People seem to believe in God. I find that interesting, because on the whole, I don’t seem to be able to do it. My recalcitrance is not a rational decision, it’s just how my brain works.

I read recently that the Dilbert cartoonist, who grew more and more repellent as he aged, decided to take up religion when he knew his end was near. That is, he made Pascal’s wager, deciding that if there was a God, believing would ensure that you got the benefits if God did exist, and if there was no God, it was no skin off your teeth.

My mother, a lifelong agnostic, got religion after her mother died; I don’t think in her case that it was the same thing as the Dilbert guy. She had a profound religious experience, and was called to the Episcopal priesthood not all that long after she became an active churchgoer. I suspect that her as-yet undiagnosed Parkinson’s disease played a role, but so did her mother’s death. Looming death does that to a lot of people.

I have other family members who seem to be able to believe in things; my aunt believed in paranormal abilities, for instance. That whole side of the family, my father’s, seemed to go in for belief of various sorts: Baptist, Unification Church, and so on.

Except my father, a resolute atheist to the end of his life, donated his body to science and didn’t want it brought back for any damn funeral. I used to drop him a note on the solstices, because he was willing to celebrate those. He seemed to be just as fervent a believer as his other family members, just in the opposite direction.

My mother’s side of the family was not big into belief, though my great-grandfather who baptized me was an Episcopal priest. They all just belonged to the church. Belonging to church was something one did, but it wasn’t appropriate to say too much about belief. My mother’s conversion and (well-trained, elegant, dignified) fervency was truly embarrassing to everyone, I think.

My husband was deeply religious but had very little faith; there are lots of people like that in religion. He insisted that a priest come and visit him when he knew he was dying, but he refused Communion. (He just didn’t feel like it. That disconcerted the priest.) I often thought my husband would have made a good religious brother; he was fond of liturgy and prayer, and he loved the beauty of a high Church service. He also would have been very happy in an all male religious order. Or at least he thought he would have been happy in something like that. I never bothered to argue with him.

And here I am, not even a staunch disbeliever, just vaguely disinclined. It doesn’t make sense to me to believe in God, that’s all, and I can’t do much about it, even though I am a confirmed Episcopalian. Even though I have tried to believe in things for the last fifty-odd years.

See, I belong to a society that does ask you to believe in something, and it’s a very nice organization that works well for me. I have belonged to it for over 52 years now. They don’t kick people out for not believing, luckily. They just assume you’re going to come around at some point. I never have.

I have to go give a brief talk at a meeting about the topic this morning, which is why the subject’s on my mind right now. I feel supremely unqualified to say anything, but if I believe in anything, it’s in showing up and telling the truth. Why not? I guess I will believe in that. It’s much less embarrassing to tell the truth than to be caught in a lie, so that is my wager.

I do know that if there is a God, it sure as hell isn’t me.