I'm not a particularly religious person. When people tell me Jesus Christ walked the earth and performed miracles, I say, "I suppose anything is possible." When people tell me the oil lasted for eight nights, I say, "Okay, then!" You tell me Buddha went 40 days without eating, I say, "Better man than me." I guess that's kind of the point, actually.
And really, if there's a chunk of your religion that says you need to be nice to other people and be a forgiving person - I'm on board with that. We'll just ignore the rest of the hateful shit and work from common ground.
But, I don't feel compelled the way religious people feel compelled (if they do, actually, feel compelled). When I think of the past and our origins, I don't buy into literal interpretations of scriptures, but sometimes I do get a vague feeling that there was something guiding it all. I mean, look at the eyeball. For me, my feeble brain just can't comprehend that billions of years of random chance produced an eyeball without someone inserting a couple cytosines and guanines to help things along the way.
And that's about as far as my religious inclinations lean. There's too many things to get angry about in this world to think that there's some sort of master plan that's purposefully dragging us through this collective misery.
Go ahead and Google that photo of Aylan Kurdi, the Syrian boy who drowned trying to escape a world surrounded by murderers. Then, try and tell me that God gives a single shit about anything that happens here. I want to talk about that. Honestly, I need to talk about that.
When I hear that God has a plan for all of us, I just picture the ridiculousness of such a statement, and then I can't move past it. I picture an operations brief in some corporate setting. God is laying out the plan for the day to his fleet of angels and he says, "Now let's talk about James. We need James to wake up warm in a bed and start eating the leftover pizza he slept next to all night. Guys, this part is CLUTCH. It all falls apart unless he starts eating pizza at six in the morning in his underwear." Meanwhile, little Aylans are washing up on faraway shores, their little shoes on and tiny hands turned up towards the sky. I can't even fucking deal with that.
This post was supposed to be about fatherhood, right? Maybe it seems like I digressed a bit, but I feel it is necessary to lay the background before I make the next statement:
Sometimes, when I'm looking at my son, I can see a light coming out of him. I feel God's presence around my son. I think there is something holy about him. There it is.
This isn't something I felt right away. This feeling is something separate than the feeling of love. Because I fell in love with him hard. I was instantaneously all in from the moment I saw his slimy body being worked on by the nurses. As we went to the NICU together, I could hardly find words to say to him once he was finally placed in my arms. Once I got my act together, I do remember some things I said to him as he sucked on my pinky finger:
"Hello there. I'm James. I'm your dad. I love you. I love you so much. I'm going to take care of you. I'll take care of you every day until I die." Then I just rocked him back and forth and sang "You Are My Sunshine," because I think that's what my parents sang to me as a baby..
Just a few mere minutes before, and for the nine months preceding, and really my entire adult life, I was questioning myself about whether or not I could be a father. Whether or not I could make myself love this baby. Whether or not I could make this work.
But as soon as I saw him, it was like a dormant strand of my DNA code had been activated. It was an instantaneous transformation. I had some very primal feelings, namely, "I will fucking murder anyone that tries to hurt my son." That's not an exaggeration, either.
And that was the extent of my emotions, all though they were extended enough. The thought of God, well, it didn't really enter my head.
A few days later, Jess and I are holding each other on the alter at the base chapel, participating in our son's Bris. Since this was a Jewish ceremony, a cloth had been tastefully draped over the large wooden cross at the front of the alter.
I was already crying. That's something I don't mind doing anymore, crying. That's a function of getting old, I think. Feels good, man.
I was thinking about history. I was thinking about family. I was thinking about redemption. I was thinking about compassion. I was thinking about strength. I was thinking about a future that extended beyond my own selfish earthly years. All of these things, I wanted them for my son. I wanted them for our family. How're you not going to cry thinking about such things?
And as I looked at my boy, as he looked around with those crystal clear blue eyes of his, I felt the presence of a god. Or The God. I don't know for sure. But I feel confident in saying that a god sat and watched my son become one of the Tribe.
I didn't really mention it to anybody, because frankly I didn't want anyone's opinion about it. I knew what I felt. Maybe I was a touch weepy because I was sleep deprived, but I've spent large stretches of time dealing with sleep deprivation and never felt a thing other than the desire to go to sleep. This was different.
I've felt that feeling a couple more times since then. Once when I was sitting across from him watching him slap this rubber block against the floor. Another time was recently when I got to see him wake up from a nap on FaceTime. Another time it was just looking at a picture of him on my phone.
This godliness, I don't know what to do with that information. What does that mean? Does someone expect me to do something about that?
Am I supposed to feel good that God has given us someone to love in a world full of suffering?
I didn't need Her help, so what's the point?
But still, thank you.
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