God used to exist. He doesn’t any more, but back in the early 1970s he was a major presence in my life. The world at that time was run by President Nixon and his adviser Ted Heath, but their power was limited, and even they had to defer to God’s authority. That’s how it seemed to me.
A howling spirit or a weeping martyr might burst forth, dripping blood or swathed in tongues of fire
I was encouraged by the adults to converse with God and to ask for his guidance and I spoke to him often, in class when we prayed, at night in my bedroom, and at Mass on Sunday. God listened to everyone, regardless of their wealth or status, and even great leaders had no better claim to his attention than I did. This made me feel special and powerful. It didn’t bother me that God never answered my prayers or fulfilled my specific requests. I loved him. I obeyed him. I thanked him too. God had created me out of lifeless clay and he’d done a pretty good job, I felt. It would be wrong to say that I ‘believed’ in God any more than I ‘believed’ in digestion or gravity. He was there. Forever.
At the age of 14, I got closer to God by serving as an altar boy. I attended a state school run by the Jesuits and I shared their passion for ceremonial decor. I loved getting togged up for Mass in the long scarlet cassock and the immaculate white cotta, or smock, that went over it. The organ played and the congregation stood up and I loved the feeling that everyone was watching me as I slow-marched out of the sacristy towards the high altar, with the priest in his embroidered overalls just behind me. In my hands I held the crozier and I arranged my face into an expression of restrained awe that seemed appropriately solemn.
And yet my faith was faltering. Deep down I knew that I served at Mass because it made the whole dreary business skip by quicker. My duties were easy. Some were enjoyable. When the priest read the Gospel I had to hold the Bible open for him like a human lectern. I gripped the covers of the old hardback in my outstretched hands so that the spine leaned against my forehead at an angle of 45 degrees. I found it amusing. I was a piece of furniture.
What I loved best was ringing the bell. At the climax of the Mass, the priest blesses the communion wafer and raises it above his head to signal that the wafer has changed its essence. The bread has become God. The altar boy, kneeling discreetly to one side, rings a bell which prompts the worshippers to bow their heads and avert their eyes. The transubstantiation is so sacred that no one may look at it directly, except the priest and the altar boy (me). I had to keep an eye on the priest so I knew when to ring the bell.
The bell was a heavy, elaborate piece of sculptured brass. It was, in fact, three bells of slightly varying pitch, moulded on to a single stem. As the priest raised the wafer, a vast stillness spread through the church, as if the whole world had been struck dumb. Then I lifted the bell, holding it tight in my hand, and shook it hard two or three times. Its tinkling, discordant notes made a delicious harshness that penetrated the silence and floated out across the wooden pews as a thousand people noiselessly lowered their heads. It was an amazing piece of theatre. Dead silence in a vast airy space and then, from nowhere, an unearthly rustle, like the noise of a giant’s fingers rummaging through steel ribbons.
Why did Almighty God need help with the illuminations from the London Electricity Board?
The dead calm of the church was so awesome and chilling that I half expected something dramatic to happen. A crash of thunder. A blast of lightning, perhaps. A howling spirit or a weeping martyr might burst forth, dripping blood or swathed in tongues of fire. But it never happened. Nothing ever happened. The silvery chimes of the bell faded into silence as the priest placed the wafer on the altar and dropped to one knee, sometimes giving a slight gasp as he eased his weight to the floor. When he was safely down, he kissed the altar cloth and hoisted himself back upright, often with another pent-up gasp. The congregation lifted their heads and the priest continued to recite the liturgy. And nothing happened. This puzzled me. And it worried me too.
From my position near the priest I could see something hidden from the congregation. On the inner side of the huge stone pillars were four bright neon lights and a couple of baby-spots that gave the priest’s robes an additional radiance. This was deeply worrying. Why did Almighty God, creator of heaven and earth and all things seen and unseen, need help with the illuminations from the London Electricity Board?
The seed of doubt had been planted and it eventually ripened into a healthy scepticism that has never left me. And I salute the church and its priests for inaugurating my spiritual fortifications in this way. When I’m asked about my faith, I tell people that I was baptised as a Catholic and converted to atheism by the Jesuits.
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