COLUMN: A Religious Experience

From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '95 From Sonja Stumacher's "Fragments of the Sun," Fall '95I sat quietly on a wooden bench, glancing through an essay in the few minutes I had before a meeting with my professor. There were people all over the Walk and on the Green, crowding into bright sunshine patches tucked between long leafy shadows on the grass. Figures sifted back and forth along the Walk, weaving briskly in and out of each other in their complicated rush and bustle of getting somewhere, anywhere. My instant thought was that this guy had some sort of agenda and that I somehow fit into his plan. His placid, stubborn expression made me think of the look on the face of my first grade teacher when I used to get in trouble: grimly determined. He sauntered briskly to where I sat and said, "Do you believe in God?" "Excuse me?" "You know, do you believe in a supreme being?" I was annoyed. Why, out of all the people thronging about the Green, had this person decided to come to me? Was there a sign on my forehead that said, "Please harass?" "I'm sorry, but I don't have time to discuss that," I said. "I only have a few minutes?" "Yes, but this will just take a second." He went on to tell me that I must have at least some sense of a God or a powerful force working behind the world and controlling my life. He was clutching a black, hard-covered book tightly in his arms and I strained to see what it was. I really wasn't in the mood to be converted into someone else's idea of the meaning of life. "So do you believe in God?" He asked me again, thrusting his face closer to mine so that I might clearly discern the wide-eyed obstinacy of his intent gaze. I just happen to have a wealth of opinions on this very subject. I wonder if this man knew that when he made a bee-line for my bench? I had tried to deflect him with my plea of time constraint, but since he ignored this response completely I decided to give him my answer. "Well, kind of. I believe in a power that exists within each person." He wrinkled his brow, staring at me but not really seeing me. I could almost imagine his mind sifting through possible responses and new questions. Finally he asked me, "What religion are you?" "I'm Jewish." "Oh." He looked relieved. I had given him an answer he recognized. "So explain to me about your people's perception of God." I told him that although I was born Jewish, I feel my life to be only slightly guided or even defined by this, beyond my perception of the importance of family and of tradition. When I think of the word religion, I think of the things in this world which hold the most meaning for me, such as artistic expression, spiritual connection, creativity, balance, peace, nature. I told him that I believe in the power of the self, in the vital energy of each individual, the strength to guide one's own life and to find what is real and poignant. I told him that the hunt for meaning is, in my opinion, a personal, internal search. I could see him getting annoyed. I could tell he was listening to my opinions not to appreciate my beliefs but rather to find new ways of manipulating my words to his advantage. He didn't say anything for a minute. Then suddenly he straightened up and asked, "If I gave you a book about the Lord, would you read it?" Did he even hear what I said? Had my words been at all ambiguous? Maybe he missed that last part about the personal, internal search. I think most people would have divined from my statement that I would prefer to figure it out for myself, thank you. "I'm not interested, thank you." I was starting to feel guilty for not showing more concern for his ideas. But I was exhausted and short on time. I hadn't asked for this enlightening exchange of ideas. If he felt I was being unfair, he could always go and speak to someone else. "Do you mind if I sit down?" he asked. I felt totally invaded. I didn't want him to chase me away from my seat, yet I just felt like getting up and leaving. "I really think you need help," he continued. "This book might be exactly what you're looking for." Yes, I need help. But not from pushy strangers trying to sell me on their faith in God. No thanks. I asked him to please leave. Time was running out, and I still hadn't finished the essay for my meeting with my professor. "I feel sorry for you," was his closing remark, uttered while he turned to beat a hasty retreat into the blur of students walking to class. Why should someone feel sorry for me just because I have my own idea about the powers at work behind the world? When you really get down to it, don't we all have our own personal way of explaining the universe to ourselves? I don't think I should be grudged from expressing these ideas, especially when I've been interrupted and asked to. So if you're out there, my friend, here's something new to think about for the next time you approach someone with the same query: If you ask a question, you'll get a response. And everybody will have their own unique way of resolving the mystery of our existence. So please don't be shocked when someone tells you what she thinks.