An idle thought crossed my middle aged brain (like so many others)
as I cycled on a cold Sunday morning. Huffing and puffing with the zeal that only a
‘born again keep-fitter’ can truly muster, I passed droves of ruddy-faced
pensioners making their way to church, protected from the cold weather no doubt
by the Ready Brek glow of beatific piety that most of them seemed to
emanate. Some exchanged pleasantries
with each other, but most spared only a suspicious, sidelong glance for the
lycra-clad weirdo, ringing his bell enthusiastically to punctuate each hearty
“Good Morning” as he cycled by.
Not at all put out by their indifference, I got to thinking. Why does the Sunday morning congregation seem
to be drawn completely from the ‘grey vote’?
What are the silver wigs up to that I don’t know about? I concluded that as most are probably
approaching the threshold of God’s waiting room, they’re probably just taking
out a bit of religious insurance. I mean
what harm can it do if you are on the verge of popping your clogs to invest in
a couple of years’ worth of religious premiums?
Just in case like.
Bells chimed, organs piped and choirs cleared their throats, the
strangely comforting cacophony fading as I pushed on into the rolling Somerset
hills. It was here then that my epiphany
struck. Now I’ve never really been one
for pigeon holes, describing myself as neither atheist nor agnostic. I can sympathise with Stephen Hawking’s proposition to a certain degree that the afterlife is little more than a fairy tale, and his words certainly carry
some weight; not because he is such a clever-clogs, more so because he has spent
most of his adult life contemplating an unscheduled demise. Even Hawkings has a 'holy grail’ though, “a theory of everything…It would be the ultimate triumph of human reason – for
then we should know the mind of God,” which indicates – to me at least - that his soul
yearns for more than science may ever be able to explain. For me it is a lot simpler though, my simple
soul hopes with a naive optimism which scientists will deride and religious
zealots will label as faith, that there is more than this. If there is a god though, I won't find them in the murky depths of a village church or the sub atomic
world of particle physics.
The winter
sun warms my stinging face, drying salty tears wrung from wind-burnt eyes; it paints
the morning landscape in a golden wash with the promise of a joyous day ahead that my pitiful attempts with a paint
brush will never be able to capture. A deer caught for a brief moment twixt
flight and paralysis as I disturb her silent grazing, suddenly bounding across
the morning dew with an impertinent flash of white-furred derriere. Finally then, the sheer pedal crunching,
muscle cramping, lung burning joy of pitting mind and body against the elements,
a primal scream raging behind my clenched teeth and a stupid smile spread wide
across my face. There is some debate as
to whether Eric Liddell ever actually said “God made me fast. And when I run,
I feel His pleasure. ”, but it sums up in 12 words what I have
tried to say in 600. Godliness to me is in the
byways not the highways; it is in the unforgiving mile and the natural beauty
of a frosty morning, in other words it is in the little details and more importantly it is in the simple joy of time well spent, doing what
makes you feel good. Then again I suppose this could all just be sentimental tosh from someone who is himself shuffling inexorably towards the inevitable.
