“Guess who’s back… back again…” The Real Slim JC

Well, that was Easter. The time of year when parents stockpile eighteen tonnes of chocolate for their children, even though at any other time of the year they wouldn’t let them so much as sniff a Taz bar from fifty feet away, but, don’t worry, it’s alright, “because it’s Easter”.

Yes, it’s a well-known fact that Jesus has the magical power to stave off diabetes. That and he’s really good at juggling. Any priest will tell you that Jesus elected to die screaming in agony in the desert so that for four consecutive days in every year we could stuff our children full of chocolate without fear of judgement or consequence: Maltesers on toast for breakfast, followed by Creme Eggs Benedict for lunch, and a Double Decker steak for dinner. Amen. Thank you, Jesus.

You’re probably wondering who this ‘Jesus’ guy is. You know, him. You do. You do know him. He’s the dude with the beard? He wears the sandals, bit hippyish? Has a heavy foot fetish. You know who I’m talking about, you do. Rose from the dead? Son of God? A Capricorn?

It’s pretty easy to forget Easter’s connection to Jesus, what with all the rabbits, boiled eggs and chocolate. In any case, most of us here in the UK are Christians by osmosis, and only when it suits us – we’re happy to wear a funny hat, munch an egg or accept a nicely wrapped gift or twelve, but that’s about it. Just the good stuff. Don’t ask us to get down on our knees and start muttering to an invisible man. That’s what alcohol is for.

If we do think about Jesus at this time of year it’s usually because his name pops up in a million shit jokes on our Facebook feeds, jokes that have been resurrected from last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Thanks Timehop. Next year, I hope we can roll the groans away (Jesus, that was awful) (Jesus: ‘Yes, it was’.)

Really, though, who needs jokes when the reality is funny enough? For instance, this Easter would have seen thousands of fundamentalist Christian pro-lifers splitting their time between glorifying a man’s violent execution, and grabbing a bunch of dead chicken babies and smashing them down a hill. The American ones would probably have let their five-year-olds blast the eggs to smithereens with assault rifles. Yay life!

I get that eggs are included in the Easter itinerary because they symbolise the transformative nature of life, or remind us of the rolling away of the stone. But what about the rabbit? Why the fuck is he involved? Was Jesus a recovering alcoholic, and the rabbit was his invisible best pal? It doesn’t make any sense. Celebrating Easter through the narrow focus of the Easter Bunny is like Muslims fasting during the holy month of Ramadan at the behest of a talking shark, who commands parents to hide marshmallow shark-teeth around their gardens which the kids then gather up in old divers’ helmets.

Easter, of course, isn’t just about oval things, resurrections and rabbits. It’s also the time of year when politicians exploit the seasonal theme of rebirth and redemption to spout pious bullshit that’s perpendicular to their actual policies, a blood-soaked arrowhead pointing away from objective reality at a right-wing angle. I suppose this makes them little different to the Christian church itself, which has rarely found itself preaching on the right side of history (but occasionally the far-right side).

The whole thing depresses me. Far be it from me to poo-poo a globe-encompassing engine of faith and the cogs which service it, but go get your face-wipes: here comes the poo-poo.

The devout will tell you that man possesses an innate drive to seek out the divine; a call to worship that’s programmed into his very soul. That’s why we build churches and mosques: so we can spend our lives chanting and bowing and praying; to make sure that God can hear us, feel us, and love us, wherever we are and whatever we do. But you need only look at the mechanical masses at the Nuremberg rallies (or at Trump’s rallies), or crowds during a football match, or the swell of people at a rock concert, to realise that whatever happens when groups of people get together under a shared banner of identity, or try to arrange themselves into tiers, doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with God. We’re animals, after all. Brave, beautiful, bold, bountifully clever animals, but animals none-the-less. And that’s enough. More than enough. That makes us awesome. Because we’re greater than the sum of our parts. And we don’t need to invent a God to tell us that.

Jesus wasn’t the only saintly figure on my mind last week. I recently picked up a second-hand CD entitled ‘Legends’ from a local charity shop. One of the tracks was a live recording of a song called ‘You’re My Best Friend’ by US country singer Don Williams, a singer whose music I’ve always loved.

From listening to the song, and from googling the man and his works, it’s clear that his more ardent fans not only adored him, but drew comfort and inspiration from him. They looked up to him like he was a prophet: the embodiment of all that they strived or wished for. If his concerts tended to sound like services, then many of his songs bear a striking resemblance – in tone, pace and structure – to hymns. ‘You’re My Best Friend’ is a great example of this.

It’s worth reproducing the lyrics of the song below so that you can see for yourself just how easily the song – originally written for Don Williams by Wayland Holyfield, and inspired by Holyfield’s wife – could be tweaked to place the emphasis on God.

You’re My Best Friend

You placed gold on my finger

You brought me love like I’ve never known

You gave life to our children

And to me a reason to go on

 

You’re my bread when I’m hungry

You’re my shelter from troubled winds

You’re my anchor in life’s ocean

But most of all you’re my best friend

 

When I need hope and inspiration

You’re always strong when I’m tired and weak

I could search this whole world over

You’d still be everything that I need

 

You’re my bread when I’m hungry

You’re my shelter from troubled winds

You’re my anchor in life’s ocean

But most of all you’re my best friend

 

On my CD, towards the end of the song Don Williams invites the crowd to join in. The cumulative effect of those thousands and thousands of voices echoing into the air around him is beautiful, haunting and reverential in a way that real hymns seldom are. It made goosepimples prickle over my skin, and sent a smile across my face.

Hymns are abstract. They force people to hinge their love and adoration onto something that isn’t really there. When Don Williams sings, he sings about the love we carry for our wives, husbands, sons, daughters, fathers and mothers. When a crowd accompanies him, his songs then become hymns to humans: a shrine to the most important qualities within us, and a celebration of what truly makes us who we are.

If anyone’s going to rise again, please let it be Don Williams.