The Belief Box
Billy has a box. In his box is a belief. It is both important and special—a belief to be guarded and treasured—something of which to be proud and confident.
He was given the belief long ago by a highly-trusted person who passed it along in good faith. Billy took it as his own.
Some question Billy’s belief. They say it isn’t so, that it doesn’t add up, that it won’t bear up under scrutiny. But Billy knows better. These naysayers are just scoffers to be ignored.
Billy hangs on to it. He is proud that he does. He is not swayed by the critics. He rises above it all, he says to himself. And so he keeps his belief inside the pretty box. In fact, he has always kept it in the pretty box. He does not open it. He does not take it out and handle it, or inspect it, or offer it up to others for examination. In reality, he has no idea whether it works, whether its parts all fit—or even if they are all there. But that’s OK, because to Billy, beliefs are things simply to be believed, and not examined. He simply could not be wrong about a belief, he reasons.
And so it sits in the hallowed box, safe from inspection.
And now I ask you, dear reader, how many years of such self-assurance does it take to prove that Billy is a fool for never opening the box to examine his belief? What if it is in fact wrong, as so many beliefs turn out to be? Will he regret having held it so long without ever seriously looking into it? Will he regret having fended off so many well-meaning people who dared to challenge his belief? Will he regret refusing to discuss it openly with others?
