I’ve been doing a lot of writing these past few days. I’ve been typing so much that my fingers have splayed at awkward angles; if you turned me upside-down you could use me to rake up leaves. I’ve been churning it out, except for last Monday night when I was down in the pub bitching about Mary Hanafin and the way she might gawk at you. Oh, and except when I’m out walking, too. I haven’t mastered the art of typing whilst trotting (smartphone and all); the only thing my fingers have to do when I’m out stalking the highways is scroll impatiently through my iPod playlists for something I haven’t started to hate yet.

Sunday morning I went out for a gallop, and I passed the local church just as the first few chancers were backing out its massive doors.

I remember this trick. Having been brought up by my Irish Catholic Mammy as staunchly as any pick n’ mix Irish Catholic Mammy could have done, I had a whole arsenal of tricksy tricks up my devious sleevies for when it came to falsifying my religious timetable. I would go to Mass on the Saturday evening, for example, a whole sixteen hours before her, because I’d rather “have my Sunday mornings free for nature rambles”. On arriving at the church, I would slip in the side door, train an ear for the priests’ inimitable tones – the curate sounded like a slow-climbing rollercoaster, rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-GO-IN-PEACE-TO-LOVE-AND-SERVE-THE-LORD-AND-ONE-ANOTHER!, whereas the much-loved Dean sounded more like the result of an engineer’s fainting across a mixing desk – and pick up a parish newsletter for proof of my attendance. If I absolutely HAD to be seen at Mass, I would skulk down the back of the church with the eye-rolling GAA monsters, and skedaddle as soon as the priest was distracted by Communion formation. Anything not to hear the chewing of hosts by people with more spittle than denture.

So that there was a generous bunch of mass-goers creeping out early on Sunday morning didn’t surprise me. It raised a wry smile. But then I took in the average age of these early-leavers; they were all well past their first trip to the voting station. Some of them had children with them. Some of them got into SUVs. And though you must take into account the possibility that these bolters may have had genuine reason for skipping the last ten minutes of the service, it’s probably fair to say that a good many of them just couldn’t be arsed to wait on. That they were choking up the entrance doors while pews went empty up at the front. That they were eye-rolling, or texting, or staring blankly through stained glass, or trying to pick paint flecks off the holy walls. And you have to ask yourself ... Jesus, are your habits so strong as to make a zombie out of your for forty minutes a week?

Why go to Mass if you don’t fucking want to go to Mass? Why stand in the church porch poking at scabs on your arm when you could be at home whittling figurines out of bog oak, or learning Spanish, or oiling your bike, or oiling your boyfriend?

Atheist Ireland have launched a campaign in the run up to the next census, set for April 10th. Its aim is quite simple: to remind people not to tick Roman Catholic on the religious question on the census form if they’re not practising Roman Catholics. 

Logically, such a campaign should be fairly pointless, like reminding people not to eat pigs if they’re vegetarians, or not to vote Fianna Fail if they don’t want to see them running the country (the latter happens). But it’s fairly obvious that labelling yourself a Roman Catholic, even though you haven’t been to a Mass that wasn’t a wedding since 1997 and you haven’t tasted wafer that wasn’t dipped in ice-cream since that time your cone didn’t melt all the way to the bottom, is a trap whole hordes of us are too lazy to avoid. “I guess I’m Catholic,” you might shrug. “I was baptised when I was three weeks old.” Which is a bit like saying you suppose you still look good in dungarees, because of that time you won the Bonny Baby competition at the town regatta.

If you’re still ticking the Catholic box without ticking all the Catholic boxes, then you should really grow a great big hairy pair and Stop. You can’t just claim you’re part of a sect if you haven’t shown up for indoctrination in thirteen years. I went pony-trekking for a day when I was twelve, but I wouldn’t be thrilled if I was named on the Irish Olympic showjumping team. Sure the analogies write themselves!

We’re creatures of habit, though, and habit’s a comfy cosy thing. You may get the niggles up and down your back for a whole Sunday if you skip Mass on nothing but a brave little whim. You may feel light-headedly fraudulent if you tick the No Religion box on the census, as if your Mammy has a psychic connection to the pencil you’re scribbling with. But that’s all, isn’t it? A niggle of unease. It ain’t gonna kill yeh.

There’s a Mass-inspired meme winding down on Facebook at the moment. Irish members are Liking Mass-related pages at a rate that’d kill a joke in super-quick time indeed. There’s a “Shouting ‘One more prayer’ when Mass has ended!” page. And a “Waking up in the morning and thinking - Who did I shake hands with at Mass last night?!” page. And a “The awkward moment when every Irish person on Facebook becomes obsessed with liking Mass jokes” page. Mass is a habit so culturally ensconced that it’s slid right through irony and become something to get irreverently nostalgic about. We tick Roman Catholic because we think it’s part of our cultural identity. We’re confusing a global religion for Father fucking Ted.

There’s a very good reason you shouldn’t proclaim yourself Catholic on the census if you’re not, or you shouldn’t waste your Sunday morning’s darkening gothic doorsteps – the longer we hold on to this habit, the longer Ireland remains a “Catholic state”, and the more precious State resources get channelled into religious territories. This wouldn’t be a problem if we were all, honest-to-God Catholics.

But I’m nearly sure we’re not.