I’m scientific, through and through—
I don’t go to church;
I love Jeopardy just as much as you.
But you are surprised at my patriotic stance towards God.
Since I’m elitist and secular, my conservative views strike you as odd.
I need foolish comfort; I’m Socratic, and full of doubt,
My scientific nature pushes all certainty out;
Everyone’s mean and crazy, the sun is setting;
All that’s possible are intelligent guesses
As we confront psychotic no’s and Pollyanna yes’s.
I have no idea, so I’m betting:
I’m guessing science is a lender, not a thief,
That faith is about behavior, not belief;
God is nowhere; yet, why shouldn’t I choose
The door hiding God? As a poet, I see
All life is dead, but expressed poetically—
Just as I am—but am not—my muse.
I smile, and when I do, my muse grins.
Is mathematics still mathematics when it sins?
I have to believe calculating odds is smart.
It verifies the art inside the art.
The blank, which might be God, still imagines
There is God. And comfort, which belief in God brings,
Is one of those scientific things
Science—conscious of its limits—should embrace,
Traveling through cold, dark, vast, space,
Guessing it will see another looking face.