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No reception

By Jim Murdoch

I had a religious upbringing. It doesn’t matter which religion. As far as basic concepts go they’re all singing from the same hymn sheet. My parents practiced their faith on a daily basis – it wasn’t something they switched on and off whenever it was convenient. Of course, and this is something nonbelievers can be a little unforgiving over, they weren’t perfect; that was something they looked forward to as a reward for making the effort. What I’m saying is that they made mistakes and the biggest one was assuming that because they believed in God their children would do also; after all it was obvious, the evidence was overwhelming.

And so it was. The evidence was all around me. All of creation, the natural world we lived in and the entire universe we could look out on all screamed out one word: order. So I should never have needed to open a Bible or any kind of textbook to believe in God. And, to this day, I have no problem with their argument. Science can answer so many questions but it can’t answer them all. It stops short at the Big Bang – no one really wants to go before that to ask where that lump of matter that one day decided to explode came from or why on that particular Tuesday at about teatime it decided to explode with such force. In many respects believing in a God-who-made-all-things does make life so much easier.

What was hard for me was being told I needed to have a personal relationship with him. I was expected to talk to him and it didn’t matter if I did it aloud or in my head, he would hear me. My parents prayed daily with us as kids but only at mealtimes when the shortest possible thanks was given lest the food grow cold. The same words were used every day, twenty-two words. I will never forget them in the same way that I’ll never forget that 2+2=4; we repeated that by rote too. You can tell someone you love them every day of your life but saying the words won’t make it true. You may even think that you love them but that does not necessarily make it true. The same goes for wanting it to be true.

I said, “Amen,” after every time someone prayed on my behalf. This was me ticking the box – yes, I agree, let it be so. I said, “Amen,” because I’d been taught to say it. No one actually taught me to be grateful for the food that was before me. I actually was, unless there were sprouts or cabbage on the plate, then gratitude wasn’t so easy for me, but I was grateful to my mum for doing the cooking. I had a personal relationship with my mum. I loved my mum. I especially loved her suet dumplings and the short crust pastry on her steak pies. I loved too the chocolate puddings she bought in tins and simply heated up for dessert.

I’m not sure how old I was when I realised that prayer meant nothing to me, four, maybe five, not very old. But I never let on. As I grew up I realised that my parents assumed that I also prayed at other times, not simply at mealtimes. They never sat with me at night while I did the whole, “God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy” routine. This was remiss of them. That’s not how you indoctrinate your kids. But I kept schtum and never let on.

Years and years of Bible study later I was finally called upon to pray aloud, and not only aloud but in public. The first time was a bit awkward but after that I found that I was quite good at improvising on the spot, saying what I thought the people around me needed to hear me say. But not once, not for an instant, did I believe I was talking to anyone bar those around me.

Time passed and my lack of faith became apparent and like so many teenagers before me I went out into the world and tried to have a good time which usually involved breaking one or two commandments along the way. This did not prove a particularly successful approach to life and much unhappiness ensured which my parents told me was due to my excluding God from my life. Eventually in my thirties I thought I'd have another shot and I began going through the motions assuming that was enough, that wanting to believe would one day seep into actual belief in the same way that I’d woken up one day and realised I was no longer a boy but a man.

I was very serious about it. I lived the life I knew I should have been living. Most importantly, as far as this wee article goes, I prayed daily, many times, giving thanks, asking for help or just offloading as I would do with a friend. I kept waiting to feel something for some proof that God was real and interested in me. I wasn’t looking to test him – do this or that or I won’t believe – I knew that wouldn’t work, but I kept my eyes peeled for something.

Nothing. A big, fat zero.

And so I stopped. For good. I've never uttered a word of prayer in about thirteen years. I’ve not suddenly stopped believing in God. I’ve stopped caring if there’s a God. I feel like a radio that can transmit but not receive. I had assumed that I was broken but if I was and God had something he wanted me to hear then why didn’t he fix me? That would have been the decent thing to do.

I don't think I’ve lost anything. Had I lost an arm growing up then I might have but I’m reliably informed that you can’t miss what you never had. No, but you can covet it. I wanted what I saw other people had but I don’t think I’d appreciate it now if I got it handed to me on a silver platter. I don’t need it now. Maybe I never did but I thought I did.

Religion has a lot to answer for.

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The blog of Jim Murdoch, Scottish author
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Going through the motions for the sake of going through the motions is pretty futile. I would say that it is pretty amazing to me that scientists who live and die by the law of cause and effect deny that there is a God. They study all the design that is everywhere which is the effect and deny that there is a cause of this design.

I would say that there are a lot of people who go through the motions of prayer just to impress the people around them. I think it is good that you have stopped doing that.

Thanks for your feedback. What I probably should’ve said in the article is how hard it was to quit. I don’t like being beaten. I don’t like that there are people out there who sob into their wine glasses while listening to Italian opera and I can’t stand the stuff. I want to get it but I don’t and after fifty years it doesn’t look as if I’m ever going to. The thing is knowing when to quit. And being able to live with yourself afterwards.

Very thought provoking and interesting read, Jim.
I've read this a number of times and will read again.
Thanks for sharing.
Best to you.
Frederick

I appreciate the feedback, Frederick, glad you thought it was worth reading the once let alone a number of times.

Seems to me you're doing the right thing. I see no reason to pray because people tell you you're supposed to, especially if you don't feel that you're getting anything from it. Actually, that's a small part of why I've never been a "church goer". I get nothing out of it, it feels deceptive in fact. I strongly believe if you are being the best person you can be...God, if he exists, is perfectly fine with that. (and yes, people should be too)

The problem is when the people who are telling you to do the praying are people who you trust. They’re the ones who tell you not to put your hand on the gas ring in case you get burned, always to look before crossing the road, not to talk to strangers ... these people seem to know what they’re talking about. I know it’s not uncommon for kids to believe that they were swapped at birth but that’s how I felt. I simply did not see the world the way this couple did and since there were more of them than me and they were older and more experienced then surely I must be in the wrong. It’s hard to go against your parents especially when they’re obviously a decent pair of individuals who only want what’s best for you.

It works for some and it doesn't for others. But even for those who get a big fat zero, religion - as order - is useful when presented with a social crisis such as a death. Everyone knows what to do.

I see where you’re coming from, Brad, and that was something like the position my own father took, that if everything he believed was proved to be a lie (by that I mean the who-did-what-where and the things the Bible foretold) then he would still follow the moral code laid down in the scriptures because no better one had been conceived by Man. What surprised me was when I watched Christians deal with death. Their grief seemed disproportionate especially when the dead ones were expected to have gone to a better place. I would have expected them to have been sad, yes, that they wouldn’t see them for a while, but primarily glad that they would now have their reward.

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