2006-11-22
Finding out.
In a fit of (very well-harnessed, I must say) vanity, I bought three books off Borders last night. It took me a very, very long time to limit myself to three books ( I will return to conquer):
1. The Joyful Christian, C.S. Lewis
2. Why I am not a Christian, Betrand Russell
3. The Twilight of the Idols, and The Anti Christ (2 in 1), Nietzsche
(Please don't ask me why I didn't turn to the library.)
(I'm posting this, so you know who to look for if you want to borrow these books (: charm knows how nice and important it is to have friends with useful books you can borrow)
I am almost ashamed of my selection, for the subjects they deal with. I have never, and still don't, place religion and religious knowledge among the highest ranks of intellectual activity: God is simply too commonplace.
Everyone knows Him. The coffeeshop uncle, the uneducated matriach, the uncritical student, the passive, uninspired adult. The questions about God, His existence, our belief, are ones that everyone has made some claim towards, pretentious, ignorant or otherwise.
I am not atheistic. I think (can I ever feel?) I am a believer - I would never, ever say otherwise. I, too, have had my inspiring moments of epiphany, but I will never feel for the teenaged evangelists who wear their faith like gaudy street fashion. (But who am I to judge? And is this not evidence enough for His power and influence?)
Perhaps the reason why I am loath towards piousness, is the irreversibility and exclusiveness of becoming a devout. The arrows that point towards Faith from the other end of the bridge where Reason lies are like huge, neon signs that burn The Point of No Return into my scalp. I don't want to close the doors of healthy scepticism.
But do I want to lock myself out of the enlightenment that others can only tell me of?
I don't know.
A gamble. This is.
nothing ever happens at 12:47 p.m.