All religions, or most religions, deal with pain and suffering in some way. I like the tradition of good works in the name of fellow beings (though I keep mine at a manageable quantity) and the idea of transcendence.
Everyone wants to transcend. We need to escape the mundane, repetitive realities of having dinner, chicken yet again, or the polite acknowledgement of people’s fears, which are as petty as your own but seem pettier in their hands.
So we transcend. Because we must. Because the monkey in us got too smart and figured so much of it out, which hemmed us in. The monkey in us got too tame. It would be so much better to swing violently through trees. But violence can lead to trouble in organized society.
Lately, I have noticed that transcendence needs a target or else it leads to dissipation. Banging on the piano for hours on end can lead to an unquenchable excitability (though one should maybe bang even longer, to exhaustion). Of course, drinking too much alcohol leads to headaches, fatigue and gastric distress. Pious, all-day closet cleaning proves satisfying, but only because there’s a target.
The people with God have a target. It’s all done for Him. I understand the need. I have no God, but I do have respect for the mystery of the miracle. Perhaps the target is that. To stay in proportion to that mystery while actively transcending the pettiness of the quotidian rabble. Without a target, there is no upper limit. Without an upper limit, there is extension beyond capable extension.
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