A conversation earlier today about Easter, religion, and Christianity lit up my memory and connected the dots to a moment many years ago when I was living rough, sleeping on the street, having left the family home with foul words stinging my ears.
I found myself a cosy spot, sheltering from the inclement weather in the porch of a Church. Damp, cold, and probably in need of a meal, this was I figured a great place to seek some form of security. I cannot deny, that deep down I hoped to be discovered by a kindly Vicar, who would listen to my tale over a hot cup of tea, and under a pile of fresh, warm, dry blankets. He would dispense calm wisdom, and seek to bring about closure to the immense anguish that threatened to engulf me completely.
I projected this image of a Christ like Vicar healing my woes until it was all that sustained me. As the night drew on I felt it would only be minutes until this Saintly paragon of virtue would stroll up to his Church and spot me. To be honest he wouldn’t have to see me. The pervading miasma of a stinking body would hit him first. Damp, and in the same clothes for four days straight, even in the UK Winter is not a recipe for a pleasant smelling teenager.
It was five in the morning before he actually arrived. But he was there. He kicked me first, not hard, it was a sort of probing kick, a firm prod with a foot, presumably preventing him from soiling his immaculate hands. “Get Up” he yelled, “Get Up and Get Out of Here.” There was much shouting, and none of it from me. Private Property, was mentioned numerous times.
There was no Tea, no Wisdom, no Blankets and not a shred, as far as I could see, of Christian, or more importantly decent, behaviour. “What you did for the least of these.” Was clearly not in this guys copy of his Holy Book. I gathered up my assorted bags and belongings and left him to enter his Church. Where presumably he would do whatever seasoned practitioners of Christian Beliefs do at five a.m.
It was a valuable lesson. I was young, and had been brought up on a diet of wishy washy Christianity building a belief system that was at best confused. That even set in motion a desire to learn and understand, and has led to a love of what I shall call Wisdom Literature. If you get chance, and can cope with the olde world language, have a read of Baruch Spinoza’s masterpiece “Ethica”
A couple of years later, and marginally more stable, I was running a shelter for the homeless in a large UK city. It was occasionally scary, it was frequently harrowing, but it was always rewarding. I didn’t need any spiritual motivation. Sleeping in a doorway gives you all the tools you need to build a desire to help those doing the same. I held the hands of dying alcoholics on more occasions that I care to recall, and I didn’t need the instructions of a God to do so.
I’m not opposed to Religion, I’m opposed to Ignorance, and sadly the two things appear to be linked a lot further back than my encounter with the Reverend Callous.
Happy Easter
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