Today I ordered a newly published book "The Atheist's Way: Living Well Without Gods" by Eric Maisel. My life is filled now with cross-referencing writings on new theistic perspectives and that of the doubters. On audio this past week I enjoyed 'Life of Pi,' 'The Joy of Living (Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche),' 'Summer's Path'... an endless stream of rationalists, attempting to bring sense to the mystical under footing of modern living.
At present I would need to accept Eric Maisel's point, we need to stop the paradigm of looking for 'the meaning of life' and move forward to creating meaning from where we are. While it has always been my quest to find a father figure to bounce off of... Some hero to follow in luscious abandonment, surrendering responsibility to a wise paternal prerequisite. To my big daddy guru, who I am free to reject at will, while rationalizing great strides forward into sensual abandonment and or intellectual irresponsibility... with the tried and true psychological device of 'God knows and I trust'.
Oh faith, glorious faith in absolutes... holy books, charismatic leaders, political parties, corporate institutions, for God and Country. Too bad this is the generation of Myth Busters... a news media bent on undermining all our false idols, while subliminally casting doubt even on our own cynicism... a steady diet of expose and big-eyed puppy dog theism. We Americans, noted for our Christian fundamentalism underpinning our crusty cynical humor, what a study in schizophrenic double-speak.
So, in honesty, I embrace a New Age-fudge of semantic play, that old God, as male-dominatrix (Old Testament Bully) with a counter-ego of the new Sweet'N-Low Jesus, just doesn't play well in my fantastical-Sedona. So I bite the bullet and drink the current Kool-aid of some Super-consciousness, just beyond third plate, somewhere near the out-of-bounds pole.
I know my definition of God could not stand the smell-test of my favorite sceptic podcasts, nor satisfy the faith-based directives of the average American, yet that is where I stand. Daddy God remains the issues for psychiatric digression, while Mother Mantra-hum lies impotent on the cutting floor of hard-nosed dialectics. Have pity on my lost soul or celebrate my triumphant autonomy, either way my back hurts and I feel incomplete.