God, I’m coming to you in what I guess you call prayer. I realize my situation is not all that serious, so if you don’t get to me right away I will certainly understand. While much of the world is in triage, I have only a troubling spiritual boo-boo.
By way of background, I wasn’t raised believing in you. The only time you came up was when I was in preschool in New York City in the ‘60s. In the corner of the room, next to the blocks, there was a box of hard plastic farm animals and one tall, carved wooden man who wore Lederhosen and carried a walking stick. Because he was the biggest toy in our toy box, we always called him “God” and, to this day, the only image I can conjure of you is that of a thin and benevolent Bavarian hiker.
My apologies. I was only 4 and, like a baby duckling, I could imprint on anything.
To be honest, I’m not even sure I believe in you now, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because this one-two punch of a global pandemic and the threat of nuclear war has left me in need of someone to talk to. I’ve heard that you shine in moments like these, moments when there is simply no one else. And it’s not like I believe in you any less than, say, the fresh air.
And so, here I am. The atheist will try to be brief.
We’ve entered a pantomime of our own lives.
More often than not, it feels like we’re pretending. Pretending to live. Pretending to work. I read an article that said more people than ever are quitting their jobs. Perhaps it’s because our jobs no longer seem important. Not much does. All of our ceremonies feel unceremonious.
We’d like things to be just as they were but, of course, nothing is as it was.
We are like groundhogs whose holes have been suddenly and definitively closed. We race around in a small panic. We eat quickly. We post. There is no rest for the disconnected.
The flavor of the day seems to be anger, which itself comes in many different flavors: Nationalism. Self-righteousness. Hatred of the other, whomever that might be on any given day.
I worry that The Tom & Jerry Show that is our raucous history has entered its terrifying season finale. Our weapons have gotten so awful while the earth remains as tender as human skin.
Needless to say, I’ve not been sleeping well. As Theodore Roethke once wrote, “I have married my hands to perpetual agitation.” Our 6-month-old is not the only one who cries in the night.
We are all pinwheeling, God, and I’m not sure how long we can remain like this.
The only thing everyone seems to agree on is the importance of having a dog. We have two.
I’m pretty sure we humans deserve our fate. When people spend more on missiles than on schools, they shouldn’t be surprised that things blow up. And, as much as we like to accuse our neighbors, I suspect we have only ourselves to blame for this wobbling lily pad we call home.
The sequoias are becoming charcoal. The waves have the upper hand. The bees are leaving.
I know there is a meaning in all of this, God, but I need some help understanding what it is.
Although I check daily, there are no answers in my newsfeed, in my inbox or on my phone.
So, I’ve come to you. If you don’t exist then, of course, never mind. The joke’s on me.
But if you do exist, and I suspect in your own way you do, then I hope you’ll get back to me.
Just as we humans have managed to believe other big things into existence — time, money, nations, love — I suspect that by now we have also believed you into something like being.
So, I’m here. We are all here. And, finally, I think we are ready to listen.
Hope to see you on the mountain one day.
Josh Selig is the creator of The Wonder Pets and other TV series. He lives in New York with his wife, his baby girl and their two dogs. He wrote this column for The Dallas Morning News.
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