A leap of calculated logic

The church was a warm comfort compared to the cold outside, and my footsteps created a solid echo that was hampered only by the low murmur of conversation and the dull explosion of fireworks. I followed Mary-Frances as she looked for a good spot to sit in as I looked around the beige walls and hard brown pews. We sat near the aisle and Mary-Frances knelt in prayer before I even took my jacket off. I looked over her with pondering eyes; she had also knelt before we sidled into the pew, her head bent for the wooden cross that hung on the opposite wall. I had looked up into his sorrowful, understanding eyes and gave a nod of respect before sitting down.

Gazing round the church, I shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat, watching while other people had their heads bowed in prayer as some looked around the room as I was and the rest creating the murmur that was ever present among the sound of footsteps and bangs. They sat and chatted about the price of this and how ol’ Stuart did that with a smile on their faces and a gleam in their eyes. I sat back, feeling warmth that had nothing to do with the central heating.

This was a new experience for me. I had been to church many times before, usually consisting of a rabble of children trying to covertly talk during the sermon while fending off the biting cold. The only other time I had been in church was when I was paying solemn respect for a family member, an air of silent reverence in the room as a life was celebrated. This was different though. This was a friendly place.

Mary-Frances finished praying and sat down beside me as the sermon began, crossing herself and whispering something under her breath. Marie appeared soon after and sidled in to sit beside me. She had also knelt at the pew and crossed herself before sitting properly, demonstrating the traditions that had been ingrained into her by her upbringing. The congregation rose for the first hymn, and I flipped open the book at the right page to show Marie. She smiled at me before closing the book and placing it on the pew in front of her; I forgot that she does this every week with her family.

I’m not into religion, quite the opposite actually. My parents aren’t very religious at all, my mother being a non-practising Catholic and my father (with his radical ideas and opinions) being considered a Satanist, so the only place I learned about the ways of God was through school.

I’ve been going to Catholic schools all my life, learning the ways of Jesus and God and how my life is given meaning through them. When I was younger I listened half-heartedly in class and church, not really caring about the adventures of a carpenter who saved my soul. I was more concerned in digi-pets and poke’mon than confession and communion. But my friends were. At the age of seven they went through the terror of first confession as they tried to remember everything they ever did wrong; at nine they went through the glamorous ordeal of their first communion while bragging about the large sum that their uncle gave them; and at eleven they were allowed to choose another name, and brag some more thanks to the generous uncle. I, however, sat on the sidelines with the other non-believers and looked on with a feeling of isolation. I guess you could say I was peer-pressured into religion.

So I began following the faith, listening to the advice given in religious education, learning about Jesus and even praying. I never went to church, so I would lie in bed, stare at my ceiling and well… start praying. I never recited any of the usual “Our Father who art in Heaven” crap, I would just have a conversation with Him. It wasn’t all too bad; I would talk about the weather, current issues, and problems that I would be bound to be having with my friends. It was easy at first, but material soon ran short seeing as He is supposed to know everything. I didn’t even bother to ask Him for things, because it’s pointless I’ll have you know.

I have quite a few friends who live over-seas, and when such tragedies as hurricane Katrina or family deaths struck I would hear them exclaim “What kind of God can let this happen?” and “If there is a God then He shouldn’t let things like this happen!” I always felt a twinge of annoyance while I consoled them, I small fire of anger at their ignorance of the world around them. They forget that we, as humans, have free will. And that free will would mean diddly-squat if we had some greater being that jumped in to intervene every time we had a little bother. It’s not that He’s too lazy to move His almighty ass off the clouds to help anyone; it’s just that he can’t.

My thoughts were interrupted by another hymn. Everybody stood up and began to sing again, this time to a slightly more upbeat tune about death and the afterlife. I stood there, unmoving and silent as ever, when Marie slipped her hand into mine and squeezed it tightly. I looked down to see her smiling eyes looking up into mine, a smile that I returned before she returned to singing. The hymn ended and we sat down again, Marie still holding my hand on her lap.

I can remember the exact moment I stopped believing in God. I know it sounds silly, but it was when I was watching an episode of Star Trek: Voyager barely a year ago. The episode in question was dealing with a race that killed their people at a certain age so they could travel to the afterlife. These people lived and breathed for their religion, making a good impression before they met their maker, and it made me think. There are millions of people in the world who live their life by God, believing that if they do well then they will gain entry to eternal happiness. To me, it all seemed a little… pointless.

If there was a God, then the world I lived in would be absolutely futile. The only reason that we are here is to prove whether we are good enough to walk through the pearly gates? It would be pretty cruel of God if that was the case, to make a home for us where we remained perpetually under a magnifying glass, our every move analysed and the ever looming possibility of being burned. So I stopped believing. I didn’t like the idea of an incomprehensible being judging me for my actions, good or bad.

My thoughts were interrupted by the Communion service. I sat still and smiled as the entire row shuffled past me on their way to the alter. Almost everyone in the room stood up to receive the Communion, but there were a few – like me – who sat in their pews, gazing around the room in thoughtful wonder. Marie and Mary-Frances went round quite quickly and spent a short time kneeling in prayer before coming back up. Marie took hold of my hand and smiled as I whispered my thoughts to her. She whispered them back with a smile.

In truth, I was slightly jealous of her. She was brought up with the guiding countenance of a perfect role model who helped her through life. She had the reassuring knowledge that if, no, when she died, she was going to a better place. I had nothing. When I die I go no where, I don’t feel anything, and I don’t think anything. I’m just gone. It’s kind of sad to think about, but it’s what I believe in and, as far as I’m concerned, the truth. Warts and all.

I walked out into that explosive night with a content feeling in my stomach. Marie gave me a kiss from her warm, soft lips before snuggling into my chest to escape the biting cold. So with the sky thundering and flashing above us, we headed to the bus stop.

My faith surely affirmed.