Describing the work of his fellow anthropologists, Victor W. Turner wrote in The Ritual Process (1969):
"Most of these thinkers have taken up the implicitly theological position of trying to explain, or explain away, religious phenomena as the product of psychological or sociological causes of the most diverse and even conflicting types, denying to them any preterhuman origin; but none of them has denied the extreme importance of religious beliefs and practices, for both the maintenance and radical transformation of human social and psychical structures."
I've seen the sort of thing he describes more than once, in older literature about ancient religions - a slightly embarrassed disclaimer that the Greeks or Egyptians, however profound and lofty* their thoughts, can't compare to The Bible. But Turner's point is that the question is not whether the specifics of religion are true, but that religion is crucial for the way we organise our civilisations and the insides of our skulls.
I am getting a very direct lesson in this in dealing with Frank's serious illness. I know - in that deep and satisfying way which is not willful blindness - I know that someone will continue to look after the little guy when Jon and I can no longer take care of him.
Of course, "religion" is a rather complex concept itself. Projecting Abrahamic ideas about the divine onto, say, Aztec culture, or even Egyptian culture, often produces nonsensical results. My understanding that Frank only has to ask Bastet to show him the way sits alongside my understanding that Frank's awareness and personality are dependent on the matter he's made of and will go when it goes, and alongside my understand that Frank never began and will never end, any more than the sea begins or ends as a wave rises and falls. These ideas are mutually exclusive, according to Western logic. But these are not irrational ideas. Thinking I could cure Frank's cancer with garlic juice would be an irrational idea. These are non-rational ideas. They're not fairy stories I tell myself to make myself feel better (the latter two certainly don't, and the one about the sea is terrifying), but they orient me, guide me, give me ways to think about and process what's happening.
We can't write Frankus off yet - we're still waiting for the results of tests and a new treatment. But eventually, Bastet will pick Frank up and pop him in her basket, with the other kittens. I'll see him there again one day.
* Do you see what I did there? Clever me!**
** I'm hypomanic today. It's been a great help to have the support of the local fluorescent petals - no joke.