When I was in primary school, my religion teacher told me my parents were going to hell.
Now, before we demonise said teacher, it’s worth flagging that I was a persistently annoying child who harboured both an insatiable need to be perceived as good and an overt opposition to authority. In the context of Christianity, this was a touch problematic.
My primary school had weekly scripture classes, where we were subjected to weekly lectures on the importance of telling the truth and not taking the Lord’s name in vain. Occasionally, as a treat, we’d get to watch a VeggieTales version of the Bible, where Jesus was a zucchini.
Scripture was an optional class, but my parents (despite being atheists) believed in a “well-rounded education”. Most of my friends attended non-scripture – aka, an hour of free time to carve penises into the school hall floorboards. Experiencing major fomo for non-scripture, I was pushing the boundaries of politeness. Armoured with the technicality of avid “curiosity”, I subjected my religion teacher to near constant questions:
“Does God sleep in on Sundays?” (He doesn’t sleep)
“Is there an Italian Jesus?” (That’s just Jesus)
“Why do we shut our eyes when we pray?” (To concentrate better)
Her response to the latter prompted a ‘seeing strike’, where I refused to open my eyes for the entirety of class in the name of concentration. I could see (not literally) that she was frustrated by this, and I felt delighted. I relished the feeling of control. God may be almighty, but he couldn’t do shit about my eyelids.
I still hadn’t completely decided whether or not I believed in God. Several years prior, circa year 2, my beloved guinea pig Tufty had gone missing. In a moment of juvenile desperation I prayed to God, swearing that if he returned Tufty, I’d worship him forever. Much to everyone’s surprise, Tufty appeared four weeks later, unscathed, in the neighbour’s garden. As much as I was elated to have my guinea pig back, I was miffed by this Faustian bargain I’d made. God had called my bluff.
Forever is a long time for an 8-year-old. God must have sensed my reluctance because, despite a miraculous survival stint in the wilderness, Tufty died shortly after returning home. Real or not, God had a wicked sense of humour.
I told this story to my religion teacher, and she wasn’t impressed. She said religion doesn’t work like that, you can’t “negotiate with the lord”. It might have been the sting of this rejection that prompted my next fateful question:
“My Mum and Dad don’t believe in God, will they still go to heaven with me?”
A more reasonable, less irritated adult might have recognised the gravity of this question. I’d recently discovered my parents weren’t religious, and my defiant tone poorly concealed a genuine fear for my parents’ salvation. Unfortunately, my teacher was a chronically irritated and generally unreasonable individual who replied:
“If your parents don’t believe in God, they’ll be damned to hell.”
I went home and sobbed uncontrollably. Annoying or not, that’s a pretty crushing thing to say to a child. At 8 years old, I decided that I refused to believe in a God who would subject my parents to such cruelty.
Fast forward a decade, and I’d developed an impassioned contempt for religion. I felt affronted by its presence in my life. I turned my nose up at my university campus’s faith groups, swatting away their flyers with taglines like “it’s not too late to be saved by the mercy of Jesus”. The more I learned about institutional religion and its many crimes, the more cynical I became about faith.
But the lord works in mysterious ways (allegedly), and when faced with personal hardship, I found myself longing for the comfort of belief in something bigger than myself. In the context of adult pain and grief, I yearned for certainty. I found my position on faith had softened.
I’m not a naturally cynical person, and it’s a shame that institutionalised Christianity, and figureheads of religion more broadly, have tainted my perception of faith. Theology, when distilled down to its simplest form, teaches the importance of love and kindness, encouraging community and accountability for our wrongdoings. Independent of an institution, faith is a beautiful, innately human thing.
I don’t believe in God, or heaven, or hell. But I do believe in redemption. Humans are fallible, volatile creatures, stumbling blindly through the bastard that is life. No single being has all the answers. No man should ever be an absolute authority on morality. Perhaps the greatest lesson we can take from religion is a willingness to act in good faith. To offer grace to others, to treat strangers with compassion. To do so not out of fear of punishment or spiritual retribution, but because that is the decent, human thing to do.
We all have bad days. In hindsight, my religion teacher was probably having a shocker, and I forgive her for that. We’re united by our propensity to make mistakes. I’m sure at times I’ve behaved like a vicious little asshole, and I hope I, too, would be forgiven for that.
This is me on my own personal soapbox. If you’re after something more universal, feel free to read the Bible. Or not, it’s your life.
Cadaver Synod is playing at KxT on Broadway from May 27 to June 6 and is presented by NIDA. Tickets are available here.
