Day 122- The Almighty is a jewel thief

 

There are things called 'arrow prayers' among believers - brief prayers sent like arrows at times of crisis or need. Although shooting an arrow into the sky at God, to see him tumble out of his place of relative luxury, appeals to me, I'm not inclined to pray any kind of prayer anymore.

I'm going to go to visit my brother's grave soon. He is buried too far away to visit often. The last time we were there was for his girlfriend's funeral and burial. His birthday would have been soon and I'm not sure it is going to be an easy day, just like I don't think I will ever feel the same way about Christmas (he died on Christmas day).

There will also be a retrospective exhibition of his artwork in a couple of months. And there is still so much to sort out to do with his affairs.

Obviously, I will not be praying at the grave, just as I didn't pray at the funeral. Just as I have not taken communion for some time and have no plans to. I have not particularly taken to talking to Ad when alone. Maybe sometimes. But the gulf between the living and the dead seems to me to be greater than the speed of sound.

I came across a commercial AI chatbot service through which I could, conceivably, upload the conversations with Ad I have from texts, along with any stories, videos and pictures. Like in some Black Mirror episode. Without getting judgy towards those who choose to do this, I don't think it is really necessary for the grieving process. Our ancestors never did it and I figure I have the videos and pictures to remind me anyway, without organising them into some AI system. I think that even Ad would think it was weird if I did it. Maybe it could help some.

I also have no particular urge to go to visit a medium or psychic. To be honest, I'm not entirely convinced that they could contact him anyway. Well, the dead may not be beyond our prayers, but at the moment that isn't much of a comfort. All options are open though.

I cry some days. Some days are better than others. It has only been four months. I am still angry with God. A newspaper article read, 'Even the most fervent believers often rage against God when they are grieving'. I don't think I'm raging against God, but I'm very publicly saying that I think he is a thief, even if he is not really negligent or cruel. Of course, my brother never belonged to me, but it still feels very much like a theft. God, I feel, steals a lot, all the time saying these things belong to him anyway. Well, that's what all thieves think isn't it? That it is their right to steal.

What kind of thief is God? A jewel thief. Stealing the most valuable things. Intricately planning his next move. Seeking pearls of great price.

And all the time I know that this is not the end of his theft. Maybe this harsh accusation should be reversed back onto me, as usual, like some celestial mirror across the sky. To remind me of the things I have stolen. Or that some further irony should steal away other things and people simply because I have called God a thief.

Arrow words shot into the sky, only harming me, I hope. Simply something to witness. Nothing more.

Day 115 - Why I remain a believer despite my prayer strike

 

A thief

A lot of things are ongoing and haven't been resolved in any meaningful way. My prayer strike continues. I continue to grieve and face the challenges, problems and curveballs of life.

Certainly, there have been no answers to prayers, but at this rate it would set an uncomfortable precedent for the Almighty, wouldn't it? If he answers the past prayers of one person who stops praying, then what if everyone tries it? Ceasing prayer to get prayers answered simply might not work.

You might wonder why I remain a believer. It is certainly not to reap the dubious benefits of being one. It is also not to get treated better by God or mankind. I'm remaining in faith simply because I still think that this particular faith is true. That there really is a God who became a man who is, as you read, up there in Heaven happily ignoring prayers and grief-stricken blog entries.

That doesn't mean I'm currently getting on with him. I'm not. Giving someone the silent treatment is not an adult or healthy way to conduct any kind of relationship. But as I know for a fact that God does it himself, it can't be a sin can it? Unless it always is, no matter who does it. Maybe it is – that would be a shocker, wouldn’t it? If God could sin. After all, negligence or cruelty are known to be bad things even when committed by kings.

David Baddiel’s new book defending atheism, ‘The God Desire’ seems to be doing pretty well and he posits that we create the things we long for, including a loving God (it's a kind of reverse argument from longing). I’m sure that if I wrote a book like that it would do a lot better than my book ‘Irony – Evidence for God’ (the cover of which is one of my brother’s brilliant watercolours). I don’t feel desperately mocked by my book and stand by much of what I said. Irony, including negative irony, really can be an evidence for the existence of powers greater than we are. But maybe that book would have done better if I were an atheist… anyway, we don’t always see the ironies in our lives.

Maybe I could settle for a nice level of agnosticism, or go for Islam which talks more about God being all mercy rather than all love. That would get rid of that pesky search for an unconditional love from a God who always seems to be demanding one condition or the other.

Or maybe I could just create my own faith and have a kind of altar to, 'The God whom man worships under many names and in many forms.’ Like the one in the meditation room of the Manhattan UN headquarters?

Or maybe, for reasons unknown to us mortals, the UN are hedging their bets.

It is all ongoing…

Day 108 - Storms and darkness

 

Obviously, I’m not alone in my prayer-strike. I’m well aware of that. Many people simply don’t pray or have never prayed and now I’m in solidarity with them too. This blog does not have some hidden agenda to get people to pray or not to pray. Not that I know of. And I’m really not praying. Talks have not resumed and the prayer strike continues. I don’t know how long this will go on.

I still think that there is far more shame than glory in this life. But everyone focuses on those who succeed, so there is an illusion that things go well for the courageous. For every ‘success’ out there, there are a thousand who feel far too defeated by the blows of life.

I think I’m largely expected to be praying again at some point. This is the expected outcome, but I can assure you that it is not a certain outcome for me. If my past prayers are not answered then it simply will not happen. The believer who tried atheism for a year ended up becoming an atheist. Stories do not always end happily. Or successfully.  

I should probably write about all the million and one ways in which practically dealing with all my brother’s affairs is at turns frustrating and onerous. I used to think that all of the messages coming in thinking a dead loved one was still alive were a cruel revelation of the way in which bureaucracy simply does not care. But that feels like the least of my worries. I feel I have little to offer when it comes to practical advice on dealing with the affairs of a dead loved one. Get them to make a will. Take one step at a time. It is ongoing so I can’t help much.

And this blog has been focusing on the spiritual side to it all anyway. When more bad news from some company or other comes through, my first reaction is to blame God. Who, I feel, has largely left me to stew. Thief.

What a loose cannon I must be seen as right now. Not holding to the party line.

Life is not calmer for me. It is still a hellish storm on the inside, no matter the outside weather. My mental health does not feel good. Spring has properly come - flowers are out and the trees are regaining their leaves which unwrap themselves like emerging butterflies. I like this time of the year, with the longer days, the bright colours and subtle smells of the flowers, but my storm has not abated. And in a way it is still very dark and cold in so many ways for so many of us. It is possible to wake with a feeling of hope in hope, but by the end of the day this is usually drummed out of me. The days often end in frustration, defeat and fatigue. Like trench warfare. So that even the illusion of hope feels cruel.

The country feels so angry and febrile. Everything here is glitchy or crumbling or breaking down. It influences the big and the small things. Bringing the usual frustration. Maybe it is just this country. Too old and too sick not to be falling apart. Not dead at least.

And the spiritual demons will kick you when you are down. Because they hate us.

So, what do you do with the haters?

Day 101 - Angels and rivers

I wonder what happens to my brother and his girlfriend's guardian angels now that they are not with us. Do they get reassigned? Are they playing chess with each other with nothing to do? 

Well, I guess those questions come from my own belief system... 

Ad and his girlfriend were both buried with coins over their eyes. (My brother's girlfriend was buried today and I have just been to the funeral). It is probably very fitting for a Maundy Thursday. Maybe the new king (if God recognises him as such) should hand out obols to everyone. Just two each? For preparation?

Obols were the coins used in the ancient Greek culture to pay the ferryman after death. In Greek mythology, Charon was the ferryman who transported the souls of the dead across the River Styx to the underworld. He was often depicted as a gaunt, grim figure with a long beard and a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a pole with a lantern on top. Someone has to guide the souls of the dead, I guess. It's a hard job, but someone's got to do it.

According to myth, Charon was the son of Nyx (the goddess of night) and Erebus (the personification of darkness and shadow) and was born before the gods. The story of how Charon became the ferryman isn't clear. Some versions of the myth suggest that he was appointed as the ferryman by Hades, the god of the underworld, while others suggest that he took on the role willingly. His payment - obols. Bad luck if you forgot, or couldn't afford to prepare.

Either way, the idea of there being a final river is shared in both Greek mythology and Christian symbolism. And we have been to the river's shore again, waving off the travellers through this life. One step too close to the final river. 

Appropriately enough, one of the songs chosen for the funeral today was, 'I have a dream' by Abba with its lines:

'I believe in angels

When I know the time is right for me

I'll cross the stream 

I have a dream.'

Apart from a little rain ('The angels are crying' remarked someone) and a brief hailstorm, the sun was, at least, out. Later there was a rainbow. Later still, a full moon, like a silver obol in the night sky.

I wish they were not dead.