I want to believe in God. Believing in God would give life meaning and purpose beyond this transient life. A higher authority means someone to answer to, someone to turn to for the answers, someone with a greater plan. God–a divine conductor for this orchestra we call life.
But He does not make it easy. The mustard seed is small, common; when it comes time to exercise faith, however, I’m on my knees scrounging and scrambling for it. Some righteous actions are blessed, others seemingly punished and I’m left to a guessing game with eternal stakes.
I look at it this way… my skepticism is either a slowly-sipped poison that is eating away at my faith from the inside-out, or it is the tiny, unreachable window in my prison cell, the one I can look out and see the world, but cannot obtain it. If it is the poison, I need to drop the chalice; if it is the window, then I am damned to knowing, even in the smallest way, that there is something more and I can only know it and never experience it fully, I can only wander this cross section of the vast landscape with my eyes, never setting foot on anything but this cold and stony cell.
And to think it all comes down to a mustard seed.
