A Favorite Excerpt

I was going to write about age differences and the changing of the times but honestly, I just don't have the mental capacity to deal with that today. So instead I'm going to be incredibly philosophically lazy and share with you my absolutely favorite passage of text in relation to religion/God. I know what you're thinking "I don't come on here to be preached to! I read this blog to find out more about this probably unhinged yet hilarious girl and her adventures." Well, I agree. The last thing I would want to do is preach to anyone. 

Living with Christians can be tricky sometimes (I have 3 female roomies, all members of my old church). We have developed a good flow, which mostly includes not talking about the finer points of religion. They do their thing, I do mine. I love them, they are great girls, and I respect their choices. Mostly I just don't say anything when it comes to the G-O-D topic. But I've had some conversations lately that made me want to share a certain blurb from one of my favorite books, Life Of Pi by Yann Martel, in an effort to shed some light on my spiritual views. I have probably read Life Of Pi about 5 or 6 times since I first picked it up when I was 16, and this passage has by turns challenged, enlightened, affirmed and comforted me. I would never be so presumptuous as to tell you, my unknown friend, what or how to believe, but I hope you will enjoy this text and come to your own conclusions. 

~*~
After the "Hellos" and the "Good days", there was an awkward silence. The priest broke it when he said, with pride in his voice, "Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our choir soon."
My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised.
"You must be mistaken. He's a good Muslim boy. He comes without fail to Friday prayer, and his knowledge of the Holy Qur'an is coming along nicely." So said the imam.
My parent's, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous.
The pandit spoke. "You're both wrong. He's a good Hindu boy. I see him all the time at temple coming for darshan and performing puja."
My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded.
"There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. He is Piscine Molitar Patel and he's a Christian."
"I know him too, and I tell you he's a Muslim," asserted the imam.
"Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu, lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!"
The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and dis-believing.
Lord, avert there eyes from me, I whispered in my soul.
All eyes fell upon me.
.......
"What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage, "is whether Piscine wants real religion - or myths from a cartoon strip."
"God - or idols," intoned the imam gravely.
"Our gods - or colonial gods," hissed the pandit.
It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if they might come to blows.
Father raised his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" he interjected. "I would like to remind you that there is freedom of practice in this country."
Three apoplectic faces turned to him.
"Yes! Practice - singular!" the wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like puntuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.
They were not pleased with the choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came down quickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and Mother stared on, at a loss for words.
The pandit spoke first. "Mr. Patel, Piscine's piety is admirable. In these troubled times it's good to see a boy so keen on God. We all agree on that." The imam and the priest nodded. "But he can't be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It's impossible. He must choose."
"I don't think it's a crime, but I suppose you're right," father replied.
The three murmed agreement and looked heavenward, as did Father, whence they felt the decision must come. Mother looked a me.
A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.
"Hmmm, Piscine?" Mother nudged me. "How do you feel about the question?"
"Bapu Gandhi said 'All religions are true.' I just want to love God," I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face.
My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to my heart.
~*~