Chapter 154

I’ve talked about God before in this blog. What I said then was that I just couldn’t really get into it. I have nothing against people who are religious, but I can’t see myself being one of them.
If you asked me why, I’d say it’s because of how I was raised. Believing in a higher power feels like placing too much trust in an external locus of control. I’ve always had a strong internal one — a stubborn trait I couldn’t change even if I wanted to.

After the whole scam incident, I realized there was another incompatibility between God and me. Or rather, between God and my family — one rooted in generational thinking.
Some Asians believe deeply in reincarnation, living with that awareness all their lives. But for most of us, thoughts about what happens after death rarely come up. Maybe it’s because retirement and comfort are privileges of wealthier nations — things our parents could never truly plan for. I think it’s more than that, though. We simply don’t see death as the end of responsibility.

In Christianity, at least from my brief time in church, the message I took away was to live as a good person so that in the afterlife, you’ll be rewarded. It’s an optimistic, hopeful way of looking at the world — but to me, also an idealistic one.
The culture I grew up with doesn’t think like that. Our “afterlife” happens alongside our lives, because our afterlives are our children. Why focus on what comes after death when you can nurture the next generation right now?

Even in death, we think like a family. It’s not “what happens to me when I die,” but “what happens to my family when I die?” That’s how deep generational thinking runs. Even in death, we can’t escape it.
And maybe that’s why I found it so hard to forgive my mom for everything that happened. It wasn’t my mistake, and strictly speaking, it wasn’t even my money that was lost. But when you think as a family — when you think generationally — the guilt feels collective. It felt like I had failed. So forgiving my mom meant also forgiving myself, and as I’ve written before, that’s never easy. (Also, I’m sure there’s a conversation somewhere in here about how in Christianity, forgiveness is central. And maybe that’s another reason I find myself incompatible with God).

I envy people who believe. I think they experience something I can’t. Just as I learned what I missed by not having a father, I sometimes feel like I’m missing out on whatever peace faith brings.
But I can’t do it. I can’t find God. Religion asks for a surrender I don’t know how to give — a kind of trust that feels against my nature. And yet, I can’t help but want it. It looks like peace. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Or maybe it’s just not my time.

For now, God will have to wait.
Even if I can’t fully believe, I can still appreciate the idea. God and Christianity — for me, at least right now — are not negatives. If anything, they lean slightly positive. Because even without belief, the idea of God keeps reappearing in my life. It’s become a kind of constant, and I value constants deeply.

Constants are the unchanging things that help you measure change. Classical music does that for me too — music that never really changes, even as the world does. “Timelessness to emphasize the changing times,” as someone once said.
But classical music is sound without words. What happens when a constant has context?

While I don’t believe in the Bible, I still see it as a book — text that has endured through centuries. Despite revisions and translations, it remains sacred and largely unchanging. That makes it a kind of constant too. And through that lens, I can look at how my life has shifted while that same text remains still.

Let me tell you a short story about one verse.
When my mom and I were on better terms, we once tried going to church. I was in high school then, and she was looking for new communities to join. It didn’t last long — I got a job as a lifeguard that required Sunday shifts — but a few things stuck with me.
One of them was Matthew 6:9. You probably know it: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come…”

When I first heard it, I thought it sounded cool. Thanking an omnipotent being for food and safety — it felt poetic. I didn’t focus into that too much though. If I’m honest, I just liked how the words sounded.

Later that year, I noticed how often that verse appeared in movies. I can’t remember which film it was — I was probably on a date — but the line resurfaced, and it stuck.

At the end of high school, I was gifted a necklace with a cross on it. I can’t remember who gave it to me though I’m quite sure I received it during a Secret Santa exchange. It was cheap, maybe five dollars at Pacific Mall, a place famous for knockoffs. Still, I liked it. It was silver-colored, about the size of a toonie, and engraved with the same verse: Matthew 6:9.

Even though I wasn’t Christian, I wore it. It looked nice, and sometimes I’d catch myself fiddling with it, rereading the words. Eventually, I stopped noticing it at all. But it followed me into my first university exam.
I remember sitting next to LP, waiting for the timer to start. Phones were banned, so everyone just sat there, fidgeting. Out of boredom, I glanced at my necklace and reread the verse again — not out of faith, just habit.

Years later, I lost that necklace. But the verse came back to me right before my graduation recital, held in the Conrad Grebel Chapel — a small church that doubled as a concert space. In the washroom, someone had left a pamphlet from a Bible study group. There it was again: Matthew 6:9.

Each time that verse reappears, I’m reminded of the last time I saw it. It’s become a quiet marker of time — a constant through all the chaos. Each reappearance says, you’ve survived everything since the last time you read this. That thought alone is comforting.

The verse doesn’t make me feel like a better person before eternity. It doesn’t pull me out of my generational mindset. But it gives me a sense of steadiness — and sometimes that’s enough.

Generational thinking means there’s never stillness. There’s always something to do, someone to worry about, a future to prepare for. Chaos is the natural state of families, even one as small as mine. So if I can find even a sliver of constancy — in music, in words, or in a verse I don’t even fully believe in — I’ll take it.I’m sure not everyone of faith sees their religion this way. But for me, that’s what religion represents: a constant to return to. Something unchanging in a life that never stops moving. In the end, all these stories — about time, about loss, about searching — are personal. So maybe this says more about me than about God.
Either way, I don’t think I’m done with religion yet. I’m sure it’ll cross my path again, whether as a believer or just a bystander. We’ll see.