In the beginning I was christened. Then I was confirmed.
My parents ran a Christian camp for teenagers. Every summer meant worship, games, Bible talks and the annual trip to Alton Towers.
Years later, I was old enough to go without them. I read the Bible for myself. I prayed. I believed. I remember the warm blanket of certainty.
When I was 17, my philosophy teacher introduced us to empiricism. I found The God Delusion in the college library and started asking questions I couldn’t unask. I felt guilty.
(I still listen to Blessed Be Your Name sometimes.)
Last month I went to my mate’s ordination. When the bread came to me, I took communion.
I don’t know what it means yet.