Our story begins on a cold autumnal afternoon, picking my
son up from school. I ask him, as I
always do, if he had a good day in school.
“I had a great day in school!”
His usual response.
“What did you do in school today?”
“I don’t remember!”
This is, alas, also the usual response. So far, so robotic. The next pre-programmed steps are to go
through the day, “What was the best thing that happened today? What was the worst thing? Did you learn anything? What did you do after register? What did you
play at break? I try to find any thread of
information I can and then start slowly pulling on it to get some clues about what he’s
doing in school. I can only presume this
is how the Spanish Inquisition started.
Finally, we arrive at what he did after break and he stops
for a moment, something he usually does before deciding whether to tell me the
truth or not. Then, slowly:
“I read a book”
“With the teacher or for fun?”
“…For fun”
“Which book were you reading?”
The longest pause yet.
“…… The bible.”
He stops to look at me for a moment, to check if I’m cross
with him and for a moment I’m horrified.
Not because I’ve got a problem with him reading the bible, but at the
idea that he’s scared to tell me. He
looks at me like it’s a bad thing, like he’s been naughty, something which will
get him into trouble. He’s telling me he’s
reading one of the world’s most important pieces of literature, and he's looking at
me like he’s admitting to killing my dog.
The reason for this should be obvious, at least to anyone
who’s read the title of this blog. I’m
very open with Michael about the fact that not only do I not believe in god (or any other gods for that matter) but I’d go so far as to say it’s
ridiculous make-believe nonsense. I try
as hard as possible to make it clear this is my belief, and mine alone. Christians must believe my materialist
attitude is equally ludicrous. Whenever
I discuss it with him I always remind him that there are smart people I respect
who do believe, that there’s no conclusive proof he doesn’t exist, and he
should wait until he’s older and better informed before making a decision.
I try to stay calm, not to show my panic that I’ve dealt
with the situation so badly he now connects learning about religion with being
naughty.
“You know there’s nothing wrong with you reading the bible
right? What bit are you up to?”
He ignores the first question.
“I’m reading about Moses freeing the jews”
He’s still terrified.
I try and put his mind at ease.
“I’ve read the bible.
Mammy too. There’s nothing wrong
with that. You could have one if you
wanted?”
I’m pushing now, I wouldn’t normally be okay with making
this offer, but I’m so thrown by his reaction.
The only bible story he has access to in the house is the nativity story
in one of his Christmas books, a story that I recently read a
reverend decribe as “one of the greatest stories of all time.” I love this.
The only reason to describe something as “one of the greatest” is
because you don’t believe it belongs in the top spot. Like the birth of his lord and saviour was
good and all, but that bit in Catching Fire where they have to go back into the
games really put life into perspective for him.
Anyway, I’m digressing from the point. Even when I was reading the nativity story with
my son last year I’d add the words “Christians believe…” at the start. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as “Once
Upon a Time…” but I think, in this case, it’s required.
“But I don’t think I could have it Daddy.” His eyes begin to well up again at this point
and I’m terrified of what’s going to come out of his mouth next.
“Why not?”
“because…. because-its-a-children’s-first-bible!” He stumbles over his words, he’s so worried
to say them. He talks like he’s been
caught out in a lie and is now finally admitting to the truth. Like he thinks reading the bible was wrong,
but somehow reading one specifically designed for people his age is going to
tip me over the edge.
“I’m sure we can get you one.
We’ll have a look on amazon and see what they have.”
“Okay Daddy.”
“Just promise me that when you’re reading it you’ll remember
that nothing in it is necessarily true.
It’s not a history book. There’s
no-one’s who can prove either way if Moses or Jesus or any of them were real people.”
“Okay Daddy……..
Daddy?
“Yes”
“Does Santa know?”
It’s my turn to worry now.
I try to stay calm but I’m worried my face is screwing itself up, telling
him things I don’t want him to know. My stupid face is screaming “I
killed your dog”
“Does Santa know what?”
“Does Santa know if Moses was real?”
I’ve addressed this issue briefly before, why I think it’s
okay to lie to him about Santa but be so specific about my feelings on the Incredible
Space Wizard. (To be clear, I’ve never specifically referred to Jesus as The
Incredible Space Wizard to my son. Not
least because it makes him sound way cooler than I’m comfortable with. I cannot make the same claim about calling
him this to adults.) Am I being
hypocritical? No, I don’t think so. I think I escape hypocritical by virtue of
the fact that religious people genuinely believe whichever one of the gods they
prescribe to is real. No-one really
believes in Santa Claus. But am I supposed
to tell him that? Should I make him
aware that people over the age of 10 don’t generally believe in Father
Christmas but there’s no conclusive proof he doesn’t exist?
I could spend another hundred paragraphs covering all the
aspects of it, but the long and short of it is that he has been told magic isn’t
real but it’s fun to pretend. He has
been told Santa is magic. One day, when
he puts these two facts together I won’t lie to him about the truth, but until
then I’m going to enjoy the emotional magic the lie brings.
“I don’t think he knows”
“Why not?”
“Because Santa isn’t that old”
“Oh. How old is he?”
“I don’t really know.
He’s a very old man, but the story of Moses takes place thousands of
years ago.”
“Is he hundreds of years old?”
“Maybe.”
He stops talking. The
conversation could end here, but I extend it a little as I can’t leave it here.
“Would you like some other religious books?”
“Other ones?”
“Christians have the bible, but there are lots of different
gods people believe in and lots of different books about them.”
“Could I have a book on the Egyptian gods?”
“You mean the ancient Egyptian ones? From the pyramids”
“Yeah.”
“I should think so.
We could get you one on the books modern Egyptians believe in too if you
wanted?”
“Don’t they believe in the pyramid ones any more?”
“No, most people in Egypt are Muslim now”
“Oh”. He says. A bit disappointed. Then, “what’s muslim?”
“Another religion. They
have a god like Christianity, but he’s a bit different and they have different
stories”
“I think so”
“Brilliant.”
So, long story slightly less long, I now find myself in the
situation that my six year old is sending a letter to a make believe man he
doesn’t know is make believe, to ask for a book about another make believe man
he knows some people think isn’t make believe and is also probably going to get
a series of books about other make believe men to ensure he gets to read a
broad spectrum of stories, in the earnest hope he’ll decide when he’s older that they’re
all a load of rubbish. Also, if I can
find it, a children's book about the origins of the universe that I can explain represents
our best guess at what actually happened but we don’t know if it’s true and if
it is we don’t know why it happened and could ultimately be completely wrong and
we should ignore if a better theory comes along.
Also, he’ll probably get some toys. And chocolate.
After all, it is Christmas.
1 I am of course taking here about Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus.
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