My childhood bedroom walls were adorned with holy pictures. Mass produced replicas behind glass in delicate frames, most of them beautiful and frightening all at once. Beside my bed was a painting of St Bernadette with mother Mary appearing to her in a grotto in Lourdes. That image mesmerised me for years, so much so that I chose Bernadette as my Confirmation name. I prayed to that picture every night before I closed my eyes because I was convinced something bad would happen to me if I didn't. I remember being envious of Bernadette. I wanted to see Mary too. What was so special about Bernadette? Why was she so privileged? I hated her as much as I aspired to be just like her. I would lie and stare at that picture in the dark. I could still make out the halo around Mary's head in the dim light of the street lamp outside my window.
I remember spending many quiet moments contemplating God during those tender, impressionable years. I was afraid of the idea of Him. His inaccessibility, invisibility and mystery only seemed to inflate this fear. I tried to grasp his face. At first I had only fragmented pieces, a sort of Mr Potato-Head-esque construct of images fed to me through pictures and films and stories. Eventually, the long, white bearded man in a long, white gown sitting atop a golden throne resided comfortably in my mind for years.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, while I was busy trying to make sense of all this, my father was also busy, re-evaluating his faith. I can't forget one cold, Sunday morning some Jehovahs Witnesses knocked on our door. Much to their surprise, my father welcomed them into our living room where they remained in vigorous debate well into the afternoon, gradually disappearing in a cloud of tobacco and steam from fresh coffee my exasperated mother would duck into the kitchen intermittently to fetch. As they were finally leaving, battle weary and unvictorious, one of the men turned to me grinning. From his briefcase emerged a spiffy, yellow, hard cover of illustrated bible stories for children. Matching his grin, I was all over that book in seconds.
Well if I wasn't already afraid of God, 'My Little book of Bible Stories' certainly finished the job. My fear of God was well and truly instilled. This book would be more aptly titled 'My Little book of Bible Horror Stories' and should come plastic-wrapped with an appropriate warning to parents. Not only were the stories terrifying, they had accompanying illustrations depicting God's fury and disappointment in man and if you were brave enough to turn the page, you would discover all the sadistic yet creative and original ways God punished man. The sheer terror on the faces of those who laughed at Noah will stay with me the rest of my days. And a pillar of salt? Who does that? I don't think it would ever occur to me to turn someone into a pillar of salt. For days I dared to look back at anything I walked away from.
I started to question, as I did with my Bernadette, why it was that these bible characters had direct contact with God. Why does he refuse to reveal himself? Where is he hiding? Why is he hiding? Why won't he answer my questions?
My questions turned inward, the first seeds of self doubt were sown. Am I not worthy? Have I done something to displease Him? Am I inherently evil? Am I going to hell? I've seen hell, I saw it in The Little Book of Bible Stories. I don't want to go there.
This once omnipresent and imposing presence, now (according to the bible) reticent for thousands of years. His absence conveniently explained away, predictably wrapped in mystery, leaving us with little more than fear; some would argue, also an omnipresent and imposing presence. The worst kind of fear is that of the unknown. It is also the easiest of fears to generate. The greatest threat, is an invisible one. Alone, in the dark. You hear a noise. Your mind fills in the gaps. The mind is a powerful persuader, a powerful motivator - capable of motivating countless others also living in fear and poised to embrace plausible, placating explanations and clutch them firmly for years like an old security blanket. In God's unrelenting 'absence' some have had little choice, but to fill in the gaps.
These days I turn on the light when I hear a noise...everything is revealed and there's usually nothing to be afraid of.
By the time I hit my tweens, I finally mustered the courage to swap my picture of Bernadette for a poster of James Dean. If there is a stranger lurking in the thicket, he's yet to appear. That's all God is to me now. I don't know Him but what I do know, is that every day, more and more of myself is revealed to me. I am becoming my own apparition. Maybe to some, that is the definition of 'finding God' but I don't know if we're talking about the same 'God'. The 'God' who is no longer a threat to me is about 5'10" with brown hair and brown eyes. Not the silver bearded, silver haired, vengeful monster that, The Little Book of Bible Stories makes him out to be. If it were up to me to write a book about God for children, it would be blank because that's what our vulnerable and impressionable children are, blank pages. It's not up to us to write their books. They've got to pen their own stories and find their own Gods - after they turn on the light.
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