They say you’re not supposed to discuss politics or religion, but since I’ve already made some comments on the former in my earlier columns, why not tackle the other subject as well?
I was born in Oak Park to a typical Irish Catholic family.
My father grew up there and attended Ascension and Fenwick; my mother was raised
in Austin and went to St. Lucy’s and Trinity. Until they were 18, neither had
lived beyond that small patch of land in the Midwest.
I was the fifth, and last, of my parents’ children. I read
once of a psychologist who maintained that birth order was a big determinant of
one’s personality. While the oldest hewed closest to the parents culturally,
the youngest tended to rebel more. Now, to look at me you would never think of
me as a rebel, but sometimes I wonder if he was on to something.
Growing up, we all went to Catholic schools from kindergarten
through college. My parents, devout Catholics, never missed Mass – even on all
the various holy days of obligation – and adhered to all the rules of
the Church. (To this day, I love spaghetti on Friday nights. It’s a carry-over
from the days when Catholics couldn’t eat meat on Fridays. My mom – a good but
not especially imaginative cook -- served it with marinara sauce until Vatican
II; then she simply added ground beef. It was a big favorite in our house.) And
while the rest of my siblings (and my extended family) followed suit, I couldn’t
help feeling just a little skeptical even at an early age.
To give you an example, I figured out for myself that
Santa Claus was probably a myth. After all, I reasoned, how could one man
deliver presents to every kid in the world in one night? It just couldn’t be
possible! So, I wondered, what else was I being taught that wasn’t true?
My latent skepticism was reawakened one day in a religion
class in my junior year of high school. The seventies were a somewhat
progressive time and my lay teacher began the semester with the question, “Why
is there a universe?” I don’t remember what his answer was, but to this day it
still haunts me. And the best answer I can come up with is, “I don’t know.” Why
would a seemingly perfect being, i. e., God, have a need to create a universe?
And why would He create Man? I was taught as a child that it was because God
loves us. But how could someone love something He had yet to create?
When I got to college and learned about evolution I
wondered, is this all some existential accident? E. O. Wilson, the famous
biologist, once told Charlie Rose that evolution implies “no designer.” Whoa!
Could that possibly be true?
Now, some Catholics like to square that circle by saying
that God “guided” evolution. But that sounds just a little too convenient for
me. Why, then, did He take millions of years to do it? And why did it take
millions of years – and the extinction of the dinosaurs – before He got around
to creating Man? What was He waiting for? I know, I know: It’s a mystery.
But if Wilson is right and evolution is true, then what of
the Catholic faith in which I was raised? If there is no God then Jesus couldn’t
be the Son of God, right? What am I supposed to do with that?
A few years ago I checked out a book from the library about
the historical Jesus. Never mind what religious leaders tell us, what do
historians think? And I found out there’s a whole spectrum of thought on the
subject. Some historians believe in the literal interpretation of the New
Testament: Jesus, born to the Virgin Mary, was the Son of God and rose from the
dead three days after being crucified on the cross. Some scholars, on the complete opposite
end of the spectrum, don’t believe Jesus existed at all, but was
more of a legend, an idea. And, of course, every other conceivable historical
interpretation lies somewhere in between.
What do I think? Well, Jesus is mentioned by at least one Roman
historian of the time. He didn’t appear to have an agenda, but was merely noting
the life of an important individual in Palestine. Do I think Jesus was born of
the Virgin Mary and rose from the dead? Fifty-five years of experience on this planet
tells me both are impossible. Was He really the Son of God? Boy, that’s a stretch
for me. I would need a lot more evidence than just the writings of Paul and the
Gospels. After all, Paul never even met Jesus and the Gospels were written
decades after His death. What’s more, historians tell us that the Gospels were
written more to inspire than to enlighten.
So, again, what do I think of Jesus? Well, I guess he was a
Jew who lived in Roman-occupied Palestine and preached a revitalized form of Judaism.
But my main takeway from the study of the historical Jesus is that it
doesn’t really matter. What’s important is Jesus’s message, which can be distilled down
to three words: Love thy neighbor. Really, what more needs to be said?
And isn’t that the basis of all religions on earth?
To sum it all up, do I believe in God? Do I believe in the
Divinity of Jesus? It doesn’t matter. Why are we here? What follows this life?
And why is there a universe? I still don’t know. And I’m not sure it matters either.
If I can just be a good son, brother, friend, husband, father, neighbor,
business colleague – a tall order, to be sure -- that’s all I can really do.
All the rest of it is beyond my pay grade. What exists beyond our experience?
How should I know? I don’t have the tools to access that information. (And
neither do you.) All I have is my five senses and none of them can help with
the supernatural.
So I guess you could say I’m agnostic. Not only do I not
know any of the answers to life’s Great Questions, but I also maintain that they can’t
be known. So why bother? Just try to be a good person. Isn’t that hard enough?
Now what time is that game on tonight?
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