I wear a single battery nut on a plain ball chain around my neck. It is as good as a crucifix, a star and crescent, or star of David to anyone else. Mine are the motorcycle gods. Little G so as to avoid big issues. I like to consider them less deities than celestial supervisors.
It’s not that I don’t believe in an intelligent higher power, it’s just that I don’t feel like I deserve the personal attention, what with a world-wide pandemic stacked upon the existing shit-show of geopolitical upheaval, endemic racism, prevalent poverty, and global climate crisis quickly approaching mass extinction levels. Asking an omnipotent being to intercede with my petty personal problems just seems arrogant. If I trust that it has a perfect plan, then who am I to question it?
Coming from a disfunctionally religious sort of family, I don’t consider myself a little lost lamb so much as a reluctant herd animal in general. I may have started out Catholic, but later my parents managed to collect Presbyterian subsects like trading out automobiles. My father tossed in a healthy dose of Astronomy and autodidacticism. My mother kept her faith mostly private and encouraged intuition, although she maintained a healthy obsession with angels.
I’m pretty sure that we were briefly Pentecostal because years ago a whole damn congregation laid hands on me. They cast the demons out of me because a Lego brick fell down a heating vent and the resulting constant rattle was apparently Satanic. It’s difficult to engage in enthusiastic Sunday worship sitting on a hardwood pew with an ass the color of a ripe plum and the person who beat you sitting right beside, righteously lifting their voice on high to a loving God who just allowed you to get your ass beat for leaving the cap off the toothpaste.
The University offered a comparative religions course. We studied all the major texts, comparing and cross-referencing parallel accounts in middle eastern texts, contrasting the Eastern philosophies and seeking out the overarching similarities in various teachings. I was impressed with the professor’s apparent neutrality. When a student complained about openly carrying the Bible around campus, he replied: “So rip the cover off.” It is just a book, after all. Trust me, they’ll print more.
Just like I wouldn’t go straight to ownership over a petty complaint about a fellow employee, I don’t need to roll straight into Big G’s office to petition a miracle. Most of the time I’m good about conflict resolution and de-escalation working on a firing line with a bunch of sweaty assholes who play with knives and fire for fun. If I have a bigger problem, I look to the lead or management. There is a well-defined chain of command.
Supervising a crew, I instructed them all: “If you have a problem, bring it to me. If I can’t handle it myself, I will go to my leadership.” I don’t know why I didn’t think that applied to me on a spiritual level, but I figure that I can handle most of the big stuff on my own, and if I can’t force it, it just wasn’t meant to be. WD40 if it sticks; duct tape if it wiggles.
Motorcycle gods might be minor deities, but they are unforgiving. Their miracles are merit based and they are fairly generous in their returns. If I spend the hours turning a wrench, they will eventually run. I can easily spend an afternoon on bent knee, worshipping the mystery of their works. When we move, we move as one and I have great faith in my Lazarus mount to get me there, zipties, duct tape, muttered prayers and all.
Of one thing I am certain: Something kept me alive through over twenty years of passive suicide, and it sure as H-E-double-hockey-sticks wasn’t me.
Andrew Tomacelli 