Contemptible cowards

There are many things about religion in general and Christianity in particular I find to be foul, repugnant and downright wicked. Reading about the beliefs and behaviour of religious people frequently has an effect on me akin to discovering I've stepped in an unusually sloppy and flyblown turd. Actually attending a Christian service feels like someone has rubbed my face in it.

Two days ago I was present at the funeral of an aged aunt. Joan was a strange, solitary old bird possessed of the sort of instinctive, unthinking Christianity that compelled her to attend church regularly, plant her bony old knees on the hassock and pray silently, then wander back home to paint  insipid, two-dimensional, pastel-pale pictures of Jesus surrounded by lambs and birds. She had always been an eccentric loner even by classic maiden aunt standards, but she seemed content to be so. And she was kind. Sadly, the family curse of lingering dementia had overtaken her some eight or nine years ago, and she had spent the final years of her life sectioned to a care home. Last week she succumbed to general weakness and system failure brought on by infections that had left her unable to eat or drink. My sister, a committed Christian, had been primarily responsible for organising Joan's affairs during these latter years and I am very grateful indeed to her for taking that responsibility. She also arranged for Joan to receive the last rites shortly before she died. It is uncertain whether Joan was compos mentis enough to appreciate this, but it was a nice thought, I suppose. It was therefore inevitable and right that my sister should organise Joan's funeral, which would obviously be Christian. It was my duty and my wish to be present. Joan had played a major role in my life when I was a kid and I really wanted to be there.

The service was short and basic, as I suspect Joan would have wanted. Only about ten people were in attendance: my mother, sister and me; my sole remaining aunt and uncle; a former neighbour who had been a great help to Joan in her declining years; a couple of people from the care home and two or three old people who had known Joan at some point in their lives. The only hymn was Crimond, which I sang loudly and without any atheistic qualms. When the vicar asked us to bow our heads in prayer I did no such thing. There are points on which I will bend and there are also lines I absolutely will not cross. I do not bow to real beings; I most certainly will not bow to imaginary ones.

This cleric was about the wettest example of the characteristically damp breed I have come across in many years. I will give you just one example of the kind of childish guff he spouted and which, I suppose, was intended to bring comfort to the bereaved. Obviously this is not verbatim but I swear to you I am being true to the gist and not exaggerating. After saying the committal over the coffin we were treated to this:

What happens to Joan now? As Christians, we know that death is not the end, it is more like a stop on the journey. We have reached a point were we disembark, but in a sense the important part of our journey is just beginning, and the real destination is ahead. We know Joan is in heaven. I like to see heaven as a glorious, beautiful city on a hill. I can see Joan at the bottom of a winding path that leads up to this heavenly city. And I see our Lord Jesus there at the bottom of the path, there to meet Joan with outstretched, loving arms. And together they walk up that shining path to the wonderful city, where all of Joan's loved ones who have gone before her will meet her, and they will be reunited for eternity in perfect happiness. Joan is happy now. It is we who have not yet reached our destination who mourn. But it is only for a short time. Then we, too, will join Joan once more.

This is what happens in one of those modern, liberal versions of Christianity we are constantly told are not as stupid as fundamentalism. This is the sort of Christianity we atheists are told we should lay off. I was grinding my teeth so hard I nearly broke a filling. I stole a sidelong glance at my sister and those others I could manage to see. They appeared to be swallowing this infantile bullshit without  the slightest difficulty. I wondered yet again how any sane human being could listen to such needy, babyish, pitiful, madly delusional wishful-thinking without tasting vomit. How could they not feel utter shame for this befrocked buffoon - and for themselves, if they took his desperate, demented fantasy even slightly seriously? Were they really totally impervious to the gag-inducing reek of sheer terror that prompts such feverishly insane dreams and hopes? These people are utter cowards in the face of death and the clear reality of our inevitable termination. They are such craven weaklings that they can actually persuade themselves that the most obviously deranged wish-fulfilment fantasies are true. Shining cities on hills. Up the garden path with sweet Lord Jesus. Oh look, there's mummy and daddy! Roll credits!

So when I am told that I should respect religious people and their beliefs, especially these nice moderate Christians, I tend to laugh in the face of the dimwit who dares to suggest it. Respect that? Respect the kind of snivelling little baby who needs to swallow that sort of nursery-level nonsense in order to cope with life and death? I couldn't make myself respect such people even if I wanted to, and by hell I do not want to. They don't deserve respect. They're pathetic. They're disgusting. They're gutless weaklings. They're an embarrassment and a  miserable disgrace to humanity.

Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, yet will I fear no ill.

LIARS.