I don’t believe in an interventionist God. That’s another thing I have in common with Nick Cave along with the appearance of a receding hairline. (Nice one, nature.) Nor do I believe in an omnipotent creator to whom we owe everything and who watches over everything; to whom we owe a duty of worship and who will reward us with eternal life in paradise, with or without virgins, or a deathtime’s supply of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Consequently, I don’t believe in any of the organised religions that espouse that kind of deity. I can tell you what I don’t believe in more than what I do. I’m of no fixed faith. Except in humanity. Most of the time.
Still, that won’t ever stop me from occasionally claiming squatters rights in the back pew of an empty church seeking sanctuary from the rotation crop of head woes. Any branch of The Bank of God will do. But always the left-hand side. Force of habit from many a day-dreaming hour spent there in the company of other children in receipt of stern looks from arched browed parents threatening us with a clip round the ear if we didn’t sit up right.
I made it to fourteen before graduating to free-will. The age when being within a two mile radius of my parents became untenable due to the threat it posed to my teenage credentials. Credentials carefully crafted through back-combing, sulking and failure to cooperate with authority. I’d already lost patience with the Virgin Mary for not respecting my demands to appear to me. Or at least give me a sneaky wink from any one of the numerous ornate marble homages to her adorning the place. I gave her enough chances by taking her on in lengthy staring competitions. She always won, all the while appearing pre-occupied. Mary checking her phone for texts from Joseph. Mary looking slightly hungover. Mary taking yet another selfie etc.
“I really shouldn’t have had that tequila”
It’s impossible to conceive of those days now. Moving statues making headlines, Corpus Christi processions snaking through the streets, the Child of Prague going on tour round the houses for a few rosary gigs. And yet, churches remain the only indoor incubator of a rare quality of stillness. One dense with generations of special intentions. Most of the time, churches don’t register on my radar, but once in a while I get swept in to one by the draw of the candlelight and the need to flee my own muddle-headedness.
So conditioned am I, my hand almost reaches out involuntarily towards the water font. The coin lands on a bed of others. I straighten the wick on a candle and light it off another. Another born of hope or gratitude. Who knows. The flame gathers steam and elbows its way into the row with confidence, chattering back and forth to its neighbours.
Lighting candles is no substitute for thinking well of those you love. But chances are, the flame outlasts the time between slipping back out onto the street and a return to other things that occupy the mind for most of the time.
department of speculation 
I go into a church for other people. I spend my time in there questioning. Wondering do they all really believe this, and are they in fact even listening.
However I do get you seeking sanctuary in the quietness and memories from the past drawing you into a church.
I do not however hate the church, or have negative opinions about those who do believe. That is their choice, not mine.
I have gone beyond the subconscious reaching towards the font.
It’s funny, I rarely state my personal position on matters of faith and in a way it doesn’t really matter, because it’s so personal. Rituals trump faith for me still, and they too transcend the finer details of abstract creed. ‘Gone beyond’ probably has resonance with many in different ways. But like you, I don’t consider it any of my business.
Nice piece of reflection.
I am a believer. I got my questions answered.
I stop (in the truck) sometimes to take my lunch outside a church near Donegal town. It is nice to pop in, as you say, just to get away from it all.
You’re probably a better Christian than most Christians, if that makes sense. Never mind.
Makes sense surely. Suppose we’re all trundling along trying to do our best.
Thanks very much for checking in. Appreciate the aul reads.
Love. This. Post. I am an atheist, but sometimes feel guilty. Its a weird feeling. I put it down to years of indoctrination and compulsory Sunday school as a child.
Ah thanks for the re-blog my fellow weird-feeling friend. Very much appreciated. Bless you 🙂
I consider myself blessed. But, not in a religious way. Cheers 🙏
Reblogged this on alfreds almanac and commented:
This is a great post. Essential reading.
thank you for rebblogging Paul 🙂
A pleasure. Its a great piece of writing.
Reblogged this on benbrilliant.com.
🙂 I’m not alone. I go to church when I NEED to go and listen to myself. It’s the only place where there are no echoes of my other thoughts. I just can breathe in and out and feel like I got an internal purge 🙂
Brilliant description there, DotedOn. Thanks for that 🙂 Nice to see some of Alfreds Almanac fraternity stopping by.
I was sent here by alfreds almanac and was glad to read your post. Like you I do not believe in the deity espoused in the christian, muslim and jewish faiths. I belong to a church/society called Unitarian Universalists. We do not have a creed or text that we follow as authoritative. Instead we try to create a blessed community here on earth. We all believe what we want, which ranges from serious Christians and Jews, to atheists and humanists. What we share is a quest for spiritual fulfillment and social justice. We’re considered quite out of the mainstream, which doesn’t bother us in the least. So if you want occasionally to sit inside a sanctuary, try one of ours. You will even fit in.
Hi bhalsop.The Unitarian Church sounds lovely. There is a Unitarian Church in Dublin that is becoming very popular option for weddings for folk who have fallen ahead from the heavy weights. Thanks for stopping by 🙂