Pursuing Goodness (part 1)

Why did God make the sun to shine,
If it doesn’t shine
All of the time?

Why did God make the men who sin,
If in sinning
They turn away from Him?

My first thoughts of God appeared to be deep and transcendental. Writing this poem in elementary school expressed just some of the many questions I had about life, God and religion. I grew up in a Catholic family, the oldest girl of eleven, with one older brother. There were eight boys and three girls. My mom was a nurse and my dad an electrical engineer. We were taught that the Catholic religion was the one true religion and that family mattered.

Another question that bothered me was about the reality of hell. I had my first experience with death at the age of eight when my uncle, my grandmother and my young cousin all died within a month of each other. My mom must have handled communicating this to us very well, since I have no memory of a fear of death. I remember going to say our last goodbyes to an open coffin. I still recall vividly Uncle Willie, with his bright, thick, white hair and florid complexion, looking so peaceful and content in death, as in life. That was no surprise to me since I was told repeatedly that he was a good man and therefore would find his place in Heaven.

After that month of an outpouring of familial love, I began questioning the logic of Hell. If God truly is a God of love, I asked, how can He possibly condemn any of His children to Hell for eternity? Even the worst person on Earth can find one person who will love and forgive him—most likely his mother. If, in all our frailty and selfishness, we humans can find it in our hearts to do that, how can a God of infinite love deign to condemn someone forever? I could understand punishment, but not eternal damnation. Slowly I was working my way beyond the thresholds of Catholicism.

Then there was the question of Jesus. Following years of grammar school questions, when I entered high school and continued to question, not my faith—surely there was a God with whom I had a very close relationship—but the details, that were to be believed unquestioning—my mother resorted to asking her sister, who was a nun, over to the house on a regular basis. “If God is God, and Jesus is God, why do we need Jesus?” My aunt’s answer to that was a short: “Don’t worry about it. As long as you believe in God, that’s ok.” At that point I decided to find my own answers, taking courses in Hebrew, learning the ancient philosophers, and studying early Christian history.

Outside of school I would stop and talk to anyone who stopped me. Since I was in New York City, and it was the ’70s, there were innumerable groups vying for my attention—from the Hare Krishnas, the Seventh Day Adventists, the Mormons, Scientologists, to the Moonies. I visited Baptist churches, Jewish synagogues and Hindu temples. I worshiped with Buddhist, Christian and Shinto. I read Siddhartha and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, along with the Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls. I threw the I Ching faithfully, but I never did get into the reading of Tarot cards.

In the end (or perhaps it was the beginning of the beginning), when it came to following a Path, I did what I always did—I asked. I asked God. I threw it out there to the Universe in all its vast wisdom of the ages—and, for the first time in my life, I got no answer. I had always gotten very clear answers before. Do this; don’t do that; listen closely; lighten up; always the guidance was substantial and resonated deeply within my being. This time I pleaded, I demanded, I cursed, I ranted, I threatened, I begged, and the answer I received was always the same. “Anne, it’s up to you. It’s your choice.”

I didn’t want it. I didn’t want the freedom—or the responsibility—to decide what was right or good for me. I wanted to be told; I wanted to obey; I wanted to follow. God never let me off the hook. That was when I started piecing together what the meaning of true freedom was. There is no freedom without my deciding and then taking action. Sitting on the fence made me a prisoner of the circumstances. Following someone else’s beliefs was no better. Even just pronouncing my own belief in something without acting upon it daily was not freedom, but a life dictated by the precepts of others. I must recognize the truth in my own heart, what was right for me, at this time, in this place. Then, putting my whole heart into it, I could say that I was leading a good life.