RELIGION

“I used to waste my time laughing in the face of a god that doesn’t exist. Even if I wish they did.”

An acoustic guitar, the light from a phone screen, opened on the notes app, illuminating my living room, and a younger me, barely in control of either. As far as I remember it, that’s how this more pretentious variety of myself would have described the circumstances under which he wrote those words, were someone unfortunate enough to have asked. Surely squinting through a headache induced by the fact he was yet to acquire glasses. Hair in that weird in-between state of being not quite short enough to style with a wax, and not quite long enough to be slicked back with a gel. So a mess is how I’d most accurately describe it.

If the lyric itself didn’t make it apparent, I’ve never really been very religious. When I was in high school, the whole thing seemed rather wrong to me. Having renounced any god of any variety and given my mortal shell to the likes of Richard Dawkins, you could say my rebel period was well in motion. 
I remember quite vividly my first true run in with fundamentalist religion on a school trip in Louisiana. Quite a ways away from home for a European kid like myself who both hadn’t and haven’t travelled much. One morning we were attending a service at a small-ish church. I don’t remember much about the service itself, other than that the music was great and then what happened after the band stopped playing. The reason escapes me but I wasn’t sitting next to my classmates, but rather some locals who were very enthralled by the whole thing. It was during some sort of sermon that things started to become rather uncomfortable for me. We were to kneel on a little cushioned ankle high bench. Already I could imagine my entire body tensing. The pretence of not giving a fuck, when I most assuredly did, surely helping my muscles curl in a most unpleasant fashion. Shaking knees bending to sit on the cushion and there I was. An aggressively self proclaimed atheist ready to receive the lord's prayer. 
I was embarrassed. Evidently frightened. Not for my life but more the stale bread crumbs I referred to as an image. The elderly lady at my side surely noticed my hesitation and fright, and in the most comforting southern accent said something along the lines of “It’s alright, dear”. I gave a quick nod and a half assed attempt at a comforted smile and placed my knees on the cushion.
My recollection of the next few things that happened are unclear as nine or so years have turned this memory sour. The priest began blessing us, in his most enthusiastic TV preacher voice. Like what I imagine inspired Genesis to write ‘Jesus He Knows Me’
“Feel the lord,” he exclaimed.
“Mhm,” it came from a choir - even if I’m sure I’m mixing in a bit of ‘Sister Act’ in for flavour.
“Let him move through you,” he continued, as the only thing that moved in me was the poolish water I had accidentally drunk in the shower that morning. 
And like something out of a horror film, the elderly lady on my right grabbed my arm as the lord assumedly passed through her. I panicked. My eyes shut open and saw a veiny hand grasping my arm with quite extraordinary power for a woman her age. So maybe the lord did in fact move through her; I currently can neither confirm nor deny it. I got up and ran out the door of the church to the serene New Orleans streets outside, my breathing heavy.  
In hindsight I’m sure it must have been a panic attack, although at the time I did not have the words or experience to describe it. After the service I was reunited with my mates, and I’m sure I cheered up quickly enough, and appropriately said some shit like “Yeah, no, all this religious shit is just crazy dude. I couldn't stand being in there".
I remember being quite embarrassed on behalf of my teacher, though. A native to the city himself who had, quite graciously I might add, taken all of us on this trip, and I had behaved quite childishly, I thought. My best friend and I had stayed with him and his family. 
“Hell yeah, we get to live with the teacher, he must have us in high regard for bringing us to his family”. 
Although I distinctly remember him overhearing that conversation and appropriately responding with. “I just don’t trust the two of you with a host family”. 

Not my only grace with religion, however. Back in the 2000s, I lost two grandparents. I’m unsure whether or not I prayed for them, but I’m almost certain I must have at least sent them a thought or two, that they might be alright. I had attempted praying a few times as a child, to very little success. I’m sure it was because I thought God was some sort of wish granting machine, that sometimes worked, when you thought really hard about it. I remember wishing to win a school talent show when I was maybe eight or nine, and as the win was handed to someone else, a quartet that had learned to barely keep time with a Eurovision song, my trust in God was fading more and more. 

Things were quite different when I lost my third grandparent, though. I was just shy past my most anarchistic teen years, where atheism was the best thing since sliced bread, and the church and religion was something for old people, when my grandfather passed away. He’d been doing bad for quite a time and I had decided to commemorate what he meant to me in a song. I got to play it for him at a concert once before he died. It was in English and I’m sure he understood very little of it, being an old dane himself, but nevertheless he was proud of me. God or heaven isn’t real, I thought to myself, which I’m sure made learning to live with his passing much more difficult. It did, however, also make me cherish the memories, both me and my brother shared with him while he was still alive, much more, as I knew and believed I would not see him again. 
I suppose that’s one of the reasons people are religious. Learning to live with the concept of death, something I am yet to truly master, could be so much easier if you believe they’re up there waiting for you.
“That’s my dad smiling down at us,” my mum used to say whenever she’d notice a particularly bright star in the sky. I resent my younger self a bit for his usual response. “God doesn’t exist” or “That’s just a star”. I have in later years learned that the bright star in the sky is in fact not a star, but probably a planet; I’m sure a more intelligent individual could explain further. 
My mother isn’t particularly religious herself, but I’m sure she was saying it as much for her own sake, as she said it for mine. I didn’t understand the harsh reality of death. I only understood that I didn’t believe in God, and that was that. 

At the time of writing, I’ve learned to respect religion. At least more than my teenage variant did. A dear friend of mine sings as part of a church choir and I had decided to attend in support. As I entered the church at a little to ten in the morning, I was met by a handful of really fucking old people, and one unfortunate and loud kid who’d been dragged there by his grandparents. After a host of pleasant good mornings - something I think my generation should get better at saying - the service began as the priest triumphantly revealed himself from the backroom and the organ player proceeded to violate my eardrums. I like church organs as much as the next noone, but I prefer it not be an assault on human decency. The choir sang beautifully, staying on key even when the organist didn’t.
I don’t have much to say about the sermon itself. I noticed a stain on my glasses about halfway through and lost track of the topic. I will say, I think most of this insistent over analysing of old texts strongly resembles people who pick apart new marvel movie trailers to see if Big Wheel will in fact be the new main villain of arch seventy three. 
Having little experience with church, I was struggling to keep up with the more seasoned, and I will reiterate, super fucking old pros. At one point everyone just got up. Just stood up and started walking towards the priest. Well if everyone is doing it, I suppose I have to as well. So there again, like nine years before it, I was sat kneeling on an ankle high cushion, receiving the lord's prayer. However, this time I stayed put. No running into the street and causing an embarrassment. I’m unsure what’s changed since then. I think the main reason is that I’m no longer in a state of being where the word atheist would come up when introducing myself to new people. 
Alas the lord's prayer it was not. It was the Holy Communion, which consisted of two rather unholy experiences. The driest piece of ‘bread’ in the world, and a small glass of port; they do know their audience, old people fucking love port. I suppose the piece of gum I had just popped in my mouth seconds before being lifted to the altar by the power of peer pressure didn’t help. It sat uncomfortably rubbing against my gums like a small pillow of snuff, and added extra flavour to the ‘meal’. 
Despite my rampant and persistent negativity the choir did sing quite beautifully, and it was a great excuse to get out of bed on a sunday.

The lyric this piece of writing started with was not written because of poor church experiences or passing grandparents. It was written shortly after the passing of a close friend. A companion of which I share many stories of increasing ridicule, and many fond and treasured memories. Grandparents passing is one thing. To a point it is almost expected. Losing a friend of your own age, however, will truly put you in a state to question the concept of life itself and in turn religion. 
As I sat there on the floor of my flat writing this song, as it seemed like the only reasonable thing to be spending my time on, I was trying to believe a little. The idea that I might one day get another one of those halfway awkward sideways dad hugs again was enticing. Alas, hoping to believe is not the same as actually believing. So I will continue to enjoy the visual memories of halfway decent enchiladas, eaten on a cardboard box in their living room as the table was cluttered in all sorts of mess instead. At least that’s actually a thing I can see in my mind's eye.