God is Dead

God is dead. There… I said it. God is dead. Deal with it.

I remember from a rather young age being dragged to church every single Sunday. I was never sure why we had to go there every week. I was convinced I was being punished for something, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Every week it was the same thing. Get up early, dress up nice, comb my hair, then go off to church and sit on a wood bench for a small eternity and listen to some guy I couldn’t actually see, due to my lack of height and bad eyesight, talk about some dude named god, or jesus, or something. And to top it off, it wasn’t just sitting. It was sit…. kneel… stand… kneel…. stand… sit. Over and over again. What’s going on? Pick one and stick with it!

What was really confusing was that my mom would drag me and my sisters to church every week but my dad was spared this punishment. Why did I have to go but dad didn’t?  I DO remember asking my mom once why dad never went with. She replied, “Your father works very hard during the week and he needs his rest.” Surely she was joking. I mean yeah… my dad works hard. Harder than anyone I knew in my 7 or 8 years of existence. But seriously…. I was tired too dammit. I worked hard in school. Those dodge balls weren’t going to get thrown themselves you know. Hell…. I went to a catholic school for the first few years. We went to mass once a week already. Why was I made to go twice?
     
I remember sitting in the pew….. hee hee…. pew… that’s funny… anyway, I remember sitting in the pew thinking, “what am I supposed to be doing here? Who is he talking about now? I’ve never heard that name before. What does ‘smote’ mean? Why are we standing again? Ooooo time to sing. I hope we sing the wheels on the bus song. I know that one. Oh… another song I don’t know the words to. Why is everyone going up front? Are they eating? I’m starving… when’s it my turn? Why is everyone holding their hands and looking at the ground?  Is everyone sleeping? Better have a look around. Uh oh…. Mom looks mad. Better sit back down. I wonder what we’re having for dinner….
     
Needless to say I was never really moved by church and Christianity. I could never understand what the priest was talking about. I remember him telling stories about some group of guys called the apostles going off and doing heroic things and saving the day. Or was that Batman? I know that each week it was a different adventure for these guys and that I could never remember what happened last week or if it was even important to remember. Can I get a recap here? Last week on Jerusalem 90210… Maybe next week will be more interesting. Same god time, same god channel.
     
Like I said before, I was sent to Catholic school for the first few years of elementary school. We even had a nun for 1st grade. Apparently nuns and priests worked for this god person which was good because I had questions about god. Surely they would know. Anytime I asked a question, I either never got a straight answer or was told to go stand in the corner for disrupting the class. I had come to the conclusion that she was not the one to ask.
     
One day back in 1st or 2nd grade our teacher told us we would be going to confession. For those of you who aren’t Catholics let me tell you about it. It’s just like they show it on the TV. You walk into a booth and kneel down and tell some guy in another booth right next to you all the bad things you’ve done. There’s a little screen that is supposed to block the priests view of seeing you, even though you can see right through it. So you tell him all the bad stuff you’ve done and he gives you a homework assignment of prayers you have to say and all is well. I remember thinking several things when the teacher told me this.

1. I have to tell him all the bad stuff I’ve done? Why? I wouldn’t tell my parents what I did wrong, why would I tell this guy?
2. We have to say prayers afterwards to be forgiven? Why do we say prayers throughout the day then? Did I do something wrong in class and not know it?
3. If god knows all and sees all, why do I have to say it out loud? Shouldn’t god already know the bad stuff I’ve done?

Well I asked the teacher the last one and she told me to go stand in the corner. She obviously didn’t know. I’ll ask the priest when I do this confession thingy. If anyone would know the answer, it would be gods helper elf.

So I went to confession and I made up some bad things I probably did. (Hitting my sister, not eating my vegetables etc…) The priest then asked if there was anything else I had done wrong. I told him that was all. He assigned me some prayers and told me I was forgiven. I told him I had some questions for him about god and he told me to go ahead and ask. I asked him all sorts of questions about god. Why do people die? How did Noah get all the animals on the ark and why did he leave off the dinosaurs? Why doesn’t god answer my prayers for a million dollars? If Jesus was put on the cross, why didn’t his brother Hercules come save him? If god loves us, why would he send us to hell? Why would he make hell in the first place? If god only created Adam and Eve, how did we get all these people on the planet and where did black people come from? (Yeah I know that last one was racist, but I was 7 and didn’t know it was racist. It was a legitimate question) The priest then gave me extra prayers to do for all my questions. Not one of my questions went answered.

These kinds of questions popped into my head off and on throughout the years but after confession, I learned that it was just easier to keep my mouth shut. I knew that nobody there could answer my questions and that it would only get me into trouble. I wondered to myself how is it that nobody else is asking these kinds of questions? Is there something wrong with me? Am I going to hell for questioning the bible and what my teachers tell me?

A few years later my sister and I had been transferred to public school because catholic school was getting too expensive. I met all sorts of kids there and we didn’t have to wear uniforms. I liked that part because the loafers my mom always made me wear were slippery on the tile floor and I had a tendency to want to run and slide on the floor, but usually ended up falling down in the process. It was during my 6th grade year that I met a kid named Mike. We were in art or band class together. I don’t remember which. I do however remember asking him one day what his religion was. I knew there were different types of Christians, and knew about Judaism too. He told me he didn’t have a religion. I was really confused. “How can you not have a religion?”, I asked.
“I don’t know… I just don’t”
“Well what religion are your parents?”
“We don’t have one. My parents didn’t raise me to believe in god.”
“You can do that?”
“Yeah I guess.”
My mind was blown away. I had no idea that you could NOT believe in god. I mean come on… if you don’t believe in god, how does he expect to get into heaven? That one was a brain scratcher.

One day in 8th grade I was in line for lunch. I wasn’t sure what to have that day and when it was my turn I just ordered a hot dog. What I had forgotten was that it was Lent and also happened to be a Friday. I was informed of this by a little fat kid name Nate. I really didn’t like this kid. He was short, fat, pushy, and loved telling people when they screwed up. I walked past him in the lunch room.
“Hey Montyp2000, it’s Friday.”
“Yeah I know… so what?”
“It’s lent… you can’t eat meat stupid.”
He was right…. Oh I can see his smile start to form. He had won and was acting all high and mighty. I’ll show him.
“I don’t believe in god fat boy!”
Then it hit me…. Wow…. I don’t believe in god. Did I really just say that? Did I really MEAN it? I looked up. I don’t know what I was expecting. Was the mighty hand of god going to strike me down? Hmmm nothing happened. Wow… I don’t believe in god.

Better not let mom find out…