A strange and terrible journey to America’s spiritual soul.

On the plane back from visiting my brother in British Columbia over spring break, I sat next to God. OK, she was more like a sober version of my Aunt Carol than a divine spirit, but she was reading a book called Becoming God.

Watching this woman diligently underline phrases like “I wanted to be good,” while scribbling frantically in the margins really got me thinking. Sure, this overly-embroidered old hag chuckled every time the kids in front of us made farting noises. And she did steal the laminated Air Canada menu when the stewardess turned her back. But is it possible that, all the while, she was receiving and transmitting some sort of celestial message?

In some ways, this silly soul was keeping up with the times. The mere fact that Becoming God finds eager buyers tells us one important thing: the God of our parents’ generation is NOT the God of today.

Kids these days just aren’t interested in stuffy sermons and pushy proselytizers anymore. Please! The Facebook generation is “spiritual, not religious.” We’re yoga-worshipping, kabala-bracelet-wearing, oriental-herb-consuming horoscope readers. We’re children of the pagan earth one day and born-again virgins the next. We dress as “Slutty Santa” for Halloween, but keep it real with orthodox Jewish rap. We’re more concerned about whether or not Jesus was black than about his purported teachings.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. The religious buffet is set before us. And while our grandparents are cool sticking to the roast beef of religion and sneaking out loaves of bread [read: words of God] in their polyester purses, our generation is drawing on a more peculiar palette to satisfy its voracious hunger for “meaning.”

What’s clear is that, like most things, religion is viewed as “negotiable” by most folks lucky enough to fall within our age-bracket. Instead of seeing devoutness in terms of all-or-nothing mainstream faiths, we’ve adopted a convenient pick-and-choose mentality.

I would hardly be surprised, for example, to find a Jewish friend stare disdainfully at my foot-long BLT, and then break the sacred no-milk-with-meat covenant by devouring a cheeseburger. I would be anything but perplexed to chat with a Muslim who can go a semester without setting foot in a mosque, but who wouldn’t hesitate to ask the big man upstairs for a little divine intervention during his Accounting prelim. And, I’m sure we all know our fair share of Catholics who flinch when the Lord’s name is taken in vain, but who would jump at the chance to covet their neighbors’ wives.

Today, it’s not a question of what you can do for your God; it’s about what your God, or anyone else’s, for that matter, can do for you.

Which brings me to my second point … If there’s anything you Americans like more than gorging yourselves at an all-you-can-eat buffet, it’s a battle-to-the-death free-market showdown.

According to a study released last month by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, more than one quarter of American adults have left their childhood faith, either to embrace a new one or to abandon religion completely. “The American religious economy is like a marketplace — very dynamic, very competitive.”

Whether it’s the promise of a free trip to Israel [and, I’m told, a good chance of getting kinky with an Israeli soldier] or summers at Bible camp, religious organizations, like any businesses, are marketing the perks associated with their particular pious products.

[Ed: I do not claim to be immune to this indoctrination. At age 12, I would have given my right arm to don a metallic blue ball gown and dance to Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” with the pre-pubescent boy of my choice … all on the dance floor of a beanie baby-themed bat mitzvah, like so many of my lucky Jewish friends got to do].

The interesting thing is that while our generation is pursuing a more self-selecting and self-serving devotion, we’re not becoming less religious. Three out of four adults between 18 and 29 still claim some kind of religious affiliation. And, by the sounds of recent political debates, a lot of Americans are still looking for that drive-by-evangelical quality in their presidential candidates.

Sure, we’re not prepared to abide by the nitty-gritty rules of established faiths, but that doesn’t mean that, in between investment banking interviews and fraternity chapter meanings, we aren’t stopping occasionally to wonder about our deeper purpose in life!

Even in conversations at Cornell, the assumption is always religious belief, not atheistic non-alignment. About once a week, I have a conversation along these lines:

Inquisitor: Wait, you’re Jewish?

Me: Kind of.

Inquisitor: What do you mean?

Me: Well, I’m not really anything.

Inquisitor: Oh … Wait, you’re Jewish? You have red hair!

Me: Fine. I guess I’m technically half.

Inquisitor: Which half?

Me: Dad.

Inquisitor: Oh, the wrong half. (cue laughter — soft enough to show you’re not fully serious ... but loud enough to get the I’m-never-introducing-you-to-my-Bubbe vibe across”)

From the perspective of a student whose Scottish Protestant mother and Eastern European Jewish father were married by an “alternative” minister in the backyard of a non-practicing grandparent’s house, and who hasn’t set foot in a religious institution of any kind in years (save for the odd funeral, naturally), I know only too well how quickly conversations about religion can turn astonishingly uncomfortable.

Still, it seems our religious blending may go a long way towards promoting tolerance of diverse beliefs. And, the wearing away of boundaries between religions can only lead to a more critical evaluation of where we choose to throw our faith.

So, what’s the religious forecast for this week? It’s possible your late-night Johnny O’s escapades will be guilt-inducing enough to get you teaming to temple, craving the Qur’an, bidding for some Buddha or chiming the church bells. But if you’re anything like me, it’ll take a lot more than that; in that case, see you on secular Sunday morning at CTB!

Katie Engelhart is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. Sh­­e can be contacted at kengelhart@cornellsun.com. Don’t Kill the Messenger appears alternate Tuesdays.