Pity the poor secular humanist. Guided not by a deity or
helpful tome, but rather by her beleaguered inner compass, she must weigh every
decision based merely on the vague values of secular humanism: compassion and
responsibility for herself and her community. In an age of fundamentalism,
secular humanism is the Rodney Dangerfield of American belief systems. We don’t
get no respect, and why should we? We don’t have no Bible to smugly refer to;
we don’t have no 72 virgins awaiting us in heaven.

All we have are the constant questions about poverty, about
war, about the best, most honest way of getting through the day without
burdening the planet or hurting others. When it comes to the big issues of life
— from global politics to marriage — there’s no playbook.

Sometimes I’m jealous of people who know. They know what God or Allah would have them do. They know how
their beliefs apply to politics. They know their interpretation of words
written thousands of years ago are correct: hmm, it says here we need to change
these people or kill those people.

I want someone to
come to me and say: Here is your path. Stop getting tangled in doubt and
inquiry and just believe. I want someone to convince me, for example, that the
Iraq War is really okay, as my friend’s mother believes. She thinks it’s one of
many signs that the End Times are near. And she is not wacko. She is in a nice,
fat minority of Americans who are watching the news, seeking signs of the
Apocalypse.

She like many others are awaiting (pick one): the Rapture,
the Second Coming, the End Times, the messiah’s return to earth, or the return
of the Mahdi, the last of the prophet Mohammed’s true heirs. When this happens,
we will all be judged. The good will rise up and the evil will be cast out,
losing, for all eternity, their MySpace privileges.

I envy fundamentalists who believe they can actually have a
hand in their fate. As an LA Times article by Louis Sahagun reported last
month, some fundamentalists are working to hasten the End Times. The new
Billion Souls Initiative, headed up by pastor James Davis, for example, hopes
to convert millions of people to Christianity. As a result of this work, Davis
is quoted as saying, “the end will come.” The Promise Keepers’ Bill McCartney
puts it succinctly, according to the article. “Our whole purpose is to hasten
the end times.” Jews and others who haven’t accepted Christ into their lives
“are toast.”

In the meantime, it’s always good to have someone to blame
when things go wrong. Just ask congressional candidate John Jacob, a Republican
from Utah, about the Republican primary he lost. Satan targeted him, he told
the Salt Lake Tribune, and caused business setbacks that made him unable to
finance his campaign.

A marriage is like a
civilization, with its past and future, goals and myths. Even though I try to
bring my values about the world to my marriage, I am not perfect. I’d love to
have Satan to blame for stuff. And I’d love to have a hand in bringing about a
love- and candy-filled rapture. No Satan here, though, and I have to buy my own
candy. So, for better or worse, my husband often finds himself the target of my
wrath (and occasionally, my hope).

Recently, we were having a sticky argument about finances.
We weren’t getting anywhere. Like all those monotheistic faiths that are at
odds with each other, we share the same goals if not the same ideas about how
to achieve them. But we still locked horns. I couldn’t take it anymore.

I’m not the type to train my man using the techniques of
exotic animal trainers, as that wildly popular recent NYT article suggests. I
save the chair and whip for other occasions. During this fight about money,
however, I wished I had a trick up my sleeve, some technique to end the fight
and win. A low moment indeed. I channeled my inner Kim Jong-il, hauled out my
long-range missile, and destroyed:

“The Mets suck,” I shot out, triumphant. He stepped back.

It was a beautiful moment. Later he would say he was trying
not to laugh, but I knew I had won. And, just as introducing religion into
conversations about euthanasia, stem cells, and abortion can blur and confuse,
bringing up the Mets — who had just been trounced by my Red Sox in a
three-game series — threw him off guard.

The beauty part of hurling the Mets in my husband’s face is
that he couldn’t really argue with it. It’s something I’ve long believed —
guilt by association with other, much more hated New York teams — and it’s
all mine. Just like faith. There’s no proving or disproving it.

I’ll admit it’s trivial to compare baseball fanaticism to
the world’s ancient, revered religions, but there is something about a money
argument that can push people beyond their limits. I rose up and took the most
righteous path I knew.

It could have been worse. Mary Winkler, the wife of a Tennessee
pastor, presumably had both worldly and otherworldly resources available to her
when she argued with her husband recently. Instead, she pulled out his 12-gauge
pump-action shotgun and blew him away. What were they fighting about? Household
finances. If only she’d known about the Mets.

This article appears in Aug 9-15, 2006.