My discovery of other religions coincided with another great discovery of adolescence: girls, attraction, love and sexuality

Perhaps it was inevitable that these two journeys should happen together. I was not only questioning the religion into which I had been born; I was also leaving childhood behind and entering another world entirely.

There was a girl called Rita.

It is interesting that she had the same name as my grandmother, the deeply religious woman who had first introduced me to Catholicism in Italy, a woman who had converted her husband from an atheist anarchist to a mrmber of the Franciscan Third Order. Yet this Rita was not especially religious. She was simply a beautiful person, a beautiful presence in my life.

She lived in a house on Dulwich Common, and I became completely infatuated with her. Because she was Catholic, I even asked to go to church with her. I found myself returning to the Roman Catholic Church in East Dulwich, not because of theology, not because of obligation, but because Rita was there.

At that age, affection and spirituality became mixed together. The teenage parties of those days were innocent by modern standards. We were thrilled simply to hold hands, or to sit together, or perhaps to receive a kiss. These small moments seemed enormous. They carried all the excitement and mystery of growing up.

At one of these parties, with Rita sitting on my lap and holding hands with me, I began talking about philosophy and religion. I had been reading Plato, particularly The Symposium, and I started explaining my ideas about Christianity and Plato — the idea that perhaps Christian ideas had connections with ancient philosophy, with different aspects of humanity seeking unity.

Looking back, I must have been a rather unusual teenager, discussing Plato and theology while trying to impress a girl I adored.

Unfortunately, Rita’s parents heard about these conversations, and they clearly became concerned. When her birthday party came around, everybody was invited except me.

But I could not accept this. I thought: after everything, after the friendship we had, after the affection I felt, I had to go.

So I went to the house in Dulwich Common.

The door opened, and her parents told me to go away. They did not want me there.

But then something extraordinary happened. My friends who were already inside came to my defence.

“No, no,” they said. “We want Francis here. Let him come in.”

Eventually, Rita’s mother relented. Perhaps she realised that she had misunderstood me. I was allowed into the party.

That moment was incredibly important for me. At a very vulnerable time in my life, when I was moving from childhood into adolescence and searching for who I was, I received acceptance from my friends. I discovered that I had value. I discovered confidence.

It was not only about a party. It was about belonging.

Around the same period, another important event happened involving my stamp collecting.

Stamp collecting had always fascinated me. But my enthusiasm led me into trouble. After my earlier experiences with shoplifting, I found myself in a much more serious situation. This time it involved stamps — ordinary Commonwealth stamps from places like the Gold Coast, Sierra Leone and India — but it was still stealing.

Eventually I was discovered.

I was not arrested, but I was taken back to the shop and faced the possibility of serious consequences. I had to return what I had taken and face the humiliation of what I had done.

In a strange way, this experience became another turning point. I was confronted with the consequences of my actions and was given another chance.

Then my search for religion took another unexpected direction.

Through my stamp collecting, I discovered the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Near to the stamp dealer there was a magnificent new building in Exhibition Road. It was built in white marble, a beautiful neoclassical structure full of light and grandeur. I was attracted by the building itself and entered out of curiosity.

Inside, I met two young American missionaries.

They greeted me with warmth and friendliness. Their American accents, their enthusiasm and their openness completely fascinated me. They welcomed me, they listened to me, and they talked with me about God, faith and the meaning of life.

For the first time, I felt that I was not simply being told what to believe. I felt I was being invited to discover something for myself.

They spoke about their faith, about Joseph Smith, about the Book of Mormon and about Moroni, the angel connected with their beliefs. It was a world completely different from the Catholic world I had known.

I was fascinated.

I went home and told my parents that I had discovered this wonderful religion.

My mother was horrified.

The following day she said: “Francis, you are coming with us to Our Lady of the Friars Church in Peckham”.

It was another beautiful church, a magnificent neo-Gothic building beyond the old Surrey Canal, which has now disappeared. But for me, the purpose of the visit was not simply to attend Mass.

I was told I had to confess to the priest what I had done.

I felt as though I had committed some terrible crime. But the crime was not stealing, not this time. The crime was theological. I felt I was being accused of betraying my Catholic heritage, of exploring other beliefs, of going towards what was regarded as heresy.

I confessed everything.

But afterwards, something changed inside me.

I thought: enough.

I had searched. I had explored. I had tried to find my own way. But every religious journey seemed to end with guilt, arguments and conflict.

My parents wanted me to go to church, but they themselves did not regularly go. They expected me to carry out a duty on their behalf.

So I stopped.

And that is largely how it has remained throughout my life. I have attended churches for weddings, funerals and important occasions. I have always respected these places.

But my faith developed in another direction.

I came to believe that religion must be respected because, at its best, it represents humanity’s search for something beyond ourselves. Churches, temples and religious buildings are not simply places of doctrine; they are places of beauty, memory and spiritual feeling.

Cardinal Newman wrote about the relationship between beauty and faith, and I understand that idea deeply.

When I enter a beautiful religious building, I feel drawn towards it. I feel something like a plant turning towards the sun.

The greatest art, I believe, is spiritually inspired.

Bach was spiritually inspired. Handel was spiritually inspired. Mozart was spiritually inspired. Through their music, something reaches beyond ordinary human experience.

This, for me, is where spirituality lives.

Not in arguments about rituals, not in disputes about theology, not in questions of who possesses the truth.

It lives in the feeling of wonder.

It lives in beauty.

It lives in the extraordinary human desire to reach beyond ourselves and feel that we belong to something greater.

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