The fear of being alone like that, children of chance, orphans down to our atoms, is mother to the idea of god. God is a dress we slip over solitude, a mask for oblivion to wear, a rule-giver in a world where no flower or bear cares that we are here or what we do.
I prefer a theology of silence, the eschatology of the shrug, a religion of holding my wife's hand for now.
If the industry of the church is what it took to give me bells ringing Sunday mornings, to which crows sometimes rise and deer turn, I'm grateful for a sound that pulls me out of myself, lifts my head toward sun and clouds, into the up and all, the blue, the on and on of it.
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