An Atheist Learns to Pray
July 22 2007


An atheist does not so much fall in love
as willingly suspend his disbelief
— giving-in to grace for as long as he is able,
and then falling head-first into it.
Because a natural skeptic finds it hard to surrender,
even in affairs of the heart.
He will always doubt
that out of all those billions
she is the one to make him complete.
Or that all along
his soul-mate was the girl-next-door.

But open him up to it
and chemistry takes over,
oxytocin and dopamine scorching through his veins like nitroglycerine;
making her a goddess,
and every quirk and obstacle
insignificant.

And you have to admit, falling is pure exhilaration,
like sky-diving or free-fall
— spread-eagled on a cushion of air, soaring effortlessly over the earth,
howling, ecstatic, for all that you’re worth.
While the wind’s ungodly roar
tears every sound from you throat,
‘til even your own inner-voice isn’t heard.
. . . No, it’s not the fall,
it’s the sudden stop at the bottom
that hurts.

And of all people, it’s the atheist
in his cold indifferent universe
who truly appreciates how powerfully belief can console.
How leaning on undiluted faith
the incomprehensible might suddenly start making sense,
and evil only seem to get away with it.
And how belief might redeem a man, as well;
not just romantic love
in all its monotheistic fervour,
but belief, too, in kissing frogs and goddesses.

As if you had placed her on a pedestal
all the better to worship,
high priest to your lover’s commandments.
Or you were David
slayer of giants and writer of psalms,
praising her beauty in song.