A couple of weeks ago, I was having dinner with some friends who were kind enough to offer me a home cooked meal, knowing my struggle to eat well as the moment.
It was a nice meal. Their son, aged 9, was as entertaining as the parents were - smart as a whip, full of questions and fun facts, and extraordinarily passionate about the things he loves and learns. He's gonna be big some day, I know it, and he's gonna change the world. I was happy to indulge him and keep his mind active as we hung out.
After dinner, he asked me if I wanted to see the Lego set he made. Natually, yes, I very much did. As he was proudly showing it off to me, he asked me a question I was not prepared to answer:
What church do you go to?
You see, his parents are religious Christians. As an atheist, I follow no god, but as a lefty I fight for their freedom of religion as much as I fight for my freedom from religion.
Their level of religious attachments were middling - grace before meals, church on most Sundays, a strong sense of 'be nice because Jesus said so, and you'll go to Heaven,' but otherwise they kept it all to themselves. They believe that there is no disparity between religion and science, and strongly encourage their kid to question as much as listen.
Their decision to keep their religion as a personal thing made me often forget that they were even religious, so when the lad asked me what church I went to, I wasn't sure how to handle it.
I briefly considered who they were, and who their son was. I considered dodging, or asking his parents how they'd like me to address it. I was, luckily, saved by his dad coming into the room to see how we were.
"Hey guys! How's it going in here?" he asked.
"Good!" announced his kid. "I was just asking Mr. Nerdfury what church he goes to. Maybe we can go together!"
The look on my friend's face was priceless. He grinned, seemingly curious to know what I'd do. I gave him a look that I'd hoped asked how do you want me to handle this, dude? and he gave me a look I translated to be just be honest with him, man.
So I was.
I don't actually go to church, buddy.
He looked at me for a moment, then said "Oh." Thinking for a few moments with his Lego, he asked "Why not?"
"Well," I started, "You know how there's different churches? Like Catholic, Pentacostal, Greek Othodox, Unitarian, Baptist?"
"Yeah?" He seemed inquistive. I liked that.
"Those people all believe in God, but they follow slightly different rules and different things about God." There was a map of the world above his desk.
I pointed to the Middle East. "Over here are countries where they believe in God, but they call him Allah. That's a religion called Islam. Very similar, but different."
He seemed to understand.
"And in different places," I continued, "there are people who believe different things completely. Your religion is called Christianity." I pointed to India. "In India, not everyone believes in Jesus and God, a lot of people follow a religion called Hinduism. They believe in gods with different names like Brahma, Shiva, or Vishnu. Ther religion is very, very old. Or here. In China, some people follow Buddhism, and in Japan, some people follow Shinto."
He nodded along, seeming to absorb my words. He loves learning, which I was glad to help indulge and encourage.
I discussed with him about ancient religions, such as Celtic, Norse (that one was of particular interest, and I got to tell him how his heroes from the Marvel movies were based on religion), Roman, and Greek. He suddenly lit up.
"OH! Like the Aboriginals and the Dream Time?"
I beamed at him. "Yes! That's right! People believed different things about different things for a long time before, and believe different things today. Which brings me to answer your question about what church I go to."
He was hanging on my every word.
"There are some people, like me, who are called Atheist. That means we don't believe in any god or follow any religion."
He nodded, seeming to understand. His dad was still there, watching, joined by his wife, who added "And that's okay, kiddo. People are allowed to believe or not believe what they like, as long as they don't force it on us. Understand?"
He nodded. "I think I get it. So you don't think you'll go to heaven?"
"Well, that's the thing," I shrugged. "People like us don't know what happens when we die." I didn't want to tell an idealistic nine year old that I thought we turned into dust and simply ceased to be. Seemed a bit heavy for a kid that age, as smart as he was, so I made for a softer blow. "We don't know, and part of the fun is finding out."
I was waiting for further discussion to happen, but his dad told him it was bed time. After a little wheedling and complaining, he begrudgingly agreed and said goodnight.
His dad walked me back to the lounge where we'd crack some beers and play some games, telling me he thought I'd done a good job in explaining it to the kid.
And it got me thinking about how I don't think we ive kids enough credit in life. We spend so much time stamping out their inqusitiveness and assuming that they cann't handle things.
Won't somebody please think of the children?