Brazenly stolen from Dad’s Primal Scream
If you hadn’t been born into the religion of your parents, would you ever have converted on your own?
Not bloody likely. I can’t even tell you how bizarre it is being British and Mormon. The utter collision of character traits is maddening. Mormonism is so very American — vocal, outspoken, inquiring. It gets far more personal than British people are usually comfortable with. British Mormons tend to be less vocal about it, as culturally we tend to be very quiet about personal beliefs in general. The arrogance of certainty is off-putting to me. I doubt I would have been impressed by finding two Yank twats in cheap suits on an extended gap year on my stoop telling me that their book about Christian Jewish Native Americans contained the secrets of the universe.
If by some chance your religion were not true, would you want to know it?
If Morpheus asked me this, I would take the red pill. The terror of truth is preferable to the dissonance of a dreamworld.
If by some chance your religion were not true, how would you know it?
I knew it because by looking closely enough I was able to see that it was not what it claimed to be. A scene on a stage may look impressive when you are a theatergoer happy to suspend reality. But a quick trip backstage will show you that the king’s crown is made of cardboard and paint, and that the sun shining down is just an electric light. Even a pretty production is still a work of fiction. And no show can maintain the illusion indefinitely.
Where would you be without it?
Where I am now, which is face down in a gutter with a puddle of my own vomit pooled around me as I beg for more drugs and group sex from the demons who enticed me away from the truth.
Yeah, not quite.
I’m happier in most ways, sadder in a few ways. But my career, personal life, and long-term goals are all better off because I live a life without the church in it. And having a glass of wine every now and then is bloody lovely.