Say this to yourself in a speedy internal monologue:
I accept that the following post is a representation of Stuart's personal beliefs and is an account of his experiences with organised religion I also accept that this does not have any bearing on my own views on religion, faith, or my own personal beliefs.
Thank you. Now read on.
As a child, I attended a Catholic Primary School, and a Catholic Middle School.
So, to address that famous quote, the church had me to the age of thirteen.
They haven’t got me any more.
My Mother was brought up as a Roman Catholic, and so, when she had me and my sister, she naturally introduced us to the church. We were religious church attendees until shortly after my First Holy Communion (capitals included through some sort of backdated respect), when my parents told me that I could choose my own religious path.
I weighed up the choice between walking through the town to St. Wilfrid’s and having a newly attractive lie-in on a Sunday morning.
So in truth, I began my path to atheism through laziness and sloth.
Being a guilt-wrought kinda guy, I occasionally went back on my own, but free of parental control, I began to look around me with startling clarity.
Why had we never sat in the front pews?
They were seemingly reserved through some sort of non-verbal contract for some of the older parishoners; those who did duties around the church and the church hall. Going on my own, I decided that I would sit there. There was much harrumphing and clearing of throats, but no one said anything. How supremely British.
I felt an enormous sense of liberation. All of a sudden I could see the snottiness in the gazes of those in the choir, who sat in a raised box at the back of the church and changed key mid-hymn just because they bloody well could, dragging the rest of the congregation tonally behind them – I could see the jealous segregation of the front pew, I could see the suspiciously dark red nose of the priest, and to be honest, looking around me, I couldn’t see a group of people united before a loving God.
I saw a piety contest.
I left and took up the habit of the Sunday morning lie-in with a clear conscience.
In fact, the only bit I miss about going to church is the ancient and decrepit-looking guy who used to play the church organ. He seemed impressively old and seemingly close to death, even back then. For all the hymns and songs throughout the mass, he toed the line, and played the tunes...or as close as he could get.
But the second that the priest ended the mass, he was there at the keys with almost supernatural energy, providing superb renditions of all of the best World War Two film themes that there ever were. Even at the tender age of eleven, I could appreciate the comedy of filing out of church to the tune of ‘The Great Escape’, and ‘The Dambusters’ and ‘633 Squadron’ will always reminds me of the smell of incense and floor polish.
There was a story in the Island newspaper not so long ago about an organist who was fired from his job at a crematorium for playing unsuitable music.
I hope to my non-existent god that it was him.
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