I Don't Believe in God

Me, I'm an atheist. I think I always have been, although I can recall a time (I was just a wee thing--don't judge me irrational!) when I wished it was otherwise. It was a bit like trying to convince myself I could fly: no matter how much I wanted it to be true, it just wasn't on, and no amount of church or prayer or Thomas Aquinas could change it.

Church. I'd go to church, hoping for a glimpse of the divine, but all I'd get was bored. The priest, who must've been a hundred years old, would start to chant--

Therefore, with angels and archangels,
And all the company of heaven,
We laud and magnify thy glorious name--
Evermore praising thee, and saying:

Holy, holy, holy, &c....

--and ten minutes later, I'd jolt to my senses. My God--have I been counting his wrinkles this whole time? Ah, but they look like birds' nests, in there around his eyes. How did his head get so spotted and smooth? It looks like a robin's egg, only grey. He's quite handsome, in a venerable sort of way. He reminds me of a Durer drawing. Oh, dear. That was, I believe, a sinful thought. I'm thinking of worldly vices again. I wonder how many Hail Marys I'd get, were I Catholic--and also, what it would feel like to kiss those dry ol' lips? Eeeeeeeeeeew!

And then I'd come to my senses again, because everyone was chanting, and I'd chant too, deliberately fumbling a couple of words so I wouldn't be speaking a lie:

"I behoove in one God, the feather almighty, creator of Heaven and Perth...."

I tried to get myself to expect heavenly retribution for these sins, but the only retribution I feared was of the parental variety. I could swear my (earthly) father cast bemused eyes upon me once or twice during the Nicene Creed.

Speaking of my parents, they went to church for two reasons:

1) To admire the architecture (we always attended such august venues as Saint Paul's Cathedral, Ely Cathedral, King's College Chapel, and so forth)

2) To socialize, and to be seen.

God didn't figure on the agenda--my parents, too, are atheists. Once, during a particularly dry sermon at Ely, the most sinful thought of all crossed my mind: I wonder if the priest even believes? Look at him up there, doddering his way through the service! I think I saw his eyes close, just then! I think he gave the same sermon last month. I think he's looking forward to lunch, or perhaps simply to getting off his feet. He looks ready to expire from boredom. He doesn't seem particularly awestruck before his God, at any rate. Dear Lord, did he just check his watch?

"Holy, holy, holy," croaked the priest. I hid a laugh under a sneeze--he had managed to remind me of a Morton's Pot Pie advert from the early eighties. It's not funny, though, I admonished myself--he could've been describing meat pies, for all the reverence in his tone.

"What do I care?" I sighed, giving up. "A thinking man--er, person--can't believe in that sort of fairy-tale nonsense."

"Have you ever known a stupid man of God?" said the devil on my shoulder.

"Well, no," I conceded--"but I've not known too many of their sort. Really, I've only ever known one priest particularly well."

"Was he stupid?"

"No, but he might've been mad."

"You think?"

"Not really, no. But it doesn't matter. I don't believe, anyway. Belief is one of those things, like a perfect complexion--you've either got it, or you've not. No amount of cold-cream or communion is going to change that. Besides, I don't even want to believe any more. I know more scientists than priests, and they wouldn't half take the mickey.

Once, not so very long ago, it crossed my mind (briefly! Briefly!) that I ought to pretend to be Jewish, that I might attend events organized by the local cultural center. It even occurred to me, again, in the most fleeting of ways, that real faith might follow the pretense of faith.

Pretending to believe in God in hopes of making friends! I shook my head. Really. That's dreadful, even for me. I'm not Jewish--I'm just a schmuck.

No, I don't even believe in a cruel God, alas. Last prayer I said went like this:

Good bread, good meat, good God, let's eat!

I am a heathen and a boor, and an inveterate reader of books unholy. I am damned; I am cursed; I have transgressed--but let it never be said I didn't try.

Amen.