An atheist in church

Last week I found out that a good friend had died, having suddenly dropped dead of his second heart attack, aged 65 and too young for such a fate these days. Although almost 20 years my senior, Vic was as alive as any of my peers my own age. He leaves behind a widow, 2 children, 7 grandchildren, and would have been a great-grandfather later this year. And he was a committed Freemason, which is how I came to know him. It was his passion: he was a member of at least 17 Masonic groups, he was Director of Ceremonies in the group we shared and either Almoner or Charity Steward in nearly all the others.

It may surprise some readers to know that I am a Freemason, particularly as I am also atheist (Secular Humanist). Those familiar with Freemasonry will know that one of the fundamental requirements for joining is affirmation of a “belief in a Supreme Being”, which might suggest that I’m either a liar or hypocrite -– but I’m neither. When I first joined Freemasonry (called Craft here, but also called Blue Lodge elsewhere) I considered myself agnostic -– that is, I figured there was probably a supreme being of some kind but I just simply didn’t know what or whom, so I chose neutrality over a position. But as I’ve mentioned previously, it can be argued that a self-identified Agnostic is simply an Atheist who hasn’t really given it much thought.

I’ve subsequently given it much thought, and that’s also led to me giving much thought to my Masonic membership. I was also a member of a side order called the Holy Royal Arch (often simply referred to as Chapter), which I joined later, but it is unapologetically Judeo-Christian –- more so than Craft in its present form –- so I felt it only right to leave, but also because I felt the morality story and ritual that it uses is too contrived. In short, I left Chapter because I felt that it was incompatible with atheism, but I joined both Craft and Chapter at a time when I met all entrance requirements.

Although I should in theory resign also from Craft, as it has an ongoing assumption that its members retain that belief in a supreme being, but I have remained for a number of reasons. Part of the reason is compassion and responsibility: as I have worked my way through the Lodge offices over the last 5 years, this year I am to go into the Chair (i.e. I’ve earned the right to run the Lodge for a year) and as the lodge member numbers are quite low, my resignation would have a notable negative impact upon the lodge itself. It’s an interesting ethical dilemma.

So back to Vic.

In my early teens I had 4 family members tragically die: the first was a cousin aged 7 who was buried alive, the second was a family friend who we think was murdered by a serial rapist (she introduced me to Catholicism when I was young), the third was my grandfather (and best friend), and lastly was my “godfather” (a family friend my grandfather’s age who I called and considered my uncle). Having had my fill of deaths, burials and cremations before coming of age I’ve been quite fortunate to have not been to a funeral service since.

Over the weekend just gone I was informed that Vic’s funeral was today, and was asked if I could attend. This presented multiple mental hurdles for me:

• The old but strong feelings of my teenage funereal experiences.
• I’ve not been to a church service of any kind in 17 years, and that was when I was a true believer.
• I’m now unapologetically atheist.
• It was to be a Masonic funeral service conducted in a Church of England chapel by a Church of England Reverend and Freemason.
• Unapologetically atheist or not, in Masonic terms it’s something I’ve discussed with only a couple of close brothers.

Ultimately my decision was based in the humanistic position that one may respect a man regardless of his beliefs. He was a good man who lived his life as he felt right, and he did what he did in life for the right reasons. So I wanted to pay respect to that life as well as be there to support my friend (who introduced me to Vic and was close friends with him) and Vic’s widow.

So at noon we were standing with over a hundred people, all suited and booted outside the chapel, in marvellously good weather. We all filed into the chapel and the place was filled to bursting: 50 or so people had to stand, so it was a huge turnout. Say what you might about Freemasonry, there’s no doubt it engenders a huge sense of community.

I find it difficult to not be disparaging about clear emotional manipulation throughout any major religious event (e.g. funerals being good recruiting opportunities, etc), but I think it worth sharing here to give those who are unfamiliar with how Church of England funereal services are conducted:

• Kenny G’s Forever in Love was played while the pall-bearers brought in the coffin.
• The minister welcomed everyone and said some prayers.
• A hymn was sung by all: Guide me, O thou great redeemer.
• The minister read John 14:1-6 from the Bible.
• One of Vic’s friends from our Chapter spoke a moving tribute.
• The minister gave an address, largely consisting of the usual platitudes but also peppered with Masonic phrases that the majority of the room recognised and appreciated.
• We were all asked to silently reflect on Vic’s life for a few minutes in our own way, while Kool & The Gang’s Cherish played in the background.
• The minister spoke a number of prayers.
• Everyone was asked to speak The Lord’s Prayer.
• We all sang the Closing Ode that is sung at the end of every Masonic meeting, which was moving for all the Freemasons present.
• The minister spoke a commendation and farewell to Vic, which ended with the automated curtain closure.
• The minister read a blessing to all.
• Boyzone’s No Matter What was played on loop as everyone left the chapel. This took some time, so it played at least 3 times.

As you can see, I’m not derisive or dismissive of the service. I think it was done for the right reasons, it’s what Vic would have liked (if he’d ever thought far enough into the future to think of such things), and it wasn’t overly treacle-covered and full of unusual string-pulling. While I disagree with much of the content, execution and reason, I don’t disagree with the intent.

After the service we all met at the nearby Masonic Club for a reception and lunch. We stayed for a couple of hours catching up with people, offering condolences to Vic’s widow and all the family who had come, some of whom had travelled internationally. Those present were philosophical, reflective and some downright cheerful, which is I suspect as Vic would have liked it to be. He lived all aspects of his life to the full, not doing anything by half, and a hundred or more miserable people in a building he loved would have broken his heart.

I’ll certainly miss him -
- as I miss all family and friends that I’ve lost — but I’m very pleased to have known him for the time I did. He got what so many never get: the opportunity to be born and to live a life, for however long.

Have I told you about the dragon in my garage?

Every now and then one comes across something that illustrates a certain point supremely well. And when it’s written by one of my personal heroes, I have to share it. It’s probably an excellent allegorical response to works such as C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia, which many understand are in themselves an allegory for Christianity. Not to mention new age beliefs, other religions, and other forms of belief.

The Dragon In My Garage
by
Carl Sagan

“A fire-breathing dragon lives in my garage.”

Suppose (I’m following a group therapy approach by the psychologist Richard Franklin) I seriously make such an assertion to you. Surely you’d want to check it out, see for yourself. There have been innumerable stories of dragons over the centuries, but no real evidence. What an opportunity!

“Show me,” you say. I lead you to my garage. You look inside and see a ladder, empty paint cans, an old tricycle–but no dragon.

“Where’s the dragon?” you ask.

“Oh, she’s right here,” I reply, waving vaguely. “I neglected to mention that she’s an invisible dragon.”

You propose spreading flour on the floor of the garage to capture the dragon’s footprints.

“Good idea,” I say, “but this dragon floats in the air.”

Then you’ll use an infrared sensor to detect the invisible fire.

“Good idea, but the invisible fire is also heatless.”

You’ll spray-paint the dragon and make her visible.

“Good idea, but she’s an incorporeal dragon and the paint won’t stick.”

And so on. I counter every physical test you propose with a special explanation of why it won’t work.

Now, what’s the difference between an invisible, incorporeal, floating dragon who spits heatless fire and no dragon at all? If there’s no way to disprove my contention, no conceivable experiment that would count against it, what does it mean to say that my dragon exists? Your inability to invalidate my hypothesis is not at all the same thing as proving it true. Claims that cannot be tested, assertions immune to disproof are veridically worthless, whatever value they may have in inspiring us or in exciting our sense of wonder. What I’m asking you to do comes down to believing, in the absence of evidence, on my say-so.

The only thing you’ve really learned from my insistence that there’s a dragon in my garage is that something funny is going on inside my head. You’d wonder, if no physical tests apply, what convinced me. The possibility that it was a dream or a hallucination would certainly enter your mind. But then, why am I taking it so seriously? Maybe I need help. At the least, maybe I’ve seriously underestimated human fallibility.

Imagine that, despite none of the tests being successful, you wish to be scrupulously open-minded. So you don’t outright reject the notion that there’s a fire-breathing dragon in my garage. You merely put it on hold. Present evidence is strongly against it, but if a new body of data emerge you’re prepared to examine it and see if it convinces you. Surely it’s unfair of me to be offended at not being believed; or to criticize you for being stodgy and unimaginative– merely because you rendered the Scottish verdict of “not proved.”

Imagine that things had gone otherwise. The dragon is invisible, all right, but footprints are being made in the flour as you watch. Your infrared detector reads off-scale. The spray paint reveals a jagged crest bobbing in the air before you. No matter how skeptical you might have been about the existence of dragons–to say nothing about invisible ones–you must now acknowledge that there’s something here, and that in a preliminary way it’s consistent with an invisible, fire-breathing dragon.

Now another scenario: Suppose it’s not just me. Suppose that several people of your acquaintance, including people who you’re pretty sure don’t know each other, all tell you that they have dragons in their garages–but in every case the evidence is maddeningly elusive. All of us admit we’re disturbed at being gripped by so odd a conviction so ill-supported by the physical evidence. None of us is a lunatic. We speculate about what it would mean if invisible dragons were really hiding out in garages all over the world, with us humans just catching on. I’d rather it not be true, I tell you. But maybe all those ancient European and Chinese myths about dragons weren’t myths at all.

Gratifyingly, some dragon-size footprints in the flour are now reported. But they’re never made when a skeptic is looking. An alternative explanation presents itself. On close examination it seems clear that the footprints could have been faked. Another dragon enthusiast shows up with a burnt finger and attributes it to a rare physical manifestation of the dragon’s fiery breath. But again, other possibilities exist. We understand that there are other ways to burn fingers besides the breath of invisible dragons. Such “evidence”–no matter how important the dragon advocates consider it–is far from compelling. Once again, the only sensible approach is tentatively to reject the dragon hypothesis, to be open to future physical data, and to wonder what the cause might be that so many apparently sane and sober people share the same strange delusion.

Fantastic, isn’t it? Using his renowned ability to instruct and correct kindly and sympathetically, and without the frustrated emotion and insults that many of us succumb to, he manages to illustrate and educate this point brilliantly. A true humanist, skeptic, educator and ambassador for science and reason.

A lot can happen in 20 years – Part 6

This follows on from Part 5.

As mentioned in Part 1, I realised that it’s exactly 20 years since I entered the full-time workforce, and a lot can happen in that time, so thought I’d share my road to reason. This is a continuation.

Having had my fill of what could probably be considered the traditional religion of the “white western world”, Christianity, and living in the UK (that contains a large immigrant population from outside that region), it seemed natural to look into one of the world’s other dominant religions, Islam. Up to 2 billion people follow or were born into it, and many reports say that it is growing in popularity, and may even be the world’s fastest growing religion.

Before reading on, note that all words in Islam are Arabic, as Muslims believe Arabic is the only language in which their holy book can be read or understood (perhaps even so far as to believe that “Arabic is the language of god”). All translations are considered merely guides, which is why translations of the Qur’an are always have the title prefixed with The Meaning of… In addition, transliterations of Arabic words can be spelled various ways — my understanding is that there is no ‘correct’ way to spell them outside of the Arabic character set: hence Islam, Islaam, Muhammed, Mohamed, Mohammed, Mahomet, Qur’an, Quraan, Koran, Muslim, Moslem, etc.

Islam is seen by Muslims to be the third and last in the line of Abrahamic religions, that is a monotheistic religion with Abraham as its original prophet. Contrary to what most right-wing people or extremist members of each religion will say, all three of these religions worship exactly the same god: the god of the Jewish prophets Abraham, Noah, Moses and Jesus. All three originated in a small area of the Middle East and have essentially the same roots, regardless of whatever branding and localisation may have happened where you live. The most obvious differences between the three religions are what they call their god, what level of importance they place on notable people in their holy books, and who they consider to be their authoritative prophet. Muslims believe that Muhammed is the last and greatest prophet of the Abrahamic god, whom they call Allah. Allah is simply the transliterated Arabic word al-Lah, meaning “the (only, one) god.” To make that perfectly clear: Allah is literally the Arabic word God — not actually a name. They do not believe that Muhammed (often simply referred to as The Prophet) was divine, though many critics seem unable to discern a difference between the Islamic treatment of Muhammed and the Christian treatment of Jesus.

It was not my intention to convert to Islam, though I did want to give it the attention to detail and respect that it deserved, so I observed many of the rules of the religion — to the consternation of some of my family and friends.

I began my exploration of Islam via the Islam Channel on TV, the Internet (which can be a minfield, as with all topics that polarise beliefs and opinions), and an Islamic centre not far from where I work. This centre and an Islamic Internet Relay Chat (IRC) channel (or ‘chatroom’) would enable me to talk with Muslims, to learn and to get an idea of the varying opinions, sects and beliefs. On IRC I quickly found people who ranged from mature, moderate live-and-let-live responsible global citizens to angry young men (and women) screaming for jihad against the West with every breath. These people ranged from 3rd generation Americans and British citizens through to people sitting in Internet cafes in war zones. Putting up your hand in such an environment to say that you’re a white Anglo-Saxon, and not a Muslim, always gets a variety of reactions: some will immediately seek retribution (expulsion from the channel, attacking your computer, verbal abuse and threats, etc), many will raise an eyebrow but continue on as normal, and a few will be happy for the change of perspective. For the most part, once I’d been there for a couple of hours nobody asked who I was, and I was able to have interesting and meaningful conversations with a number of people. No pretending or lying was required on my part.

A few weeks into my online experiences — which also included reading numerous websites, online web forums, and a PDF copy of the Qur’an — I decided to visit the nearby Islamic centre which was open one evening per week. They were attached to a local mosque — both taking up 2-3 shops in a small strip mall — and the centre was manned by two Pakistani friends who felt it their duty to reach out to the wider community, in much the same way Christian churches sometimes do, by providing a drop-in and information centre for those who were curious. On my first visit I was struck by the difference in appearance of the two men, particularly as the UK seems to consist mainly of a fundamentalist version of Islam (which includes uncut facial hair and traditional clothes, among other things), as one had some of the typical appearance of what I had seen on TV and the other was wearing western clothes and was cleanly shaven; the former was a medical writer and the latter a school teacher. The centre itself took up one of the shops and had a glass front, school desks and chairs set up in a square in the middle, a few armchairs in one corner, and shelves on the walls with Islamic books, CDs, bookmarks, posters, and the usual kinds of things you find in a religious bookshop.

Over the next few months I visited the centre periodically, and then started going into the mosque during prayer times as the evening prayer began when I was there, so I took the opportunity to watch exactly what went on. Eventually I started to take part in the prayers, and found the process quite complicated with the movements changing depending upon which prayer you were doing, it had to be in formation with the other people there, and there were words to learn that had to be mouthed quietly throughout the prayer. Regardless of the political opinions that I knew some of the members had (I spoke with some of them before/after prayers), every single person there made me feel welcome, even though I was the only white person in the building. There was no sense of not belonging, no hint of malice, no racial awareness — each person treated me as a brother, no matter whether they spoke English or not (many didn’t). There’s a lot to be said for that sense of family, and I can see how it binds good people and bad people, and provides that global sense of community, the Ummah.

Continued in Part 7.

A lot can happen in 20 years – Part 5

This follows on from Part 4.

As mentioned in Part 1, I realised that it’s exactly 20 years since I entered the full-time workforce, and a lot can happen in that time, so thought I’d share my road to reason. This is a continuation.

Upon coming to a decision about Buddhism, I then chose to examine an aspect of Christianity that had I no experience of: the Religious Society of Friends (or Quakers). They seemed to be non-existent where I grew up, so it wasn’t until I moved to the UK that I learned more about them in passing, and eventually decided to investigate them in greater depth. My understanding is that the Quakers in the UK are notably different from those in the US — my friends there speak of Quakers there as if they are fundamentalist or fire-and-brimstone organisation, which is nothing like the Quakers I’ve come across here.

In the UK they meet in a Friends Meeting House (a church by any other name, but usually without many of the trappings) with the chairs arranged in a rough circle so that everyone can see one another, and the meeting consists of everyone sitting in silence. There is no preaching, no sermon, no tub-thumping, no agenda being cast down from the pulpit — just people sitting and quietly reflecting. It remains this way until someone feels moved to speak, at which point they will stand and calmly say their piece, then resume their seat; later on someone else may feel moved to speak (sometimes in response, sometimes not), and this continues until the meeting finishes. Once finished, everyone stands and shakes one another’s hands with a smile, and then everyone retreats to the canteen/dining area where everyone shares lunch, with most people having brought a plate of food to share.

With the exception of one meeting where a member clearly felt strongly about his son being sent to war and subsequently feeling moved to speak out against it (followed by another member gently providing Biblical platitudes, resulting in the same man feeling moved to speak out again against his son’s predicament, and so on), which drove home the unfortunate nature of the concept of “being moved to speak”, all of my attendances at Quakers meetings were delightful. Regardless of such instances of emotion-driven speeches, it is a truly welcoming and peaceful environment. In fact, one of the members of the same local Buddhist group I once attended is a regular attender at the Quaker meetings — they are so welcoming that one does not even have to profess Christianity (or indicate that you’re willing to “sign up”) to attend and be truly welcome, unlike every other religious organisation I’ve ever attended, before or since.

My experience with the Quakers showed that they are as much, if not more, about community and spirituality than religion and dogma, and those are attributes that I’m sure anyone can respect, admire and appreciate. However, they are prey to the same faults as other Christian groups: the adherence to the Bible as infallible, the belief in God/Jesus/Holy Spirit (the Trinity), and to the belief in the concept of “being moved” to speak. My biggest concerns were that nearly all such motions were from the speaker’s personal life or recent headline news. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to fathom that the source is mundane, not divine.

Continued in Part 6.

A lot can happen in 20 years – Part 4

This follows on from Part 3.

As mentioned in Part 1, I realised that it’s exactly 20 years since I entered the full-time workforce, and a lot can happen in that time, so thought I’d share my road to reason. This is a continuation.

The next 8 years or so saw me maintain at least a passing interest in religion, but it became more generalised to include the breadth of what I considered to be global wisdom. I gradually came to call myself an agnostic over this period, losing all of the “fear” beliefs surrounding fundamentalist Christianity (the whole You’ll go to hell if you do/don’t… thing), and it played less of a role as other matters in my life took precedence: university, career establishment, buying a house, moving across the country, moving overseas, etc.

It was a few years after I moved to the UK that I regained an interest in religion — not necessarily from an “I need religion…” viewpoint, but rather to explore it with more academic interest and to re-assess its part in my life, if at all. I realise that it’s glib to say “we’re all going to hell because we’re all heretics to someone’s religion”, but another way of looking at that is to think that many of the world’s old religions had at least kernels of truth. Judaism, Christianity and Islam are perhaps unique in that essentially they share a common origin — the Pentateuch (or Torah) — and some other world religions are based upon other religions or cultural legends. While the Mithraic legend and Horus history are probably the most obvious for Christians, I chose to look at other religions rather than stick with the Judeo-Christian theme with which I had more than a passing familiarity.

As I wasn’t “looking for god”, I looked at Buddhism and, in particular, Theravada (also called Orthodox). It is the oldest of the main variants of Buddhism today (Theravada, Mahayana and Vajrayana) and is the only natively non-theistic variant, and therefore an excellent candidate for a life philosophy. There is no deity, rather deference and respect for Gautama Buddha, the person who is believed to have discovered enlightenment and shared it with others. To this end, I read a great deal, become involved with the national Buddhist Society, regularly attended a local Buddhist group’s meetings, and even spent a day at a monastery, 30 miles outside London, to learn the various forms and modes of meditation. I still regard that day as one of the most peaceful and relaxing of my life, if for no other reason than we seldom take the chance to genuinely switch off from our thoughts, concerns, desires, greed, insecurities, aspirations, fears and dozens of other mental hamster wheels.

My experience with and study of Buddhism was a fascinating and peaceful experience — and I still occasionally make use of anapanasati meditation to relax myself — though as with my prior experience, there were dogmas, beliefs and practices that were clearly not real or applicable in a world outside a monastery. Part of this is, I suppose, a problem that afflicts many monastic people who deal with people who live in the real world (to do with relationships, business, time spent, etc), but the parts that bothered were to do with genuflecting towards statues of Buddha (it seemed the same as praying to a deity) as well as their viewpoint on suffering. The concept of the ending of needless suffering — euthanasing even a pet, for example — were alien, as pain is a part of life and is to be accepted. It wasn’t just those points, but it pointed out to me that this was not an entirely rational community.

I have not spoken about the other core variants of Buddhism, as I feel unqualified to do so, suffice to say that my understanding is that Mahayana — from which oriental Buddhism and variants originates — allows for the godhood of Buddha or Buddhas, as some revere more than one, and Vajrayana (Tibetan) includes aspects that are shamanic and involve magic and other superstitions. While I am not attempting to denigrate these variants, these points do show why I chose Theravada. It allowed for a thorough examination of a philosophy without the distractions of deities and such.

Continued in Part 5.

A lot can happen in 20 years – Part 3

This follows on from Part 2.

As mentioned in Part 1, I realised that it’s exactly 20 years since I entered the full-time workforce, and a lot can happen in that time, so thought I’d share my road to reason. This is a continuation.

It astonishes me to this day that this kind of surgical excision of my entire life could have happened. This elder and his wife had lied to everyone, peers my age had simply accepted it without question, and none thought to contact me — even on the side, just in case (or to wish me well). I could just have easily contacted any or all of them, but that would have misses the point of my choice to stop making contact.

It wasn’t the appalling behaviour of some of the people I’ve mentioned that has made me “hate God”, as is the common accusation levelled against atheists. I don’t hate God or even the concept of a god. It’s far too easy for our black and white views of the world — particularly in areas of high emotion, usually around the age old controversies of origin, religion, race, creed, politics and gender — to encourage us to pigeon-hole one another. Theists and atheists are often equally to blame, as it’s due to the logical fallacy of False Dichotomy (or Excluded Middle) which completely excludes the middle ground that nearly always exists. It’s what governments, leaders, politicians and advertising companies use against us on a daily basis and is quite likely to be a natural tendency (the same goes the truth of “sex sells”), so it takes thought and reason to both see and avoid.

So once I realised how things stood with the church congregation — my “loving family” and community — I ceased all religious activity. It wasn’t only because of the hurt and shock, as I was then unaware of what the elders had done on my departure, but rather because I felt as though my eyes had been opened and I was finally able to examine the previous 3-4 years of my life and the material, dogma and beliefs that had been accrued. And it was staggering. I did not consider myself an atheist at that point, in fact at that time I still consider myself a Christian, albeit non-practising. This examination included taking stock of the beliefs, policies, behaviours and dogmas of the churches I had attended, the contents of the Bible (particularly the sections chosen, those used as justifications, and those specifically ignored), and of course soul-searching my own beliefs now that I was out of the self-reinforcing environment of a congregation.

Outside of the community, it’s amazing how much time you have to think and, while you may not have someone to immediately seek advice or answers from, that is not necessarily a bad thing. There is, after all, often a difference between a fact and the party line (and that doesn’t just apply to religion). Until leaving I had mainly received the party line or an on-the-spot made up answer based upon the teachings of the party line… and it usually differed from even the written word in the Bible. Such is the nature of interpretive preaching and cherry-picking.

Continued in Part 4.

A lot can happen in 20 years – Part 2

This follows on from Part 1.

As mentioned in Part 1, I realised that it’s exactly 20 years since I entered the full-time workforce, and a lot can happen in that time, so thought I’d share my road to reason.

I was welcomed into this new church with open arms, possibly because of attendance crossover between churches, and over time I found myself with more and more responsibility, leading the youth group band, singing in the choir, mentoring new youth group members and younger church members, providing general counselling or advice to those who asked for it, and eventually I began attending bible college with the intention of becoming a qualified pastor. At this point I was doing 3 evenings per week plus at least a day per weekend: this was a serious commitment.

It was at bible college that I began thinking critically, which quickly led to a number of questions (not the least was why hadn’t I done so sooner, but that’s another topic). I brought these questions to the people training me and received insufficient responses, ranging from outright dogma and answers made up on the spot right through to outright hostility. Not receiving the answers I needed — and with some alarm bells dully beginning to ring — I brought my questions to the church elders and pastors, believing them capable of answering difficult questions without the brimstone zealotry, but I received the same kinds of responses. Rather than make a bad situation worse, I put those questions away and continued with my studies, which of course led to more questions. In a short time I found myself gradually being firewalled away from my responsibilities within the church: another person would take over youth mentoring, the youth group needed a change of band and leader “to inject new fire”, an elder’s wife really wanted a position in the choir so would I mind being a gentleman (of course, it could have been my voice), the youth group were given a timely reminder only to spend time with people who were edifying and “at peace with the Lord”, and so on. Eventually I was asked to stop attending bible college, too.

In a combined state of incredulity and despair, sometime in 1992 (aged 20), I decided to stop attending everything and watch what happened. The vast majority of my friends — indeed my closest friends — were members, so I had no doubt whatsoever that I’d hear of events through them. To my utter astonishment, nobody ever contacted me again — not even my friends. It was as if I had ceased to exist.

It wasn’t until 1998 that I happened to meet one of my friends from that time (coincidentally the daughter of one of the church’s senior elders) on the bus and we chatted. Naturally those events came up in conversation and she told me that her parents had advised her and the church that I had moved to another church in another town and wanted to make a clean break of it, requesting that nobody try to contact me. These upstanding church elders had stood up and lied to their children and the entire congregation (addressing them all because of “my” unusual but specific wishes), effectively excommunicating me in a way that would minimise any rational fallout upon the members.

Continued in Part 3.