TEENAGE BREAKDOWN #1: I SPENT A WEEK TRYING TO BELIEVE IN GOD
It’s half past nine in the morning and the woman next to me is red in the face, on her knees and saying “Oh-my-God, oh-my-God, oh-my-God” really quickly over and over again like her heart’s about to burst. Am I: a) at a swingers’ club? b) About to get arrested for assault at a Homebase sale? Or c) embarking upon a week of fervent piety, a holy hiatus from my usual routine of low-level sinning?
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That was a trick question – Catholics only do procreational sex and only approve of interior decoration if it’s of Vatican-esque proportions, i.e. gold, tacky and made by slaves. Of course it was the Jesus week, silly.
For seven days, I attempted to eschew all things fun in order to do what too many scary and bewildering years at faith school (read about them here) had failed to: make me a channel of the Lord’s good grace and peace. And it was difficult. Reeeeal difficult. Shit son, have you ever tried forsaking all earthly pleasures in the middle of the summer holidays? Basically, if my AS Level sociology textbooks were right, and religion truly is the “opiate of the masses”, then I spent the last week twitching in the corner, mouth frothing, with a Godly syringe sticking out my arm.
First off, I went to see my local vicar (always adorable in plaid and Dot Cotton glasses, unlike his predecessor, who is now resplendent in one of those super-fetching onesies they give you in prison for being a PAAAEEEDOOOO). To my dismay, he said that, if I really wanted to communicate with God within seven days, I’d have to “become humble and renounce all earthly distractions”. I glumly handed my laptop over to my mum and set about becoming a picture of saintly reflection.
Approximately two hours, and about six pages of the New Testament later, I realised that if – like me – you’re a sulky, self-absorbed teen who’s been brought up by the internet, the concept of reflection is totally alien and horrible. If I wanted to accelerate into the big G’s good books, I was going to have to do something other than lie on my bed scowling, waiting for an epiphany. I decided to leave the house and go to an actual church service.
This is the Methodist Women’s Group. Now, I’m madly biased because I love old people, but I had the best time with these guys. They stole my heart with their hymns and delicious cakes. (Free cake. God likes giving you shit for free.) It probably helped that when I asked them all to say “cheese” for the camera, Margaret hollered “SEX!” Margaret, you are baaad, girl.
However nice my time with the Methodist ladies was, though (and however bad it made me feel for being, y’know, me), the Jehovah’s Witnesses completely nixed the vibe. They were legit scary. When I asked the preacher if someone who was bleeding to death should adhere to the Bible, refuse a blood transfusion and die, rather than disobey, he looked me square in the eye and said: “We like to instil our brothers and sisters with a conscience, and for them to look to the Bible for their answers. They’d know what to do.”
Not only were they completely and utterly bat-shit, they were also unfriendly. Retrospectively, I realise that turning up with my bralet on show was probably the wrong move, considering all the other girls were dressed like the Queen Mother circa 1995. I should have checked out this handy diagram first, which may as well have been titled: “What Not to Wear if You Ever Want to Sit With God and His Scary Arsehole Friends in Jehovah’s Kingdom”:
Are you wearing any of the following? Of course you are, loser. You’re reading this at midday on a work-day. No heavenly rewards for you. But, before you start taking the Lord’s name in vain, remember that there’s only one must-have (cringe) accessory for the Godly man-about-town:
A couple of hundred of these! When you’re carrying the Lord’s message around in your genitals, you can afford to be blasé about contraceptives. After all, nothing hollers “he-man” quite like wanton, unabashed fecundity. (Though some might call it irresponsibility? IDK.)
I was ready to leave lonely and desolate, but out of nowhere this duo pitched up, ready to prove that the Lord still had his watchful eye over me. They got a little gripey about me referring to us as “the unholy triumvirate”, and soon remembered that we’d met before: the time they knocked on my door and I told them I’d slept with 24 people in an effort to avoid the inevitable two-hour lecture on sodomy and Jesus. (That figure is a total fib, BTW. Who the fuck do you think I am? Your ex?) I eventually shuffled away from the building after ten minutes of conversation, reprimanding myself for not trying hard enough.
After my shitty time at the Jehovah’s Witnesses meeting, I knew the Church of England guys would be a breeze, because pretty much everyone’s technically C of E and, in general, pretty much everyone isn’t as scary as Jehovah’s Witnesses. I invited some of my friends along to witness my inevitable religious epiphany. Fucking Joe showed up like this:
Thanks, babe! Great T-shirt, you utter bloody dickweed.
This is me having a nice pray. Joe’s look wasn’t attracting many admiring glances, but I thought I might get a few approving nods by going for that modern-day Virgin Mary swag. Sadly, I ended up looking more like one of those girls who professes to love baking and “all things 1940s”. Just thinking about that outfit fills me with shame and self-loathing – how Catholic!
One of the main things that really sucked about my week of Godliness is the isolation it brought. It makes me feel slimey and bad saying this, but only focusing on God makes you real boring. By day three, my friends were all thoroughly bored of the way I’d ruminate on the idea of “God making us in his holy image” every time someone waved a joint/double G+T in my face. No parties, no rude jokes, no fun. I was becoming seriously dull.
See how disgustingly pious I look? It’s not just you, I want to punch me too.
I wasn’t just boring with my friends; religious maxims had pervaded my alone time, too. An online guide to “finding God” decreed that I couldn’t be “perverted by homosexual influences”, which is all fine and dandy until you realise that pretty much all the best authors and musicians in the world, ever, are gay.
The only marginally fun pastime I was left with was painting my acrylics: blue for Virgin Mary’s cloak, gold as a tasteful reminder of the Vatican’s enormous wealth and the incapacitatingly long nails to deflect the amorous advances of my own hands.
Four days in, and I was starting to realise that all the knee-length skirts, prayer and self-denial in the world wasn’t going to make me find God. I’d have to be brainwashed into it. I packed my mace and set off for the local Jesus Army house.
Once again, I left feeling like a total dick, because despite the sex-cult rumours, the Jesus Army were actually really bloody nice. Like, really nice.
Come on, own up. They don’t even look remotely scary. I’ve been to yoga classes with a more threatening atmosphere. Though obviously it wasn’t all great. The Jesus Army are notorious for “aggressively converting” the homeless and disadvantaged, and about half the people in the house seemed to be recovering from some kind of addiction.
The guy on the left is Alistair, a recovering crack addict and self-confessed “bit of a lad”, who came to stay with the Jesus Army when he lost his job and his flatmate kicked him out. Can’t think why, but all my sarcastic comments about the burning bush and the talking snake suddenly seemed puerile and nasty. I shut up pretty fast. If believing in a man with fictional superpowers means there’s one less person smoking crack in a back alley, that surely has to be a good thing, right?
The last day of my foray into the world of religion found me hungover and slightly weepy in what I can only describe as the local crazy church. Not only do “miracles happen here”, people also frequently speak in tongues and visting pastors claim to have cured cancers and “healed souls”.
Fortunately, most of the crazy-brigade were on holiday. Unfortunately, this meant that there were less bodies to deflect the sounds of the God-awful church band. Think Mumford & Sons, but without the cider epiphanies/wattles.
It was too much. The motley crew on stage were inspiring far too much arm waving and vigour for my liking. Most of the women looked like they were on the brink of tears, while their kids disinterestedly chewed their toys and glowered. Even after a week of arduous prayer, chastity and holiness, I still didn’t feel like part of the gang.
I’m sorry, Jesus. We had a great time together and it was fun (or at least stultifyingly pleasant) while it lasted, but it just wasn’t working – you and your dad being fictional and all that. Sorry, mate. It’s not you, it’s me.
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