“Like the tooth fairy,” I suggested, wondering where this was leading. “If I were you, I wouldn’t expect to be patted on the back for my powers of discrimination.”
Steven slapped the metal guardrail with the palm of his hand. The ringing reverberated along the length of the bridge. “You’re a quick study, Shake,” he said, chuckling to himself. “But our accomplishments should be measured by the ruler of our abilities, don’t you think?”
“Fair enough,” I granted.
“And anyway,” he said, “don’t you think there’s a difference between believing in the tooth fairy and believing in God?”
“It does seem to be easier for people to let go of the tooth fairy.”
Steven rubbed his chin, the way he might have stroked his goatee if he’d had one. “It’s hard, isn’t it, to talk about religion?”
“People generally just want you to agree with them,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose they do. In a way, maybe that’s what the whole smoke and mirror show is about. Getting people to agree.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But there’s an awful lot of disagreement between all these people trying to agree.”
“Maybe that’s the game. You win by getting the other guy to agree with you. After all, that’s what everyone wants more of, isn’t it?”
“Power, you mean?”
“Or as I prefer to call it, authority. We all want authority. We don’t necessarily want to be global dictators, but we do want to have authority over whatever circumscribed domain happens to be under our sway. That domain may have grand dimensions, or be as small as the desk we sit behind five days a week in some dreary office. We may have the authority to influence millions, or we may be reduced to hounding our spouse into some exhausted state of acquiescence. We may have authority over entire nations, or our sovereignty may be limited to the arrangement of knickknacks on the mantel.”
“Yes,” I said, “and people are usually willing to throttle one another over the placement of their knickknacks.”
“Just like my mother,” he said.
“Why do think that was so important to her?”
“She was afraid, I suppose. I don’t think the religion itself meant that much to her. She didn’t try to understand it, or make sense of it. The world was a scary place for her, and she needed to believe something would protect her. Or at least give her some solace. That’s why she needed the people around her to agree with her, so she could feel like her beliefs gave her some degree of control. And that’s why she got violent when I didn’t agree.”
“So pounding you with the Bible was how she arranged the knickknacks on her mantel? That was her way of expressing her authority?”
“That’s basically it, I think. She wasn’t very bright. Religion was the only way for her to have authority over anyone else. God is just so convenient.”
“Convenient?” I asked.
“For many people, I think, God is the easiest way to acquire authority. Think about it. God allows you to possess the truth, and your authority can’t be challenged by anyone, no matter how smart, powerful, educated, successful or rich they may be. Your authority is backed by a supreme being, so you can pretty much believe whatever you want. As a friend of mine once put it, an authority doesn’t have to be an authority to be an authority.”
“Come again?”
“Someone in a position of authority doesn’t have to be a true authority. They don’t actually have to know what they’re talking about, in order to play the role of an authority, and to enjoy the privileges and influence that role gives them. Priests are a perfect example. They just have to play the part convincingly. The dimmest fundamentalists can defy the greatest scientific minds in the world. Why? Because God is the ultimate tool for establishing false authority.”
“So what you’re saying is that religious belief is really just a way for people to impose their will on one another?”
“Well,” he said, waving his hand back and forth in a give-or-take gesture, “you know, it’s never as simple as you’d like it to be. But, basically, yes. I don’t think people really need to believe in God as much as they need to be right. They need to believe in themselves. So they become authorities on God. Then they can arrange their knickknacks just the way they want them, and to hell with anyone who says they’re out of order.”
“It sounds like you’ve got your knickknacks in order,” I said.
Steven lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then broke the silence with a chuckle. “I talk a lot sometimes,” he said, sighing, “but in the end it doesn’t add up to much.”
“What would you like it to add up to?” I asked.
"Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
I wasn’t sure if he’d understood my question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes,” he repeated. “I’d like it to add up to ‘yes.’”
“I don’t mean to be obtuse,” I said, unable to follow his train of thought.
“All my life,” he said, “I've been saying ‘no’ to things; to very nearly everything. But at the same time, always searching for something to say ‘yes’ to."
"I gather you haven’t found it?"
"Well, I'm not sure, really. I tend to make the mistake of thinking I know what I’m looking for. And in a way, I do. But in a way, I don't. Not really.”
“So the things you find don’t meet your expectations?” I asked.
“Usually not. But that doesn't necessarily mean I’m disappointed. Sometimes the things we find are much more important than the things we’re looking for."
“True enough,” I said, knowing from experience that the things we find are sometimes unthinkable beforehand. “What might it be like, this thing you want to say ‘yes’ to?”
“Well, now, how can I put this? Let’s say there is something I would like to experience before I die. It's not easy to describe, but maybe you'll know what I mean. I'm sixty-two years old, and
