There are no pictures of me being baptised, but I do have one of me dressed in something approaching baptismal clothes. The ceremony would have been at West End Methodist Church, in Halifax. Like most Methodist Chapels, this was an unremarkable building from the outside. I have few recollections of its interior, other than it was dark. But if it went true to form, the interior would be plain, probably painted bench pews, an elevated organ and pulpit, with a small gallery. Nothing showy or smacking of ostentation or papacy. You were here to praise the divinity, not man. Turn up for God, be presentable, wear your best clothes. But it was undoubtedly here that I first heard the bible being read and commented upon. At some point in a Sunday service, the children would leave to attend Sunday School, whilst the adults received communion or a sermon was preached.
The God of my infancy seemed to me, to be a given. It came pre-packaged with my parents, and they presented it to me. And that God appeared to be an extension of them. God's relationship with me, felt very parental. God got exasperated with me, told me off, punished me for my behaviour, was pleased with me when I was good. I dutifully sang songs in praise of God, drew pictures of God, of the Infant Jesus, and generally absorbed the Christian teachings in their rudimentary child friendly versions. Encouraging me to behave better, and admonishing me when I was not. I learnt through this what you needed to be, to be considered good. The wrath of God was to be feared. The God of my infancy was definitely male gendered. And older boys and men I knew could be unpredictable and angry too. I knew of no other way of perceiving God at the time. A child tends to absorb like blotting paper, who God is, how God is, what God does. They are passive receptors of teachings, imbibing unquestioningly whatever is fed to them. God seemed to me then to be similar to mother nature itself. God was just how it was.
Methodists are not particularly dour in their non conformism. At least, not the branch my family attended. My parents were quietly small c conservative, with distinct liberal permissive leanings. Tolerance and patience with others, were considered virtues. They were rarely strict disciplinarians about anything. Both were brought up within Methodism, and had imbibed it's prohibitions on drink and gambling, practicing moderation in all things. Very self disciplined about being respectable, and being seen to be by others. It was clear that my Mother was far too concerned, to the point of social anxiety, about what other people thought of her or her family. She felt the shame deeply, if her children misbehaved in public. When I came out to my parents, though actually quite understanding, my Mother became mortified by the thought of other people's judgements of me and of her, should they find out.
Showing off, or being proud of something you'd done, were considered as you getting above yourself, and discouraged. Both my parents, though kind and loving, were pretty hopeless at openly praising or encouraging you in your abilities or talents. Talents ran the danger of making you bigheaded or worse than that vain or conceited about your self importance. There was a tendency in my family to ridicule or pull you down a peg or two, if ever you were to be proud, positive, enthusiastic or confidently enjoying something you were doing in your life. These are all things I have had to patiently learn to be for myself, and to be actively open to accepting praise and admiration from others when it is given. Though I can still feel myself inwardly cringe first, before I graciously and happily acknowledge it positively with a thank you. This remains a place of practice.
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