Confirmation Classes


How I loathed every second of it. I sat in one of the rows at church listening to the supposed truths about a book that I was reading, that made no sense.

Here I was in the 9th grade with a worked image of someone who thought for themselves, being forced to sit through lectures of awkward preparatory nonsense about a book I could barely understand.

It was confirmation classes at an Anglican Church. At this young age I still believed in all of the scientifically unproven things that church was teaching. I was even reading the New Testament to try to make sense of it, and because I was told reading it would bring me good fortunes. On reflection, I was really daft to think that reading this book was somehow a gateway to a better understanding of human condition.

I was starting to question things around this point. I was questioning why we needed to be there to go through these motions to confirm our acceptance to the church. Our attendance all through our younger days was not enough? By attending these classes and getting an invisible passing grade from a bishop, we would then be permitted to have a sip of cheap communion wine on a Sunday from a cup that was a breeding ground for germs.  I often wished I had started to question things like that more.

I felt like I was dragged there. In retrospect I was. I was angry that even though I considered myself a Christian at the time, that I had to be part of a stupid few classes and then a silly ritual that somehow granted us extra-special status in Church.

During the night of the confirmation ceremony, I remember dressing up in a horrid suit combo that was either a size too large or too small for my already awkward frame. I remember my mother taking photos, my Dad coming to the service with a friggin camera of his own and my Grandparents attending and “renewing their confirmations”.

It was dreadful. No matter how nice the Bishop and the Reverend were as people. I sat in the front row of the church with a cousin singing a famous line from Black Sabbath’s “NIB”, hoping to get a few parishioners riled up.

“My name is Lucifer, please take my hand.”

It did not work. Those within earshot ignored us completely. Although they probably thought we were completely mad.


So I went through the motions. Became confirmed and was allowed a sip of wine on the odd Sunday that I would go to church.

One of the main things that I feel religion teaches is all-out fear.  To be afraid of things in life that are perfectly normal. To assume faith is the answer, when there is no other possible answer.

When I wanted to question, I should have done it. It might have led me to question other things when I was much younger.

And perhaps set me spiritually free and clear.




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