I was raised by rationalism

Introduction

For those who have religious beliefs, spiritual beliefs, and anything similar or beyond, please understand that this post is not to attack you, your ideology, your beliefs, anything.

Please just...just trust me. Keep reading. It'll make sense. I hope.

This blog, and especially this post is me trying to put down on a page why I am the way I am.
Why I am this particular way.
What made me, into me. One part of me, at least. But it's one of the biggest.
And most troublesome.

Saying "I was raised by rationalism" sounds incredibly provocative. I get that. I admit it's a conscious choice in two ways - it's a title that might make people click. But it's also a phrase that I have before, still do, and will continue to use. It's the shortest, punchiest way I can use to explain everything that follows.

Look, I started this post, re-wrote a few things. And now I'm back at the top here and this is a lot longer than I thought it would be.

'I was raised by rationalism' might have the connotation that this particular way of life is somehow better or more virtuous than others.
It's not.

That's not me trying to win points, or say something that is evident to many others. It's evident to me.
I say it because I believe it.

How I function, how I believe (or in this case, how I don't believe) has got me into trouble more than once. Sometimes to a very extreme degree.
I've upset people because of this.

I don't like upsetting people, but sometimes it happens, and I hate it.
A lot of people raised me. A lot of things raised me. Some things have carried all the way through my life in a much more frontal and tangible way, and I find myself thinking on their influences. Some of them I think about almost daily.

Evidence-based thinking

Margaret Maton, maiden name Head, was my grandmother on my father's side. She was a mathematics and physics teacher who was born and raised in England.

From the age that I reached academic curiosity, I listened to what she had to say. The age of academic curiosity, in my own definition, being - the age that I finally thought to myself 'hey, you know what's cool? Listening to other people and learning about their experiences.'

So I would ask. And she would start talking. I once asked her how the process of a nuclear bomb worked (knowing that she studied, and later taught, physics). Three hours later, I knew everything that she did. It's all fallen out of my head now, of course. But for that afternoon, I was caught up in a whirlwind of science.

I'll talk about her in a separate post. I have a lot to say about her. She was one of the most influential in my life.

I never really "got" religion

This is what I mean when I say I was raised by rationalism. My life did not consist of religion. Not really. I had interactions with religious organisations and groups, certainly. But I was never there for the religion. This, I discovered, was not the 'done thing', as it were.

There was this one group, it was called "Awana," which I still don't know what means - though a quick google search tells me it still exists. It's an "international evangelical Christian nonprofit organization in child and youth discipleship."

That's fine and all, but I didn't like it when I was a child. It was held once per week at my local high school, I think. I was about seven or eight years old. There were these uniforms you could get. Lots of people had tiny badges and medals. You could get...I suppose you could call them 'bars' or 'pips', like real medals have.

You got these bars and pips by, essentially, proving your memory and capacity to recite when called on. I was never any good at that, because I would ask questions about what came afterward, I was never focusing on the moment (at this point, I can see my parents nodding their head and grinning, thinking to themselves 'ah yes, this sounds familar...').

I was eager for the final result. What happened next? And then what? And then what? I've discovered in my adult life that it's because I didn't value the same things that these people do. Not in the way that they wanted me to. They expected me to engage in Cargo Cult Thinking.

But I don't like to think like that. I want to know why I'm doing the things I'm doing. I like information. Not necessarily to use it. Sometimes I just like having it. This is a primary reason I love running tabletop games - because I get to act as a living encyclopedia for a thing that I love.

I know the precise moment I turned away from religion.

This isn't hyperbole. There is no exaggeration here. I genuinely, truly know the exact moment that every part of me went "religion is not for me."

This extremely hardline stance has got me in trouble a number of times. I've upset a number of people, some of them very close to me, because of what I completely admit is an intolerance of religion. I don't know how to handle this, except for willing myself to just keep my mouth shut. I've got better over the years. But sometimes, I slip up.

'People have their beliefs, and that's that.' I force myself to hear. I force myself, to tell myself.
It's necessary.
I'm not the main character of this life, and neither is anyone else. This isn't an attack on anyone, I hope you understand. This is just...how I figure things out. I think out loud. I write like I speak. I have lost friends because I didn't explain myself properly.

But...back to the moment.

Camps, Creeks and Where it Happened.

It was at a 'camp' located at a place called Stoney Creek Ranch located in my home region of Hawkes' Bay, New Zealand. There are certain positive memories I associate with that place. It's where I learned I love riding horses. I don't know if I can ever put into words what a freeing, powerful and emotional experience it is to ride a horse.

The thing about this place was - it was a religious camp. I'd been to one before, also in Hawkes' Bay - Camp David. Camp David was oppressive, to say the least. Chapel right after breakfast. Chapel right after lunch. Chapel right after dinner. All this being a thirty minute walk to and from the chapel, let alone the evening one where it was pitch dark - and we're a bunch of 6-8 year olds. That specific part of the experience, I hated. Like I say - it felt oppressive. We had to do these things in a very transactional way to get to do the fun stuff. Riding bikes. Riding horses. Arts and crafts (all of these I was never good at, but they were fun!).

I was at Camp David before I was at Stoney Creek Ranch. I think I was seven, eight, maybe nine years old? My parents would know better. But the age isn't important.

There was this man there. A preacher. A pastor (which of course, our child brains found hilarious because saying it out loud, at least for us kiwis, sounds like 'pasta').

He was kind. He was nice. He was devoted. He's one of these people you hear about who has read the bible front to back, back to front, inside and out. Stoney Creek was good because there was only - what I now know is - a religious service in the evening, after dinner. A full day of activities, play and hanging out with people? Wow! I loved it. Massive upgrade to Camp David. Stoney Creek is where my love for riding horses blossomed. I still remember the names of the ones I rode.

Emma - she was a sweetheart. Calm. Easy. Very good for a beginner. She made me fall in love with riding.
Ricky - ex-racehorse. He went wild on me at one point, but I was able to control him pretty well. I was proud of that. The staff were shocked I pulled it off.
Prince - ex-police horse. After a difficult ride where the weather turned out not-so-great for the day, upon return to the stables I had called out to one of the staff 'he's the prince and I'm the king!' I was proud of how much control I was able to keep, although most of it was probably just his police training.

Fantastic beasts, horses. I would ride one every day if I could.

So. Pastor Morris.
In the evenings after dinner, after the religious service (usually an hour of badly singing hymns and listening to some preaching), Morris would come around each of the chalets and give us the Lord's Blessing or some such thing. Prayer. He'd give us a prayer. You get the idea.

One particular evening, we had been introduced to the idea that God was omnipresent and omnipotent. 'Omniscience' was the word we all learned that evening. He's everywhere. Everywhen. And he always had been.

When Morris came around to our chalet that evening, I asked him very pointedly, just as I would ask my grandmother, 'how is God everywhere?'
Now you have to understand - for the last three years of my life when I'd ask my grandmother that, I would get an answer whenever I asked a question like that.

But for this question, the answer came 'he just is.'
I wasn't satisfied.
'But I'd like to know how it works.' I said.
'We aren't supposed to understand it, we just have to have faith.' Came the reply.

And that was it. That was the moment. Something in my brain just...locked in.
I didn't have the language to communicate this at the time to anyone else, let alone even myself. But thinking today - what my brain told me in that moment was 'these people don't know anything! They know just as much as we do!'

This, at such a young age, and in this culture and society we have where the constant implication is that anyone of adult age or older knows more than you, I'm sure you can understand, or even just entertain the idea of why this had the impact it had on me.

Where am I now?

I don't like the intolerant part of myself. I wish I could consistently entertain more ideas of others. I wish I could like certain things as much as people I care about like things.

The last time I upset someone because of my mouth with its words and I copped the consequences, it triggered a massive wave of depression that I felt like I wasn't going to get out of. It was bad. Really bad.

I couldn't believe that I could do that to someone. I never meant to. But not meaning to isn't something we can always control. I'd hurt someone I give a lot of a damn about, who is connected to another person who I give a lot of a damn about. That just won't do. I can't do that again.
I won't.

The best I can do, the best I can give the people around me, is this -

That thing you care about?
I like that you like it.
I like that you care about that thing. It's a part of you.

How dare I step in at any point and tell you that your thing is wrong. Or imply it's wrong. Or talk it down. How dare I tell you that I (with all the grace of a haughty twit who thinks he's so great) think of things one way, and try to convince you of the same thing.
No. I can't do that. I don't want to.

I like you for you, and I like it when you talk about the things you like. Please do it more. I like to hear people I care about talk passionately about the things they love.

Please trust me when I say that...when I slip up? When I make a mistake? When I just start...mouthing off?
I'm sorry.

I promise that I'm trying my best.