Faith on My Terms
He comes every week. Sits in the third row. Closes his eyes.
He genuinely wants this.
The langar is served. Someone has cooked since four in the morning. The dal is thin today. The sabzi, unfamiliar.
He takes a small portion. Not that one. Less of this.
Nobody notices. Except him. And he tells himself — this is just preference. Not resistance. Preference.
The mind is a loyal servant. It has never once let him down.
It has kept him safe. Kept him, above all, from looking foolish.
Why would he stop listening to it now?
Faith, he has decided, is something you build slowly. Brick by brick. On evidence.
He is not unreasonable. He will give it a chance. But on terms he can stand behind.
This seems fair to him. It seems, in fact, like wisdom.
The texts don't argue with him. They have seen him before.
The Sufi at the Pir's door negotiating which room he'll sleep in.
Arjuna, asking Krishna to hold the chariot while he thinks this through.
The mind, in every century, in every language, wearing the same face.
Reasonable. Careful. Certain it is the last thing standing between the seeker and a terrible mistake.
Here is what the mind will never say:
I am afraid.
It is very good at this. It has had a lifetime of practice.
The teachers call it ego.
But ego will never answer to that name.
Ego says — I'm not ego. Ego is the loud one. The arrogant one. I'm just being discerning.
And so the seeker stands at the edge of the water testing the temperature with one careful toe —
while the water neither warm nor cold neither inviting nor indifferent
simply waits.
I know this man.
I have been this man.
Some days I am still him — sitting in the third row, eyes closed at the right moments, taking a small portion.
Not that one. Less of this.
There is only one question the texts across every tradition keep returning to.
Not do you believe. Not are you devoted.
But —
What is it that stands between you and the omnipresent?
Look closely at your answer.
It will not call itself by its real name.