Morfar

My parents are what you might call aggressive atheists. They’re not aggressive people, but when it comes to atheism, they’re no-holds-barred, pull-no-punches crusaders. No child of theirs was going to believe in a man in the sky - I was positioned towards disbelief from a very young age.

This made it difficult for me to understand why I was sent to a school that featured weekly Religious Education lessons. My parents joke now that they simply wanted longer conversations to ensue when they asked me how my day was, but I suspect there was more to it. Their decision to give me a choice , or, at least, to show me the options , is something I’ve only recently begun to fully appreciate.

At the time, though, it felt like a serious hassle. During these sessions, my classmates and I huddled cross-legged on the floor as our chaplain tried to make the concept of the Holy Trinity seem fun and relatable rather than intimidating. None of it made sense to me, yet I remember occasionally thinking that the story was so peculiar, so specific, that perhaps it may actually have been true.

Most Tuesdays, though, I would come home and complain to my parents about the absurdity of the lesson. One afternoon, I opened the front door to find my grandfather, Morfar, sitting at the dining-room table, eating and chatting with my parents. Slinging my bag into my room, I raced to join them. Morfar, a retired headmaster, was always ready to outwit me with tangles of logic puzzles and math problems, the sparkle in his eyes growing brighter as I grew more frustrated.

I began to babble enthusiastically, eager to show off my superior understanding of Christianity’s flaws. But as I prattled on, Morfar’s usual interjections were not there; instead, he simply gazed at me. After about a minute, he furrowed his eyebrows, and my heart skipped a beat. My words abruptly dried up into silence. It had never occurred to me that my grandfather, a man for whom I had the utmost respect, might be religious.

Morfar, adjusting his glasses, broke the silence. He asked me to fetch my new cricket ball. I obeyed without question, mortified, terrified, and excited.

I returned to the table and put the ball into his hand. He looked at it for a moment and said, “[REDACTED], what would happen to the ball if I took it home right now?”

I paused, scanning for tricks. “I guess there’d be an extra ball at your house...”

He leaned forward. “But now the ball isn’t where it’s supposed to be! Why is that?”

“Because you took it...” I said, unsure of myself.

He darted another question at me. “[REDACTED] , why is the Earth where it is, so perfectly placed to allow us to live? A reason, a cause and effect for its position, the way there is for everything else?”

The mystery of it intrigues and beguiles me to this day. It reminds me never to be too sure of myself and never to underestimate the value of uncertainty in forcing inquiry and serious thought. Since that day, I had many more debates with Morfar and my parents about religion, sometimes broaching topics as far-reaching as artificial intelligence and the nature of consciousness itself. Christianity has acted as a springboard for me to launch myself into new ways of critical thinking and new avenues of philosophy - something I value equally as highly as the peace and security it brings to others. While I cannot share my grandfather’s confidence, the freedom to converse and wonder together , the ability to question , brought us closer and became part of my foundation as an inquisitive, open, and often skeptical person.

I understand now what people see in religion and God: a plan, a reason, an answer. I haven’t found mine yet, but I treasure the search.