Today marks my second Easter in a Muslim country. I decide not to eat a roasted pig with the Catholic family down the road who owns the bar in town like I did last year. I’ll spare myself local gossip about my sinfully sipping beer and eating bacon. I should, however, go to a small, disintegrating church to remind them that I do look to Allah for answers. They wouldn’t trust me if they thought I was acting independently and without guidance from God.

Against my better judgment, I think I’ll skip church because it’s in French which I don’t understand, but mostly because it’s early. Also, I don’t really believe that Jesus was the Son of God.

Don’t worry—-I believe in God, and I believe in Jesus, and I’m sure they were in cahoots together. I’m just not sure Jesus was any more special than the Buddha or Muhammad or other revered mortals like Gandhi. So instead I’ll leave it to my breathing silence to thank the dead Jesus for being so good and teaching people to love each other. After that, I’ll eat the jellybeans I was saving for a special occasion.

Dead Jesus got me thinking though. I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if I believed in you? Wouldn’t it be nice if I believed in you with all my heart? I could stand on that side of the world with all the other Christians and look across the wall at everyone else and we could shake our heads together and say, “If only they knew.”

Still, a side is tempting. I could choose Islam, maybe. I don’t know about Muslims in other countries but here in Senegal they say, “Thanks Be to God” at least fifty times a day. That abundant appreciation feels right so I chime in, “Alhamdulillah.” I cover my head and bow, pointing my finger to the sky to remind my full heart that there is just One.

And yet, I know that’s not home either. The Qur’an speaks beautifully of truth, but so does the Bible. I trust the truth that I read in between the names and rules written by the powerful men on both sides of this religious divide, and I feel like I’m cheating. I can’t stand behind a wall then look over and say, “Oh, those poor people. They’ve got it all wrong.”

But how nice would that be? I’d have a side. They’d tell me who I was and what I’m doing here. Instead I’m keeping my balance on the wall itself and it can be lonesome.

The wall is getting a little crowded lately. It’s still lonesome, but now it’s full of people who don’t know which way is up. They’ve all got their noses in books or ears hooked to gadgets, hoping that someone will help them believe in something without telling them they must believe or else.

Maybe we’ll be put back together again with meditation or the right diet or complete surrender to perennial philosophy. Or maybe it’s knowledge and science…or art and poetry!

We’re looking for anything that might give us substance. Purpose.

But that’s just the thing. That’s what Dead Jesus got me thinking about. I don’t know where to go or what to read or who to ask. I keep looking and wondering if there is a spot in the world where I can feel at home, but I can’t picture what that would look like.

If I could play my banjo really well maybe I could be in a band and that would be my tiny section of the world. Or maybe I could be really smart and have a smart-club and snicker and scoff at all the dumb people. That side of the wall exists but it’s hard to be let in (even if I wanted to, which I don’t).

Or maybe I could gather up all the wandering wall-people and create my own side of the wall, but I don’t think there’d be much point to that because none of us would be sure of anything except that we’ve landed somewhere. We’ll continue to refuse to be defined.

And so we go on.