That Girl from Derwent dwells on the value of religion this Christmas.
That Girl from Derwent has learned a few more things about prejudice since moving up North.
That Girl From Derwent reckons if you're going to be offensive, you should find a better reason.
That Girl from Derwent considers why it is that some words have wider implications than others.
Or perhaps I was just hungry.
Religion was drilled into me from a young age, certain things were wrong and others were right; such and such was bad and other things were good. I never questioned it; I never asked for justification… nonetheless I knew that something wasn’t right...
As I grew up the feelings of resentment began to grow, I began to see my religion as a tool of suppression, to keep people in check. The values that the teachers espoused were unrealistic and I couldn’t help feel that they were insincere. As girls we weren’t allowed to wear trousers, even in the winter – I wondered why such an inequality was allowed, when we were supposedly all equal in the eyes of God? The local priest would talk about kindness and forgiveness, but then shout at whichever poor soul got a question wrong in Latin class.
We were forced to go to confession, to pray for our sins, but were we truly sorry?
Was this all religion was? To honour tradition without recognising that some traditions are oppressive? To fear those who should have shown us kindness? To at least appear to be good if only on the face of it?
When I began to ask questions like these I began to lose faith, and soon the idea of God was nothing more than a distant echo of what I once believed in.
That is, until very recently.
I had been hurrying along the bustling streets of York; the shoppers were heavy in number and laden with bags, the scene was hectic and I couldn’t help but feel frustrated as I weaved in and out of the crowd, striving for space, struggling to make it forward...and then I stopped. I spotted an archway to my right and beyond that a hint of green. I edged my way towards it, mesmerized by the unexpectedness of it; and as I passed through the archway I was struck with a peculiarly familiar feeling. There, in the middle of the hustle and bustle was a tiny secluded spot, a simple church sitting peacefully in the centre of a garden. It was quiet and beautiful, and made me long for something that I’d long since forgotten...
It made me long for God.
I realised what the familiar feeling was, it was comfort. Comfort at the thought that I was part of something bigger, that there was always someone there – even when I was most alone. The feeling that despite my mistakes I was valued and loved just for being alive. I realised that my religion had twisted these ideas and made them ugly to me, but that didn’t mean that I had to stop believing in God – I would just do it in my own way. I wouldn’t be told how to connect with God because God isn’t necessarily found in a church, and certainly not in fear of punishment. God isn’t found in insincere prayers, or mournful singing. God is in the beauty of the world and in the peace and sincerity of nature, in the kindness we show to others and in the sheer miracle that is our existence. God was in the prayer that my mum used to say when my dad was away and I would cuddle up with her: a prayer about keeping us and him safe, and I knew she meant every word.
God was in the garden, and I was glad that He was, because the world suddenly seemed a whole lot bigger.
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