The Spirituality of the Non-Believer

I defaulted in the most cliche manner when trying to obtain the meaning of the word "spirituality" - I looked to the dictionary.  Like an obnoxious speechwriter, I appear to be beginning this post with a dictionary definition.

"The vital principle or animating force within living things."

Vague.  Not at all religious, not really, though of course there are other, more specifically religious, definitions.

There are those who say, when asked about their religious orientation, "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual."

One says this as if it will automatically, and in the most contradictory manner, explain ones deepest nature while at the same time cloaking one within the most bright mysteriousness.

In my view it is a meaningless statement.  It is an attempt, it seems, to keep the spectre of dogmatism at bay.

To be a follower of Christ, or Buddha, or Mohammad, no matter how ethereally so, is to be dogmatic even if only at the very smallest.  Tenets, precepts, codes, rites, rituals - these are all the very lifeblood of any religious order, whether thousands of years old or relatively new.  It may be possible to be spiritual, which I would assume means "concerned with the vital principle", but once a formal deity is brought into the equation, even only in the least obtrusive manner, there is the element of the religious.

Of course, when people ask me about my religious orientation the question is generally more straightforward, with less room for theological wiggle:

"Are you a Christian?"



This question was posed to me by a young, friendly Marine who was, with other young folk of his church, parading down a busy street here in Fayetteville a few days before Christmas.  Among the troupe was Christ, sporting a US Army high-and-tight haircut and carrying a large, freshly-hewn plywood crucifix, and Santa Claus.

My mother, in the car with me, answered in the affirmative while I looked at him and said, simply, "No, I'm not."

The conversation was, more or less, as follows:

"Can I ask why not?"

I laughed and leaned back in my seat, "Don't get me wrong, I'm from the South - my parents are both Christians, I was raised that way, most certainly - but it came to be something I felt I no longer needed.  I examined it, looked at it, found it more likely to be unnecessary than true, and let go of it.  I didn't want to claim to be a Christian if I no longer believed it."

He shrugged and nodded, "Well, you didn't want to be a hypocrite."

"No, I didn't."

"And it does sound pretty crazy, right?  I mean, life after death and water into wine."

I shook my head, "I don't know - I'm of the opinion that the Carolina Panthers are a great NFL team, though the evidence has usually suggested otherwise."

He grinned, "But you know what I mean?  Eternity and the crucifixion."

"No crazier than Muhammad on a flying horse."

"But, if you died today, what do you think would happen?  If you knew there was eternal life, peace, wouldn't you want it?"

I nodded, "Probably, I'd want that, but I don't have any reason to think that Christianity can actually deliver that.  I think, if I died, I'd be dead, things would probably look a lot like they did before I was born, I guess - nothing."

"But you don't know that."

"No, I don't."

We continued on, and on, and on - his enthusiasm was obvious, his love for his faith and the idea of his God.  It was certainly not something I want for myself, and certainly not something I could believe, but he was candid about his beliefs and about his religious background, going so far as to tell me that before he found Christ he was absorbed in pornography and other ills.

I minored in Religion while an undergrad, mostly because I had a good deal of credit hours in the area by my junior year, but I ended up loving the study.

The exchange I had with the young man, his obvious excitement at being able to talk to a non-believer, was satisfying because it was a conversation that began without any aggression or accusation.  He was not what I would call an evangelical - he was, I think, the closest anyone can come to being a true missionary for the Christian religion.  He was humble, unassuming, had clarity of purpose, and he was, above all, understanding, patient, and kind to someone quite foreign from himself.

I enjoyed talking to him, I always enjoy talking to missionaries - the fact that they believe me to be lost or without light does not upset me and I certainly enjoy the exchange itself.

I may take issue with religious institutions, leaders, dogmatism, and other aspects - but I do not begrudge believers, my wife is one, and she is one of the most wise, gentle, and brilliant people I know.

My, let's call it my spirit, if you will, was lighter after speaking to him - not because I accepted his religion or agreed to come to his church, though he did promise, as most do, to pray for me - I felt lighter because we had talked, tried to understand one another, tried to listen and felt as though we were being listened to.  That sort of basic human decency is, perhaps, a tenet of my own spiritualism - humanistic rather than theistic but still, I think, grounded in nothing but a desire for peace, for gentleness, and for understanding.  That is my vital principle, then, and I think it was the essence of his own, though in other, less important ways his was different.

I shook his hand and, as it was cold outdoors that day, told him to try to stay warm.  He ran back to his troupe, which had taken to wandering near the Lowe's Hardware, and I wondered just how freezing Christ must have been with his hair so closely cropped.