CARLTON FLETCHER: In search of a universal truth

What’s this life for?

— Creed

I’m not a good person to answer the question that’s plagued me the last several days. I’m certainly nobody’s Mary Sunshine, but I have a different perspective on life after literally losing mine several years back and having it handed back to me.

There’s something about that that’s allowed me to, even in the worst of times, find at the every least the faintest glimmer of hope in sometimes dire situations. (Maybe that’s why I love Albany so much.)

But the question that’s been nagging at me, the one that has kept me awake some nights and muddled my thoughts at some of the most inopportune times, is why does anything we do in our time on this planet matter?

I know, I know. That’s way too deep a subject for a mind as shallow as mine. And I don’t think Albany Herald readers — or my Facebook “friends” (shout out to the homies with the Ocilla connect, Woo-Hoo!) — are going to look here for any kind of philosophical insight. That’s what daytime TV talk shows are for.

Besides, the answer to a question like that is always a personal one. There is no universal answer, only the answer that satisfies the individual. That’s why we have so many different religions and nutball cults where people actually drink the Kool-aid that kills them and sends them on their journey to enlightenment.

A great many people who seek answers to such universal questions find their answers — and comfort — in religion. I think that’s important. But religion — and I’m talking about the practices here, not the existence of a Supreme Being — is a product of mankind’s imagination and his frequently skewed interpretation of various texts and Scriptures.

Please know that while I do not doubt the existence of God, I do doubt the feeble attempts of mankind to understand and proclaim themselves spokesmen and women for Him. How else to explain the fact that we live in a state of constant fear these days because people who choose to worship differently than us feel the divine calling to end our existence? Or that Catholics and Protestants — whose God is the same being — wired baby carriages with bombs or carried out their so-called holy war against their countrymen in houses of worship?

Or that hate groups and other marginal humans denigrate and spew venom at individuals whose skin may be lighter or darker in color or who have different worship rituals, and they justify their hatred in the name of their god.

And don’t get me started on this “fake Christian” bull that the crowds who oppose and worship at the feet of our president have going on. Basing someone’s Christianity — or, conversely, “fake Christianity,” which may be one of the most nonsensical concepts of the many that Trump’s ascendancy has wrought — on whether they like or dislike a mortal man makes about as much sense as expecting grapefruit to taste as good as grapes because, well, they’re almost the same thing, right? It says so right there in the name.

Sure, service to God is part of the answer to any question man poses, but my question — which may be one of those panicky things we tend to do when our vulnerability asserts itself or we’re served a heaping helping of insignificance — is one that I’ve searched inwardly in hopes of finding an answer.

I was getting ready for work this morning when a realization hit me like a bolt out of the blue. I heard my 15-year-old daughter, up early to get the cranky, old-man cat in the house the breakfast that he demands at a specific time, and I thought how simply beautiful that gesture was. It was an inconvenience, but it’s one she musters gladly for the payoff she gets from another day with a pet that the vet said should be put down more than a year ago. His purrs say different.

And I thought about that son, who, paternal pride aside, is the best person I know, dealing with his own adversity but all the while being the best father to Sam, Lily-Belle and Amelia that he knows how to be. And the daughter half the world away, laughing her beautiful, big-hearted (and fun-goofy) laugh as she told stories of trying to communicate with children in her charge, many of whom didn’t understand a word she said.

That was it. That was the answer to my question.

While I’ll never be voted anyone’s father of the year, I had a part in bringing these three beautiful, wonderful, amazing people into this world. That, I felt in the deepest part of my heart, is what matters.

Contact Carlton Fletcher at [email protected]. Follow on Twitter @ABH_Fletcher.