I probably went to church more on a Sunday than most other people do here. An early morning service most times, then Matins, Sunday school and then Evensong. I was head choir boy, my brother was in the choir as was my father, my mother played the organ. They were both members of 2 or 3 church social groups, I was in the church scouts and my mother produced and delivered the church magazine. My parents were married there as was my brother and both parents and paternal granparents were buried there. The family's social life revolved around the church.
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When I was around 13 I started confirmation classes which would have enabled me to take communion. It was then that I realised that people were taking all the stories I knew about the bible seriously. I had assumed that, to a certain degree, it was just something that we all went along with and most of it was allegorical. A metaphor for living a good life. But I was now expected to accept it all as being factually true? Well, obviously some of it was, but...I started questioning some of it - to myself.
By the time I was 16 I was just going through the motions. My father had just died and one Sunday morning I told my mother I wouldn't be going to church with her. She was very disappointed. And I felt guilty about disappointing her (and still do to a certain extent). But I never went back.
But the people there were the warmest, friendliest people. Salt of the earth. AndI did actually go back there when I was in the UK some years back. Just for old times sake. Relieve some memories. And my daughter wanted to come. See what took such a chunk of her old man's life back in the day. The service was over and there were a few people milling around and I swear, a couple of them recognised me. From over 40 years ago! We chatted and then one of them brought out the chalice that my mother had bought the church in memory of my father. Quite an emotional moment...
So it certainly wasn't the Christians that I knew that turned me away. In fact, they made it a little harder to leave.