Soul Play: God According to a Drunk Girl

      It was a night in September. I found myself at the Joynt, incontestably my favorite bar, accompanied by one of my dearest friends as well as a very expensive leather purse that concealed a plastic bottle of vodka and cranberry juice. I was happy.

      We couldn’t find seats, which was odd for 10:30. We circulated, knowing we would inevitably see friends – that’s what I love about the Joynt.

      I was pleasantly surprised to encounter a certain old acquaintance, still cute and cornered against the pinball machine. We chatted about France and graduation and a few other things. Then, we started talking about religion. (It always comes up at bars for some reason.) He feebly announced that he was a fundamentalist Christian. I nodded.

      We deftly proved that our beliefs were different, but as the conversation progressed, our smiles slowly began to outnumber our grimaces. His open-mindedness stunned me. We began to recognize our similarities and rejoice in them. We made plans to meet for coffee to continue the conversation.

      I maneuvered my way over to a newly vacant table and sat down next to a friend of mine, an atheist with serious eyes that were peering at me from behind a small glass of beer. We fished around for things to talk about. I brought up the conversation I had had with the old acquaintance, whose French khaki blouson was now lost in the throng. I remarked that he is a fundamentalist Christian – which, by the way, does not bother me really. It’s not like he, I don’t know, hates Queen or something.

      Either way, I paraphrased the exchange we had had. Then suddenly, my friend began grilling me about my own beliefs. He has done it in the past, but this particular interrogation was much more intimidating than usual.

      “Why do you need to believe in the Bible?” he kept demanding.

      “I don’t need to,” I explained. “I want to.”

      “But why?” he persisted.

      Suddenly, I realized that, while I know well what I believe, I was simply unable to reply.

      Next, I found myself held hostage at Shenanigan’s. All I can remember seeing now is legs in ill-fitting pants wobbling atop platform heels, everything glistening with sweat and spilled alcohol. Everything was hazy, partly due to the multi-colored clouds of cigarette smoke animated by strobe lights and partly due to my own drunkenness. It was beautifully horrible.

      Not soon enough, I was alone, walking home. Refreshed by the crisp night air, I regained alertness and began reflecting on the conversations of the night.

      Damn it, why do I believe in the Bible?

      I have toyed with the idea that God has chosen me to be a disciple of Jesus, and therefore I am one; my soul has been molded by God such that it only makes sense that I believe. Not everyone is made to follow this path; God just set me upon it. Not exceptionally compelling, but sufficient. Another simple explanation is that I was born into a Christian family. Not very moving, but true. My brother, however, has abandoned the lessons of my parents and of the church and is now an atheist.

      Speaking very generally, there are many reasons people have faith. Fear is big. In the Christian church, fear of punishment from God strongly motivates believers to repent. Many people simply fear death, so they find a comforting alternative through religion.

      Reward is another compelling reason. Buddhists strive to achieve good karma through behavior in order to gain higher status in a future life. I know a Christian who believes that the wealth he has accumulated in this life has been a reward of sorts for his piety. That’s a little sketchy, even coming from a Christian standpoint, or at least from a progressive Social Gospel standpoint. Something about a camel and the eye of a needle, but I digress.

      I was midway through Randall Park, within eyeshot of my yellow, stucco-encrusted dwelling. The peace that such a walk routinely grants me was suddenly disrupted by melodies of Sunday school rhymes swirling around in my mind. “The B-I-B-L-E… yes, that’s the book for me…” “Jesus loves me, this I know…” I couldn’t make them stop.

      I panicked. Is this what my faith amounts to? No, I’m past those days. Certainly, I bring a level of maturity to my faith that is newer with each day. My religion is not just a remembrance of childhood or of good feelings. Surely my spiritual life is not simply based on nostalgia! Or worse – indoctrination at an impressionable age!

      Of course it is. But it is also much more.

      The Bible is often beautiful and sometimes brilliant. It is always delightful. It is ever stimulating. Its metaphors, its parables, its principles, its teachings all have impacted my spiritual life in a paramount way. I do not necessarily believe it is infallible, but the Bible has always been central to my faith.

      Why?

      I don’t know. God does not instill fear in me, and I do not believe in any sort of merit-based rewards system. But I still believe. And I am content in not knowing why. Call me unreasonable.

      I think the less you can explain something, the more real it is. Explaining something devalues it. Relationships are a good example. The fewer reasons for a relationship to exist – in other words, the less reasonable it is – the more meaningful and valuable it is; the purest love cannot be explained and needs not be justified. I know that is true in my spiritual life. The very fact that it cannot be explained means that it must be real. Or at least that it must be worth believing in.

      These thoughts lulled me to sleep that September night. I don’t remember what I dreamed about. Probably France.