Dear God,

In my most transfixing nightmares, I envision you as a gothic winged demon who eagerly awaits an atrocious apocalypse. When I pray, I confide in an entity of pure luminescence- the glowing epitome of righteousness. Our textbooks illustrate you as a bearded man wrapped in a white tunic, a deity of creation, or a statue of meditation. Across the centuries, the world has not agreed upon a unanimous representation of you. You are one not being, but the compilation of multiple theologies. All of us experience a facet of this abstraction, whether it be fortunate serendipity or an orthodox relationship. Religion remains central to the structure of society and reassurance of an afterlife, serving both as a moral responsibility and flare of hope among the hardships of life. You are the expansive fluidity of divinity, faith, and love. Nonetheless, one dreadful inevitability emerges as core to the spectrum of religious belief: death.

My Uncle Colin was an exuberant spirit. Memories of apple pie, midnight cartoons, and itchy mosquito bites are vanishing, but I still remember the way his large potbelly heartily jiggled when he cracked jokes. On a film reel in the snapshots of my distant mind, I recall us painting strawberry juice on our nails at a local orchard. When rain started to pour, he spontaneously bought a dozen cider doughnuts and vowed that if I farted twelve times I could eat all of them. I treasure these pleasant recollections because I grew up far away and didn’t hear about his diagnosis until the tumor had massively developed. His potbelly and sense of dignity were long gone when I visited last, yet somewhere beneath his scrawny rib cage, he mustered an echo of iconic laughter before our film together flickered to blackness. I watched the blank screen long after the credits rolled past. God, it wasn’t fair for a brilliant flame to flicker out at only forty-six years. I stubbornly refuse to praise a higher power that tolerates wrongful tragedy.

The grievance of death is alleviated once acknowledged that it is our predetermined fate. While I try my best not to empower internal pessimism, living across the country from loved ones has prompted an awakening realization that my time with them is ticking. Particularly concerned about my relationship with aging grandparents, I call them every Wednesday evening. Before hanging up, my grandpa insists, “Why don’t you attend Sunday service? Even if you don’t agree with its philosophy, it’s better to be safe than sorry.” He carves his tombstone with prayers of distorted faith, rooted not in authenticity but calculated tactics. If death may not be the ultimate farewell, why not believe in the afterlife? There certainly aren’t any consequences to lip-syncing hymns and muttering amens. This is one example of how you, God, are humanity’s beacon of interpretation. While I will not be attending service anytime soon, I remain fascinated by the myriad ways your name is invoked.

I am not a believer. While I regard the unity of worship with admiration, it is difficult for me to uphold undoubtful faith in an entity that is more powerful than the universe itself. I am not an atheist. Regardless of tangibility, religion is ever-present because people believe in you. I am not agnostic. Hopeful that you are omnipresent, my ethos is drawn to the possibility that you are neither monotheistic nor polytheistic. From the Torah to Confucius philosophy, you are fundamentally anywhere humans allow you to exist. I fathom that you are plural: the impenetrable void of my greatest fears, an enforcer of karma, a miracle giver, a witness of tragedy, and the rainbow illuminating destiny. My beliefs are an unlabeled certainty, as are you.

Emelia Yang

(she / her)