Is It The Same?
Religion remains a fortress of contentment. We feel we are wrapped in a warm blanket of coziness, especially when performing the certainties of traditional beliefs. I am always impressed that I am holding (nearly) the same Hebrew prayer book as my great-grandfather – save some instruction, written in the vernacular. I and he may have nothing in common, except that we both studied the same sacred Biblical texts. But did the Jews in Babylonian exile study them as well? Is your favorite ancient hymn that you enthusiastically belted out this past Sunday identical to the one sung by Christian church participants two centuries ago?
Is the God that Western civilization worships the same God as designed by Abraham, the putative founder of all three major religions (assuming that such a figure even existed)? I know that He cannot. I know many vital things than my parents didn’t, and my great-grandchildren will know things at a young age that that will make current Nobel Prize winners appear ignorant.
What are the chances that we are conducting our rituals, our prayers, and our beliefs exactly the way our ancestors did? What are the odds that we observe faith’s traditions in the same way as our predecessors? The answer is nil, zero, nada. It is a comforting myth. Even if you were living under a rock for decades or took up permanent residence on the other side of the moon, your forefathers (and foremothers) didn’t. Why should our concept of God be the same? You cannot possibly practice your faith exactly as they.
If alterations to religious beliefs were made passively and deliberately, large and small, why can’t our generation completely throw out previous conceptions? We are not pissing on the gravestones of our ancestors, but our reality cannot be determined by their visions. Why practice a dead tradition, especially one that should remain buried? Why do we remain chained to the past? How long are we to be ruled by our selective nostalgia?
Anyone who has ever played telephone (or a similar game) knows that a simple sentence, when passed around the circle, whispered only into your next seat holder's ear, ends up (as recited by the last person in the circle) substantially different than the one muttered to the first player.
One of the oldest “thought” experiments, credited to Plutarch (but discussed earlier by Heraclitus and Plato) is called the Ship of Theseus: Imagine a prized ship is preserved in a museum. But as the ship’s old planks are decaying they are replaced by new timber. Would you think that the “newer” ship is the same as the old one? (Thomas Hobbes added another dimension to the puzzle: Imagine the original wood was found, the new timber removed, and the ship restored. Which ship, the first or the second, is the original ship of Theseus?)
Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher who tried to solve the paradox, comes to mind. He said that you can never enter the same river twice. Your presence in the water changes it. Religion is like his river. As we keep tinkering with faith, we inevitably change its parameters. The God of my youth is not the god of my old age. It certainly is not the same for me as it was for my grandfather, nor would it be for my grandchildren.