The church leader, inside a dark helmet invisible to the all too easily submissive, breathes in rapidly then slowly back out again. He stands at the end of a long table, thin boys stand in cages behind him; tear ducts failing, all dried out.
No women in here, they aren’t invited.
Women talk. Women might not like the unspoken rules of the club.
“All those in favour of unreservedly apologising raise your hand.”
All the men, impatient with life because they plan to really start it afterwards, stare at each other.
Nobody raises their hand.
The leader continues; his tongue rests at the base of his lip, subconsciously collecting new deposits of invisible salt.
His voice is a rasp, echoing an otherwise well hidden reptilian quality.
He rubs his nice hands together. Under his nails bits of faecal matter shift at a molecular level.
The boys, in the invisible cages they can never escape from, know all about the molecules underneath what everybody else thinks they see.
The other immaculate hands in the room rest innocently on the table out in the open; groomed to perfection, no visible lies on the surface, at least.
“Well then, who wants to fuck a bo…
A hand rises.
The PR guy, Graham.
What does Graham know?
He hasn’t been reading the same book for 50 years because he’s scared his Dad will come back with the belt.
Graham’s an idiot.
Graham doesn’t understand what it’s like to make sacrifices to get out from the family environment, to deny the normal family home because of a negative childhood.
My mother, I wonder if her memory will ever let go of me.
Graham speaks; a wisp of a man, a twig sprouting a single green leaf loosely hanging from the end of a dead tree.
“We live in a PR world. You can’t ignore people. The world wants you to apologise. Unreservedly. If you just apologise unreservedly people might start to think well… that you are against raping boys.”
Kind faces; white teeth.
Perfectly clean hands.
Sharp glances, thorns, connect to other sharp glances across the table; crowned eyes connect subservient minds, everybody – except Graham – understands what it’s like being married to God.
It’s so cold… so lonely.
Whisky breath, just slightly.
The laughter dies down; Graham isn’t joking, they realise.
The leader clears his throat, but doesn’t shift the scream from his windpipe.
“This has nothing to do with the bloody world. With all due respect, I think we are the experts on what our God wants us to do.”
The priests in the room nod their heads; nodding dogs on springs in the back of a car heading off a cliff.
Graham wonders when that slight change occurred, when man stopped being the servants of God, and started being his owners, to commit acts in his name as they please.
Maybe that’s the way it’s always been.
The leader continues to share his thoughts…
“I guess we could pretend to be against it. We could apologise to the world. More families will put their children in churches. More children will come to our doors.”
The room perks up.
The fat silence is replaced with a feverish mumbling; thoughts that should not be inside heads become whispers, bleached nails dig into the polished oak table.
Naked skin clams over, just slightly.
“This is God’s will.”
Confirms the leader.
Graham wonders if “God’s will” was once “God’s willy” and at some point they crossed the Y off for respectability.
“You will apologise unreservedly?”
The leader nods.
Graham knows old people never apologise, and when they do they never really mean it.
Arrogance is a thick curtain, that once pulled, reveals nothing behind it.
The leader explains to Graham none of this is really the fault of the church.
He explains religion encourages them to give up sex, and places them in the company of boys.
Really, we are the victims he says.
With no concept that they decide the rules of how they worship their God, with no recognition that somewhere in the history of their church someone decided to ban girls, and surround themselves with young boys.
A highly unnatural state, the leader admits, and Graham asks if that makes any sense at all, and the leader replies…
Of course Graham! A highly unnatural state is what God is.
Graham wonders just how narcissistic you have to be to believe God needs you.
Graham looks out of the window, and decides next time he wants to feel God he’ll get up early, and watch daybreak.
Not the breakfast show on ITV, though he likes it, but Planet Earth twisting into a star.
There are no internal questions pounding the brain when witnessing the sunrise, just beauty.
There are no thoughts of hate when witnessing the sunrise, just peace.
Nobody blames the sunrise.
Graham thinks peace on earth and beauty is what religion claims to want to bring, but never does; never has, and according to all the evidence, never will.
The Church of England have unreservedly apologised today for abusing thousands of boys going back to the minute sexually repressed men encouraged boys away from their parents.
This is a very good thing; the first bricks in a better wall.
If you believe in God, don’t get me wrong.
I am not anti belief.
I am not an atheist.
I believe any person has a right to believe in anything they damn well want to, as long as that belief does not bring harm to others.
(The second half of that sentence is a philosophical fucknut).
I believe truth is likely found somewhere between atheism and God.
Everybody is probably not completely right, but neither is everybody completely wrong.
What I am against is the church. Please do not confuse the two.
Please do not confuse the institution of the church with God or belief.
The church is a system built by man. Inside the church, are old men, in dresses, raping boys.
The unreserved apology from The Church of England – although welcome – is proof, if you still need it, that these men, hiding beneath the protected guise of religion and rose tinted specs worn by their following, walking around in their easy to access dresses, have been raping boys since the beginning of their history.
The billions of pounds and dollars paid out worldwide in court cases to abused boys, is undeniable proof.
Don’t look away.
Don’t turn a blind eye.
Ask the internet for facts:
The church is the biggest paedophile ring in history; and if that offends you, I don’t give a fuck.
Take your glass half full and throw the contents into your face, to wake yourself up to the truth.
The truth is offensive; it opens the eyes of those who fail to see, because real life is a challenging thing.
And, obviously, all priests are not paedophiles. I understand that, but there are enough bad apples in the cart to start making any person with a conscience wonder if apples are still needed.
Good fruit rots faster, next to rotting fruit.
Only in the crazy world of religion, could an institution be proven to systematically rape boys, and still be allowed incorporate boys into the fabric of everything they do. Only in the crazy world of the church, could repeated paedophile cases come to light and the institution keep on trucking.
If I was a priest, I would hand in my collar, because I would not want to be affiliated with the vile actions of my fellow believers.
To leave your child in the care of a bloke wearing a dress, who has allegedly cut off all normal sexual contact with people his own age, because a really old book has told him to, who believes a voice speaks to him, is the most reckless deluded act a parent can make.
Stop leaving your children with old religious men in dresses.
Don’t be an idiot.
If you want to teach children about God, show them the ocean.
If you want to teach children about religion, show them the bible.
If you want to teach children about paedophilia, leave them alone with a priest.