Varsha Ganesh
So what are you, exactly?
I take care of the universe.
Hm.
Can I be honest?
I think that I lost the ability to pray at 13.
Many feel that way. I understand why.
I don’t think I ever really had it in me.
Had what?
I don’t know. Faith?
What makes you say that?
It was never natural. I didn’t even believe in Santa. What kid doesn’t believe in Santa? I had to fake it for years until one day, I just told my aunt that someone at school told me he wasn’t real. I did all of the things I was told, anyway. I faced every part of myself directly towards you, I bowed my head, I cried when I didn’t feel the love I was meant to – but you didn’t really answer my question. What are you, exactly?
Are you surprised?
About what? That I’m talking to God?
That I’m not what you thought I was. Or who you thought I was.
How do you know you’re not who I thought you’d be?
…Never mind. Dumb question. I guess I always thought there’d be more to you. That you’d look like something specific. Or someone, someone large and commanding, with a big beard and meaty hands. Or like a judge, with a scale, and you’d weigh my sins and my good deeds, and I’d be zapped into another life.
So you thought I’d be…human? That the caretaker of the universe would be one of its creatures?
I guess it’s stupid.
Not in the slightest. You’re conditioned to see your kind as all-powerful in your world.
You still never answered my question.
What is the word you used earlier? You thought you never had?
Faith?
Exactly.
You’re faith.
Exactly.
Pardon my language. That makes no fucking sense.
When you jump off the ground, you know where you will land, right?
That’s gravity.
But you have faith in gravity?
I guess.
You don’t guess.
Fine. I know…
but…isn’t that belief? Isn’t there a difference in faith and belief? Faith should be a facet that comes naturally, it shouldn’t be something that I should work to attain. I shouldn’t have to convince myself.
I think faith is, like, a mixture of love and belief. I believe in gravity but I don’t love it, I loved the idea of Santa but never believed in it, and I tried to love you but I couldn’t, and I couldn’t believe either.
…sorry.
Then you think love is something that comes naturally?
I mean. Yeah. When a baby is born it’s bonded to its mother. I think that’s natural love. There’s no effort behind it or reason for it. It just is.
Hm.
So who’s at fault here?
What do you mean?
I used to blame religion as a concept for its own failings. Like. I guess I was made to believe that faith in you is something I should have, like, innately.
That there’s a path that’s been laid out for me, and on either side of the path are fences signifying this idea of morality, that, I don’t know, they haven’t been taken care of, that are easy to slip through. Faith is the force that should keep me on this path despite the gaps in the fences. I have nothing that keeps me from straying.
But at the same time. Is it my failing? That I have nothing that keeps me from straying?
Am I supposed to be going on this search? Is that what the path is?
I don’t like the idea that I’m alone, either, because then it really does mean it’s my fault, and I think you know that we hate nothing more than taking responsibility for our actions.
No one is failing. The way you speak of faith is the way I see failing.
Listen to me now. I have watched over the growth of billions of creatures. You think so highly of yourselves, yet so little at the same time. You think that you have figured out the inner workings of this delicately threaded, complicated machine you call the universe, but at the same time doubt that you are able to turn along with the gears.
You say that faith should not take work. You say love comes naturally, that it does not take work. I question what you say should be true. What you call life. Life is work. Is it work to get up each day? Does it all come easily?
What you call faith. What you call failings. What you call fault. What you call God. These are the threads that weave the fabric that you call life. These are not fences. These are the parts of you that construct the fences. You are the carpenter.
Your path is not set in stone. You are born an open field. There is a beginning and an end. These are the only things that both you and I can say are true. What takes form in between? What you call faith. What you call failings. What you call fault. What you call God. What you call the path lined by fences, what you call God, universe, this is you. This is all you. You are the path that you carve. But there is no failing. I have watched over the growth of billions of creatures over trillions of years. You are young. You are learning. What you call faith. What you call failings. What you call fault. What you call God. This is learning. You can’t be alone when there are so many of you. I engineered this to be true. What you call faith. What you call failings. What you call fault. What you call God. This is you, but it is that which surrounds you. In the people you are around, in the grass you walk on, passing cars, crooked fingers, the wind that blows straight through you.
Oh.
Some find this easier to handle with personification. It is not their failing nor yours.
I think I like it better this way. Maybe? I’m not sure.
Uncertainty is another long-running thread that holds everything together. You are learning. You are growing. There is no objective truth. The end of the path is subjective truth. This is what you are working towards. Life is work. Life is learning. God is learning.
So. I’ll see you next at the end of the path, then?
At the end of the path is a mirror. This is all that is possible for you to know.
Okay. Well. Thank you.
Anytime.