I've been scanning the posts I made at the start of the year. I'm reassured to see that from the very beginning I was- as it were- veering about all over the road. We went to Glastonbury and I popped into a witchy shop and bought myself a pentacle ring- to restore the balance. I'm still wearing that ring, by the way. That facet of my identity- on the side of the rebels, the loners, the women- is something I won't disown.
The people at church are such lovely people, but ...
I can't be doing with all that kow-towing before a God who is imagined as a bronze age king or pharaoah. It's demeaning. It's unthinking.
I can't be doing with the cult of Jesus. Jesus as the supposed source of some pithy ethical teachings? Yes. Jesus as a mythogical sun-god- on a par with Hercules- Yes. Jesus as supernatural best friend/superego/be-all-and-end-all? No.
And I detest most hymns.
The reason I got out of the Church 25 years ago still weigh with me. I believed I'd mellowed, that I was ready to make the necessary compromises- but I haven't and I'm not.