Congratulations to our boys!: Beautiful Sunday morning mass with the West Indies cricket team

It was a glorious, glorious Sunday morning! A lift to my spirit that is difficult to describe. I tell you,  If there really was a heaven I would  have been in it. Yes,  I am proud of my team, the West Indies cricket team that on Sunday won the final of the T20 Cricket World Cup. For those of you not  familiar with the game, T20 stands for twenty 20, 20 overs a side. It's a shortened form of the game, developed to bring excitement, draw crowds out to the sport and please people who can't imagine sitting and watching a game for six hours of a day, to say nothing of the traditional five consecutive days that make up the conventional Test Matches. A T20 cricket match can be over in three hours, just a little bit longer than a football or soccer match.

The short length of the game and the concentration on entertainment as much as competition has led some purists to say that the game is not the real thing, notwithstanding that this is now the format of the game where you can make the millions of dollars. But whatever you think of the game, it was clear that this was a trophy that all the cricketing world were keen to get their hands on, and it is obvious that teams have now become focused on perfecting this new form of cricket, with all kinds of innovations  being used. So, for West Indies to come out on top after coming through tough first round, Super 8 and Semi final matches, and then win the final against Sri Lanka on their home ground with a roaring crowd behind them, was no small feat.

When I watched the celebrations at the end of the match on Sunday, I have to admit I was overcome. Try as I might, I just couldn't hold back the tears. Often those who prefer to spend Sundays in places with steeples, chapels, organs and wooden crosses, try to tell us who have abandoned such things, that we just don't know what it is to have a heart, to be moved by words, sermons and testimonies that are so central to their lives and who they are. I am convinced however, that the mass I had last  Sunday with the Windies was better than anything they could have got from the pulpit on that day. So, like a true evangelist I have to share the good news with those who weren't as fortunate as me. In case you think my service was one of those that was only about praising you are mistaken. Even as I joined in the mass of dancing and gyrating in the aisles with my boys in maroon, I made sure that the acts of these eleven West Indian apostles didn't make me miss the more important messages of the sermon.

A Bit of Old Testament History

Sir Garfield Sobers: Greatest of the greats

Before I get to the details of the sermon, a little Old Testament background is necessary to put the whole thing in context. For me West Indies cricket is something that runs deep in my blood.  From the time I was small, I was hearing the stories of  West Indies cricketing heroes. My father grew up in the Bayland in Barbados where many of the greats had their start. One of them Sir Garfield Sobers, widely acknowledged to be the greatest to ever play the game of cricket. I heard exploits of his feats as a boy and the talent even of his brothers George and Gerald. George in fact was married to one of my Aunts. A fact that I was always proud of, especially when I went to school in England for a while and told the boys at school that I was 'related' to the great Sir Gary.

West Indies with pace like fire

My Dad's interest in cricket meant that  from about six years old I was carried to watch games at Kensington Oval, the famous international cricket ground in Barbados. Long before I understood claims of God, Jesus and resurrection for sins, I had first hand experiences of gods on the cricket field. Viv Richards, Gordon Greenidge, Desmond Haynes,Michael Holding, Clive Lloyd, Joel Garner, Andy Roberts and Malcolm Marshall. These were the first deities I knew of. No human being in the world could stand up to these giants on the cricket field, no demon, however powerful could ever prevail against them.

Viv Richards - The Master Blaster

At that time it was the dream of every single boy to one day play for the West Indies. We would all have or time pretending to be one or the other of the 'greats' when we went out to play at lunch time. Unfortunately, most of us didn't go on to wear the maroon, although there was one a little bit younger than me who did. A quiet understated guy, who was somehow able even at eight years old, to bowl six balls in a row exactly on the same spot. His name was Ian Bradshaw and he would one day hit the winning runs to win a trophy for the West Indies in 2004. That was our last major win before the one on Sunday and that had also been a tear jerker to watch.

So, from early cricket meant a lot to me. But it was more than bat and ball to me then and it is more than bat and ball to me now. Even though I never got anywhere near the top in that sport I love, I took a lot from what I saw in my heroes as motivation. At the time, as a black boy coming from a tiny island like Barbados, it was hard to feel that you could be world class and compete with the best. But seeing guys who looked like me coming from the same small villages I walked through, dominating people from vast countries like England, Australia and India gave me a great deal of confidence. It really made me feel that if I put my mind to it and worked hard I could be up there with the world's best in whatever field I chose to pursue. There was no other context in which I saw outstanding Caribbean performance on display and I often wonder where I would have gotten the idea I could truly make it to the top, if they hadn't been these guys to look up to then.

I grew up with the West Indies by my side, almost literally. Many nights when we were playing in Australia, I went to sleep with them under my pillow as I tucked away my favourite 'Tony the Tiger' transistor radio. That radio would be playing the voice of another Tony, Tony Cozier giving the commentary as we we batted merrily through the night. When we were playing in England, matches would start about 6:00 am Caribbean time, and when I got out of bed I had to turn on the radio to make sure we hadn't lost any early wickets before I could even think about having my breakfast.

Yes, those were the lovely days of yore. It was all brilliant until one morning after one Australia Test match,  I heard the words ' West Indies lost.' West Indies lost??? How was something like that even possible? I was 14 years old and this was the first time I had an experience of West Indies losing a Test Match. It was if my worldview had collapsed overnight. Like if you woke up and realised that the laws of gravity no longer applied.  Thankfully, at that time, it was just a blip on the radar, something to show me that my heroes were less than perfect. Still gods, but maybe not quite as invincible as I once thought.

Drought after the days of plenty

Ten years later we lost again, but things were different this time. It became very clear that this was no one off thing. We were definitely going into decline and it was rapid. In the blink of an eye, we went from heroes to zeros. Losses followed losses with as much regularity as the wins had piled up fifteen years earlier. All over the Caribbean people argued about who was to blame. Was it the players attitude? Competition from other sports? Bad management by the Board? Insularity of certain countries? Fingers were pointed all over the spectrum and the results just kept getting worse and worse.

It is not to say that in this period everything was bad in our  game. We produced the great Brian Lara, a batsman just as much of a master with the bat as any in that glory era, but it was as if he had escaped from a time machine, because there just wasn't the talent around in his day to match him. At times, he himself was blamed for the decline in our game which was ironic, but at least losing as we were, we could still lay claim to having one of the games brightest stars.

Brian Lara: The great that often stood alone

When his career came to an end and we were still losing, the future began to look even bleaker. We were at the bottom of the ladder without a star who could even shine occasionally for us. We did have a very industrious whole hearted player in the form of Shivnarine Chanderpaul who could be counted on to save us from indignity, but he lacked that flair and star quality of a Lara. Behind him the cupboard seemed bare and it was not unreasonable to think that once Chanderpaul was gone, the decline in West Indies cricket would be terminal. There were times indeed when we even wondered whether the entity 'West Indies' would survive. After all the West Indies is not a country, and the only institution other than cricket that bears its name is the UWI, University of the West Indies.

The Offering we couldn't resist: The Temptation of Stanford and the Indian Premier League

Alan Stanford: Turned out to be not the real thing

The downward spiral continued and the pain especially for the fans who had lived through the glory years was palpable. It is often said in the Caribbean that cricket is like a religion, that may be true, but people were starting to lose faith and few new converts were coming through. A struggling religion is a bit like a struggling business. When things get a bit tough people look towards trying to get money in. In business this is done through looking at the bottom line in religion it is all about the collection plate, how to get more offering coming in on Sunday morning. The first man to come a calling with promises of adding to that plate was a Texas billionaire by the name of Alan Stanford, but it soon became clear that he was not the Good Samaritan he was touted as, he was indeed a fraud from abroad. Whether you could say he was like the Anti- Christ, I don't know, but the West Indies Cricket Board and many of the players in the region definitely ended up with a false profit.

Not to worry, money soon came a calling again, it came from the only other part of the world where I am told cricket is also the national religion. That country is of course India. Yes, India had developed the Indian Premier League (IPL), cash was floating around and the owners of big Indian TV franchises were like the glitzy American tele evangelists, tempting our cricketers with lucrative offers. Their sales pitch was like a prosperity gospel and many of our players eagerly signed up. It was indeed an offering that even after the sting of Stanford, they just couldn't refuse.

The IPL was to be the short T20 version of cricket. Well suited to some of our younger players who seemed to have lost the appetite for concentrating over the long periods necessary in the traditional game. The guys who were happy to give a thrill a minute to DJs in the Party Stands before going back to the pavilion and enjoying a bit of merriment themselves. In a way you couldn't blame the impressionable youth to be lured by these smooth talking evangelists in the IPL. With the West Indies team not performing, these players had more to gain from seeking individual fame and glory than by sitting on a sinking Caribbean ship. In India they would be sold to the highest bidder for their pieces of silver and in so doing they would make themselves less available to play for the Caribbean side. Try as they might, the Board could do nothing to stop the exodus of the few top class players we had left in the region and weak became weaker.

Chris Gayle: West Indian star in the IPL

Not only did the team decline but great rifts between players and Board emerged. Acrimonious relationships ensued over the players decision to put loyalty to Indian Franchises above the West Indies. The public at large had their say as well and all kinds of dirty linen was hung out.  In the most recent melee, the main protagonist was Chris Gayle. A hard hitting Jamaican batsman that was in the shorter game threatening to become the kind of star that Viv Richards and Brian Lara had been in the longer game before him. Just maybe someone like Gayle, could help save our game. But no, the rifts between him and the Board became greater and greater. Eventually the Board decided not to make him eligible for selection on any West Indies team and he went on his way plying his trade as a freelance cricketer. It seemed at that time that Gayle was unlikely to play for West Indies again.

Others followed Gayle to the lure of the IPL and from all reports were successful. Gayle stood out in the tournament along with a few other West Indians, including a young emerging slow bowler, Sunil Narine. Meanwhile our West Indies team continued to struggle. I used to hear my Indian friends telling me how much they loved our players over there, they spoke of the great innings they were playing and the outstanding bowling performances they were putting in, but I just couldn't watch it. Why couldn't these guys be doing these things for us? Why should Kolkata, Mumbai, Decca and Bangalore be prospering on our talent, while we languish?

So now we come up to the present. Thankfully, things seemed to get a little better before this tournament, as there was some mending of fences and it appeared that we would have all of our big players available. It was a surprise to me when some commentators even installed us as being among the favourites. We blew a bit hot and cold in the tournament but we made it to the final. A final which as I said at the outset was to produce a powerful sermon with some great testimonies.

The Sermon: Preaching from the book of 1st and 2nd Samuels

Like all good sermons, the one last Sunday built on the readings from the past and applied them to present day. The poignant message was taken from the books of 1st and 2nd Samuels, no not the one in the biblical Old Testament, this is the modern day West Indian version. The story of Marlon.

Marlon Samuels: Subject of the sermon and star of the show

1st Samuels

The Book of 1st Samuels does not read well. It is a true testimony of tribulation. I remember watching this 1st Samuels on television scoring 100 runs as a youngster barely over 20, in a One Day match in India. Never had I witnessed more consistent clean hitting, even from the greats I saw in our glory days. It looked like he had what it took to be a cricketing saviour. But Marlon faded badly, disappointing time and time again after that. He walked on to the field to play as if he didn't care and wished he was somewhere else. Talent he had, but he never seemed to accept it and make the effort. He was truly like the Prodigal Son. But things got even worse for this 1st Samuels, he was caught giving advice to an Indian involved in betting and match fixing and was subsequently banned from playing all cricket for two years. He also had further indignity by being suspended from bowling because his action was considered illegal by the International Cricket Council.

When all this happened we thought that was the last chapter and verse as far as Samuels was  concerned. Here was a man that couldn't even make good when everything was in his favour, to think that he could ever get close to a West Indies team after two years out of the game was a joke.

2nd Samuels

Last year after the period of the ban was over, we heard for the first time, the word from 2nd Samuels. He was back, he told us ready to go again, he had been practising for the last two years. Samuels practicing on his own to get back to where he left off and then go further? No, not the Samuels we knew. But they were some early suggestions that this 2nd coming of Samuels might be different. He started to score runs with regularity for Jamaica, he really seemed to want to atone for previous transgressions. He was even to be seen admonishing himself if he got out as a result of playing an injudicious shot. This was something we never ever saw in 1st Samuels.

When I was in Barbados last year I went to a match against Pakistan, where I saw this 2nd Samuels myself. He did not score heavily, but he did appear to be more focused, watching the ball carefully, picking the right balls to hit. Still there was none of that clean hitting I saw of him when he first came on the scene and though I thought he could probably hold a place on the team, I didn't see him doing much more than that. Now we know that there was a lot more to be written in that Book of 2nd Samuels. In 2012, he just has not stopped scoring runs. In spite of his success he has never got carried away or suggested any bravado or don't carishness he showed in his earlier Book. He has just told us over and over again that he wants to keep playing and practising hard because he knows he has two years of runs put down that he has to make up for. It really did appear that this Samuels was a changed man.

The question was, did he have what it took for the big occasion? The answer over the last few weeks was a resounding YES. With bat and ball he has been the captain's 'go to ' man and he has delivered every time. None moreso than on Sunday. We made the worse possible start we could in the match. We lost Gayle or star batsman very early and the other batsmen just couldn't get any runs. It was clear we would be left with a paltry score and Sri Lanka would walk to victory. The crowd was roaring and the Sri Lanka party was about to rev up, but out strode 2nd Samuels to make sure that there were more verses to come. He started hitting clean and hard as he had that time when I saw him first on television. The ball disappeared over and over into the night sky and suddenly West Indies were back in the game. No one else in our team could get going on the day, but Marlon Samuels stood up to this stiffest of tests. Even if we were still to lose, he made sure we had a fighting score. And fighting is what we did after that, with everyone involved. Marlon once again was in the forefront with the ball and as they say the rest is history. 2nd Samuels had delivered and all I could say was "Amen!"

If you ever wanted a story, a testimony a parable of redemption, there it was. Not in a myth or a 'Holy Book' from ancient times, but in the story of a real flesh and blood human being living in our own time. Not a person with any special divine powers, not a 'chosen one.' Just an ordinary person, determined to turn his life around after many years of hardship. Finally the Prodigal Son had returned home and the whole village was ready to throw a party in his honour.

Marlon's story reminds us of much; that we can always come back strong and we shouldn't give up, that we mustn't be quick to write off people because of earlier transgressions. It illustrates to all that we can make a horrible circumstance work dramatically in our favour. It's not to say that now Samuels is the saviour of the West Indies. We don't know what the future will hold and they may be a 3rd Book of  Samuels that doesn't quite deliver the goods.  I hope for all our sakes that there are no other installments of  Samuels and that things follow on like the Bible, because after Samuels comes Kings in that 'Holy Book' and no one in the Caribbean, not even the ones most staunchly in favour of a republic, would begrudge us having a period of West Indies cricket monarchy right now.

Further inspiration in the Book of Sams

Darren Sammy: Captain that landed the big prize

If the Samuels story wasn't enough for the morning, there was further inspiration from the Sams. When I used to go to church, I always tried to draw a lesson from the verses of the Psalms and this morning the Sams kept coming up as well. There was another Samuel from Trinidad whose bowling kept us in the match, but the other stand out Sam, was Sammy. Darren Sammy the St.Lucian captain of the West Indies team.

Again I need to give some back story on Darren. When I think of him, I remember a St. Lucian lady that I worked with in Barbados that was probably the biggest fan of the West Indies team that I have ever met. During the time I worked with her, win, lose or draw she always stuck with them, referring to them consistently as ' My boys.' It was interesting for me at the time, because her home country St. Lucia of which she was intensely proud, had never produced a single West Indies player in their history. She never had the privilege of watching anyone from her country put on the maroon but she held the West Indies team as close to her heart as a family member. Many of us would moan about who was in or not in the team, but for her it didn't matter. Once they were West Indians playing she was 100% behind them.

I used to encourage her by telling her that one day she would be able to cheer for one of her own too, a St.Lucian out there on the field. At that time none seemed that close to the mark, but she always used to say that there's this boy Darren Sammy who came from her village. "He is a very good cricketer, one day Sammy will make it." she would often say. By 'make it' she meant, play for the West Indies, maybe one match sometime, somewhere.

On Sunday there was that Darren Sammy I had heard about all those years ago. Not just wearing the maroon, but as the captain, yes the CAPTAIN of the West Indies team. And not just any captain either, he was the one holding the WORLD CUP aloft. I thought about how my former workmate must have felt at that moment. I just couldn't even begin to imagine the pride that must have been inside her. As I watched the proceedings, I realised that I in a way had come to the position that she was once in. For as many great cricketers as Barbados has produced over its illustrious history, not one was part of the eleven that played in the match to win the Cup on Sunday. Yet, it didn't matter one iota, these were still 'My boys,' just as I had learnt from my St. Lucian friend back then, this team is our team no matter what.

Just like Marlon Samuels, it's not been an easy road for Darren Sammy. Sammy himself would be the first to admit that he is not the world's greatest cricketer. He took over the captaincy at a difficult time and many have argued he shouldn't be playing because they don't think that he is  good enough to make the eleven. That is debatable, but what Sammy lacks in talent he makes up for in heart and effort. Like the office mate I had in Barbados years ago, he seems to really believe in the West Indies and playing for 'the crest' as he puts it. Whatever his personal abilities and failings may be, he has managed to take the team and make it gel, putting the mission of 'one team, one people, one goal'  in the forefront. His success is definitely a reminder that one needn't be the biggest star or come from the biggest island to achieve greatness.

I remember being in St. Lucia three years ago watching a match when Sammy was not playing, much to the dismay of many St. Lucians at the ground who felt he had been unfairly left out. Darren walked among the ground while the match was going on to tell those there that it was OK. He didn't fuel the crowd by expressing disappointment, he said he recognised his own faults and that he would go away and work harder on his game, so that he could make the team next time. Of course I don't know Darren Sammy personally, but this was an early impression that I got of him that made me believe he was a  decent man. I am delighted that his diligence has paid off in such an amazing way. So, there ended the morning's lesson, at least for the most part. You can't finish a service without the Benediction and there was plenty of that going around.  "Thanks to the Almighty," was the repeated phrase. I guess the "Almighty" could be any kind of God you wanted it to be.

Interviews are always 'must see TV' after games like these. During his interview, Sammy was asked about how he handled criticism over the years. He responded by talking about Jesus and how he was crucified even though he didn't do anything wrong, so who is he Darren Sammy, to bother about the critics. It made me laugh because I knew that Christians hearing that would be caught in two minds. On the one hand, they would have been glad to hear reference to Jesus, they Lord and Saviour at such a public moment before all the world. On the other hand, they would be somewhat perturbed by the fact that  Sammy was comparing himself with that Jesus. That would seem like blasphemy to many.  Thankfully, blasphemy doesn't regularly lead to violence in our part of the world, so all was well. Still, I am sure the dissonance of the listening believers would have had them in a bit of a bind.

Not withstanding the God references, I was proud of how the guys spoke at the end of the game. Excited as they were with winning, they made no bones about the fact that they know that this is only the beginning of what is still likely going to be a very long journey back for West Indies cricket. On Sunday I rededicated myself to sticking with them in that journey, long and hard as it may be.

Of course the next thing up was the song service, with the music and dancing. A combination of cultures with the new West Indian version of Gangnam style led by worship leader Chris Gayle! If you have any questions about whether Chris Gayle is the 'annointed one' you can hear that he is in the clip below, straight from the mouth of the Bishop on commentary. Gayle prophesied before the game and it was a prophecy that came to pass.





The scenes shown here are something to watch and there was even more revelry to come later. International commentators and sports lovers the world over keep commenting that they love the way we celebrate and the joy we bring to what we do. It is this kind of unrestrained exuberance that they respond to. Whether it's the cricketers as we are seeing here, or Usain Bolt and Yohan Blake in the Olympics. It's great to know that in an age where war and conflicts seem to dominate world news, that we can at least lead the way in making the world smile. It is a trait in the Caribbean that is not by any means limited to sportsmen. It's just the way we do things. In North America  and Europe there is often emphasis on curbing natural instincts so as not to upset anyone present who may not approve. In the Caribbean, it's about self expression and letting your true self show to all the world. Showing that true self includes expressing our religion and beliefs as can be seen here. Some may be surprised to hear me say this, but I have no problem with it. If they are convinced that the Lord has guided them or that a lucky yellow band around the Samuels' neck did the trick it's all well and good.

If only we could dance to atheism too

My only wish is that one day we with different beliefs will also be able to join the party. It would be great if one day Caribbean atheists will also be able to express themselves, openly proclaiming their faith in reason to the world. As Caribbean people it's not in our nature to have to live and hide who we are, to not be able to evangelise about things near and dear to our hearts. I look forward to the day when we can all dance together regardless and proclaim the 'Word of truth' whatever we may think that truth to be. It is unfortunate that as things stand, anytime we say anything against religion it is deemed to be a 'no ball.' Then Christians get a ' free hit' where they are allowed to dispatch our arguments anywhere they please, often going way beyond the boundaries of logic. They can swing at us with maximum force knowing that under the rules that they have established, they can never be caught out.

Well, that little caveat was just but one moment of sober reflection, in the midst of the jumping with pride. It may sound strange, but in a way I enjoy the victories now even more than when I was a kid. These days I no longer see the gods I once saw wearing West Indies colours. I see flawed men trying their best to put together their talents to make us feel a sense of pride. Sometimes they will make us deliriously happy other times they will flop and leave us in deep disappointment, but that's all part of the game.

Even though the parties are no doubt still going on from Jamaica right down to Guyana, I am not convinced that every West Indian has got out of their chair to cheer along with the 'Gangnam Style' beat. For many, I think it is that they have been disappointed too many times. Too many false dawns. Many West Indians will gladly show of their allegiance to Chelsea, Manchester United or Arsenal, the Miami Heat, the New York Nicks or the Chicago Bulls. But when it comes to their own West Indies they want to hold themselves back. I remember wearing my West Indies shirt to an exhibition when the West Indies team was struggling. I was told rather publicly by a man in attendance that I should be ashamed to wear it. That was a comment that hurt.

We have to do better as Caribbean people, supporting a team, means being there through it all, through thick and thin. That's why I loved the way that Sammy ended on Sunday by thanking Peter Matthews who has traveled the world supporting the West Indies. His unmistakable tall maroon hat has been spotted all over the globe. As Sammy said, he has been there  ' through rain and sun.' I wish more West Indians would follow suit. I can sense even now, that some from the islands are waiting in the wings for things to go sour again, to say, " I told you so!"

We know that the rains in West Indies will come again, and that our day in the sun will not last forever. Being a winner just like life itself is transient. Neither will be here for eternity, and that makes both of them precious moments to be cherished. As I know after four years here in Canada, you don't shut up yourself in the house in the summer just because you know that winter's coming. So, I am certainly going to take the time now to bask in the Caribbean sun whether or not it's another false dawn or the start of a brand new day.

Recessional Hymn

Well friends, that's it. Great service from the West Indies on Sunday. Please stand now for the Recessional Hymn, Number 137, "Rally Round the West Indies!"

Atheist among the faithful: My latest church experience

Yes, Sunday before last, I broke the cycle. For the first time in 2012, I went to church. Not since May last year, had I 'darkened a church door,' as we would say in Barbados. Indeed it was when I was in Barbados last year that I last attended any kind of mass. On that occasion it was Mother's Day and as a concession to my mum I went with her that  morning. She really appreciated it and it was special for the fact that living in Canada now I don't get to spend much time with her so at least we shared that moment. I was glad to oblige her and had no problem putting aside the theological differences that morning.

The circumstances on Sunday last week, were entirely different. There was no overriding sentiment to cause me to go. It all came out of a brief discussion I had with friend of  mine from Ghana. She asked me out of the blue, whether going to church is something I do. I said I didn't go to church and she immediately asked me why. I told her plainly, that I didn't believe that any gods exist and didn't see what would be the sense of going to church to worship a being that I didn't believe was there.

" You don't believe in God?" was her startled reply. "We have to do something about that," she added. I revealed that I used to believe, but that things had changed.

"What happened?" she asked. I can't remember my exact words in reply but it would amount to something along the lines of 'thinking happened.' I could see she was convinced that she needed to fix me and fast. It was as if she was a nurse in 'Accident and Emergency' and I had just arrived with blood oozing from a bullet wound on my chest. All her other patients had to be put aside and she had to get me straight on to the operating table. According to her diagnosis, what I needed was to have something 'experiential.' I have heard this talk from theists before and I can never understand what they mean by it . I have experiences everyday. I can't for the life of me figure out what it means to have an experiential experience. Anyway that's what I was missing. She asked me if I had ever been a Pentecostal. I told her I was never one but I had visited all types of churches. She was convinced that hers was different. If I visited her church my mind would be changed.


She was in a hurry but it was clear she was perturbed. Still in "Accident and Emergency" mode she said to me,
"I will pick you up on Sunday morning and I will show you what my church is like, after that we can have a conversation, something will happen, either I will win you or you will win me, but I think that I will win you."

I just smiled, this was desperation. She did not even know where I lived at that point , but she had my number and promised to call. She was determined to get me from wherever I was into the house of the Lord so that Jesus could operate and give me that brand new experiential feeling. I didn't say much, but I did indicate that I would have no problem visiting her church 'one of these days.' After all, it is not that I ever made a pact that I would never enter a church again and I was not averse to going somewhere where I could perhaps learn something new about faith and how people experience it and express it. This blog is of course about faith and atheism and in order to adequately critique and discuss the subject of faith you have to sometimes go out of the way to observe it.

Yet, I was not sure I wanted to take her up on her offer right away, but I thought of it some more during the week and concluded that perhaps I should just bite the bullet and go on Sunday. There were a number of things that convinced me. Firstly, I reflected that it had been a long time since I went to church. May 2011, meant 15 months without and kind of exposure to faith. Since, in the interim I hadn't gone to any weddings or funerals either, it really had been a complete removal from any semblance of superstitious ritual.

In the time intervening, a lot had happened in respect to my life as an atheist. I had been to New York and  hung out with the New York City Atheists and some members of the Black Atheists of America and met some Caribbean atheists in person. I had many discussions about atheism with friends and strangers alike from places as diverse as in flight cabins, university corridors, restaurants, computer work stations and more. I had been to a Darwin Day party and sang a carol dedicated to fossils and finches. I had celebrated Christmas by going to a bar with fellow heathens, toasting to celebrate the life of Christopher Hitchens. I had been to talks and heard the likes of James Randi, Daniel Dennett and Lawrence Krauss. To top it all off, I had been to my first ever atheist conference, the Imagine No Religion 2 where I spent the weekend with nearly 300 fellow non believers.

If all that was not enough, I have had continuing exchanges over the internet in one form or another trying to explain and defend the atheist position to all types of theists out there.  I had even called into a Christian TV broadcast to tell them about my atheism and why I didn't believe like them. I have also continued to meet atheist contacts that have kept me challenged . I  have also remained dedicated to trying to make something come out of the Caribbean atheists' attempt to make secularism happen in the islands.

Of course in all this I have remained in the blogging world, anxious to add my voice to the growing secular choir out there. These activities have shown me , that I am so much more than just a passing atheist these days. The last time I went to church, being an atheist, at least an open atheist was still raw. I still felt a degree of discomfort, a kind of a wince inside when I mentioned to people that I was an atheist or that I didn't believe in God.

Fast forward a year down the road and things are far different. The experiences I have had since have definitely ' toughened me up' so to speak. I no longer have that level of unease in expressing myself as an atheist, in fact it is something I express now with a great deal of pride. I have no longer any worries about who finds out and what they will think about it. It really is a feeling of complete freedom in that sense.

So, I realised I was a different atheist from the one that last entered a church, one far more confident, and far more committed to the cause than even just a year ago. I thought it would therefore be well worth seeing how my emotions would be now compared to before. I became excited about doing this as an experiment. A kind of ethnographic, active participant research. Because as much as I had an idea of how I would feel and what I would think, I really couldn't be sure. Would the irrationality make me angry? Would I feel sad to see the delusion? Would the nostalgia of  the past still be there?

The scientist in me took over. I just had to do this, I needed this data so I could write up a robust case study that would have the weight of empiricism behind it. So when, my Ghanian friend called me on Saturday to ask if I was up to going to Sunday morning church, I agreed without hesitation.

It was a little awkward on the drive to church, in that there were two other people in the car who were travelling with the one who had invited me. I had no idea what she had told them about me and the reasons why she had invited me to church, I did not have a clue whether they knew I was a non believer or not. We exchanged pleasantries and it wasn't long before the conversation between them got animated and they began to speak in twi (pronounced chee). Twi is one of the main languages spoken in Ghana. Of course once they switched to their mother tongue, I had no idea what they were saying,. I supposed it was almost psychological for them to fall into their natural language. I did after all look like them and I think that made it easy for them to actually forget that my heritage and origin was quite different. Occasionally one of them would realise that they slipped out of English and they would apologise to me and try to fill me in on what I had missed. I told them that I didn't mind them speaking in their language, and that they should just speak in the way they felt comfortable. I am sure they thought I was just trying to be nice to them by not complaining, but I was actually being truthful.

It's not easy to admit it, but I really wasn't interested in talking much that morning. I wanted to be able to just sit and reflect on the experience and the emotions. This was a fact finding mission. For me today was all about observation and taking mental notes. It was not about engaging and interacting, not about socialising or making friends. I went in to this with a specific game plan and I knew I had to stick to it. I had given the lady who had invited me my word that I would go to church, to observe her worship so that when I spoke to her later about her beliefs I would have a context to refer to. I was trying to make sure there were no 'strawmen' in any of our future debates. I told myself over and over again that I was there only to take in things, that was all. This was difficult, because I am by nature someone who likes to chat with people and engage in discussion and share with others. But, I knew that was a strategy fraught with danger on this particular day.

Dealing with religious people, especially in their own habitat takes careful planning. I look at as a game of chess, one where you must always be aware what they are thinking and what their strategy will be even as you are crafting out your own. Sure, I had made it clear that this was just one Sunday that I was going to go to church and that I was interested only in terms of seeing what their service was like, but that was not how the church people would see it. For them. it would be the old 'foot in the door' technique that marketers know so well.

Once I was among the faithful, they would use all the emotional pulling and tugging to try to convince me that I needed to come back 'home' and continue worshipping with them. The fact that I was at church, would be evidence that they would use to convince themselves they were winning. This was their chance to show me that God was calling me back and the fact that I had agreed to come that one day was proof that I knew it too and it would be ridiculous of me to deny the obvious. I knew that the more I talked to people and got to know them, the more I would feel comfortable being among them. The more I would feel inclined to come back another day to get to know them better, or just say hello. Similarly, they would want to see me again too and would invariably invite me to be a part of things, then it would be back to a situation where I would be torn because I appreciated the people but despised their doctrine. I would have to either cut off the people by virtue of the rejection of their core beliefs, which would seem cold and heartless or I would be forced to continue to engage with them  through the church in order to preserve friendships and not come across as anti social.  There was no way I was ever going to do the latter. I had been down that road in the past and was not going to repeat that mistake.

No, I knew there was no way I was going to be getting myself involved in any kind of faith group again. I had gone through too much to find my fulfilling life of reason to just toss it away because of a little' feel good in my soul.' I knew that but of course, they didn't. I just didn't want to lead them on by seeming as though I wanted to be a great friend and then disappoint them or make them angry by telling them I wasn't interested in their God. For people like this, to love them is to love their God, simple as that. I know it sounds strange, but my reasons for being a bit aloof that morning was to protect them as much as it was to protect me. So when Twi, became the language of choice, it was like a 'God send' for me, I could sit in silence and mull things over in my mind without  making those around me think I was giving them the cold shoulder.

The church itself was more modest than I expected. Not even a separate building. It was filled with people though, ladies in extravagant multi coloured dresses with  vibrant  reds, yellows, greens, purples and blues. Some of the men were also full of colour and in traditional African dress. I had forgotten how when it comes to African and Caribbean culture, church is so much about fashion. Doesn't matter if you are nineteen or ninety, Sunday is the dress to the 'nines' day. I walked in, once again sticking to my game plan of not saying much. Still, I was determined not to be unfriendly to anyone. I smiled at everyone I met and said "Hello" or "Good morning" with all the zeal I could muster. But I kept the time of interaction short and to the point.
 "My name is David, pleased to meet you!" If they said " God Bless you." I thanked them and then went  on my way.

When we arrived the service was going on but people were still mulling around outside. It really was a bit like being at a party 'liming.' That's what it would have felt like too, if it wasn't that the sun was blazing down in all its glory. We were a bit late and that meant we could take our seats at the back of the church. I was happy for this too. It meant I could watch and listen and not be conspicuous. If I had cause to roll my eyes or shake my head I would be somewhat out of view and hopefully would be able to disguise things successfully.

As I took my seat a group of three took the stage. I say stage, because that is what it was. There was nothing particularly to tell you that you were in a church. No cross, no altar,  no fancy floral arrangements, they weren't even any windows stained  or otherwise, the place was quite bare, but the colour and vibrancy of the people seemed to make up for this so much that you hardly even noticed it. What the hall did have was a  projector in the roof and a power point presentation which was obviously loaded and ready to run. The song on the screen was showing so we could sing along

 " Yahweh, Yahweh, Yahweh, Yahweh, He shall reign, He shall reign, for ever he shall reign."

This was on the projection and I almost wondered why it was necessary. That was all the song had by way of lyrics. It was just repeat and recycle after that. Some people raised their hands in the air as they sang, apparently pleading with Yahweh to come down and make an appearance. " We worship you, we thank you!", they uttered along as they sang. They were obviously overcome with all that their Yahweh had done and clearly happy that he was their king. I, on the other hand was disturbed. Nowadays I can understand why you may want to worship God. The generic higher power that provides for you and that you think protects you. I can even understand how you might want to worship Jesus. But Yahweh? Worship Yahweh? How on earth can you stand up with a straight face and say that we should be grateful to the love of Yahweh? Yahweh, is specifically the God of the Old Testament. Yahweh is not just another name for God as Christians like to say. This is the Yahweh, that likes the smell of burning flesh and demands it from his followers, the one that flooded the earth, destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, had Abraham on the verge of killing his son, and massacred with abandon.

His record is so bad, that most Christians today have given up trying to defend him now, merely saying that they have upgraded to the New Covenant and all that barbarism is null and void now. Yet, still this group at least, consider it is still appropriate today to lift up the name of that  Old Testament God. It caused me to remember that just  a couple weeks back I had a similar reaction when I heard a singer in Barbados taking part in the local Party Monarch competition with a song called " Worship Yahweh!" The commentator on the radio referred to it as a song with a very important message. I wanted to push my hand down through the wifi signal and shake him. I tell you, Yahweh is alive and well in 2012.

The song continued, I am always worried at services where choruses are being sung and lyrics are few. A hymn with five or six versus may seem daunting at first, but at least you know when it's done it's done. But these choruses, not so. What these songs lack for in length, they make up for in repetitions. The Africans I find are especially skilled at drawing these kind of choruses out. Runners from Ethiopia and Kenya  are known for their ability to just keep running and running. It seems that the entire continent has similar stamina when it comes to these marathon choruses. I remember three years ago playing keyboard for an African church service where one particular two line song went on for 45 minutes unbroken.

So, I had to find a way to pass the time as others around m me were feeling the spirit . Suddenly, I thought of the Yahweh form the Non Stamp Collector and Dark Matter videos. The one who bumbles around incompetently as he tries to make something of his creations. The deity who cries like a petulant child when he doesn't get what he wants. If you are not familiar with these two gentlemen's videos, I highly recommend them. The humour is just great. And thinking of them just kept me smiling right through that chorus. I am sure my christian friends around me thought I was already feeling the Spirit.

Stay away from foolish non believers

Soon it was time for the sermon. This is of course the main event in any church and people settled in to hear the Word. The preacher started by giving a recap, apparently there were services during the week, because the pastor spoke about what they had learnt on Monday and then went down the line right up to Saturday. My ears picked up when he reached Wednesday . The topic for that evening was labelled  'Unwise Associations.' That day they had discussed with the attendees what types of people believers should avoid. The answer according to the Pastor was quite simple, 'Ungodly people.'

Yes, these type of people were unwise associations. He told us that WE believers were to make sure that we stayed away from people like that. We had to avoid them because they were fools. "What is the definition of  a fool?" The pastor put this rhetorical question to the congregation. Then he provided his own answer. " A fool is anyone who does not live in fear of the Lord." He repeated this for emphasis, as the congregation resonated with Amens. No prizes for guessing what were the next words out of the pastor's mouth. That passage that all of us atheists know so well, " The fool says in his heart there is no God!"  I was so sure that this verse was coming, that without even thinking I said the words out loud along with him,  smiling ruefully while shaking my head in disbelief. I don't know if anyone saw me doing this, but I didn't really care at that point.

Well, well, well. I couldn't have scripted it any better. Less than ten minutes into the talk by the priest and I had already been told that I needed to separate myself  from people like myself. I wondered how I could pull off something like that. Would probably need to ask Jesus, he was the one who separated himself from himself in order to sacrifice himself  to himself. Well at least I was in the right place to get help with this, I thought to myself.

After I finished laughing at the irony, I began to think of many of my atheists friends who would not have found any of this funny at all. I believe there are a few who if they had been there would simply have got up from their seat, turned and walked out never to look back. I suppose you could understand that sort of reaction. But I wasn't about any of that kind of drama that morning. As I said, the gameplan was just to watch, listen and observe, so I settled back down and continued to follow what was going on.

Pastors come fourth in stress

The sermon for the day was about how to deal with stress. We were informed that Christians suffered from a lot of stress, maybe more so than the non believers out there. The pastor started by quoting from a study he said he saw on CNN where they said that 'Pastor' was the fourth on the list of the most stressful jobs in the world. Only behind country presidents, heads of universities and sports coaches of elite teams. He seemed to revel in being compared in this class. I think it was also his way of telling the congregation that they needed to take special care of him, because of his huge burden. I am sure they will oblige.

After that the pastor went into a lesson that would not have been out of place at a university. He spoke of the chemicals the body releases as a result of stress and how that affected the brain chemistry. He spoke of adrenaline and cortisol and the role that these play in the body. He spoke of the good stress and the bad stress. The way that good stress could actually motivate action and help us to perform at our ultimate level. That type of stress was what was at work in the starting blocks of the Olympics 100m final and led people like Usain Bolt to break records.

To be honest, I was quite impressed with this aspect of the talk, it was filled with good science, it was factual and educational and I am sure that many would have learnt from it. I did, myself. He went on to speak of practical ways that one could reduce this level of stress. By resting more, delegating things to others and trying to be positive and have a 'merry heart.' His advice was simply that when you are happy your body doesn't produce the chemicals that will stress you out. Again nothing wrong with that message either. These are good things for you to remember regardless of your religious perspective. That was the whole point I was thinking during this. This is all true and useful, but what in the world did it have to do with God, or Jesus or salvation or anything in Christian doctrine?

Well, the pastor knew that would be what his congregation would be asking and tied back things to the bible   through some arbitrary verses. He picked a passage that said that Christians needed to have  a merry heart to suggest that what science had figured out was merely a carry on from what the bible said. Of course the congregation lapped it up. We have to be happy and the only way to be happy is to be happy in Jesus.  So,

more Jesus= more happy
more happy= less stress 
Therefore more Jesus= less stress

The equation was as simple as that.

Open ye gates!

He also very memorably went to the Book of ' Songs of Solomon.' I knew I had to pay attention there. It's not very often I have heard priests go towards that book for Sunday morning services. It is  not a very 'G' rated part of the bible. He spoke about stressful marriages and quoting from a particular verse in 'Songs of Solomon' spoke of  wives who  refused to 'open their gates' to their husbands.According to him some women had their gates locked from in front and behind and this was part of the problem with stressful marriages. Women, he said should not engage in doing this. There was one solitary but loud " Amen" that came booming from a mature guy sitting right act the back of the church. That sent the entire congregation into uproar. It was good to see stress was definitely being released in this house.

Soon after, the pastor wrapped up the sermon and I have to say that by and large I enjoyed it. He then said the words, " Now it is time for prayer." With that, a total transformation seemed to come over the building. What was minutes before a very cerebral lecture on cortisol, neurons and brain chemistry changed into an all out appeal to the supernatural. It was like when you are in a plane and the pilot tells you to put away everything in preparation for landing. Here, when the pastor said it was time to pray, it was as if he was telling all passengers to turn off all intellect and thinking devices in preparation for an abrupt descent into dogma.

People suddenly started mumbling and groaning, hands became outstretched in front of bodies and the pastor asked the congregation to speak to Jesus now, so he could transform the body. It was so incongruous to me. Where had all the science reasoning and evidence gone? The body that depended solely on the chemical balance to perform its functions. Suddenly none of that was relevant, all that was needed was for you to appeal to Jesus and he would come down and heal you. No questions asked.

It got more intense, one lady I saw actually went to the wall and pressed her entire body up against it, burying here head in the concrete, hands outstretched like if the police had her under arrest and told her to " spread it!" I have to admit I was a bit alarmed to see this and almost wondered if she was unwell, but then I remembered the context of where I was and breathed a bit more easily.

I just stood there as the volume in the church increased. Everybody was talking at the same time, completely independent of one another. Some of it was recognisable. English expressions like  "Hallelujah! Thank you Jesus! Praise your name on high!" Some of it I think was in the local twi language and then there was that other language. The one that sounds like gibberish to most of us, but  which believers of certain stripes refer to as speaking in tongues. Yes, that was definitely in there and becoming more and more prominent with each passing second. I wondered how any of these people could hear themselves think above such a cacophony, but  what they were doing seemed to come  naturally. I also wondered where this spiritual build up had come from. It's not as if the pastor had spent the last hour talking about the love of Jesus. He had basically just given a biology class. This was quite an extraordinary reaction. It would be like if after a lecture at university people suddenly got up and started walking around and mumbling in a trance with their eyes closed.

And through all this, I just stood there, staring blankly, there was nothing I could do but just wait this one out.   In the midst of this melee I was the only one  that appeared to be silent. It was an eerie feeling indeed. At the end of this the pastor asked if there was anyone who wanted to come forward for a special anointing or blessing. Surprisingly, no one went forward. Perhaps they were all already filled with the spirit enough for one morning.

Then came my moment of  truth. The pastor asked if there were any visitors to service. Of course as chance would have it, I was the only one. I stood up and introduced myself and told him who had invited me. He welcomed me with the words ,

" David,  remember you must always make yourself useful and available to the Lord."  

I gave a half nod and sat back down quickly. I had to, before things got any worse. Apart from imagining the amount of coffee that would have been spurting out of noses if any of my atheists friends were there, I remember thinking that he was quite bold to tell me what he did. He knew nothing about my beliefs, background or views on such things. How could he just presume to tell me the philosophy I needed to live by? Of course, I was in his domain and was obliged to just listen to it and take it without a hint of dissent. Just as I had to sit down earlier and listen to the congregation being told they should stay away from people like me. This is the type of privilege that church and religious organisations enjoy in our society. When you are in their territory, you have to be quiet, let them say whatever they want to. You have to endure. Any reply or remark to challenge anything they say would be considered rude and terribly out of place. But there is no other institution which enjoys such protection.

Religious people have turned up to secular events we have put on at Centre for Inquiry (CFI) many times. They listen to what we have to say, but they can get up at the appropriate time and state their disagreement. They can proclaim  their God as much as they want. I am not saying they won't be ridiculed if they say something ludicrous, but they always get the chance to be heard and it often adds to the presentation because the audience gets to hear opposing perspectives and judge for themselves which side has the stronger argument. But church is not like that. No church I have ever been to is like that. It was interesting that only on this day did it occur to me so clearly what a huge problem this was. In a sense, that lack of dialogue is even worse than the irrationality of the beliefs being promoted. Irrational or absurd ideas can be weeded out by having  a good system for evaluating them. But in an institution where dissent is synonymous with disrespect, all bad ideas will take root and it won't be long before they become impossible to dislodge.

I don't know when it happened exactly, but when I sat down I found a pen in my right hand and a membership card in my left. It was either stealth work by an usher, or a miracle from God.  I looked at it and decided to leave my contact information, nothing wrong with that. I noticed that there was a question asking whether I wanted to become a member of the church. Curiously there was a box labelled 'Yes' but I looked up, down, back and front but could not find a box with 'No.'  Don't think I had ever seen that before. A questionnaire with 'YES' and no 'NO.' I laughed once again, no need to guess what your answer is supposed to be. I just left that part blank and handed it back to the usher.

Party time!

Well it was time for a change once again, back to singing choruses. I can't tell you what these choruses were about as they were not in English. Probably just as well. No lyrics to annoy or frustrate me. What I can tell you is the drums and percussion just started to go wild and the people, especially the ladies erupted in  joyous dancing. This time they went up to the space in the front of the church, one behind the other in a circle 'jamming' like carnival in Trinidad or Kadooment Day in Barbados. One or two of  the women who had worn to church colourful scarves around their neck or on their heads, took them off and started to wave them like flags in the air. It really reminded me of a Caribbean party atmosphere.

My Barbadian readers will understand me when I say I didn't quite see any 6:30s but there was definitely 'pooching back.' I actually moved a bit to the music myself. It was fun, and I didn't want to stick out like a sore thumb. The pastor by this time was leading the band like a Machel Montano or Lil Rick. He was in Party Monarch mode now. Signalling to the masses to move to the left or the right, finger pointing to the sky as he gyrated.When I saw him it reminded me of the calypso competitions we have in the Caribbean, where the contestant normally has two songs. The serious social commentary to make people sit and listen and then the second half uptempo offering to work the audience into a frenzy and start the bacchanal. This was what the pastor had going for him here. He would have scored highly in both halves of the competition.

I realised the service had basically ended. No special benediction, just basically dancing your way out happily leaving your collection in the offering plate on the way. I have often said I have been to churches where many parts of the liturgy are omitted. However, I have never been to a church where they left out collection. This morning was no exception. When the room was about half full, the pastor went up and said.
"So great to see you all enjoying yourself to the fullest, making full use of these  LAST days." That sentence really made me jump. What a way to kill a party.

Anyway, I had made it to the end of the service, that was a relief in itself. All in all it really wasn't that painful. I got many enthusiastic responses from people who were happy I was there. I told them I had enjoyed the service. I really had. All in all there was more positive than negative, albeit that the few negatives were still quite hard to look beyond. What was clear though was that they wanted me to be back. One guy introduced himself and said,

" You will be coming here every Sunday morning from now on. I am not asking you, I am telling you. And next time you will be bringing your whole family as well."

I was speechless, this was the general sentiment I was getting, but just as I had done earlier, I kept the conversations brief.  Sometimes I let it slip and said I didn't expect to be back. This seem to shock them a bit.  They couldn't reconcile the fact that I enjoyed myself and yet was so averse to returning. This is the thing that I think is hard for some believes to understand. Enjoying an event and subscribing to the belief being propagated at that event are too entirely different things. I had no intention of going into the details of why I would be unable to join them long term. I just hoped that they would understand, but I don't think they did.

On my way out of the church, the person who invited me to the church introduced me to the pastor, as the congregation was still milling around. Then she unleashed a comment that I was definitely not prepared for at that moment.

"This is my friend from university, I invited him to church because he says he doesn't believe in God!"

Wow! What a time to come clean with her motive. The pastor seemed a bit taken aback too. He took out his smart phone to type, looking like he was going to write me a prescription. It was as if I was back in " Accident and Emergency"  again and he was once again hoping to give me a dose of that elusive 'experiential' thing. I tried to look down and not make eye contact with others around in the aftermath of the comment about me not believing in God. I am sure many of them must have heard what was said.

The pastor eventually found his voice and said to my friend "Oh, we have a lot of work to do."

I said nothing. The pastor asked me for my details and promised that he would invite me to his house for dinner one day and we will sit down and have a discussion about faith and belief. That would be great, then I would be on fairer turf and could say the things that I wanted. He seemed also to be relishing the thought of a one on one with me.

" The first thing you will have to do is give me reasons for why you think there is no God, you must give evidence for for why you don't believe!"

I hung my head trying desperately not to facepalm, and resisting the urge to give him the burden of proof argument right then and there. However, somehow I was able to stop myself from bringing up Zeus, Mohammad or the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I shook his hand and told him politely, that I thought this was neither the time nor the place to carry on a conversation like this. I was in a bit of shock though,couldn't believe we hadn't even started to talk yet and he had already notched up his first logical fallacy.

What was even more amazing was that I was sure that the pastor thought he had me stumped with that sentence. Believing, I would now be scared of the other master arguments he would come with next time we met. There was no doubt in his mind that he would bring me back into the fold. He assured the one who took me to church that he would take it from here. He would lead me to truth. The truth of Jesus Christ. This is what being in the religion bubble does to you. It gives you a level of confidence that is totally unfounded, all stemming from the fact that you are operating in an institution where what you deliver is never ever challenged.

Christians see no problem with the 'no challenge'  model when it comes to their faith. No need for discussion or debate, because their faith is clearly the truth. Yes, for a devout believer, truth is that which can't be challenged. In my view they have it quite wrong. Anything which can't be challenged, almost certainly can't be truth.

When the cross came crashing down: The impact of bringing logic to Easter

I am not sure whether it counts as a miracle, but the passage of Easter  last week managed to resurrect some memories within me which had been dead from my consciousness for many a year. What shocked me as I reflected during the week, formerly known to me as "Holy Week,"  was how Easter had fallen from being one of those pinnacle days to a point where I scarcely remembered that it was coming. There was a time when Easter had a meaning to me that was about as large as life itself. I was never a fundamentalist, nor was I ever one who felt that I had to be sitting in a pew every Sunday morning but Easter was a day that I always made a point of finding myself inside a place of worship.

I think it all went back to one experience I had on the evening of Maundy Thursday, (the day before Good Friday) about 20 years ago in Barbados . That evening I came down with a severe case of gastro-enteritis and ended up having to spend the night in the hospital. While I lay in the bed writhing in pain on  Friday morning  I remembered Jesus. I was able to reassure myself by thinking that my present anguish was nothing compared to what my saviour had to bear more than 2000 years before. I think that helped me to get through it. I even managed to convince myself that  Jesus was bringing me through this agony on the anniversary of his death, in order that I may understand his own pain. After a while, I almost felt honoured to be chosen to carry Christ's cross with him that morning. It's crazy to recollect this way of thinking now, but it is amazing what mental gymnastics your mind can do in situations of immense pain, especially when you have the love of Jesus in your heart.

However, I  think I was  being quite rational when I smiled with relief  realising I was missing Good Friday morning service. As many people in the Anglican church will tell you, Good Friday is by far the most boring service in the liturgical  year. It's long, very long, the prayers themselves are everlasting.  The music is deliberately set to be dead and dreary. There's no communion to give you a little nourishment to help you endure to the end. No procession to break the monotony and give your legs a stretch. To add to the dirge, everyone comes dressed in their most drab black outfits. There was just no take away from Good Friday that could  help you get through what was an equally dour rest of the day. They call it Good Friday, but the only thing good about it, is knowing that when you walk out at the end, it will be another full year before it comes back. Recognising that the Lord had delivered me from Good Friday mass was enough evidence to convince me then that he was worthy of my praise.

Thankfully, by early afternoon I was fine to go home and on Sunday I was fighting fit again and ready for Easter morning church. I was in no way  prepared for what greeted me. Apparently, it had been announced during service on Good Friday  that I was sick and had to go to hospital. I arrived to people treating me as though I myself was the one who emerged from the empty tomb. All sorts of people in the congregation, some I barely knew, came up giving me huge hugs telling me how much  they were praying for me and how amazing it was that God had delivered me that Easter morn. I was a bit taken aback. Yes, I had to spent a night in a hospital but it wasn't as though I had a life threatening condition. Still, it was an uplifting feeling to know that if I ever did have a real emergency that there was a community there to support me. I also had to remember that compared to two days earlier, I was in remarkably good shape. I had bounced back from a challenging experience and there was a lot I had to be thankful for.

After that year, Easter grew in significance to me. I even found a greater appreciation for Good Friday. I came to love Palm Sunday too. Palm Sunday was the day of the big procession on the  Sunday before Easter. We would walk from the surrounding villages carrying palms in hand to symbolise Jesus's triumphant entry into Jerusalem. It was great from a personal perspective becomes many years I led the procession playing clarinet or saxophone and that provided me with a sense of worth. I began to see Holy Week as telling a story not so much about Jesus himself, but about the human experience. You have the Palm Sundays where everything seems to be going well, experience a setback on a Good Friday, but you overcome and celebrate your Easters at the end. That's the story of life. When you are up you have to remember that obstacles can come and you can trip or fall, but you can also take hope from the fact that however low you go you always have the hope of finding a way back up. So that's what the Easter story meant to me, the power of the 'comeback.'

So, it didn't matter to me whether Jesus actually rose from the dead bodily or not. It wasn't important. To argue over these things was to miss the point. " No Cross, No Crown" was the common phrase we would say and I firmly bought in to that. You had to experience the weight of the cross if you ever wanted to wear the crown of glory. Little did I know then, that the cross was soon going to buckle  under its own weight and that the entire structure would come crashing down.

What if Jesus didn't bother?

The first sign that the cross's centre of gravity was shifting came one Christmas. It was one of those plays that we used to put on every year. As usual, I had my designated role of music leader, which inevitably meant standing at the ready to fill in with instrumental interludes as scripted, or in emergency if somebody forgot a line or didn't arrive on stage on time.  In this year in question, the drama playing out on stage featured a typical family scene; children running around playing while putting up decorations on a tree, Daddy stumbling home slightly intoxicated after being out with 'the boys' somewhere and Mummy frantically trying to get the house prepared for the big day, sweeping vigorously and shooing everybody out of her way. At one point Mum says, " Man, I am so tired of all this Christmas work, I want to sleep, I don't think I'll bother to go to church for midnight mass." There was a dramatic pause of shock and horror and then the narrator's voice broke through, " Can't be bothered? You can't be bothered? Just imagine if Jesus couldn't be bothered to die on the cross!"

That line hit me with a jolt. "Yes, what would have happened if  Jesus didn't bother to die on the cross?" It occurred to me at that moment that it would pretty much be nothing. Not a single thing in the world that we can observe would be different without a Jesus crucifixion. That's one of the main reasons why we can't determine whether the event even happened. I mean, what changed when Jesus died or came back in his new body? The laws of physics were not altered to make natural disasters less likely. The human body continued to be susceptible to the same diseases as it was before the divine bleeding. Men and women continued to be just as prone to do evil as they ever were. No technological breakthroughs or game changing inventions came after the veil was torn in two. No social  norms shifted after Jesus was caught in the cross nails. Slaves were still slaves, women were still second class citizens. So what if Jesus didn't bother?

I had no more time to reflect on  this because it was  time to get back to playing, but I kept that thought in my mind for future reference. Something seemed a bit wrong with the cross now. It looked like it was leaning, the lines didn't seem straight but perhaps it was because I wasn't looking at things from the right angle.I would have to scrutinise it more closely later to see if anything was really askew with the doctrine.

Physical pain for spiritual gain

I pondered on this some more in coming weeks. If there was no physical impact that death on the cross made, what really had this all been for?  I recognised that if I put my thoughts beyond  the physical dimension, the cross could be seen to have achieved many things. Salvation from hell, eternal life in heaven, forgiveness of sin. These things were all well and good but we have  no way of testing  whether we actually  have any of these. Furthermore, if we do have them, we have no way of knowing whether we wouldn't have had them if Jesus didn't do his death and resurrection thing. Everything that the cross is said to have done for us is conveniently outside the realm of testability. Things were not looking good for the Jesus character now and  his cross was beginning to look more and more shaky.

Apart from the unfalsifiability problem, it didn't seem logical that an action in the physical realm would be needed in order to achieve something in the spiritual world. It would stand to reason that a physical sacrifice would lead to physical redemption, a spiritual sacrifice would lead to spiritual redemption. That would be logical wouldn't it? If I want to get an apple tree, why would I plant cherry seeds? The cross was definitely in  trouble now that I was analysing the material it consisted of in such great detail. It didn't take me long to realise that the cross was not only old and rugged as the song says, but brittle and breaking up along the edges. It  seemed it would have little chance of standing up in the face of unrelenting  logic.

I became by this time concerned about why a human sacrifice of any kind was necessary. As I said before, I knew that the resurrection itself may not have taken place as explained in the bible, but by now my issue was with whether the storyline itself made sense. It's like going to watch a movie at the cinema. You know it's fiction, but that doesn't stop you from going over the plot in your head as you leave the theatre to see if all the threads of the story hang together. If they don't, you have to conclude it was a second rate film and you certainly won't be going out of your way to recommend it to your friends.

Looking at it, the only context in which this sacrifice of Jesus could make any sense was in the Old Testament way of looking at things. In that world, shedding of innocent blood atoned for the sins of the community. In order for the story  to  hold together we would have to mentally transport ourselves back into the days we read of  in the Torah, where humans walked side by side with a temperamental  Yahweh who had a serious  burnt offering addiction. Ok, maybe that could work, I thought. No, even if I made that concession, the tale of the cross wasn't hanging together.

The problem with going on Old Testament thinking is that it went counter to the idea of the new covenant that Jesus himself is supposed to have brought. How often have we heard Christians tell us that we should ignore all of the strange rituals and practices recorded in the Old Testament because Jesus brought a new covenant? But this new covenant only makes sense if viewed from the perspective of the outdated old covenant. Now the two lines of the cross  were clearly tugging against each other, this could only lead to more disequilibrium, I thought. I was right.

If Jesus didn't die on the cross we would have to become vegetarians.

Once I put myself into Old Testament mindset, I realised the true horror of  what we would need to do if we were to ever find out that Jesus Christ didn't die on the cross. We would have to get the knives out quick and start slaughtering like crazy. Without Christ's blood that has a 'sin compensation equivalent' of infinity we would have to kill  animals from here to eternity in order to make up for what would be now more than two millennia of deficit Whether there would be a single animal left for us to eat would be doubtful. So, maybe that's the answer to the question in the Christmas play.  If Jesus didn't die on the cross, we would have to become vegetarians.  How I would love to wear that on a T- shirt and explain it to bewildered passers by.

I know this sounds like absurdity but it is what happens when you carry a ridiculous doctrine to it's logical conclusion. It is one of the most bizarre things that human beings have come up with, the idea that gods need to smell blood to be happy. I have too much respect for gods, even imaginary ones, to think that they would come up with a system like that. If you are going to insist that a physical sacrifice is needed why go to the extent of a gory death. Jesus could have just stumped his toe on a rock, and declared that through this all mankind is saved. This would be no less logical a connection to salvation than what we have from the stories in the gospels. If Jesus's blood has infinite saving power, a watch glass sample from the graze of a foot, should do the job just as well.  No need for the several pints oozing out on the cross from every conceivable orifice. The more I thought about this thing the less sense it made. The cross looked like it was really ready to topple now. How much longer could it hold up?

Sacrificing himself to himself in order to save mankind from himself

Around this time I had taken to the internet to see whether others out there found what I was beginning to see in Christianity equally illogical. This turned out to be another big blow to the cross. I came across the description of Christianity that I have now heard or seen written countless times."God sacrificed himself on to himself in order to save mankind from himself."

When I first read this I laughed. Surely this was a caricature. You can't sum up the Christian doctrine like that. But, when I deconstructed it, I found the description to be bang on. Jesus, we are taught, is God. God made the rules for salvation and created the very hell he is supposedly saving us from. The cracks in the cross were very visible now, I could see a break coming, the final crash was not far off.

By now it was becoming very hard for me to feel any pride about the cross as I saw it in its weakened state, deteriorating before my eyes. It was obvious to me now that the entire Easter story was about  God contriving a situation where he could appear to be the hero. This was not a 'comeback story.' This was the story of a man deliberately mutilating himself, then healing the wounds and making himself well again. Where  is the power in that story?  Where is the sacrifice? What had we been saved from? I was just left with a hollow feeling. I had long dismissed the story as not being literal, but where was the value in it? What was the metaphor? What was the moral within the pages of this allegory that I could take away?

Moral foundation giving way

Morals, morals, morals. That was the last thing that could perhaps save my cross. The logical threads had come apart  in  many places but surely there was a good message in the story overall, wasn't there? But I knew even as I asked this question out loud that there was no real message of love here. The God in this Christianity story was looking more and more like a snake-oil salesman. I was definitely seeing a crooked cross. The more I thought about this story the more I realised that this doctrine is not about us at all, it was all about Him. Everything is set up to make Jesus look like 'the man'. It starts with the horror of the crucifixion. We have already established it was not necessary to the plot, but it's the major part of the story. Why is it there? It's all about reeling us in emotionally. It's about gaining our sympathy not our salvation. It's a sentiment that's played on unashamedly  by movie makers like Mel Gibson who make sure they let us witness every strike of the whip on his back, every drop of blood from his sweaty brow as he struggles to carry  his cross. That's right, we are supposed to feel sorry for Jesus. But it doesn't end there, we are supposed to feel guilty too. It's our fault. We are the ones that should be going through this brutalisation. Look at what we made Jesus go through all because we are wicked, worthless people, an abomination in the eyes of God just for being  human.

Then Jesus returns two days later, raises himself, and conquers death, and we are supposed to say thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you to the end of our days and then for eternity after that.  Jesus conquering death?  He is God, all he was doing on that resurrection day was turning back on his super powers. Returning to God 'business as usual.' He could easily have stopped the slaughter. What does he want after all this? He wants our worship. That just didn't make sense to me, that's not what a real hero does. The moral thing to do is not to demand gratitude, just accept it if it is offered, graciously. The satisfaction of knowing that the people you helped have benefited personally or collectively should be reward in itself. Who can forget Captain Sully the pilot on the Hudson river saving those passengers. Some came back to thank him, but he was almost embarrassed about it. After that thanking, people moved on to make the most of their second chance in life without harping back too much on that day. Sully saved them from a danger we could all recognise. Still, there are no Sully churches by the river, no Sully pilgrimages being embarked on, no Sully prayers being offered up.

Jesus, on the other hand, isn't that forgiving about being left out of the "Vote of Thanks." Recognising him is more important than anything that we can do for ourselves or our fellow human beings. He will not let us move on from focusing on this cross and what HE did.

The inevitable crash

Bang!! That was it, with the moral foundation now giving way under the cross, there was nothing left to keep it standing. It came crashing down and their was simply nothing I could do. I would be lying if I said I wasn't sad to see it go. I had hung on to that Old Rugged Cross for a long time.

I have to say that losing the cross in no way means that I think everything to do with Christianity, Christians or the church is evil or immoral. I recognise that for many Christians the doctrinal things don't matter much. It has often been said that many believers treat religious doctrine and creeds as they treat computer software licenses. They just scroll down to the bottom of the page and click, " I Agree."

Most Christians are in church to have fellowship, find ways to help others in their communities and try to follow the teachings of Jesus. I have recognised on numerous occasions  the contributions of churches in the arts, music, poetry and architecture. At Christmas I wrote here about how much I enjoyed embracing the myth of Christ's birth. It really and truly is just the cross that I can no longer support.

So, this year at Easter as I reflected on the once lofty cross now shattered on the ground it was hard to feel the joy that used to come with that day. Easter is no longer that great 'comeback story.' It's not to say that I am miserable  now as a result. I just go to other places for inspirational 'comeback stories.' Preferably drawing on accounts in the non fictional section.

Since my cross has fallen, I have had lots of offers from Christians to help me put it back up again. Shattered it may be, but they assure me I can still put it back together from memory. With the right people supporting me, my cross can stand up proudly once more. They might be right. I could probably reconstruct my cross if I wanted to. However, I am afraid it will topple again once the winds of logic hit it and I just don't want to waste my time or theirs.