“I used to live across the street from this giant old church, and it had a light on the front that always flickered. You couldn’t see it during the day, but at night it was annoying. It didn’t bother me for the first few months, but after a while, I felt like the light was trying to get my attention. So I learned Morse code off of the internet and spent two entire nights writing down the message,” Adam says, holding his newborn son. He shrugs and walks away.
“So, you’re… that’s it? You’re not going to finish the story?” I ask.
Adams stops. He speaks over his shoulder, protecting his son from the wind, “I’m not going to insult you; you know how it ends.”
“I do?”
Adam closes his eyes and nods.
“You wrote down everything, and it was all gibberish and gobbledegook? The light doesn’t mean shit. There is no supreme being, life is a meaningless pit of despair, and everything we do is motivated by the simple need to either eat or fuck. Something along those lines?”
“Yes!” he laughs, “No, I mean, yes, to the eating and fucking part, but I told you about the pesky light because it helped me understand the lie we were all sold. Nobody is coming. Whatever sign you’re waiting for won’t show, and religion is there to help us cope with that Truth. We’re on our own. Oh, there’s a God, but you won’t find the Almighty in a church. For millennia, God was our best guess, but we’ve evolved, and now we need better stories.”
Adam keeps walking.