AXIOMS OF FAITH : Finding a language of belief

Commonweal, Sept 14, 2001 by Anna Nussbaum

In mathematics one must accept certain axioms, certain truths. Ten in all. Most important, one must accept the theoretical concepts of a point, a line, and a plane. Their existence cannot be proved or disproved, but they are the beginning of understanding geometry. My instructor explained, "You can't prove anything from nothing....When you write a dictionary, if you don't have any words, you can't define any words."

We're a generation trying to write a dictionary of belief without words. Spoiled. Confused. Unwanted. Unformed. We have no place from which to begin. But faith persists, and all around me I find believers.

Dallas Thompson's head is never unplugged. He sits in the back row of my third-period journalism class wearing headphones. As the heavy metal crescendos in his ears, he scribbles down his thoughts on scraps of paper, thoughts which will later become 'zines (home-made magazines). He seems to write in time to the music. The music pouring from the earphones is loud; we listen in, though we cannot make out the lyrics. But Dallas's mind makes sense of the noise. In it he finds prophets who preach truth. I wonder if, for him, silence is noise. Dallas is a believer. He distributes vegan literature, and in the animal-product-free lifestyle he finds commandments and a strict code of conduct. He bathes once a week. He lives simply. He uses his earnings to buy high-priced organic foods. He recycles his plastic juice bottles, and every day he carries a lunch box to school. He carries a lunch box when other hard-core kids eat hamburgers and French fries and carelessly leave their cardboard trash behind. With other vegans, Dallas feels less alone. He knows, intuitively, that there is more to life than leisure, and he seeks ultimate meaning in a dairy-free diet. He tells me he wants to have the words "Vegan for Life" tattooed across his chest. "I'm not gonna pussy out and become a vegetarian like so many vegans do," he says. "I believe in veganism."

Like me, Tim Ross is an International Baccalaureate (IB) diploma student. Our classes are more rigorous than advanced placement and we are tested by international standards. Our exams are sent across the globe. The first-born son of strict Republican parents, one a nonpracticing Jew and the other an atheist who was raised Presbyterian, Tim gets top grades in the hardest classes. He wins at international science fairs. He wants to go to Columbia University and then train to become an astronaut. He wants, more than anything, to make his parents proud. So he works hard. He takes a Russian-language class at the local community college, competes in Stephen Douglas debates, volunteers, and builds, builds, builds his resume, as we all do. Tim is a decent guy. I envy his transcript.

Freshman year, Tim was baptized at Radiant Assemblies of God, a local fundamentalist church, six months after he joined its youth group. But his devotion dwindled and he no longer believes in Christianity. He's too smart, that's all. As he matured, the youth group didn't, or wouldn't, mature with him. They were still preaching about why you shouldn't kiss on the first date, and doing "trust falls," while Tim was struggling with existence of the Trinity and with materialism. There wasn't enough at Radiant for Tim, who always demands more from life and first visited the church alone. The church was too dogmatic. It never encouraged inquiry. In Tim's eyes, intellectuals are seldom believers and never fundamentalist Christians. And anyway, Tim has a new rite of initiation to anticipate. Getting into Columbia University will be very much a salvific event for him. Columbia is for the elite, the chosen, the few. Tim will have earned a place among them and his life will, someday, be worth remembering. For now, all of his value can be typed onto an application and stuffed in a manila envelope to be scanned in fifteen minutes by a member of the admissions department. He seeks ultimate meaning within the boundaries of logic, intelligence, and achievement.

Katie Cline is a dancer, or at least she used to be. I met her in study hall. She went to a boarding school for dancers, but a year later returned to public high school. I guess she didn't make the cut. Still, she tends to her body religiously. She is anorexic: never eats a complete meal, and never gains a pound. She always carries a water bottle. Her legs are invariably smooth. Her skin is exfoliated and hydrated and immaculate. If she lets her discipline lag, she will no longer be recognizable as who she is: a dancer, and a member of the club. Katie doesn't go to church, but she still tries to win converts. "Anna," she says, "I can show you how to make a diet for yourself that you can live with." And, "Really, you should stretch at least half an hour every morning; it's the only way..." It is a kindness. Katie is sharing with me the orthodoxy behind her actions, the wisdom that guides her every step. Without her practices she wouldn't be who she is. Dance has trained her, and disciplined her. Katie seeks ultimate meaning in her body and in dance.