Mum by Ben, aged 5

Oh God, my son's a believer!

By Cathy Keir

How is it that a pair of habitual atheists can produce two children who are devout Christians? Some scientists claim faith is genetically pre-determined, but I fear our two are just more than usually keen to disbelieve their parents.

Our son, who's five, is a firm believer in God and Father Christmas, and uses emotional blackmail to get me to say I am too:

"But Mummy, if you don't believe in God I won't see you again when I die."

So I have to make him happy, don't I?

And when his three year old sister asks,

"Do I believe in God, Mummy?"

all I can say is,

"If you want to, darling."

And she does want to. She's taken to quizzing one of her friend's mothers, a regular churchgoer, about God, as my answers don't seem to satisfy her. All their father believes in is Lincoln City Football Club.

So how did they acquire all this knowledge of Christian metaphysics at such tender ages? I blame peer pressure. Two of our son's best friends are Catholic. One of them likes to play baptism:

"I'll be the priest, you be the Dad, and she can be the baby."

The other has convinced Ben that every time his father exclaims "Oh God" when he drops something, it means he doesn't believe. So Dad is lectured regularly on the perils of blasphemy.

Neither of ours has been christened, and we don't go to church. We do take them to the Crib service on Christmas Eve though. Dad isn't such a willing participant, but I have a penchant for singing carols. Perhaps that's where we went wrong. If we'd pooh-poohed all the Bible stories right from the start, perhaps they'd be taking their cue from us. But taking a liberal, "you can believe if you want to" stance, it seems they do believe it, with knobs on.

So if those scientists are right that a person's capacity to believe in God is linked to brain chemicals, how come our kids have somehow acquired the chemicals that we didn't? If faith is all down to genes, the ones leading our children to God must have skipped a generation or two.

Yet God and all his trappings must be a comforting thought for a small child trying to get to grips with life and death and all that comes in between. Ben is beginning to listen to what's on the radio at news time now, rather than tuning it out in favour of the 'information' on cereal packets. He asks,

"Why did they make that bomb?" and "Why did that baby die?"

And as hard as we try to tone our answers down and stop him worrying - "There's a war happening, but it's a long way away from here," and "He was very poorly and the doctors couldn't make him better" - the big bad world is beginning to impinge on his consciousness.

And with death comes the afterlife. Every time we drive past the cemetery Hannah says,

"That's where all the dead people are, isn't it Mummy?"

"Yes," I say.

"Why?" she says.

"Because when we die our bodies are buried so that the people who miss us can come and leave us flowers to show they remember us."

"Oh," and then a short silence. "When I die, God will make me alive again."

"Hmm," I say.

If only.

I'm obviously severely lacking in gene VMAT2. This is the gene that molecular geneticist Dean Hamer says regulates the flow of mood-altering chemicals in the brain. He says those with this gene are more likely to develop a spiritual belief. Sounds like the opiate of the masses to me. He also says growing up in a religious environment has little effect on belief. I can vouch for that. Ben talks to God and Father Christmas when he's in bed, and he's even written a poem about his faith:

God is in your head
God is in your eyes
God is everywhere
To give you a surprise. (c. Ben Fennell)

Of course, being a five year-old boy, he shows particular interest in the more gruesome aspects of Christianity.

"How did Jesus die? Was it the nails or the sword?" And as for creationism versus Darwin, well it's not a conversation to start at bedtime.

"Who made the universe?" he asks. "Scientists think it was formed by the Big Bang, a giant explosion which happened a long, long time ago. This explosion made all the stars and planets - and one of those planets became our Earth," I reply, wishing I'd paid more attention at school.

"And who made the explosion? Was it God?"

It's hard to say if our children's faith will persist into adulthood. One of the sticking points I remember was the time my friend and I dared each other to sneak in and drink holy water from the church next door to my house. We thought if there was a God he would strike us down. But he didn't, and to a child's mind this seemed pretty significant.

The question now, though, is should we coax or argue these religious notions out of our children and risk reinforcing their faith? Or try to maintain a strictly neutral stance, and leave their religious education to the University of Life? Or should we fudge it, and keep faith that they will eventually see the light, from wheresoever it comes? It would be nice to meet up with them again in a flower-filled heaven teeming with chubby angels and echoing to the sound of choristers warbling the descant to "O Come all ye Faithful" with a sweet purity unimaginable in this life of ours.

However when I suggested to Ben that God might be kind enough to let me into heaven even though I've spent my life as a non-believer, he said,

"He's not that kind."

Cathy Keir will continue to drag Ben and Hannah's dad to the Christmas Eve carol service, and listening to "Away in a Manger" at the school nativity play still brings tears to her eyes. Perhaps there's hope for her yet.

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