This I Know

"If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, and who watched 'em like a father and cared for 'em like a mother [...] You wouldn't find me just being gen'rally nice in the hope that it'd all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin' sword. [...] [T]hat's what true faith would mean, y'see? Sacrificin' your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin' the truth of it, workin' for it, breathin' the soul of it. THAT'S religion. Anything else is just...is just bein' nice. And a way of keepin' in touch with the neighbours."

--Granny Weatherwax, of Terry Pratchett's Carpe Jugulum. 

"Sort of man they're like to send believes hard. Kills, and never asks why."

--Shepherd Book, of Joss Whedon's Serenity

"We are afraid to let people loose; we are afraid that the worst will happen as soon as the single individual feels like behaving as the single individual."

--Soren Kierkegaard, in his Fear and Trembling

Today is Easter, one of two holidays when even we who are less than impressed with the church dress up and present ourselves before the altar or the pulpit, to listen to - generally - a sermon expounding on God's great love for us and the miracle of his son rising from the dead for our sakes. We will, for the most part, listen politely if not attentively, we will sing the songs and pass the offering plate or basket along. And we will see around us smiling, friendly faces. Some may even be moved by the sermon. But on the whole, we will see no passion. And if we see it, it will fade soon enough.

The church has lost its passion, just like Mightily Oates and the Omnians. And who can blame it? This world is not suited to sword-brandishing zealots. The power remains; it is the expression of it which has been lost. Perhaps the church is afraid of its zealots, as Kierkegaard points out. Perhaps it has merely realized that zealots who believe so hard that they would kill "without asking why," as Book says, are out of their time in history. Those few who retain their fiery belief, like Granny and Mal, find themselves increasingly irrelevant or simply unheard, out on their fringes of society.

When they are heard of, though, they are inspiring. They awaken that flame in others; they make us long for opportunities in which to be heroic and noble. But the reality is that most of us do not have the self-will necessary to maintain that passion. We may find it briefly stirred, whether by an Easter sermon or an "I aim to misbehave" speech, but we cannot fuel it on our own. Perhaps we are incapable; perhaps we are unwilling to offer our very selves to the flame. 

There is another place for that belief, and those of us who are just strong enough to know that we have not the strength of a zealot have used it all along. Rather than make our belief a thing we live for, we make it a thing to live from. Instead of a flame, it is a rock, a solid foundation upon which we stand and from which we make our forays - into the world, into thought, into life. 

Christians like to say that Jesus is "the Lord of my life." But having a lord to fight for implies that passionate belief of which so many are incapable. Rather we should say that one's god is the reality through which one sees the world. A god, a real god, is not some kind of superhuman, but as theologians say, a transcendent being. A god transcends even the normal modes of existence to become the basis for the existence of his followers.

There are those of us cursed with constant thought. We cannot help but wonder and explore. Some of us wonder about mechanics and natural physics, and these minds give us things such as steam engines; some of us wonder about nature and life, and these minds give us medical treatments and cures; and some of us wonder about the nature of reality. We give the world nothing but questions and uncertainty, although in far lesser amounts than we ourselves harbor. But those who think the strongest, the most, and clearest, have a basis from which they work. These bases differ, but it is because of these rock-solid beliefs, these parameters of "this I know," that they are able to face deeper and more disturbing questions than any others.

An absolute, all-encompassing certainty gives us a Granny, a Mal, a zealot... a closed mind with a definite cause. A small amount of certainty gives us not a closed mind but an open one, one from which we can even be comfortable questioning the nature of reality. The nature of the statement "this I know" gives rise to the question "what do I not know?" and is the foundation for exploration. It acknowledges our inability to believe heart and soul in a single purpose and gives us room to question while offering a safe return.

This foundation may change over time as the questions turn inward and onto our selves and our beliefs. But having a foundation is what enable us - and it - that possibility. Almost none of us can sustain the certainty that everything we know is true, but we can sustain a small certainty. Coupling that small certainty with the necessary complementary uncertainty produces thought, and thought, in time, produces more certainty. Perhaps we will once again have a place for zealots, and until then, the belief which remains - which always remains - gives us a base for reality.