I am afraid of dying. I see this as a rational and logical position. At the same time I have spiritual hopes about the possibility of a survival of consciousness after 'death' and a deeply entrenched respect for the celebration of the remarkable event that suggested there is no call for fear.
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.
"It is not just individual courage that drives these young people, but the unique perspective that youth and lack of cynicism brings to public discourse. It is not fear of personal annihilation, but an assertion of faith in the value of a life worth living."
I realised that even living was not guaranteed. It was not so much the loss of a beloved grandmother as my ability to read. I still have the commonplace book I started to keep 65 years ago, of newspaper clippings and pictures, poetry and rumination that shadowed my golden mornings of the baby boomer years like a nuclear cloud.
After my father died I found that he had kept the same kinds of mementos and collections of cultural curiosities, essays and ballads. I even found, after I had made the full Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius, that my Dad had actually used the term 'consolation' in his latter day autobiographical records to mean what I know it means, and meant to Ignatius too.
I still have hope. My commonplace book contained the kind of angsty poetry that teenagers think so deep. I was worried then about right and wrong and justice and the good life. I don't know why Trump, who's roughly my age, never did. But I know that even now young people have these concerns. As I watched the March for our Lives I recognised the genuine power of a faith that speaking for truth and justice can affect the horrible threats that carry us through that time.
It is not just individual courage that drives these young people, but the unique perspective that youth and lack of cynicism brings to public discourse. It is not fear of personal annihilation, but an assertion of faith in the value of a life worth living.
I can see now where a young person's need for order and fairness comes from: the individual's sensibility of the need to care for and ask for the compassion of other people. My first newspaper clipping in that commonplace book was about Dag Hammerskjold, then secretary of the United Nations, who died on a plane in the Belgian Congo, which I (quite rightly) feared was a deliberate assassination wrought into reality.
I was genuinely terrified by the Cuban missile crisis, and then the expected disasters of technological developments such as at the Hadron collider in 2008, and the Avian flu epidemic that swept the world, reminding many of the historical catastrophe of the World War I influenza epidemic that killed more people than stupidity, greed, whimsy and pig headedness had between 1914 and 1918 and beyond. Or the continuing world wars that it initiated through the treaty of versailles. How evil decisions affect generations.
In the 1960s, generational revolt against war and corruption seemed to have fizzled out, like a candle made of tallow, as that generation grew to be corrupted by the neoliberal economics and consumerism which communications technology has marketed so effectively.
But this generation is not willing to be 'the product'. These young people, like the students who have recently taken a leading role on Q&A on Monday night, want to challenge the 'good life' by discussions about what life is worth and how it should be lived, with a huge demand for faith in good, and should be. It has become what the good life ought to cost, and the proper balance between the role of money, moral decisions and ethical choices.
This Easter, and Orthodox Easter, and Passover, and at the changing of the seasons, I am prepared to reassert my faith. That whatever evil brings to us, compassion, courage and passionate commitment to the old values of honesty, accountability and care for others will bring the enormous change that was promised so long ago.
Moira Rayner is a barrister and writer.