August 30, 2004 11:25 PM

I know it's popular these days to say, "I'm spiritual, but not religious." I really wish that were true for me. I am extremely spiritual. But I am also profoundly religious.

I guess it comes from my upbringing, and perhaps my genes. My mother was in the convent, and my father was in the seminary, before they both decided to chuck it and go have kids. The structure of religion, the community of it, the ritual, the tradition . . . these things all appeal to me deeply, in a way that a relatively sketchy, undefined "spirituality" does not.

The problem is, although the concept of religion is in my bones, the desire for it as real to me as my desire for food, I have not found a religion I care to be part of. In fact, I feel strongly that the concept of religion is deeply flawed, and that all religious organizations - all human organizations - are innately imperfect . . . and often harmful to their members.

You see my dilemma. I'm in love with the idea of religion. But individual religions . . . not so much.

My current solution to this problem is to pretend that I belong to a different religion each day of the week. Most Sundays, I'm a Presbyterian. Mondays I'm a Deist. Tuesdays I tend toward neo-Paganism. Wednesdays I'm a Discordian. Thursdays I'm a Psychic Christian. Fridays I'm a Taoist. And Saturdays I'm a Quaker.

Each religion teaches me lessons, and today (even though it's only Monday), I've been thinking Quaker thoughts.

One of my favorite things about the Quakers is that they do not tend to believe things "just because." They almost always have a persuasive, common sense reason for their beliefs. And the door is always open for the belief to change if, one day, it no longer makes sense.

For example: gambling. Other religions say things like "gambling is morally wrong." Quakers are a little more specific. George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends (aka the Quakers), had a life-changing experience when his cousin and another friend invited him out for a drink when he was nineteen. After the first round of drinks, his two companions started to get a little rowdy. They ordered up more beer, and decided between themselves that they would keep drinking until someone couldn't drink any more. Whoever was the first to refuse a drink would be the "loser," and would be required to pay for all the beer consumed by the three men that night.

George did a remarkable thing for a nineteen-year-old. He refused to bow to peer pressure. Rather than go along with the game, he slapped some money on the table, and said the seventeenth century version of, "I'm outa here."

George was already aware of a feeling that would develop into one of the central ideas of Quakerism . . . the feeling that any victory that comes about from the misfortune of another is not a victory at all, but a terrible failure. This is why Quakers tend to discourage gambling.

Think about it. The only way you can really enjoy such a victory is to be ignorant of the suffering it causes to others - which makes you an idiot - or to actually derive enjoyment from the unhappiness of the defeated - which makes you a monster.

I was thinking about this today because of the tone of Presidential politics (speaking of idiots and monsters).

Isn't it sad that the whole political machine in America, regardless of party affiliation, seems to be centered around the desire to be a "winner"? The candidates and their gangs keep telling us how America can win, how each of us individually can win, if we only cast our vote a certain way in November.

But no one seems to be talking about who loses.

I've decided that rather than challenge this win-crazy zeitgeist, I need to just surrender to it. I need to pull a George Fox, put my money on the table, and say, "You know what? I don't play this. I lose. Game over."

As I learned from my Friday religion (Taoism), "The superior man, faced with an unscalable mountain, does not try to climb it." (I actually made that up just now, but I'm sure it's in the I Ching somewhere.)

This voluntary surrender is liberating. I feel like it frees me from the futile vanity of trying to win, and allows me to focus on the much more important task of figuring out which path will cause the least amount of suffering in the world.

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August 18, 2004 10:07 PM

I love being a psychic. It's really cool. But you know, most people just don't get it. And that can be frustrating.

Most people, when they find out that you're a psychic, they want to know about the future. But here's the thing . . . the future is the absolutely least interesting thing a psychic could possibly look at. It's boring.

See, I have done psychic readings for literally hundreds of people. And here's what it comes down to . . . everyone's future is the same.

It goes like this: You're going to die. That's your future.

Between now and then, you'll be happy sometimes and you'll be sad sometimes. If you spend a little energy on things like getting to know yourself, focussing on your own health and well-being, and contemplating the bigger picture, there is a good chance you will spend a little more time happy than sad.

And that's it. That's all you really want or need to know.

Oh, sure, there's all the details. Will I meet the love of my life? What will happen next Tuesday? Will Aunt Edna recover from her illness?

But the thing is, that's what life is . . . discovering the details. That is perhaps the only pleasure we can always count on . . . the pleasure of watching things unfold. The thrill of surprise . . . even when the surprise isn't always pleasant.

If you really knew all the details of your future, knew without a shadow of a doubt what would happen and when . . . you'd probably need to kill yourself. Because really, what would be the point of living?

Oh, I know why people want to know the future. I've been there. We are afraid. We've suffered in the past, and we don't want to suffer again.

Tough luck. There is no human life free from suffering. Suffering is just our natural reaction to circumstances we aren't used to. So the only way to never suffer is to never change.

Some people would choose that path if they could . . . the path of the mummy, the wax statue, the cryogenically frozen corpse.

But you cannot be both dead and alive. And being afraid of life doesn't lead to peace.

Refusing to fear . . . refusing to run away from the existence you were born into . . . accepting the fact that life is both up and down . . . that is the secret to going through life with a big, fat grin on your face.

So if you ask me what your future is, I'll probably just laugh. And then I'll grab your hand, look you straight in the eye, and say:

"Let's find out."

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