A girl I used to know, a long time ago, periodically emails me. This afternoon she sent me an email. It said only this: “do you believe in God?”

This was my response:

That’s really funny. No hi. No how are you. No I have a question. No anything, just this really small question with a really big answer dropping, thud, in my email.

I believe in that which is bigger than me.

Not the Christian God. Not the God who told Abraham to kill his son and then said nevermind. Not that God. Not the God who recreated himself as human and then gave up his life to save the future sins of all future people. Not that God either. I refuse to believe I was born guilty just the same as I refuse to believe that I was born in someone’s debt, although life is certainly a gift. Maybe I don’t even believe in a creation God. A creation God always seemed like a mad scientist to me and I could never quite figure out why an all-powerful being would create us if not for his entertainment or for some cosmic experiment.

And I refuse to believe that I’m one of a billion jesters for someone’s entertainment just the same as I refuse to believe I’m a mouse in a maze.

That which is bigger than me is a lot. The sky is massive. Space is huge. Time is long and History, too, — the backside of time —, quite long. But it’s also the beautiful architecture of a tulip. It’s also the glorious smell of fresh cut grass. It’s also the wonder of a billion people falling in love and laughing and being sad and angry and happy and jealous. It’s also dancing with my eyes closed.

If there’s no God, there’s no reason for anything. And I also refuse to believe that all of that, that all of everything is random and meaningless. There’s too many details, too many vast things, too many beautiful things to be useless and without meaning.

Our instinct to survive is no different than any pusillanimous creature; no different, say, than the smallest ant who eats and sleeps and wills himself to survive. There is no evidence of God or meaning in the instinct to survive. But I think animals have no appreciation for beauty or size or perspective, no desire to find meaning. Our desire to find meaning, our desire to chase the beautiful, I think, is evidence enough of God for me.

Why do you ask?

SS