An American Episcopalian parish is teaching a course called "The Gospel according to the Simpsons- What would Jesus d'oh?" ("D'oh" is both a homage to Homer Simpson's favourite saying, and a pun on the popular evangelical movement, "What would Jesus do?") It sounds like material made for the late Dermot Morgan, even before his Father Ted incarnation, writes Breda O'Brien.
Remember the Father Trendy sketches, where Dermot mercilessly satirised the inane homilies of priests desperate to be in touch with popular culture?
Let's imagine his take on the Gospel according to the Simpsons. "Well, my dear friends, when Bart tells us to eat his shorts, it is a kind of an image, if you like, of the heavenly banquet." Perhaps I had better stop now. The concept may be a bit off the wall, but you can just about see the attraction. Take the episode where Bart is incredulous that his friend Milhouse believes in the soul. He tells Milhouse the soul is just made up to scare kids, "like the bogeyman, or Michael Jackson". So contemptuous is Bart of the notion of a soul he sells his to Milhouse for $5.
From then on, things go downhill. His pets react badly to him, he cannot trigger an automatic door by his presence, and his favourite cartoon is no longer funny. In desperation, Bart pleads with God to get his soul back. Lisa, his sister, buys it back for him, while telling him that some philosophers believe that no-one is born with a soul. Instead, you have to earn one "through suffering, thought and prayer, like you did last night".
The American Episcopalian parish is hoping to use the laughs generated by this episode to spark a discussion on what the implications are of having a soul, while gently pointing out that Lisa's views on the soul are not exactly orthodox Christian belief. It is doubtful whether many young Irish viewers would have noticed any heresies. It is hard to overestimate the lack of knowledge about the Christian or Catholic faith among young people.
For example, one lovely young woman told me that she enjoyed The Passion of the Christ, because, as she put it, "I didn't know much about that story". Even as a seasoned campaigner among young people, I was still taken aback. How could someone who had over a decade of allegedly Catholic education not know much about Christ's passion, death and resurrection? How, indeed? What about the fact that many young people believe in reincarnation while rejecting indignantly any suggestion that this might make them a little less than orthodox in Christian eyes?
Does it matter? This is the age of the pick-and-mix religion, after all. The popular consensus seems to be that it's grand as long as they believe in something, and what they believe doesn't matter if they are decent and kind. Yet it seems unlikely that the churches would be so sanguine, given that their reason for existence is to teach a coherent belief system which illuminates and guides every moment in life, while, in theory at least, respecting deeply those who do not believe in the same way.
Some months ago, John Carr, the general secretary of the INTO, suggested it was time to introduce a core religious education curriculum in primary schools. Pupils should learn about all religions in a way that did not privilege any one religion. John Carr was on a loser from the start, due to the fact that in 1997 the INTO signed an agreement with school patrons which recognises the right to denominational education. However, the debate will not end there, and nor should it.
The Irish State is unusual in that it subsidises faith-based education, including the Muslim school in Clonskeagh. It does so because the Irish constitution recognises parents as the primary educators, and operates on a presumption that most parents would wish, even now, to have their children educated denominationally.
Given that very soon there will be a generation of parents who have received more religious knowledge from The Simpsons than from their homes, what will happen then? I am willing to bet that the concept of denominational education will be defended more vigorously by Muslim and Church of Ireland parents, than by Catholic parents.
How many Catholics really believe in the value of a Catholic education? How many of them send their kids to a Catholic school because it has a fine academic record, rather than for any great love it will give them for their faith? Just how much are Catholic lay people willing to sacrifice so that Catholic education can continue?
If you will pardon the pun, these are far from academic questions. Religious orders are in withdrawal from many secondary schools. Some have done a better job than others in ensuring there is a strong Catholic ethos in the schools they are leaving.
Yet it is questionable how long that legacy will last. David Tuohy SJ, who has studied this question intensively, says that the first generation of lay principals in former religious-run schools are for the most part an exceptional bunch, steeped in the tradition which they have inherited. He wonders how the next generation of principals, who will not have received the same level of formation, will compare.
Like lots of uncomfortable questions, this is one which many in the churches in Ireland, and particularly in the Catholic Church, would prefer to duck or fudge, rather than face. Perhaps they are afraid of the answer.
Bishop Bill Murphy caused a furore this week by his suggestion that people should display some kind of commitment to their faith before they make use of its facilities. There will be some Catholics who will be very nervous about pursuing that line. They will argue validly that weddings and first communions are wonderful times to reach out to the disaffected, and to demonstrate that the church has something to offer.
Others, however, will be afraid of questioning alleged Catholics too deeply, in case it turns out that faith means far less to people than statistics might indicate. Given that we are approaching the primary feast of a religion where the founder states, "The truth shall set you free", perhaps we should not be so afraid to find out.