When God Was a Rabbit

‘Does God love everyone?’ I asked my mother as I reached across a bowl of celery to take the last teacake. My father looked up from his papers. He always looked up when someone mentioned God. It was a reflex, as if he were about to be hit.

‘Of course he does,’ my mother replied, pausing in her ironing.

‘Does God love murderers?’ I continued.

‘Yes,’ she said. My father looked at her and tutted loudly.

‘Robbers?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Poo?’ I asked.

‘Poo’s not a living thing, darling,’ she said seriously.

‘But if it was, would God love it?’

‘Yes, I expect he would.’

This was not helping. God loved everything, it seemed, except me. I peeled off the last curve of chocolate, exposing the white marshmallow mound and the heart of jam.

‘Are you all right?’ asked my mother.

‘I’m not going back to Sunday school,’ I said.

‘Hallelujah!’ said my father. ‘I’m glad about that.’

‘But I thought you liked it?’ said my mother.

‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘I only really liked the singing bit.’

‘You can sing here,’ said my father, looking back down at his papers. ‘Everyone can sing here.’

‘Any reason?’ my mother asked, sensing my withholding.

‘Nope,’ I said.

‘Do you want to talk about anything?’ she asked quietly, reaching for my hand. (She had started to read a book on child psychology from America. It encouraged us to talk about our feelings. It made us want to clam up.)

‘Nope,’ I said again through a small mouth.

It had been a simple misunderstanding. All I had suggested was that Jesus Christ had been a mistake, that was all; an unplanned pregnancy.

‘Unplanned indeed!’ screamed the vicar. ‘And where did you get such blasphemous filth, you ungodly child?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘just an idea.’

‘Just an idea?’ he repeated. ‘Do you honestly think God loves those who question his Divine Plan? Well, I’ll tell you, missy, he does not,’ and his arm shot out and pointed towards my banishment. ‘Corner,’ he said, and I wandered over to the chair facing the damp, crumbling green wall.

I sat there thinking about the night my parents had crept into my room and said, ‘We want to talk to you about something. Something your brother keeps saying to you. About you being a mistake.’

‘Oh, that,’ I said.

‘Well, you weren’t a mistake,’ said my mother, ‘just unplanned. We weren’t really expecting you. To turn up, that is.’

‘Like Mr Harris?’ I said (a man who always seemed to know when we were about to sit down and eat).

‘Sort of,’ said my father.

‘Like Jesus?’

‘Exactly,’ said my mother carelessly. ‘Exactly like Jesus. It was like a miracle when you arrived; the best miracle ever.’

My father put his papers back into his battered briefcase and sat next to me.

‘You don’t have to go to Sunday school or church for God to love you,’ he said. ‘Or for anyone to love you. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not believing him.

‘You’ll understand that more as you get older,’ he added. But I couldn’t wait that long. I’d already resolved that if this God couldn’t love me, then it was clear I’d need to find another one that could.