“This Is How They Getcha!”
A letter to the Christian Union
By Caitlín Small
It’s the usual weekly routine. I find myself in a less-than-desirable state at half one on a chilled Friday morning. Dirty Onion has been good to me. Or has it? Comme ci, comme ça. I’m hammered and feeling more heathen-esque than usual, anyway.
As I trot around the corner, I face the eternal dilemma. To Second Fiddle or not to Second Fiddle? My friends are consulting one another; we discern our levels of drunkenness, and I ponder whether another Beamish will cross the Rubicon of what my stomach can reasonably handle.
I’m on the edge of deciding when an angel suddenly greets me, or whatever such a Belfast equivalent may be: a Christian Union member. He’s holding a bottle of water (do I need it, I wonder; it looks delectable) and, with sparkling eyes, he asks me if I have a minute to talk about capital H-I-M.
Of course, he didn’t quote Lady Gaga, but he probably asked me something with similar vague, linguistic artistry. If I’m “on fire for God” or a “Daughter of the King” probably rings a bell.
I pass on the conversation of Christ; he gives me that water anyway because it’s the Christ-like thing to do.
And so, I remain in a conflicted position on the Christian student culture in Belfast. It exists uniquely, not overtly conservative until you push back the curtain. Perhaps ushered in by waves of posh Lisburnites and coastal lovers from Portrush, with their “oohs” and “ahhs” and inability to say “I know” in a regular manner.
They make good coffee, excellent traybakes, and I spent much of my final undergraduate year discussing the week ahead over a cinnamon bun and an Americano in an unnamed coffee shop down Elmwood Avenue…
Maybe soon, if my life happens to spiral, however, their proselytising will work. Perhaps if I just so happen to drink that one sinful beer and I feel extra open-minded. I would start small with toasties and tea; maybe then my cup shall runneth over. After that, I imagine I would join the pious crew on a teaching trip to Malawi, where we talk about how good we are to the “third world”. Before I leave, after bonding with children who will never see me again, effectively acting as the modern-day Christoper Columbus, I make sure to reflect on the purity of my soul. When you’re good, you’re Godly.
Pray tell, what is “wrong” with me, and so avowedly “good” about you? Answer me, quickly!
And while we’re here, it is worth noting that standing outside bars and approaching incapacitated young women, whilst you, as a man, remain perfectly sober, is a strange power move. Then again, it’s what the Good Book preaches. Eve ate the apple, and women forever and ever would subject their desires to their husbands, and he would rule over her (so Genesis 3:16 argues anyway).
Ultimately, preying on the vulnerable instead of for them will always put a bad taste in my mouth, worse than communion, maybe. Of course, however, the Church maintains tradition.
