Canadian author David Adams Richards has written The Friends of Meager Fortune, Mercy Among the Children and The Lost Highway among other novels, and non-fiction pieces such as Hockey Dreams and Lines on the Water. His reflection, God Is: My Search for Faith in a Secular World has become a national bestseller.
Here is some food for thought from this fascinating reflective work by one of Canada’s best known writers:
The priest implores God, the atheist tell us there is not God to implore and then somehow blames God for it. That is what I used to do — almost. I once blamed God for everyting.
It is like the comic who said he disbelieved in God, but blamed Him for all his problems. He was an nag-nostic.
The modern atheist has done this by blaming our terror on religion, professing to us that getting rid of religion would be the final nail in God’s coffin. And he is partially right. He is right to sever the connection between God and the terrible sins of modern religion for a reason he won’t imply. It is that God exists independent of what the religion he rails against does or doesn’t do. The atheist is like the reverend who takes money for his $10 -million house; he seeks a relationship between God and religion that isn’t there. What the atheist forgets is that severing the relationship between God and religion is already done by those who don’t seek God while claiming a religion — but this is not really what the atheist is after. He wishes to sever the relationship between God and you, in the same way he believes he has done it between God and himself. Then he will be satisfied. But if this was done, what would happen? Well, it has been done. The schism was forced on a hundred million people, with godlike indifference to God. And, worse, an absolute indifference to man.
Once this happens, something else must follow. The atheist will look around and say, as did the fictional Napoleon, the pig in Animal Farm, “What next?”
And “what next” will always and forever be close to what we’ve already witnessed. It will be closer to Valadimir Lenin’s proclamation of assassination than to John Lennon’s self-indulgent son “Imagine.” (pages 141-142).