I am afraid of dying, but I have hope

As ye who read this column at this time of year know, millions of Christians ritually celebrate that man whom they believe was literally the son of (a monotheist) God and 'of the same substance' as 'him' as well as having a human mother and somehow also being 'of the same substance' as another mystical 'person' known to me as a kid as 'the holy ghost' — who literally defeated the irretrievable annihilation of his body after he was tortured to death for challenging religious and political power-mongers.

Quite a story.

And yet. I am afraid of the dying of my personal world as well as of my own body. I am disgusted at the quality of my political leaders; at the grave crimes committed in my name against the most vulnerable of people who that one man said were entitled to his and our respect and compassion; against the survivors who are a living part of the oldest living culture in the entire planet.

I am deeply apprehensive — to the point of dreaming about Trump, alien invasions and earthquakes — about the probability of that man's particular personality flaws, narcissism , mendacity, self-aggrandisement, assertions of superiority and propensity for hissy fits, obliterating what I value. I am less horrified by cheating cricket captains.

I am well aware of qualities like clean air and water, cruelty-free farming, respect for the worth and dignity of every human life and for all forms of life, honesty, accountability and the separation of powers, and the norms of civil behaviour. I don't worship what I do not know.

I still remember how I felt as a child about the loss of trust I had in the mystical power of 'mum' and 'dad' because I came to see them as human beings, not the inhabitants of my need to trust in the goodwill of those who had the resources I needed and wanted to survive.