Time is running out. We all have to meet our maker at some point, and although I’m fit as a fiddle I like to plan ahead. God has many brands and many names and I want to show up at the right shrine and to use the correct form of address. Technically, I don’t believe in a creator, because my rational mind accepts the agnostic theory. Existence is an attribute of entities that are bound by time and space. God is unbound by time and space, therefore existence is not among his attributes. QED. And yet something in me rejects this logic and yearns to believe – just in case. What if he really is up there? I should pick a team.
Anyone can worship anything – a shrine here, a cult there, a human sacrifice every Wednesday
The oldest religion, Hinduism, isn’t really a faith but a formalised expression of a child’s wonder at the marvels of creation. From earliest toddlerdom, we know that every stone, flower, river, animal and mountain carries an energising spirit. We don’t need a priest or a wise man to tell us this. And our instinct supplies us with a hierarchy of value. A rose is worth more than a pebble. A kitten is worth more than a rose. A human is worth more than a kitten. We look at this league table with its four members and we imagine a fifth, above the rest and invisible, whose nature is superior to humans, kittens, roses and pebbles. This is God. And God is everything and everywhere, all at once. That’s how faith emerges in our innocent and unschooled minds, but this impulse leads to chaos. Anyone can worship anything – a shrine here, a cult there, a human sacrifice every Wednesday.
Reforming leaders set out to crush these disorderly whims and to unite our spiritual longings under a single deity. The Abrahamic faiths were all declarations of war against paganism. Moses fought it with immutable laws. Jesus fought it with boundless love. Muhammad fought it with unquestioning discipline. All failed because every monotheism is also a polytheism, against its will. The mystique of the godhead spreads to the apparatus of worship, to the altars, the relics, the vestments and the holy books. If I tip a raspberry milkshake over the Bishop of Winchester I don’t technically commit blasphemy, but I gravely offend the Church and its followers, because Christians are pagans at heart, who worship tangible objects as keenly as they venerate the teachings of Jesus.
As a child, I loved the physical trappings of Christianity; the rousing music, the statues of anguished martyrs, the little blood-red rosary that I held in my hand, but my faith was broken by Christ’s most obdurate instruction: ‘Turn the other cheek.’ Seriously? Pull the other one. This policy of suicidal meekness seems to solicit violence against Christians and to welcome the annihilation of the faith. It even encourages unbelievers to become thugs and killers. Not a wise message. So farewell, Christianity.
As for Hinduism, I’m already involved whether I like it or not. We all are. The deal is that when we die, we receive a new physical form that reflects the moral choices we made during this life. Existence is a kind of parole board that rewards virtue and punishes evil. For me, this is excellent news. I happen to be a friendly, sweet-natured, happy-go-lucky character and I can expect to return as a gambolling fawn, a winsome baby seal or a mischievous little bear cub. But at second glance, the bargain looks more worrying. Small cuddly creatures are apt to get pounced on by ravening predators which bite their throats out and wolf them down in a couple of gulps. I don’t fancy that. So farewell, Hinduism.
What about Islam? I’m concerned that the ban on gambling affects any circumstance involving a minor act of calculation. If a Muslim runs for the 349 bus and makes it just in time, must his soul be tortured in the afterlife for winning his little wager? To open a corner shop is risky, but do Muslims fear turning a profit because their faith outlaws speculation? Apparently not. And Islam encourages good deeds for bad reasons. I may give money to a beggar because I crave physical rewards in heaven and not because my soul longs for virtue. That can’t be right.
So I’m left with Judaism. Like many of us, I revere the three outstanding minds produced by Jewish civilisation – Sigmund, Albert and Woody – and I already feel at home with their culture. The only impediment is the snippety snip. As a new recruit, I’m obliged to sacrifice a small hoop of flesh to which I’m closely attached and which has never caused me the slightest discomfort – quite the opposite in fact.
I understand that the operation is usually carried out by an elderly rabbi with a whetted knife and a tumbler of whisky to steady his trembling hand. And I hesitate here, I’m afraid. I couldn’t force a venerable old cleric to go through such a harrowing ordeal. But Jewish websites assure me that younger, better-trained surgeons with specialist cutting equipment are able to perform the abridgement without pain. So I’m ready. I pledge myself to Judaism, body and soul. Well, part of my body at least.
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