Me of little faithSubmitted by w_t_a_y_s_t_r_m at 2009-09-08 11:39:37 EDT
Rating: 1.41 on 77 ratings (77 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Believe it or not, I'm not a very religious person. It's not that I believe or don't believe in anything in particular. I just don't really care. Unless one day God floats down and starts talking to me and I can verify it, then I just have zero evidence of anything. I don't rely on blind faith and I refuse to spend my time worrying about what I can't help.
At the end of the day, the situation is either there is a God, he created shit and then let it run wild or sent tests or Jesus or something, in which case, great. Or there isn't a God and everything that's done in his name is a waste. Either way I really don't care.
But at the exact same time I don't care if someone does believe. Just so long as I'm not pressured into accepting something or having an argument about it then fuck it, if it doesn't hurt me or anyone else then it's none of my business. But then there are a minority of each religion who just don't seem to be able to keep the same attitude. They seem unable to just say 'live and let live' and feel a constant need to try and convert me to save my soul or some bollocks like that.
It's a very rare occurrence, and most times I'll just steer clear of them and after a stern look and a series of rapid fire punches to the sack they leave me alone. Because of my attitude I'm pretty nonchalant about churches, going onto holy land and stuff like that, but I try to stay respectful. Mainly because nine times out of ten people are buried in the gardens there and God or not we all know how bad zombies can get.
During the summer one of my girlfriend's best friends was getting married, so we entered the familiar pattern of packing shit up for the sake of two days, travelling on a shitty train to a shitty town to stay in a shitty hotel to go to a shitty wedding with shitty people who I don't know. Shitty.
The pattern is always the same. The morning of the wedding we wake up too late, rush to the hairdressers (fuck you, I've got gorgeous locks). This time the hairdresser even told me I'd probably have the nicest hair amongst the women at the wedding, while she was rubbing her tits against my arm. Don't know if she thought I was gay or was trying to insult me, but she was right.
It was a really hot, sunny day, which I hate, and I was dressed in a suit, which I hate doing, especially on hot days. As you can probably guess I wasn't too excited about this occasion, but the couple who were getting married were nice and they've helped my girlfriend and I out quite a bit when we first moved together, so I did my best to play nice.
As we approached the church I started pissing my girlfriend off by telling her and everyone around that for some reason every time I tried to step foot through the gates I was blocked by something. Then when she literally pulled me through I let out a quiet scream and told her I was burning.
It was at this point that the vicar decided to walk past. I recognised the look on his face. It was one I'm sure I've had many times on my own. It was a "why aren't you talking my job seriously?" face. Except mine is more hurt puppy, his was along the lines of savage hound. In short, he wasn't happy.
This didn't bother me too much, as I'd be able to escape any kind of wrath (his or Gods) in less than an hour after the wedding was over.
I find out on the way to the reception hall that the vicar is in fact the bride's uncle and he would be joining us there.
As we all stood around drinking some sort of fruit punch thing at the reception, the bride and groom made the rounds and had photos taken and all that kind of stuff. I was stood with my girlfriend and a few other people we knew, when the natural shift of groups of people mumbling around awkwardly ended up with the vicar talking to Emma, who we knew and they ended up latching to us.
It wasn't long before the vicar was looking at me.
"Hello." He said. "How are you?"
"I'm good, thanks." I replied, more polite than he was to me. Victory to me. Your move, religion. "You?"
"I'm okay." He didn't even say thanks. "I take it you aren't very religious."
"No," I was honest. "Not really. I guess I'm waiting for a sign."
"Proof. I need some evidence before I can believe in it."
"There's proof all around us." He said. "Even a day like today is a miracle."
"Such a beautiful, sunny day. Do you not think it's a miracle?"
"Not really. It's just summer, dude."
Next to me I could feel my girlfriend start to tense up. Not sure if it's because I was questioning a vicar on miracles, or because I'd called him dude, but she wasn't very happy with me whatever it was.
"And you do not find that the work of God?"
"The Egyptians use to worship some fella with a falcon head for the sun." I couldn't stop myself. "But I don't really buy into that, either."
To be honest I was a little pissed off. Yes, it was a beautiful day. But I can just say, 'wow, it is pretty hot today, nice one', but this guy seemed to take it as a challenge like I'd just told him his son didn't really draw a picture of a car that he'd stuck to his fridge.
"Just because God hasn't personally come down and told you 'here is the sun', doesn't mean he didn't do it."
"I'm not saying he didn't do it. I'm just saying I don't know." At this point I felt like I had recovered slightly to the point where I wasn't insulting him, but respectfully indifferent to it all.
"Well if he wants you to know," The vicar really wasn't happy now. "He'll make sure you do. If you don't, then there must be a reason." He actually followed this up with a snort, like he was saying I'm not good enough for God to have given me faith or some shit like that. "God does move in mysterious ways."
"So did Charles Starkweather. That's why it took them so long to catch him. Doesn't mean I'm going to worship the psychopath." I muttered, turning away, having had enough of him and wanting to join the other conversation.
There were a few people who overhead that knew who Charles Starkweather was and their jaws just dropped. Those who didn't looked a bit clueless, but word silently spread around. Whether the vicar did or didn't know he still walked a few feet away to talk to someone else, while my girlfriend and the other friends kind of shuffled away a bit as well.
By the end of the night four or five people had approached me and asked if I was the one who 'compared God to a serial killer' in front of a vicar.
I'm damn proud to say "yes, yes I am". And you know what? Still haven't experienced God's vengeance.
Does that mean he doesn't exist?
No, not at all.
What it means is that if he does exist he has better things to do than listen to a whiny little dipshit in England talk smack about him.
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