And this, this, the way he held the line no matter what—this is what disturbs me most now. I suppose it’s possible he was right, that my mother really didn’t understand, that there was some absolving circumstance that my father knew but couldn’t discuss, something that changed his perception of the truth, or even changed the truth itself. That old-world mysticism runs deep, even in contemporary Buddhist traditions. The tantras and sutras are complex and contradictory, and of course there are advanced teachings, secrets that students are strictly forbidden to share with anyone, especially their angry wives.

“It’s complicated,” my father would say. “I can’t explain.”

“Alcoholism is alcoholism,” my mother would say. “Rape is rape. Bullshit is bullshit.”

In these moments I always felt the desire to protect him. My mother had always been a bully. She didn’t understand when to let things go. She didn’t understand that my father was inherently good and therefore deserved the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t realize the alternatives. But she did, of course. I see now that she realized everything. She was only demanding that he look at the facts, that he account for himself, and face his own ego, his own belief, without self-deception. (A Buddhist goal indeed.) When she spoke, everything my father loved seemed to be made of glass. I didn’t want it to break in his hands. But then, if it was so breakable to begin with, maybe it should have.

Here is what I have come to believe: in the end, religion has done more harm than good. For one thing, there’s war, ethnic cleansing, genital mutilation, abused altar boys, the systematic oppression of women—the foundational text of Christianity locates women as the source of all evil, do not forget this when interacting with the faithful—as well as anyone who doesn’t fit into its narrow moral straitjacket. Hierarchy breeds corruption. Patriarchy cultivates debasement. Believing in something—anything—so blindly is corrosive. You follow a recipe instead of inventing your own world. There are certain corners you can’t see into. My mother used to say that raising your son or daughter to believe in God is child abuse. I have repeated this often, to shocked looks, even from my secular friends. I’m sorry: I believe it. Religious belief may be a pleasant distortion, a comfort, for a while, but too much, unexamined, for too long and it eats away at your body, turns you stupid, kills you. Serena was right: the effect is not dissimilar to alcohol.

Is that what happened to my father, in the end? Was he simply obliterated by all his believing? I think it is what happened to me.