A DAD'S LIFE:Daddy doesn't believe! He's going straight to hell
RIGHT SO, they say, all this God stuff? Do you believe in Him or what?
This is the interesting thing about being an atheist in still largely Catholic Ireland. You have to argue a reason for not believing in God. You have to explain to your kids why you don’t have any faith in a strange, bearded, male figure who sits atop the clouds, sees inside your head and, despite all the atrocities they hear about constantly on the news, has our best interests at heart.
Our fault I suppose. We taught them all about Santa, we invited the Easter Bunny into our houses and gardens, we left windows open for the tooth fairy at night. If we encourage Tinkerbell to leave money for further tooth-rotting sweets, who are we to question the Big Holy?
To begin with, the idea that I didn’t believe, despite the fact that we have rarely darkened a church’s door, came as a surprise to them. Voicing my blasphemy caused them to gasp with fear. I was doomed to the pits of eternal damnation. Thank you religion class.
I tried to quell their concerns with my own personal non-beliefs, with little success. I explained that they were in religion class because their mother thought it was a good idea, but I hoped they would grow up and make up their own minds about what they did or did not believe. And that whatever they chose would be fine by me.
Again, no good. All they heard was: “Daddy doesn’t believe! He’s going straight to hell!”
Here is where peer support is a blessing. The younger’s buddy, on witnessing such a hysterical discussion, piped up with: “My daddy doesn’t believe in God either. He thinks it’s all nonsense.” Whatever cock-eyed reason she gave for his good sense worked. Having someone else in the same boat, being the offspring of a mixed marriage so to speak, gave them comfort and ever since, my disbelief has not been a concern.
This has had interesting consequences. The younger has taken to expounding on the potential origins of the universe.
Armed with permission to consider that it wasn’t created in a six-day work spurt a couple of thousand years ago, she has been able to freeform her thoughts.
Apparently, she tells me, one day, a long time ago, like maybe even millions of years ago, a shell appeared in space. This shell made Mars. Why Mars? I don’t know, but it was first.
After Mars, the shell, which I can’t help but picture in my mind’s eye as the conch from The Lord of the Flies, went on to create the rest of the solar system and the galaxy, in no particular order. This shell now resides in her bedroom, she wouldn’t show me where, but takes off every night to do a little more creating. It likes to travel.
I’ve pushed her on this, and the developmental end of the story varies, but the shell remains constant. It’s as good an image as any for a new religion, and I wish her luck with it.
I hope she fills the top spot herself, breaking through any glass ceiling in the deity boardroom in the process.
The elder child, in contrast, has taken to winding up her blaspheming friends.
“Why do you believe in God?” one asked her.
“Why don’t you?” she counters.
“Because I can’t see him,” says the atheist.
“I can,” says the elder, “I was reading one day in the kitchen. My mum was vacuuming and left the Hoover running in the hall while she went out for something. It sounded strange so I moved it. It shot a great gust of dusty air out if its tube and, as the dust settled, it formed the shape of a man with long hair and robes on. He put out his hand and told me, ‘I come in peace.’ It was Jesus. He told me he loves me.”
She tells me this story with a cheesy grin on her face, but still she’s freaking me out a little. So, Jesus lives in our vacuum cleaner then? She calls me a dope and says of course not. But he could, if he wanted, because he is all around.
She is still grinning while she says this. I really don’t know if she’s winding me up or not.
“Does your friend believe in God now?”
“No. She told me to shut up. Then we went swimming.”