There's nothing worse than having a certainty challenged. I was shaken recently by claims that many of the great Van Gogh paintings may not be by the earless wonder after all. Of course, the faithful will protest that such claims are nonsense - why would any contemporary of Vincent's bother to fake paintings which, at the time, weren't worth the canvas they were painted on? And, more to the point, how could everybody have been totally wrong for so long? And, come to think of it, how could I have been wrong myself?
I remember visiting the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam and experiencing a definite thrill at being in the real presence. I stared at those paintings I had seen in reproduction so many times and felt some actual frisson. Whatever about the paintings, that frisson was for real. Those brush-strokes were there to be seen (if not touched in a Doubting Thomas way) - all the ridges and dabs and scrapes as Vincent had put them there. I believed and I still believe. And belief is all, when it comes to acts of faith.
In relation to one particular long-running argument, Billy Connolly once said that if you believe in a God, then there is one. Jerry Lee Lewis once said that it ain't what you believe, it's what's in the Bible. These viewpoints indicate that there are at least two approaches to the disputable. One is that the belief itself is the important thing. The other is to deny that there is anything to argue about in the first place and that the fact remains, regardless of whether you believe or not. Both approaches resist logic, evidence, argument, scepticism, science and perhaps even any once-and-for-all proof to the contrary.
I now see myself standing before those alleged works by Van Gogh like a gormless pilgrim filled with wonder. I know if they are ever proved by science to be fakes I'll probably deny the truth and cling with blind faith to the comfort and pleasure of the thrill of what I believed to be the genuine thing. Of course they were by Vincent. Wasn't his name on them?
I think it's sometimes unwise to scoff at people's faith in things. Once, having taken a wrong road in Co Mayo, myself and a colleague suddenly appeared in Knock. Yes, I was depressed by the souvenirs and the overall impression that the place was some kind of gloomy theme park for Catholics, but the people gazing at the gable wall saw it differently. For them, it was real and they seemed to expect something to happen at any minute - an apparition, a sign, a cure. Then I saw the old photograph from many years ago with all the redundant crutches hanging on the wall - what was I to make of that? I bought a stick of pink Knock rock for my Presbyterian friend and he remarked that this might be the very rock upon which the church was built. Don't knock the rock, I said in hasty defence.
I understand they are carrying out DNA tests on the head of Oliver Plunkett - the results of which will, of course, mean nothing other than to the scientists who carried them out. Those who believe that this is a relic of the Archbishop will believe anyway, and those who don't will be equally unmoved. Ultimately, perhaps, it doesn't matter whether it's real or not. Sure what would scientists know anyway? No sense in getting the secular to investigate the sacred - no more than the sacred investigating itself.
Sometimes, however, in the most bizarre of circumstances, I am more than ready to believe. There is a famous two-faced stone figure on Boa Island in Co Fermanagh and it, for me, is a definite place of pilgrimage. It stands surrounded by clouds of midges and looks both ways at once - clearly pre-Christian and undoubtedly disturbing. Is there really a vibe from this Janus figure or do I merely want there to be one? Whatever the case, I feel a vibe.
I have stationed a small model of this two-faced idol on my mantlepiece. Beside him is a miniature Child of Prague brought back from the Czech capital and a wooden carving of a hare - a mysterious animal about which I like to believe much. I'm not against believing in things in a half-baked, vague and sentimental way - especially nonsense, baloney, pistrix (a word belonging to my grandmother) and any other seductive piece of lore. In fact, I'm all for it. In places such as Nendrum, Navan Fort, Newgrange and Devenish, I always get a shiver down the spine. Is it me? Is it in spite of myself? There's no way of knowing.
One of the most charged and challenging places I've ever been is Jerusalem. When someone points at a place and confidently declares that this is the site of the crucifixion or the resurrection, you are attacked by all manner of feelings. One side of you resists: It couldn't be! How do you know? You mean this is the exact spot? How do you know it wasn't over there? How come there's a church down the road that also claims to be the actual site? This is a racket, surely? But the rest of you is emotional. You really want it to be true. And it might be. This is Jerusalem after all, and the thousands of people around you have no doubts. They are in tears, and you envy them.
I had some sense of something in places about which there is no dispute - and there are many such places in the Holy Land. The Garden of Gethsemane has huge resonances for someone who at school, heard stories of the Passion for weeks on end. As a souvenir, I put an olive in my pocket and took it home. Incidentally, I met a man from Glenties in the Garden of Gethsemane. Would you believe that? His name was Boyle.
There is always terrible disappointment when things turn out to be not the real thing. I hear that the Turin shroud isn't old enough to be what they claim it to be, but I'm heartened to hear that it might be an early photograph taken by Leonardo da Vinci. That's a good story too, isn't it? And there was the recent barney about The Goose Girl - a beautiful thing regardless of who painted it.
It seems, however, that the importance of being real is diminishing in many areas. Andy Warhol was on the case many years ago. I was no mug myself. I stood before Santa's grotto in Wellworth's and saw a local man in an ill-fitting beard. The next day day it was a woman in the same beard. On top of that, there was yet another Santa further down the town - and even a four-year-old can't buy that. Even so, I went through the motions and pinned my requests for a Spacehopper and Lego at the feet of the imposter. I made my act of faith. And I'll do the same at holy wells - for old time's sake.
There was once a simple time when an allegation about Van Gogh would not have caused me a crisis. Everything was simple in those days. I was told what to believe in a declaration called the Apostle's Creed - a tall order for even the most devout to utter with confidence. All other alleged facts were available in books written by clever people who knew about these things. I also used to think that schoolteachers knew things.
Yes, it was all very straightforward then and I even had a fair grip on reality itself. But look at me now - all that book learning, all those prayers at assembly, all those Redemptorist publications and I'm still no further on. In the current climate, I'm afraid it's inevitable that I know nothing and believe less - apart from our man with the two faces on Boa Island.
And now I am required to put my faith in things virtual! Virtual reality - whatever that is or is not. It makes rash claims to be even better than the real thing but I'm inclined to doubt - doubt in some cases even the existence of the alleged real thing. Am I really to believe in virtual pets to pamper, feed and take for walks? And as for the bewildering concept of virtual sex - I rest that very case I've been on since I stood before Santa's grotto at the age of four.
I'm afraid there is much I simply cannot believe in - like the hungry crocodile who saw a man swim past wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words "Fermanagh - All-Ireland Champions 1998". The crocodile pondered for a moment and then swam away muttering "I'm not going to swallow that!"
Almost daily I am being left with less and less to credit. I am, alas, impressed by cynics and scientists and I'm reading too many books written by people who wouldn't get past the first line of the Apostles' Creed without cracking up. I'd need to be careful - after all, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.
Experience and common sense always suggests lining up with the smart people rather than with the manic street preachers, the Trekkies, the mystics, the Holy Joes and the Flat Earth brigade. But then, I suppose you have to believe in something and so I declare with some confidence that I believe in Vincent Van Gogh - and all his works.
John Kelly presents The Eclectic Ballroom on Radio Ireland. His autobiography, Cool About The Ankles is published by The Blackstaff Press.