. He subscibes to Scientific American and reads it cover to cover. Yet... he's a minister. In our conformation class, I was the only one who already knew anything about the Bible. In fact, I'd already read most of it. The other kids used to give me wierd looks when I would answer all the obscure questions that Reverend John asked. Yet I was the only one in the class who didn't want to go through with the conformation. There's always been one minor detail getting in the way of things - I'm incapable of faith.
When I told my mother this in eighth grade - that I didn't know if I could go through with it because I can't truthfully say that I BELIEVE anything - she started crying. Then she said "I want you to talk to John about this." So one day we went into church and I told John.
"Aidan," he said, "Do you know the story of Doubting Thomas?" "sort of." "He didn't believe until he actually touched the wound in Jesus' side. And Jesus let him. He was a little angry, but he said 'ok Thomas, if you need to touch it to believe it, that's ok.' Jesus doesn't condemn those who need to SEE things." "It's not that I need to see things to believe them. I understand abstract concepts. I just need things to make sense, and the concept of faith goes against that." He nodded and thought. "I can't help thinking that this may have to do with the fact that... you don't feel accepted in this community." "...Why wouldn't I feel accepted? Everyone knows my family." "But knowing your family and knowing you are two very different things." I knew what he was saying. I've never really fit in with the people at church, especially the kids my age. There always seemed to be some fundamental difference between us. "...That's certainly part of it, but the real reason has to do with ideas."
After I practiced with the choir, everyone complimented me on how well I was doing, especially when it was such a hard piece. (Ok, I didn't think it was, but whatever.) I just kind of smiled and slipped away to this room that's always empty. I end up sitting in it a lot when I go to church, because it's better than socializing. There's a piano in it, and sometimes I play. Today it was about three quarters filled with flowers for Easter - giant white Easter lillies and colorful tulips. The smell was almost overwhelming. I could hear the choir practicing their beautiful, sad Good Friday music. Good Friday and Maunday Thursday - the two days of the year when church is pleasant. Is that ironic, or does it just mean I'm morbid? I felt myself sinking into the music, the sadness, and the smell of the flowers, and I sat down and meditated until the service started. "You can still create that feeling," I said to myself, "But do you believe in God?" "No," came a truthful answer, "And I never will. I can't."
After we got home I talked to Molly online. Relationships came up. "Have I told you my reasons for not dating?" she said. "No." "Well, I have two requirements: the guy has to be a Christian, and he has to be a friend. None of my friends are Christian, so..."
This made me feel sad. But I couldn't put my sadness into words, and I knew it wouldn't do any good anyway, so I just typed in "I guess you'd better go to Gordon then, huh?" because she talks about how all the couples at her Uber-Christian chuch met there.
"I guess."
Molly and I have learned to just accept our ideological differences, because we both know there's nothing else we can do. But that doesn't mean I understand it, and it doesn't mean it doesn't bother me.
When I had almost finished talking to John, he looked at me and thought and said, "You strike me as being someone who is very gifted in a lot of ways. You're more intelligent and musically talented than people who are a lot older than you. You also strike me as being someone... who is sometimes very lonely."
Something about what he said hit me somewhere inside. I tried to say something, but I felt tears on my face and all I could do was nod. Even though I had friends - good friends - back then it seemed like something was missing.
"You're very special," he said, and I knew he understood.
I'm pretty sure that Reverend John knows I'm not a loser with no friends. I'm pretty sure he just knows that something's always been missing emotionally, and that's where the lack of faith comes from. Maybe it has nothing to do with intelligence or logic. Maybe it's just a capacity some people have and some people don't.
I've been completely satisfied with my lack of belief system for quite a while now. I'm not sure why these thoughts came back to me last night.
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