Is that a monster? No, its Jesus

"Is that a monster?"

The first words out of my infant daughter's lungs during a visit to a Roman Catholic church. As the 3-year-old spoketh forth, she pointed her finger toward the church's graphic three-dimensional model depiction of the criminal Jesus' legally binding execution on the cross. My mother nearly spat her boiled sweet into the contours of the mauve hat of the elderly worshipper ahead of her (probably nothing in this but there always seems to be a large number of distressed babies in church. In any other circumstance you would probably remove the child from the source of its distress and terror. In church, however, tell it to shush and let the shaman do his paid job and read out stories from his old leather book). I answered the question as accurately as I could. "No, that is a famous criminal called Jesus."

From the moment I was first instructed to recite and repeat...repeat...REPEAT! the christian mantras in all manner of daily pursuits, as was the norm throughout school and occasional church visits, I sensed it was all (...er, let me see, my vocabulary deserts me) bollocks. For a while, I was seduced by the reward-based social myths of Father Christmas, the tooth fairy and the egg thing at Easter. I'm getting chocolate, money, a new football and a bike - as much a no-brainer as an 8 year old gets. 

At that age, it didn't really occur - or really matter - to me, whether the providers were real or make-believe. Inspired, as a small boy, by heroes like Gary Brazil, Daniel Laruso, Tony Ellis, Rocky Balboa, Frank Worthington, James Bond, Sean Gregan, Superman, Daley Thomson, The A Team, Ian Botham and Wasim Akram - and, often, equally taken by their ever willing enemies and opponents, the factual or fictional nature of each meant little to an 8 year old kid in football socks. They were all people - men - I aspired to be one day.

Jesus never really did it for me. I liked the story of Thor, Zeus, Hermes, Achilles, Beowulf and that bloke who saved Snow White. Again, their origins didn't matter.

But the mantra of christian prayers, hymns, stories and the rest never really did anything for me. I sniggered throughout most prayers, and invented my own words during hymns, with the simple goal to make the lad next to me piss himself laughing. Usually I found the singing attempts of nearby adults - teachers mostly, and my own father sometimes - concurrently hilarious and terrifying. 

Most of religious prayer is completely counter intuitive to me. Along the cold, hard, upright and uncomfortable pews of the grim and cold local church I was forced to attend as a kid, were hung large rectangular cushions, hanging from nails in front of each worshipper. These, I learned, were for people's comfort when kneeling in worship of their imaginary leader.
This desire for people to submit to a higher force was utterly perplexing to me, and I never ever once felt the need to do so.

Later, I would learn that there are countless other factions or cults containing similar types of community knee bending only, in other cults the imagined recipient of this acquiescence was slightly different. Each had a mandated set of rules and life instructions based around abstaining from doing things with, to and for your body, and those of other people and animals. All of which, however, required those wanting to join in to completely submit to the rules of the club. Take your shoes off. Put your shoes on. Take your hat off. Put a sheet over your head. Don't cut your sideburns. Get on your knees five times a day. Say you're sorry a lot, and then make the same mistake again.

I bow to the reaction of a 3 year old child, when she saw a model of a blooded, filthy dead or dying man hanging by his hands from a wooden structure, on the wall of a cavernous building full of kneeling down, fully grown adult humans.
"Is that a monster?"
"You make up your own mind, petal, and never stop asking questions."