Whenever I meet someone who confesses to have been changed for the better by their faith, for the briefest, tiniest of moments it is not the jagged edge of sarcasm or the fiery bloom of my own atheistic values and ideas that I feel rising in my chest, but envy.
Pure, immaculate envy.
The feeling floats momentarily in the pit of my heart like a lost puff of smoke, then gets overrun by the brash voice of my rational mind.
My heart yearns to believe. But the mind has had too long and too much evidence to allow such foolishness. It remembers the wars and the pain. The abject slavery of the infinite will of man. The purposeful tarring of our souls. Religion tells us we are imperfect incomplete beings. And I cannot stand for that.
I doubt that wisp of faith will ever be more than that. But it remains, that last sliver of the God within me.