Soul wings and roundabouts

Photo by Dug Blane

"I'm worried," I confide in Carol, as I'm driving her home after her work. 

"What about?" she says.

"I think I've made a wee mistake and condemned my soul to everlasting torment."

"Normal people mislay their car keys," she says. "How did you manage to lose your soul?"

"Susan was going to church this morning and wanted my company," I say. "Everyone there has been praying for wee Sally. She had a lot on her mind and didn't tell me what to do."

"And you received communion?" she says.

"I did," I say.

"But you're not a Catholic," she says. "You shouldn't have."

"I know that now. I've looked it up. But it seemed rude to stay seated. I did it with respect and good intentions. So I'll be all right, won't I?"

She says nothing, as I slow down to let a posse of tiny tots in triple pushchairs, shoved by green-smocked nursery workers, get safely across the road. 

"Won't I?" I ask again, and my peripheral vision tells me she's staring at me. 

"I don't think so," she says at last. "I think you're screwed."

"Define 'screwed'," I say.

"Eternity in the big bad fire, tormented by demons."

"That's screwed," I tell her. "Can I get a second opinion?" 

"You should," she says. "Talk to the priest. Explain what happened. The trouble is you weren't in a state of grace when you received communion."

"Because I'm not a Catholic?" I say.

"Because your soul is stained with unrepented mortal sin," she says.

"I don't think so," I say. "I'm a good guy."

"You'd be surprised," she says. "It's a long list."

"Such as?" I say.

"Such as homosexual acts, idolatry, incest, lying and masturbation," she says. "You're in the frame for at least one of those, I'm thinking."

"I am," I say. "I don't want to talk about it. It's embarrassing."

"We've all done it," she says. 

"Worn an amulet of the Buddha and rubbed it at times of stress?" I say. 

"Oh, right," she says. "Idolatry. No, I've not done that."

The nursery worker at the tail end of the expedition smiles in our direction, and a ginger-haired squirt in the buggy she's shoving waves at us. I wave back at him, slip the car into gear and pull gently away.

"You are down for one on that list though," I say. 

"I am," she says. "I can't go to church now because of it."

"I thought God allowed gay feelings," I say. "As long as you don't act on them. Tell Him you haven't done it in a while."

"I'm hoping that'll change," she says. "I want a long-term relationship. If I promise God stuff I can't stick to, it'll make things worse."

"Worse than eternal damnation?" I say.

"Satan's inventive," she says.

"It's a high price to pay for being yourself," I say. "Reminds me of Jeanette Winterson's mum: 'Why be happy when you could be normal?'"

"Like you have a choice," Carol says. "And occasionally it is easier being a lesbian."

"Yeah, when?" I say.

"When I was stopped by the police a few months back. I got confused at a roundabout, with them in a car behind me. They pulled me over and gave me a hard time and endless questions. Then I mentioned my girlfriend and they're like 'Whoa', and let me go right away."

"Scared of being done for discrimination?" I say.

"Right," she says. "It's called 'playing the gay card'."

"Any idea what card I should play when I talk to the priest?" I say. 

She studies me in silence some more. "Perplexed Protestant," she says.

"I'm not a Protestant," I say. 

"Brainless Buddhist," she says.

"I can do that," I say.

"I know you can," she says.

Which foot does he kick with?

Religion is a touchy topic in the West of Scotland and some people take great pleasure in using it to wind me up. One of these days I'll have the sense to realise what's happening and not rise to the bait.

"I think she's kicking more with her right foot," I say innocently, as we watch little Sally gurgling and laughing on the sofa at a small gathering in Susan's living room.

"She is not," says an unfamiliar woman in a woolly hat. "Is he a ... ?" she adds, nodding to the right to fill in the blank and looking with displeasure in my direction.

"I'm afraid so," Susan says. 

"Bad luck," the woman says and wanders through to the kitchen.

"What was that about?" I say.

"She was asking if you were a Protestant," Susan says. "I told her you were."

"I'm not," I say.

"Are you a Catholic?" she says.

"No."

"Then you're a Protestant."

"That's ridiculous," I say. "There are more than two types of people in the world."

"He's right," Chuck says. "There's three. Are you a Muslim?"

"No," I say.

"Then you're a Protestant," he says.

"I don't believe you people," I say and a hush falls on the company.

"Pardon me?" Susan says in that tone that makes male hormones run for the hills. "You people?"

"I meant all you people in this room that are talking bollocks about religion," I say. "I'm a scientist. Doesn't mean I can't be religious. Some scientists are. I'm not. If anything I'm a Buddhist. Which is not a religion. It's a way of life. I'm not a Catholic. I am not a Protestant."

"Don't get out your pram," Chuck says. "A Buddhist is just a kind of Muslim, isn't it?"

I shake my head, try not to react to the nonsense, and fail. "Buddha lived a thousand years before Muhammad," I say. "How can a Buddhist be a kind of Muslim? That's like saying an early Christian was a kind of Catholic."

"Well they were," Susan says. "What you're failing to grasp, because you have a Protestant brain, is that we're not talking facts here. We're talking faith."

"Look, I've had Catholic friends all my life," I say. "When I was young I loved going to watch Celtic. There's a spirituality in people like Mary that really appeals to me. I like Catholic culture. 

"But I am not a Catholic. I am not a Protestant. And I'm sick of this divisive nonsense. I don't want to hear another word about Catholics and Protestants. All right?"

"Calm down, dear," Susan pats my arm, just as the woman, who seems to be an old friend of the family, wanders in again and says, "What's he shouting about now?"

"He's getting excited about religion," Susan says. "He's telling us he's a Buddhist."

"Really?" the woman says. "What kind of Buddhist?"

"At last a sensible question," I say. "Well let's see. There are three broad groups. There is Theravada, the oldest and most conservative, Mahayana, the most popular nowadays, and Tibetan Buddhism, which might be familiar to you through the Dalai Lama. If you wanted to pigeon-hole my thinking I'd be inclined to call myself ..."

"Never mind all that," the woman says. "Are you a Protestant Buddhist or a Catholic Buddhist?"

Catholic tastes

Having lulled me yet again with her elfin charm, Isle of Jura and Belgian chocolates, Mary gets to the point. "Have you read those articles I gave you?" she asks.

I play for time with a sip of the mellow malt and study the photos of her extended family above the fireplace, with the latest and tiniest taking temporary pride of place. "So you're a great-grandmother now?" I try diversionary tactics with small hope of success.

"For the third time," she says. "Never mind that. I can talk about babies with anybody. I expect more from you."

"Fair enough," I say, swirling the whisky, holding it up to the light and seeing the tear-drops separate and slide inside the crystal. "From the look of those legs I'd say this is the 15-year-old."

She shakes her head but says nothing, simply staring at me. Like a well-loved teacher she knows I can't take her disapproval. "All right," I say. "Tell me what you want to talk about."

Her blue eyes sparkle. "The article on the legacy of Vatican II and the challenge of secular society," she says.

I groan. "Hell's bells Mary, couldn't we start with something simpler? You know I'm somewhere on the Buddhist spectrum. I think monotheistic religions stuff spirituality into straitjackets. Debates about Catholic doctrine go well over my head."

"Did you read the article?" she asks again.

"Yes," I admit.

 "Well then," she says.

"Well then what?" I say.

"Stop prevaricating and give me your opinion."

I take a larger slug of the malt than the cratur deserves, think fast and talk slow. "Well, the short version is that it's unhelpful to regard different sides of the debate as traditional and modern or progressive and reactionary," I say and she nods encouragingly.

"Are you agreeing with the statement or with my saying it's the main point of the article?" I ask her.

"Bit of both," she says. "Keep talking."

I run my finger round the inside of my collar. "Well, it's better to see them as a struggle between keeping things simple, the writer says, and engaging with the complexities of the modern world. Vatican II chose complexity."

She sits forward in the padded high chair, surrounded by tables containing all the specs, phones, money, books and newspapers she needs to get through the day without moving far. Nine decades and half a dozen operations slow you down some.

"It did and we welcomed it," she says. "But 50 years on it hasn't delivered. Why not?"

She's testing me and exploring the argument. "Several reasons," I say. "The writer highlights 'aggressive atheism' and the church's over-reaction to it."

"We circled the wagons," she nods. "We simplified. We covered up instead of opening out."

She sits back in her chair, seemingly satisfied, and I start to relax. I will never learn. "Pour yourself another whisky," she smiles at me. "You've earned it."

I reach for the decanter. "So that's the problem," she says quietly and my hand freezes as she leans forward again.

"Now what do you think is the solution?" she says.