For five months, I have been searching for a church to go to with my daughter. But it's been 20 years since I last went regularly and everything has changed. I stopped going after one Sunday ended in tears and humiliation. As a Brownie, brainwashed by the Brownies' code, I was in awe of my duties to "God" and "Country". So, when my group of little goblins, elves and sprites was asked, "Who would like to carry the Brownie banner to the altar at Harvest Festival?", my hand shot up with eager devotion.
The big Sunday arrived. My brown uniform and beret were freshly pressed, brown shoes polished, and even my parents were persuaded to change out of their everyday denim and into cheesecloth. Nervously, I hovered at the back of the church, banner resting in the leather holster that ran from one shoulder and sat painfully on my hip. "Parading the banner" and "presenting it to God" translated into a swift march to the altar, a quick knee-dip and about-turn, and a rapid walk to the back of the church. The walk to the altar went well, like a wedding march: the pace was precise and deliberate. But instead of kneeling briefly, turning around and rushing out of sight, I had a "Road to Damascus" moment.
In black-and-white films (which I considered historical home movies), no courtier or loyal servant turned his back on the monarch. Surely, buzzed my ten-year-old brain, if God was the head of the royal family, then he deserved the full Errol Flynn-style backing away?
That's what I did. Head dipped respectfully, I very slowly and carefully backed up the aisle. Past the posh families at the front, past the old lady with the runny nose, and finally past my own weeping parents (they knew precisely what I was thinking). It took more than a minute and lasted a lifetime.
The congregation sat in stunned silence, and then the tittering began. Mean snuffles came from my Brownie colleagues, and even the vicar let out a Job-like sigh that seemed to ask: "Why are you testing me, Lord?"
But it's all changed now. While you heathens shop or drink away your Sundays, the majority of churches in trendy suburbs now feature men in suits, not frocks, and hymns based on the Pink Panther theme instead of "He Who Would Valiant Be".
Starting from scratch with modern Christianity hasn't been easy. Churches nowadays seem determined to get you through their doors before you can spot what denomination they are. Below the legend "St James Church", I looked for some clue but, for the life of me, couldn't spot an RC or a C of E. Was I entering the home of happy-clappy Baptists or of mournful, sombre Anglicans?
The church is old and in glorious condition, its congregation a friendly mix of the devout working class and those, like me, who prefer family picnics to all that God stuff. The man taking us jauntily through the service spoke more like a city banker than a vicar. He leaned over the pulpit and asked: "Was James having a laugh or trying to wind us up when he told us to enjoy pain?" He seemed just as likely to ask: "Was Jesus taking the piss when he said 'Love thine enemies'?"
Ah, the modern Church - you just can't beat it. I'd been going there for three months and had never dared ask what brand of Christianity they were selling. Last weekend, it all became sickeningly clear. After we were assured that James wasn't "some sort of nutter after all", all eyes turned to the creed. The dreaded words "Holy Roman Catholic Church" swam before my eyes. Had I been giving money to the Catholic Church all these weeks? Dear God.
That's it, then. I won't be going back this Sunday. Catholicism is religion's answer to McDonald's. Their main motivation is to create a world full of their customers and rake in the cash at the same time. And both have committed atrocities and leave you with a sense of guilt.
