Things You Should Know About Me

Lately I've been wanting to dispel some myths about atheists. Since "coming out", I've had a few people seem, I don't know, uncomfortable maybe? around me. It's as if they don't know what to think of me anymore.  I began writing out some myths about atheists, but I soon realized that there is no way to categorize all atheists and what they are or aren't.  Just as you can't categorize all Christians in the same way atheists, believers, and everyone in between come in all shapes, sizes and temperaments. Since it would be impossible to dispel myths about "atheists", I simply want to dispel some assumptions about ME.

1. I don't hate Christians. Or God for that matter.
I still have total respect for my friends and family, just as I always have. I've not always agreed with everyone on everything anyway, and I good-naturedly argued various points with them, but I've never hated them or what they believed, and that hasn't changed now. In fact, I still very much enjoy a good theological debate. If you want to talk to me about your relationship with God, I still want to listen. I still understand you and empathize with you. I've been there. Talk away.  And I don't hate God either. I just don't think he exists. I'm not going to start saying mean, insensitive, blasphemous things about him to you. I still ask my kids not to use the Lord's name in vain, because I know it's insensitive. I also don't insult Muslims, Mormons, or Jews for what they believe either. I don't hate any of you or any of your beliefs. I just don't believe the same things as you.

2. Similarly, I'm not just angry at God either.
Just because I don't believe in something doesn't equate anger with that thing. To use a very poor, inadequate example, I stopped believing in the tooth fairy once, but it wasn't because I was mad that she forgot to pick up my tooth - which she did indeed forget. I just started putting all the pieces together and realized my mom was the tooth fairy and I hadn't told her I'd lost my tooth. I know God and the tooth fairy aren't the same thing, but the concept still holds - disbelief does not equal anger.  While I might have once been angry at God (and I was), I did not stop believing in him just to get back at him.

3. I have not lost my morals.
Some of my ethical and moral philosophies have shifted, true, but that does not mean I am now amoral. Just because I no longer fear divine retribution or eternal damnation for wrongdoings does not mean I now give myself license to wrongdoing. I care about my fellow man. I care about my children. I care about my husband. I don't want to hurt people, not by stealing, gossipping, cheating or injuring.  My motivation for being good has always been personal, out of my own desire to be a good person. I used to also feel accountable to God for my actions. But without that accountability, I still have that same personal desire to be the best person I am able to be. And when I do mess up? It's not because I've "lost my way" and "turned my back against God". It's because I'm human and fallible, just like I was before, just like you are, and we all make mistakes, with or without God.

4. I am not "militant".
I may talk about my non-beliefs to or in front of you, but I have no intention of "shoving it down your throat." Similarly, I have no desire to make you change your beliefs. In fact, that is very much NOT what I want to do. I know firsthand how painful the exit from faith is. I don't want to force that on anyone else. If something I say resonates with you, that's different, but it's not my intention to tear apart your faith in any way. Just as I don't regard you merely talking about faith as shoving it down MY throat, I hope you'll see that my talking about my experience is the same. The only way we'll all understand each other is if we listen to each other. When anyone starts getting defensive or offensive, the lines of communication shut down. I understand your need to talk about what matters to you. If my talking about what matters to me is upsetting to you, just stop listening. I'll never talk about it as a backhanded way of denigrating or criticising you.

5. My life is not meaningless and death is not hopeless.
If anything, I feel my life has more meaning now than ever before. Now that I realize this is my only shot at life, and there is no life hereafter in which to atone for my mistakes (and there is no God to fix what I've done wrong), I now live life a lot more intentionally and purposefully. I try to repair my mistakes myself, now, rather than leaving it up to God to rectify. I am grateful for every second I am alive in which to awe at the splendor of this universe.  I don't believe in eternal damnation or glorification. I wish, oh I definitely wish, that I could one day watch the continuation of life progress from my comfortable mansion in heaven, but knowing that I can't just means I must appreciate every moment of living now. As for death, I'm not going to pretend the loss of the heavenly concept isn't a bit disappointing (I really wanted to prove I'm right about so many things to Scott after getting to ask God), but it's not hopeless. My body will be donated to science to be practiced on by the nation's future doctors, and then I will return to the earth. It's kind of wonderous. My energy, whatever energy is left of me when I die, will return to the earth and keep the process of life moving on. I came from nature and will return to nature. I think that's fascinating.

6. I'm not trying to be edgy and trendy.
Far from it. I never wanted to be an atheist. I thought all atheists were evil assholes. I'm still a little uncomfortable with the label. I could just do away with labels altogether, but at the end of the day, it does accurately describe my view of divinity. I was much prouder of my Calvinist label than I am of my atheist one. It's not about being edgy. I got over the excitement of rebellion sometime around the age of 19 (except for when it comes to my hair color, piercings and tattoos!). That's about the extent of my edginess, says the girl with a Soccer Mom plate on her white minivan.

7. And finally, it's not just a phase.
I go through lots of phases: crafty phases, bento phases, pet phases, fitness phases. This is not one of them. I'll always miss certain things - the community of church, the comfort of believing in divine protection, the dream of an afterlife. I'll talk sometimes with longing about my past beliefs. But that doesn't make me a Christian in remission. I don't know for certain what the future holds for me, of course, but I'm pretty certain it doesn't hold a reconversion to religious faith. However, if you want to keep praying for me, I won't be offended by that. Prayers (honest prayers) come from a place of love, and whatever our beliefs, love is universal. I hope that our differences in religious beliefs won't displace love.

I Don't Need To Join Another Cult!

So lately I've been really into documentaries. I've been watching documentaries on Netflix on anything and everything, from Mitt Romney to asexuals to sushi.  I've watched several documentaries on various cults, which I find extremely fascinating.

On a seemingly entirely different subject, I've recently really gotten into fitness and working out and (mostly) healthy eating.  I've started a Love My Body project and have been focusing not so much on losing weight, but on feeling good about myself and embracing - and loving - the body I have.  I can do a little to shape and sculpt it, but at the end of the day, the frame is the same and I am learning to love my curves.

One night, at a Zumba Toning class, a guy introduced himself to me and invited me to come along to a local fitness group.  The Zumba Toning class already appeared to be made up of 30 or so people who clearly knew each other's fitness goals intimately, and they all rallied around encouraging me to join their group.  I smiled and thanked them for the invite, and just barely stopped myself from quipping, "Thanks, but the last think I need is to join another cult!"  I realized just in time that such a joke may not come across as funny as I thought it was.

Not only did I realize that calling their fit group a cult would be insulting, but it would also insinuate that I'd been involved in cults previously.  And when one thinks "cult" they think documentary-worthy cults, like the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints or the Martha Marcy May Marlene variety.  No, I was never in one of those.  I never lived in a commune or was physically abused.  All the religious organizations I've ever been involved with were more or less legitimate, mainstream churches.  Some more mainstream, some definitely less.

Yet both of the two main churches I attended for a lengthy amount of time as an adult have been only two or three steps away from cultish.  One church was loosely affiliated with a group that, if not actually considered a cult itself (though I'd consider it one), had some very cult-like offshoots; the other was literally a breakaway from a cult (even if the breakaway was decades ago).

It wasn't until I left that second church that I realized how cultish it had been.  I'd been reading about the organization my church had separated itself from, and I was horrified by how similar they still were.  While they'd relaxed rules about strictly not associating with outsiders or banning TV, and while thankfully the sexual misconduct that emerged from the original church was, as far as I know, absent in our current church, most of the rules were still pretty much the same, or at least had only changed in the last fifteen to twenty-five years (such as being allowed to marry "outside" the church).  A couple of steps away from cult.  And the freedom I felt when I left it! And the horror when I realized how long I'd just accepted it...

I must admit I now shy away from anything resembling a too closely-held belief system, whether it be political, social or especially religious.  I was sucked into it for too long, even as an intelligent, thinking, supposedly not easily suggestible person.  I'm afraid of getting sucked in again.  Another cult is the last thing I need!

The Five Stages of Grief

The following is a re-worked copy of the original essay that inspired my book.  My book is currently two-thirds of the way done... the third part - which discusses how I deal with life after faith - is still being lived.

About three years ago I discovered I had a terminal illness. I was at work, and all day something was bothering me. There was a group of fundamentalists in America who were proclaiming that today was the day that Jesus Christ would return, and I thought it was laughable but also sad.  How sad that they have all placed their hope so sincerely in something that obviously wasn’t going to happen. As I thought about these people, something else started nagging at me.  As a Christian myself, am I any less laughable?  After all, I too believe Jesus Christ will return, I just don’t have a date set in my calendar for it.

It was that day that I discovered I was terminal.  My faith was dying.

As a born-again Christian, a practicing, devout, sincere, whole-hearted Christian for basically my whole life, this was dire news.  I battled with this disease for three years, trying to come to terms with this faith that was so close to death. 

Denial.

I went home from work that day figuratively wringing my hands.  I must ignore this doubt.  We all have doubts. I myself have had lots of doubts.  This is no different. God will see me through. I pushed the thought from my mind. Ignore the doubts, and they will go away.

Yet my mind kept churning through this thought in spite of my resistance.  Jesus did say that “this” generation (his disciples’ generation) would not pass without the Second Coming.   I’ve heard sermons on this my whole life.  I’ve explained this away to many people myself. “This” generation is a metaphor.  “A day in our eyes is like a 1000 years in God’s.” He was referring to something else.  I always accepted all those answers.  But plain is plain. Jesus was wrong. Or he was very unnecessarily cryptic. Either way, that generation and many others, did pass away, and we’ve yet to be taken into Glory.

From here, everything began to unravel.  Like a cancer spreading, the foolishness of my sincerely held, and intellectually held, I might add, belief began to deteriorate and poison my whole life.  I tried and tried to deny what was happening, but denial has never been much of a comfort to me.  As a Christian and as a person, I have always been honest with myself.  I knew, as much as I hated knowing, that my faith really was on its death bed, and something had to be done about it.

Bargaining.

So I lived on. I churched on. I prayed on. Oh, did I pray. I prayed with fervour I rarely prayed with before. I begged God for another chance. I begged for a renewal of my faith. I requested help and prayer from others. I read online articles from other people in my situation and conversed on forums.  I told God I would continue living the Christian life, I would continue to honor and worship him despite my doubts, if he would just reward me one day with a genuine faith again. By this time, my head was completely sceptical, but my heart was still with Jesus.  I read a book about cell memory of the heart and came to believe that maybe faith really did live in the physical heart, and all I needed to do was let my heart rule over my head. It sounded so utterly foolish, but it’s all I had left.  I would live this out to my dying day, if only to be rewarded with my place in heaven and a crown of jewels for carrying this cross.

The faith was still a spark in my heart.  I took that as a sign that God was still there, not letting go of me entirely. This was just a test of my faith. I had always put so much stock in the truth of Sola Scriptura. Maybe God was taking me further, to a deeper place I’d never known. I would pass this test.

Yet with each question my dying faith brought up, I already had the answers. I’d been studying God’s Word and sharing my faith with people my whole life.  There were no new answers to be found. I realized that for every question on the test, I automatically knew the answer.  They’d been answered long ago, but insufficiently.  Sufficient for an existing faith perhaps, but entirely useless to a fledgling non-believer.  If this test was for my benefit, what could I possibly stand to gain from already having all the answers?

Depression

I felt beaten.  As all this was taking place in my heart, my church was crumbling around me.  I’d always believed in my church, with all its flaws – flaws I never once pretended weren’t there – but I accepted them all the same. Why? Because I believed the people to have genuine, Christ-like hearts.  Sadly at this point, even that was falling apart around me.  My husband and I left.  He was done with Christianity, but I wasn’t ready to give up.  Still in the Bargaining phase as depression began to wipe over me, I went out in search of a new church. All I found was emptiness. Finally, I found a church with wonderful people with whom I felt I could share a little of my painful honesty without judgment, and there I stayed until we moved out of town. 

I was feeling crushed under my burden. I told myself again the Christian answers – You’re trying to do this too much on your own. You are trying to get to heaven by works not faith. But there was no hope for the alternative. I was clearly on my own here.  No God was answering my pleas. No faith was buoying me above the water.  Sinking, crushed, burdened, I was going through life trying to hold onto something that was never going to be mine again.  Death was calling; the truth was too clear for me to ignore but too agonizing to accept.  I continued on slowly, with my heavy yoke upon my neck and no friend in Jesus to help carry my load.

I found a new church in my new town.  Beyond anything I’d ever expected, it was a Lutheran church. Never before would I have considered going “practically Catholic”, but this place touched my soul in new ways.  Eagerly, I wondered if this was finally it. God was finally reaching back down to me.  All of this was NOT for naught!  I began taking communion again, loving this new Lutheran concept of the “real presence of Jesus Christ” being in the elements.  I felt something on Sundays when I was there. I might struggle all week long, but on Sundays...

Then one day I heard my six year old daughter telling her friend that Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit were all one called the Trinity, and if you didn’t love God you would go to hell. I cringed. What a horrible thing to believe, a horrible thing to teach my child! I realized then and there that I truly had been deceiving myself these past few months.  I wanted to believe that my faith was returning so badly that I allowed myself to be swept up in the precious, sweet sentiment of it all.  But when spoken of in the bright of day, so plainly, so academically, I knew I didn’t believe a word of it. I didn’t like the sound of it at all.

Anger

I thought at this point I’d reached Acceptance.  We found friends who were in the same place as us, previous Christians who left their faith and were, like us, trying to figure out how to live without it. With them, I felt understood and accepted.  We all understood each other’s unfolding religious experience at its most complex level.  I felt I could actually maybe embark on this new life-after-death after all. I really could accept that this was the new me.

Slowly, however, I realized there was a quiet rage underneath the surface.  It only boiled up every now and again, and not too hotly, but it was simmering. I felt it when I went out for drinks with a Christian friend. She was telling us about some things she had done and someone remarked what a good person she was.  She cast her eyes down and said, “Not really, but thanks.”  She meant it. I knew she meant it and wasn’t just being modest; I knew it because that’s how a true, good Christian feels.  All the good they do, all the right decisions they make, all the people they help really mean nothing because at the end of the day, we are all filth. We are scum.  We are sinful beings God cannot deign to look upon without the covering of Jesus’ blood.  I wanted to shout “But you ARE good!” I thought back on my own life, my own right decisions, the people I helped, my lifestyle in general. All I ever tried to do, even with all the mistakes I made along the way, was be good. And I really was good! It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I’d been put down by my faith my whole life and made to believe I was shit.  The times when I dared to recognize that I kind of was okay, I shot myself right back down for having too much pride.  Pride proved that I really wasn't any good at all.

The gurgling volcano of anger began erupting now and again in other ways.  I would read a Christian article, or hear a Christian viewpoint, and find myself raging at it. I could never go back to believing those things. Even though a small part of me still wished fervently for just a blind faith to wash over me and let me be at peace instead of that constant spiritual masochism, I also knew I never wanted to be on that side of those viewpoints again. Even if I did come back around to having faith, I could never have faith in all of it.  I found myself especially annoyed when I read things about why people leave the church or leave the faith, written from the viewpoint of someone still in it.  Though I truly sympathized with their ignorance on the matter, (I myself having been one of them for decades), I was frustrated by how simplistic and egotistical their proposals are.  If anyone realized the sheer agony I’d been through for the past three years on this awful journey, they wouldn’t be able to take it so lightly or flippantly.  They wouldn’t be able to safely put me in a box and lock me away, as a friend put it.

You see, that term “spiritual masochist” speaks deeply to me.  It describes who I’ve always been. Unlike what “they” would like to believe, I wasn’t a seed scattered on the path or sown amongst the thorns or cast into the rocky places.  Rather, I’ve always over-searched my heart, ripped apart all the layers to find the truth of my soul.  I believed in God and the Bible in spite of my conscious, intellectual doubts, and I never lied to myself about those doubts. I took my ability to still believe as a gift from God, for I knew it was all foolishness to the wise.  Strip the faith away though, and I was left with oozing open wounds that I still tore and slashed at, amongst my cries and tears, trying to find the truth in the gash.  I felt certain that few Western Christians have ever been to the excruciating lengths I had been going through to keep my faith alive.  I spent years flagellating myself in the name of God to believe I was nothing, and there I was flagellating myself again to try and find some living cell within my incurable, terminal faith on which I could rebuild a self I didn’t even want anymore.  I had been beating and bruising myself over this, and could not stop, and I discovered I was actually very angry about it. I thought I’d by-passed the Anger stage, but there I was, boiling over at any unexpected stimuli. Was I angry that I was raised in a Christian home? Not at all. My parents believe whole-heartedly in Jesus as I once did. Of course they would raise their offspring to place their treasures in heaven and aspire for eternal salvation.  Was I angry that God has dropped me when I always believed he never would, never could? Extremely.  If there was a God at all, I felt I must be his toy Barbie he impaled with a knife and was melting over a spitfire just for amusement and laughs. I had been left to die with no savior to rescue me, just lies and manipulation.

Acceptance.

I didn't know how I’d ever be ready to accept entirely that my faith was dead.  I was still afraid of death, both spiritual and physical. I feared I was failing the test, and for that, I was going to be eternally punished. I still liked the idea of Jesus.  I still liked what he taught and what he stood for.  I still wanted to live by those principles and guide my children in those ways.  No one ever regretted being a good person.  But to believe 85% of the Bible and to believe that God will come to your rescue if you truly ask with all your heart are things I could not do.

I was stepping into a sunnier forest, just one without a set path.  I was afraid to forge my own, because I’d been taught my whole life that I am not able to.  To find your own way is to turn your back on the Lord.  Yet the Lord had turned his back on me already, so I really had no choice. I had children at tender ages to raise.  I had my own life to figure out.  I was afraid to come into Acceptance, because I knew that it would mean I had truly died.  I knew it’s around the bend, but I was still frightened. Frightened I was wrong. Frightened I was right. Worried how I would hurt my family who loves me.  Worried I’d do wrong by my kids.  I was in no rush to find Acceptance of my situation, but I was done with the search. I thought, “If the God of the Bible is truly the God of Love, he will pull me back in like the one lost sheep, but I’m not holding my breath.”  I was finding it hard enough to breathe as it was.

Then one day, while dwelling on God abandoning me, a thought struck me.  God never abandoned me at all; God just doesn’t exist! Of course, the possibility that God might not exist had been with me throughout the entire journey, but the sudden realization felt like someone opening the door of a dark room and letting in the daylight.  I felt like rubbing my eyes with the wonder of it, the excitement of it, the joy of it.

And like that, my anger dissipated.  Well, not really.  My anger at God was gone, because it was like being angry at the Easter Bunny.  How could I be angry at something that doesn’t exist, never existed?  He hadn’t abandoned me, so what was there to be upset about?  But I was still angry at other things. Angry at thirty years of a life wasted on a myth.  Angry at my ignorance.  Angry at myself for all the things I’d done in the name of God that I was now ashamed of.  Angry at missing out on all the riches of the world we live in because I was busy thinking about the next world. I was angry in general, but now had no one to be angry with.

The months went by.  Gradually I noticed my anger subsiding.  At first, I didn’t know how to relate to the world as a verified non-believer.  I didn’t know if I was a good person or a bad one.  I didn’t know how people would relate to me.  If they knew I was – dare I say it – an atheist, would they all turn on me?

I kept this terrifying word to myself, but as time went on, I realized how well it fit who I was now.  I was so thankful to have a husband and friends who were stumbling along this journey with me.  It was a little embarrassing to realize I was only for the first time truly trying to think for myself.  I had to push back the temptation to latch on to other non-believers’ opinions in search of my own beliefs – or non-beliefs.  At first, all of my atheistic feelings were tinged with anger and very raw.  Again, I wasn’t sure I had really reached acceptance.

But a few days ago I realized six months have gone by since I first came to the conclusion that there is no god.  And in that six months, a peace has settled over me. As I drift further and further away from religion, the harder I find it to understand the Christian mind-set and how I ever owned it. I’m now at the point where I have to consciously put myself back in that place in order to relate with people still in it.  I also have to remind myself how painful the exit was, because I’m actually quite comfortable with it now. 

There is just one step left.  I can’t say I’ve fully “accepted” my atheism, because I’m still not brave enough to let the world know.  I’ve been through the five stages of grief and now I’m no longer grieving, but I realize that not everyone I know has had the time to do the same.  To let my family and friends know that my faith is dead will only bring it all back up again, and now I’ll have to deal with their grief.  That’s the one thing I’m not ready to accept: Watching my own funeral. 

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

When one becomes a Christian, it's part and parcel to share that news with the world. We are told we should not hide our light under a bushel but shine it on a hill. 'If you deny Me on earth, I will deny you before My Father in heaven.' (Matthew 10:33) Sharing our newfound faith is an important part of becoming a Christian. Baptism follows, which (varying degrees of significance amongst denominations aside) is a commanded public pronouncement of faith. If one were to become a Christian and keep it to oneself, there would be much speculation on the sincerity of that transformation.

However, when one leaves the Christian faith, it is something to be hidden. It is scandalous. It is in some cases jeopardous, even dangerous. In a Christian society, leaving the faith is most definitely NOT something to shout from the rooftops. While Christians would praise a Muslim for bravely coming out as Christian to his or her family (thereby likely being disowned, if not downright in danger of death), they cannot conceive of a Christian coming out as Muslim, or Jewish, or even Mormon, or -gasp- atheist, and why that person would want to share that terrible news with the world.

So I hide.

More than anything I want to announce to the world that I am atheist. I want to finally get it out in the open, so I don't have to hide who I really am anymore. I don't have any ulterior motive; I'm not out to change you or persecute you. I just want to be free. I want to be known.

But I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of losing friends.

I'm afraid of losing family.

I'm afraid of losing my job.

I'm afraid of losing clients.

I'm afraid of hurting my family.

I'm afraid of humiliating my family.

I'm afraid of putting my children at risk of bullying.

I'm afraid of putting my children at risk of proselytizing.

So I hide.

It is shameful that in a country that was literally founded on people seeking religious freedom, people are not allowed to be free from religion. Religious freedom was not set aside for Christians exclusively. It was intended for all religious people - and non-religious too - whether their beliefs were Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, Buddhist or Baptist. Or atheist.

But the reality of it is, if you are not Christian - at least here in the Bible Belt - you are at risk. If you leave Christianity, you are an apostate - which is sometimes worse than being Muslim or Hindu (and therefore 'simply a part of your culture'). You may be seen as actually disgracing your family and bringing shame upon their religion... not unlike the Muslim who leaves Islam.

When I first spoke out against my church (still then a Christian), I was reproached for 'giving Christianity a bad name'. Many people felt what I had done was only further non-Christians dislike for Christianity. While I saw their point, I also saw the other side of it. Hiding the faults of churches furthers the non-Christian dislike for Christianity too, perhaps more so.

Apostatizing is perhaps the worst thing a Christian can do. It gives the religion a bad name. It gives non-Christians more ammunition. It lends credence to the possibility that Christianity is not the only answer.

Worse than anything, it waters the seeds of their own doubt that Christians don't want watered.


When I became a Christian (or rather, 'rededicated my life'), I told everyone. I didn't want to hide it from anyone. Even in situations that felt awkward, where I felt I might lose a friend or make myself look stupid, I made my faith known. I did not want to deny Jesus here on earth. When asked, 'So, do you think I'm going to hell?', I awkwardly answered yes. It was of utmost importance that I made sure everyone knew I was a Christian. I may have lost a couple of friends, though if I did, I never knew about it, but there was never any real backlash. I was accepted into a church and a society that congratulates such a decision, and everything was hunky dory. Some people thought I was a little nuts, but it didn't get much worse than that.

Unfortunately, I know for a fact that if now I shared even a fraction of that kind of openness about my non-faith, there WOULD be backlash. I KNOW I would hurt and humiliate my family. I KNOW I'd be unfriended on Facebook (by some friends and even some family members). I SUSPECT many of my other fears would become reality. I doubt I'd lose my job, but it's happened to people before who shared their atheism openly. There is such a stigma to being atheist. The word itself implies hedonism, arrogance, hatred, intolerance, and lawlessness. None of these words describe me, but as soon as I give myself the atheist label, I'll have given myself the rest of the labels too.

A few people know I'm 'not religious', but if I came out and used the A-word, they'd be really surprised, shocked even. So I could publicly call myself agnostic, but that implies a malleability that isn't actually present. It sounds like I just don't know but could be persuaded. It's a safer option, but thanks to the connotations of this word, it wouldn't be true.

All these words and their connotations. They are really unfair.

So I hide.

The truth is, I'm an agnostic atheist. I'm atheist in that I simply don't believe there is a god, any kind of god. I am agnostic, though, because I readily admit there is no way to prove it one way or another. I cannot prove god doesn't exist, and you can't prove he does. I don't believe in any deities (making me atheist as opposed to theist), but I can't unequivocally know that I'm right (making me agnostic as opposed to gnostic).

All it would take for me to stop hiding my light under a bushel is a simple 'Share' on Facebook. This post is written. The truth about me is right here, about to be published. It'll be out there somewhere in Internetland, but no one will be likely to find it. All I need to do is share the link.

But will I?

Dare I?

Regarding Artificial Intelligence... and Religion

Last night, my hubby and I went out for a much needed date, just the two of us, no kids. Gotta thank the parents for babysitting! We went on a 'high school' date, aka, cheap and cheerful, Taco Bell for dinner and a dollar movie. We saw Johnny Depp's new(ish) movie, Transcendence.

I'm one of those people who after watching a sci-fi movie, especially on the big screen, comes out of the theater feeling all, well, sci-fi-y. I'm the same with horror; first time I saw Final Destination, I drove home certain that street lights were flickering ominously and death was prowling around me to get its due. So after leaving a film about artificial intelligence, I began imagining my brain was a computer, with an uploadable consciousness.

We put on one of our current favorite albums for the drive home, Quiet Company's We Are All Where We Belong, a brilliant 'coming-out atheist' album. My mind started to wander...

"I know this is going to sound so cheesy, but in a way, it's like our brains really are computers, and all it takes is a little virus to deprogram the whole thing."

My husband, not finding this as cheesy as I feared, agreed. (Which is good, considering my programming knowledge is very old and probably obsolete, not having worked with data and coding in ten years.  In other words, please excuse any errors that may now follow.)  I started talking about the moment I specifically got 'infected' with the virus; the moment it dawned on me that Jesus Christ might not actually ever be coming back. I remember that exact moment so distinctly. And seeing it from a computing point of view, I started to imagine the so-called virus corrupting my original programming, slowly at first but eventually wiping out the system completely.

The moment I first considered that Jesus was not coming back was like opening a corrupted file. Over the following weeks and months, the belief system I'd held my whole life began to fall apart. It all started to unravel, like a computer virus scanning all my files and wiping them out. After three years, the system was completely wiped, gone, deleted. The faith that had been my operating system had been destroyed.

But a virus isn't right. A virus corrupts. I don't feel like what happened to me corrupted me. "What else could it be then," I asked my techie husband. "A factory reset?"

"More like an upgrade," he responded. Our default setting, he argued, IS religion. We from infancy anthropomorphize everything; it's the only way we understand the world. We tend to think that the world thinks like us, that everything has meaning or reason. Our ancient ancestors saw the sun and believed it had a spirit and a will. We believe bad things happen for a reason. We imagine that the universe works in a humanly rationale way. We want to make sense of why we are here, so we create divine beings to explain our existence, and we rely on this deity for order. Our factory settings kind of are religious.

It takes an upgrade, or perhaps a patch, to rise above that.

This, of course, is highly debatable, depending on what side of the 'program' you fall on. For religious people of all kinds, saying that religion is a factory setting is right! Of course, because God made us that way. God made us to need him. And as we go through life and discover this need for religion, we are pointed to God (or Ra or Allah or Brahma or whomever). To the religious, atheism (or agnosticism) is definitely a virus in the worst sense. A corruption to the system. Something in an email we don't want to open (so we don't open). We stay far away from viruses of doubt to ensure we keep the programs operating as they should, keep the system clean.

But to a non-believer, it's as I said earlier. It's an upgrade. It's taking a system that had faults to begin with and improving upon it. The original OS had some bugs, but there has been new software released that can improve the system's performance. However, you've got to open up that email with the instructions on how to compile the new or changed files yourself to get the patch.

For me, maybe that moment I first realized Jesus may not be coming back like the Bible said he would, wasn't so much a virus that corrupted my system, but a source code modification. How it got there, I'm not sure (was it an executable file, begging the question, IS there a manufacturer someone releasing patches? Are we all actually existing in a virtual reality like The Matrix?), but however it was executed, I'm glad it was. It has definitely improved my system's performance.

Or maybe the better way of saying it is, I've 'transcended'. Making my consciousness now uploadable. Will, Evelyn?

The Origins of Christianity and the Early Church: Recommended Books by Bart Ehrman

You are officially a 'grown-up' when you start preferring news radio over music. Back in Scotland, BBC Radio 4 became my station of choice. I enjoyed Book of the Week and Woman's Hour and the occasional drama series. I liked keeping up with world news through radio. Now that I'm in the US, I am an avid NPR listener, who makes an effort to catch Science Friday, and will sit in the car to finish hearing the discussions on The Takeaway and All Things Considered and the Diane Rehm Show.

Just before Easter this year, I heard an interview on Fresh Air with historian Bart Ehrman on his latest book, How Jesus Became God. It was a fascinating interview, which piqued my interest in early Christian history.

As an evangelical, I always felt a bit hazy on early church history. I tried to learn more about it, about what the earliest Christians were like and believed, but finding useful information seemed difficult. I couldn't find very much beyond legend in Christian media, and secular historians seemed hell-bent on destroying any evidence of truth. Aside from the Acts in the Bible, I didn't really know much at all about early Christianity or how the Bible was put together.

I remember sharing this concern with a pastor friend of mine. I wanted to know how the Bible as we know it today became the canon, and why it happened so late after Jesus' life. I knew it was roughly the fourth century, but I was hazy on who and how. To be honest, it really bothered me that a bunch of Roman Catholics (pre-Martin Luther, which meant to my Protestant mind, a very dubious group of church leaders indeed) seemingly sat down and picked and chose which books "fit" and which ones didn't. I could believe that the Holy Spirit directed them to decide which to choose, but I also could conceive of men "misinterpreting" the Holy Spirit and making mistakes. My pastor friend gave me a book he assured me would help me understand how the books of the Bible were chosen.

I read a chapter of the book and put it down. It made no sense to me, was overly academic and really wasn't assuaging my doubts. From then on, I just sort of allowed myself to forget about it. I allowed it to be one of the few intellectual things I'd simply not pursue and let faith in past knowledge and expertise reign. I wasn't one to do that generally; I like to understand how things work and how things came to be and form my own opinions. But this subject was just too deep - and too treacherous - for me to delve any further into.

The NPR interview with Ehrman, a professor of religious studies at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, re-sparked my interest. His newest book, the one he was being interview about, explained how the earliest followers of Jesus likely viewed him as the Messiah in an earthly sense - the literal king of the Jews - but upon believing he had risen from the dead, began to believe he was greater than that. This isn't in and of itself entirely foreign to a Christian believer, but what was fascinating is how the early Christians developed their theology of Jesus. From believing he had been adopted as Son by God upon his death and resurrection, to believing he'd been God incarnate in Mary's womb, to believing he was God before time, the belief in who Jesus was grew and morphed and became increasingly more sophisticated as time - and the educational levels of believers - went on. He uses the New Testament as his primary evidence of these theological changes, using the Gospels and Paul's letters to show the chronological changes in these beliefs through the NT books themselves. I'd read the Gospels countless times, but never realized until he pointed them out, how different each Gospel is - and particularly how different the Gospel of John is, the latest Gospel authored.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. After listening to the interview, I went to order the book. However, it was not yet released at that time, so I ordered one of his older books first, Misquoting Jesus. This book turned out to be the perfect starting point for my studies. It explained how the manuscript we call the Bible today came to be - the very question I'd been wanting answered for years. While it didn't go as late as the Council of Nicaea who eventually formed the canon, it did explain where all the earliest manuscripts came from, and how those manuscripts got copied and distributed. What struck me the most was the fact - one I'd never even heard before - that we don't actually have any of the original manuscripts. Not one. All we have are copies, which were likely copies of copies, if not copies of copies of copies. And of all the copies of each book or letter of the New Testament that are available to scholars today, most of them don't even match each other. Some bear only slight mistakes - spelling, a changed word - but some actually have entirely different sections added or subtracted. Since there is no way of knowing which copies were copied from the originals and which were copied from changed copies, we have no way of knowing what the originals even said.

Furthermore, the originals were not even penned until, at the earliest, twenty years after Jesus' death. The earliest letters of Paul were written twenty years later, and the Gospels were written even later than that, the earliest Gospel Mark being written approximately forty years later and John near the end of the first century, about sixty years later. These were things I'd never known before.

Misquoting Jesus was a good precursor to How Jesus Became God. It laid the foundation of textual criticism which gets touched on in HJBG. Both books were incredibly enlightening. I know I'd never have been able to read them as a Christian; they'd have come across as more secular Christian history bashing. Except for one thing. One thing that would have bothered me deeply.

Bart Ehrman was once an evangelical himself. He attended Moody Bible Institute and all.

It was through his study of early church manuscripts and texts that he developed a more "liberal" view of the Bible, seeing it as a very "human" book instead of the inspired word of God. It wasn't this by itself that eventually led to his agnosticism, but it played a large part. Knowing this about his personal history gave these books more credibility to me. He is not a "militant atheist" out to destroy any chance that the Bible might be true. He's a man who once believed in Biblical inerrancy and divine inspiration and who himself once had a "personal relationship with Jesus". He didn't go into the field of textual criticism to debunk Christianity; he went into it to strengthen it.

Bart Ehrman has written several books, and I'd like to get my hands on all of them eventually. The haze of early church beliefs has finally started to lift for me, as I see the Christian religion for what it really was - a fascinating religion that expanded in nuance through time and gained popularity through Roman politics.

Responsibility of Empathy

Hey kids! Tell 'em what you really think, think it over. This is your life, don't ignore it. This could be your only chance to repent, so get off your knees and adore it, the responsibility of empathy. - Quiet Company
These tornadoes last Sunday in Arkansas (as well as the tornadoes that hit Oklahoma, Missouri and Mississippi) have really had an impact on me. Some things you just feel personally involved in. I was fortunate enough to be 20 miles away from them and don't personally know anyone who was directly impacted by it (though I have many friends of friends who were injured, lost homes and lost loved ones). Some things just call you into action; these tornadoes are one of those things.

One obvious reason this particular disaster is so important to me is that it literally hits home; the communities destroyed by the storm are communities I grew up around, had friends in. They are right down the road. It could've been us. It was so close. We were in the storm too, we felt the rising panic, we had our closet ready to take shelter in.

But there's something else to it.

I've realized that for the last several - well, all actually - years of my life, I've been very selfish and lazy. I don't mean these things didn't impact me then. They always have, especially those that personally hit home. Some things affected me more than others. That is natural, and I don't blame myself for not springing into action after every evening news bulletin. The problem is - and my regret - is that my go-to 'action' tended to be prayer.

If I couldn't do anything - and often I felt I couldn't - I just prayed. Sometimes I prayed fervently, sometimes I just prayed flippantly (though I didn't mean to be flippant). I prayed for victims of Hurricane Katrina and tsunamis and Sandy Hook Elementary School. These tragedies happened so far away from me that it's true I couldn't really do anything to help. So I just prayed.

What I regret now is that praying is all I did. I didn't try to think any harder for ways to help.

We can argue all day long whether prayer really works (I'd argue it does not). That's not actually the point (though, it is intimately entangled with the point, nevertheless). The point is, I felt praying did something and therefore I had done something and thus I could go back to my regularly scheduled program. Praying took away the guilt and helplessness and let me get on with my life. As my conscience would prickle and remind me of those still suffering, I'd offer up another prayer, as if it did something. It allowed me to move on.

Prayer, as it turns out, is a supremely selfish and lazy 'action'. It makes the one praying feel better and that is it. It does nothing for no one. (I may end up having to argue against prayer if I keep going this route!) It is not an 'action' at all, no matter how much emotion you put into it.

I first discovered this only a few months ago. A high school friend's dad died unexpectedly. She came back into town for the funeral. I hadn't seen her in years, so I didn't really know what to say or do. I realized that my normal response would have been prayer, but by this time, I had already become atheist. I had no idea what to do. I didn't want to believe that atheists really did have no hope to offer (a belief I'd always held before), so what then could an atheist do without those magic words 'I am praying for you'?

They get creative.

They get real.

They take action.

Like I said, I hadn't seen her in years, aside from the quick one-off reunion get-togethers, so it wasn't appropriate to just 'be there' for her. She doesn't have kids that I could've offered to watch for her while she processed her shock and grief. She had lots of family around her to support her. I knew the only thing to do was to put myself in her shoes (as uncomfortable as that was, facing the idea of a parent's mortality) and think of what she might need from a random old friend.

I thought about the mundane things that need to be done, despite a tragedy. Housework, bills, groceries. I thought about how no one really feels like eating at meal times but get hungry sporadically through the day. No one feels like cooking, so someone makes a fast food run. Fast food just makes them feel worse though, which is not what they need right now.

I'm not rich, let me just state that. We don't have a lot of money to spare. But I could spare a small bag of groceries. I ended up picking up some bread, cheese, ham, lettuce, bananas, milk and a box of cookies. I swung by her mom's house to drop them off.

It was seriously awkward.

Her sister who didn't have a clue who I was answered the door. She said her sister wasn't home. I awkwardly, self-consciously handed her the bag of groceries and said something stupid like, 'Just in case you all get hungry.' Then we both stood there uncomfortably for a couple of seconds before I said, 'Bye...' and turned back to my car and drove off. I felt like an idiot.

Getting creative during a tragedy isn't easy. It requires you to imagine yourself in an uncomfortable situation to realize what someone else might need. Getting real requires not always knowing what to say or how to say it and feeling awkward and fidgety and stupid about it. Taking action means sacrificing a little of your own comfort (that little bag of groceries had to come out of my already tight grocery budget for our family, meaning I didn't have as much to spend later that week on us). It's not easy. It's not nearly as easy as praying.

I guess I feel that I have a lot of inaction to make up for. A lot of 'just praying' and doing nothing. We have a responsibility on this earth to express and demonstrate empathy for one another, not just in thought but in deed. I have been inactive long enough. I have been selfish long enough.

I still don't have lots of money to donate to the tornado relief. We still don't have many items around the house to donate, seeing as we moved here less than a year ago with nothing to our name but twelve suitcases, having sold/given away everything we owned in the UK. I have two small children at home, so I can't do much in the way of volunteering. I found out today I can't even give blood because of my years abroad. But this won't stop me anymore. I won't use inconvenience as a reason to do nothing. I won't just sit around, tossing up a quick prayer now and again to ease my guilt and helplessness. I just have to get creative. I'll donate what little household items I can. I'll cut a few things out of our budget (that beautiful necklace I wanted to buy for my friend's birthday will just have to wait). I'll encourage others to donate needed items and give blood in my place. I'll babysit my neighbor's kids to free her up to go volunteer. If I can find a babysitter myself, I'll give some of my time too.

If you believe in prayer, go ahead and pray too. But please don't just leave it at that. We only have a few years on this earth to make a difference. Get off your knees and take on the responsibility of empathy. Adore it.

Don't Just Pray For Arkansas, ACT For Arkansas

Last night, a series of tornadoes passed through my state and devastated at least three cities. It was a terrifying night, watching massive black storm clouds blow over my house, seeing clouds swirling in what appeared to be the beginning of a tornado outside my back windows, and listening to the weather station directing people to take immediate cover. At this moment, there have been at least 16 fatalities, but this is not likely the final count. Emergency rescue teams worked through the night and are still working to recover families buried in the rubble.

This has really hit me hard. Being utterly helpless in a situation like this is difficult. Wanting to do something, wanting to make a difference to the survivors is (for many) a natural response, which is why I get why everyone on Facebook keeps posting this:


But it still upsets me. Yes, people want to feel like they are helping. Yes, there is little we civilians can actually do. Praying makes people feel like they are doing something.

But guess what. It's not.

Here's what we CAN do:

-Donate money (try here here or here)
-Donate supplies (bottled water, batteries, flashlights, first aid kits), food, clothing, baby necessities, blankets and shoes
-Volunteer to help WHEN volunteers get clearance to help, not before
-Set up drop off venues to collect donated items
-Open up your home to an acquaintance who has lost their own
-Spend time with survivors who have lost a loved one or babysit their kids while they process their shock

What we can do is little, but it's practical. Praying, well, if you believe in it, I guess it makes sense, but it's not the ONLY thing you can be doing. It's actually the lazy way out.

(I'll write more about that subject later.)

For now, I humbly ask, as someone who has very little herself and knows that it's not easy to donate the little you have, to DO SOMETHING instead of or alongside your prayers.

Conceal, Don't Feel

Like all things that get super popular super fast, the Disney movie Frozen has started to receive its inevitable backlash. People are finding all the plot holes, like the dodgy parenting and crazy acts of a crazy sister. And of course, people are sick of the songs, like "Let It Go" in particular.

But you know what? I loved the movie. And I love "Let It Go". And here's why.

First, let me state that I think it's just an adorable movie. It's entertaining, the characters are charming, Idina Menzel rocks my world and has done since playing Maureen in RENT. It's a kids' movie, so I don't worry much about why on earth a couple of parents would think it was wise to lock a kid up rather than teaching her how to control her powers. I love the message at the end that a) you don't need a man to save you and b) the act of true love that saved her was committed by her own love for her sister. Come on, it's a great message.

I just love it.

"Let It Go" is a great song. It's got all the Disney/Broadway key elements to it - passion, emotion, a a riveting crescendo, Idina Menzel. It's not about lesbianism (though even if it was, I'm cool with that) but about freeing oneself from the conformity forced upon them. In Elsa's case, it was the freedom to freeze a bunch of stuff without (she thinks) any retribution. And I suppose for a girl who realizes she's a lesbian, it's a song about the freedom to come out. (Though Elsa was not a lesbian. This just isn't in the movie. For me though, it's a song about letting go of religion.

I know I'm not alone in this. I know there are lots of other people who have been reduced to tears by the power of Elsa's words in this song in the context of "letting go" of the religious beliefs that they have been conforming to for years. I'm just going to go through this song, emboldening the lyrics that really touch me, and if necessary (though I'm sure you're smart enough to get the connections) adding some commentary on how it makes me feel in that context. Keeping in mind the song IS about freezing stuff, so you know, the "snow" would have to become metaphorical, which is actually still a pretty good metaphor for someone feeling stuck in a belief system and culture they can no longer accept for themselves. It's a pretty frozen place to be.

The snow glows white on the mountain tonight
Not a footprint to be seen.
A kingdom of isolation,
And it looks like I’m the queen.

The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside,
Couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I tried

[Heaven KNOWS I tried. I tried for YEARS to contain the storm that was swirling inside me. Knowing I didn't really believe any of this anymore but refusing to accept it. I tried so hard, but eventually, I just couldn't bear the storm inside me any longer.]

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see,
Be the good girl you always have to be.
Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know,

[I wanted to be that good girl I'd always been - the girl who lead worship at church, who knew the Bible intimately, who spoke up at Bible studies and prayed out loud, who loved people and reached out to them. I didn't want anyone to know I wasn't that girl anymore.]

Well, now they know!

[Actually not too many know yet. Word is getting around though.]

Let it go, let it go
Can’t hold it back anymore,
Let it go, let it go
Turn away and slam the door!

I don’t care
What they’re going to say
Let the storm rage on,
The cold never bothered me anyway.

[I'd like it not to bother me, that is. It actually does.]

It’s funny how some distance
Makes everything seem small
And the fears that once controlled me
Can’t get to me at all.

[It's true. The further I get from it, the less I worry about it. The less I'm afraid of "hell", the less I'm worried about how people will treat me, the more I realize just how ludicrous Christianity, and all religion, is. Particularly poignant is how the "fears that once controlled me can't get to me at all" is - the threat of hell is horrifying and paralyzing, but the further away I get from it, the more I see it for what it is: manipulation.]

It’s time to see what I can do,
To test the limits and break through.
No right, no wrong, no rules for me,
I’m free!

[Without religion telling me what's right and wrong, I can finally accept what my heart has been telling me for years about right and wrong. Technically, without religion there is no actual "right and wrong"; that doesn't mean however that non-religious people have no morals. We are just willing to use critical thinking and humanitarian principles to inform what is ethical and fair. Like letting gay people get married.]

Let it go, let it go,
I am one with the wind and sky

[Sounds silly, but now that I see myself as a evolutionary development, I do feel more connected to the earth. We sprang from the earth, and we will return to the earth. It's kind of an amazing thing.]

Let it go, let it go,
You’ll never see me cry.

[Not true. But wouldn't it be nice if it were?]

Here I stand
And here I'll stay.
Let the storm rage on...

My power flurries through the air into the ground,
My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around,
And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast
I’m never going back,
The past is in the past!

[Can I get a non-religious AMEN to that?! It's the most freeing thought that I'm NEVER going back - the past is in the past!! Here's hoping I have at least another thirty years on earth to make up for the thirty years I lived in ignorance!]

Let it go, let it go,
And I'll rise like the break of dawn.
Let it go, let it go,
That perfect girl is gone.


[I don't have to be perfect! I can make mistakes! I will do my best as always to keep being the best me I can be, but now, I don't have a cosmic finger wagging at me every time I screw up or a book of rules to point out how supposedly broken I am inside. That perfect girl is gone; she left nothing but normal old me behind. Yes!]

Here I stand
In the light of day.
Let the storm rage on!
The cold never bothered me anyway.

[One day, one day soon, I'll stand in the light of day as an agnostic atheist. I'm still working on finding that courage within me.]


For so many years, I had the same Elsian (new word?) philosophy: Conceal, Don't Feel. "Put on a show; make one wrong move and everyone will know."  I concealed, not so much to myself or even to "God", but to everyone else, my doubts. I refused to feel how my doubts made me feel. Any time I allowed my feelings to spill over, I was drowned in my own tears, and drained afterwards from the emotional and mental distress. Losing my faith was utterly the most painful experience of my life. Having to conceal it so no one would know was exhausting. Keeping it to myself, refusing to feel it, refusing to "let it go" was isolating, like being locked in a dungeon all alone. The fear of what would happen if I "let it go" (aka hell) was more than I could bear.

Like Elsa, once I let go, everything changed. Even though she went through a rocky period before knowing how to "let it go" under control, she experienced freedom for the first time when she just let all that power explode around her. I know how Elsa felt, letting the storm rage on. It felt glorious.

The Capital G

Another thing that's been annoying me... The letter G.

I've been coming up against this problem constantly in my book that I'm writing. You see, I'm a bit (a lot) of a grammar nerd. (Don't judge me now if you find a mistake or two - trust me, if I see a mistake, even if it's years old, I will EDIT that shit.) I appreciate the proper usage of grammar but can totally appreciate improper grammar if there is proper intent for the misuse.

So, God. Or god?

I have always referred to the Christian God in print and in thought with a capital G. It is not just correct usage to capitalize the first letter of a proper noun, it is also acceptable when emphasizing the singularity or ultimateness (totally not a word) of the noun in question. In the instance of the Biblical God, from a literary standpoint, the capitalization works both ways. The book maintains that this is not only his name, but that he is the ultimate, supreme "God".

Furthermore, the capital letter signifies reverence. Christians capitalize God to illustrate his Holiness and Sovereignty above all things.

It always annoyed me when people, believers or non-believers, referred to God as god, not just because it was irreverent but because it seemed grammatically incorrect. It was a proper name, and it reflected his One True Godness. Thus the capital letter. Like calling my mom Mom, my One True Mom. (Those were intentional sentence fragments, by the way. Fragments are unacceptable in formal writing but acceptable when intentionally spoken colloquially. I mention this, because the moment one claims to be a grammar nerd, all the other grammar nerds rush in to prove that they are nerdier. I am pointing out my intentional errors to justify them before the Holy Judgment Seat of Fellow Grammar Nerds. You must know the rule in order to break the rule is my favorite rule.) I also refer to Allah with a capital A and Zeus with a capital Z (to get back to the subject).

I no longer attribute ultimateness (there really should be an actual word for this) to the Christian God, so no longer do I feel the need to unnecessarily capitalize pronouns like "He" when referring to "Him", which was always pretty questionable from a grammatical standpoint anyway. But what about the name "God" itself? Should it still be capitalized?

I'm thinking of it like this:

1. It is extremely unlikely that there is actually any kind of "God" with a capital G - that is to say, an over-ruling singular God above gods, a one Power that oversees all power in the unknown expanses of this universe and all other universes and all other unknown others. So to attribute to the word "god" a capital letter is incorrect, because such a being doesn't exist. It is incorrect unless I'm referring specifically to the possibility of such a God existing, in which a capital letter might actually be literarily valid. It would be similar to my capitalizing Power in that first sentence; it would be an emphasis on its supremacy. Like absolute Truth or the concept of True Love or some other Dickinsonian capitalized attribute.

2. When referring to the Christian God, it is understood that the capital letter refers to God being God's name, "God" here being an actual being or literary character, like Zeus or Athena. It would be grammatically incorrect to write Zeus as "zeus" or to refer to me as "lori". Even my spell checker is giving me angry red squiggle lines for not capitalizing those two proper nouns. So in reference to this Biblical character, a capital G is legitimate.

3. Yet the very act of a writer taking a common noun like "god" and attributing to it a capital letter implies that the writer gives credence to that noun's supremacy, that this particular god deserves the name God, as if one church deserved to be recognized as the Church or one broccoli on my plate deserved to reign as the one supreme Broccoli. It seems to accept that belief that one specific god deserves the title God. That annoys me.

4. But to refer to the Christian God with a lowercase g annoys me in a grammatical and literary sense. Using Allah as an example, "Allah" simply means "God" in Arabic, but to call him allah seems to be the same as saying zeus or lori. It's still a name, even if it's a presumptuous one. Therefore when referring to the Muslim Allah as with the Christian God, surely the correct rule would be to use a capital letter. It goes back to being a proper noun, even if it is usurping a common noun in doing so. Yes, it's annoying that it allows the connotations of Holiness and Sovereignty to creep into the meaning, but the alternative would be fairly inaccurate grammatically. GAH!!!

If you've borne with me thus far, you'll (maybe) understand my (completely unimportant) conundrum. To capitalize or not? I think in practicality it turns out looking something like this:

The god of the Bible liked to destroy stuff.

Then God said, "Let there be light", which is how we got light.

I used to be mad at God when I thought he had abandoned me, but then I realized there was never any god in the first place. God never abandoned me, because that god never existed.

Totally cleared up now, yeah...?

Morally Opposed, Legislatively In Favor?

I have to say, I'm really appreciating this new blog I've started. I've been writing on my personal blog for over ten years now, but somehow, the things I have to say these days are easier to say in a separate place, away from the "me" people have come to know. Scott thinks I should just amalgamate the two and say what I want to say all in one place. But there's freedom here, and a little anonymity, and if it takes stepping out in tiny baby steps like this before I can really be open about my feelings and thoughts, then it's what I have to do.

I have always steered clear from political issues on my personal blog. Partly because up until lately, I've never cared too much about politics and wasn't very informed on issues. Since moving back to the US, both me and my husband have taken a renewed interest in politics. A lot of it has to do with the novelty of it; the United Kingdom has an interesting political system with multiple parties, but in Scotland, politics were boring to discuss - everyone votes Labour. Well, until a few years ago, when the Lib Dems took a lot of Scottish votes away from Labour. And things are cooking up in Scotland right now anyway with the referendum for independence coming up this fall. Politics were just starting to get interesting when we moved back to the US.

My entire family is Republican. While I can't identify completely with the Democrats, I can identify with them a whole lot more than the Republicans. Democrats are centrists, even slightly right leaning, in UK terms. Republicans are next door neighbors to the far right fringe end of the Conservatives and the Tea Party? BFFs with the fascist BNPs.

All that to say, for a British citizen (Scott) and a former British resident (me), being Democrat is pretty rational.

(Yes, there are other independent parties in the US. Unfortunately, the US two party system barely allows for these independent parties to get any recognition. And unfortunately, most of these independent parties are utter loonies anyway. I do hope for a day when the two-party system can open up like the British system to allow seats in Congress and even perhaps the Presidency to be held by a number of non-Republican, non-Democratic, new party leaders.)

(Even if that means a looney gets a seat.)

Anyway, I had a point when I started writing here, which I have veered a nice little ways away from it. I came here talk about same-sex marriage.

So, I've never had a major problem with gay people or gay marriage. All the years I was a Christian, I believed the homosexual lifestyle was wrong, but if someone wanted to live it, it didn't affect me at all. It wasn't my problem or my concern. I believed people were born with a "tendency" towards being gay, but that God could "deliver" them out of it, much like people born with tendencies toward alcoholism or violence could be delivered. When asked about it, I was truthful that I believed it was a sin, but that was between them and God, and really had very little to do with me, unless you personally wanted my prayer. Furthermore, I never went so far to say that gay people were going to hell, just that their actions displeased God. But we all displease God with our actions, we are all sinners, and I didn't see the sin of homosexuality to be any different than my own sins of gossip, occasionally drinking too much, and pride. A gay person could be a Christian, albeit a deceived one, but still eligible for salvation, as far as I could tell.

So even in my evangelical days, if someone asked what I thought about same-sex marriage, my answer was always, "I don't." Just let them get married. What's the big deal? It doesn't affect me.

This stance began to change though. Over the years, as the subject gained greater media and societal attention, I observed the pain that the debate, and the issue of homosexuality itself, was causing my gay friends. I had friends who had to choose between their careers in the military or happiness with the love of their lives. I saw friends cut off from their families and/or communities. People I knew, friends, even extended family members were being heralded as immoral, licentious, shameless degenerates on the sole grounds of who they loved. While from a Biblical standpoint, I still couldn't say it wasn't sinful, I was very certain they were entitled to the same rights as anyone else, and absolutely did not deserve to be hated, attacked, treated as lepers or burned at the stake like the Salem witches (who also didn't deserve such a fate). I heard careless, flippant comments by straight people complaining that they didn't get any special rights or attention for being straight, that they didn't feel the need to declare to the world their sexual orientation, so why did "those people" feel the need to?

Because you don't have to declare anything. You can hold hands with your husband and your two-point-five biological children in public and not receive a second glance. You have the luxury of silently declaring your sexual orientation every day in everything you do with zero retribution. You don't need special rights or attention, because you already have them.

Why do homosexuals feel the need to "declare" their sexual orientation? Could it be because they have spent years, if not decades, pretending to be something they are not, being bullied by the peers and castigated (quite possibly physically) by their parents and other adults, and just want to finally break free from all that bondage? Or perhaps, maybe some of them are actually "declaring" nothing. Maybe they are just walking hand and hand like you are, but you see that as flaunting something, declaring their sexual orientation, when really, they are just quietly living their everyday lives.

Either way, I realized my "live and let live" stance wasn't going to cut it. No one's was. If I wanted to see equal rights for all law-abiding people, it was going to take an actual stance. A pro-same-sex marriage stance.

This, of course, conflicted with my religious beliefs to an extent. I started defining my position as "morally opposed but legislatively in favor". As my faith slowly disintegrated, this stance disintegrated with it, into simply "in favor", for the supposed immorality of it had been tightly intertwined with religion and nothing else. However, the "morally opposed but legislatively in favor" is the position I wish more evangelicals took.

It's impossible - actually, no it's not impossible, it's just difficult - for an Evangelical Christian, or a member of any religion that objects to homosexuality to look at it from a strictly human rights perspective. It's difficult, because Christians (in particular) believe they own the rights to marriage, or at least their religion does. They believe that God created marriage, and therefore God has the sole say on how it is administered.

(If this was true, why are Christians allowing members of other religions to marry each other? And why are they allowing divorce?)

God created marriage between a man and a woman, they maintain. Therefore marriage between a man and a man or a woman and a woman is against God's law.

Okay, fine, we'll grant you that belief. We'll even grant you the belief that homosexuals going against this plan are going to hell. You are welcome to believe that. "It's a free country", Americans love to say.

And that's the point.

It's a free country for you to think gays are going to hell. And it's a free country for gays to be gay. And therefore, it should be a free country for gays to get married.

Our country is not, despite what is touted through the right-wing media, a "Christian country". It was founded on freedom of religion, the freedom to believe or not believe whatever one wants. Our forefathers may have been primarily made up of deists and various brands of Christian, from Anglican to Unitarian, (though not all, Jefferson, for instance, had decidedly very un-Christian beliefs), but they were clear that this is NOT a "Christian" nation. America is not a theocracy. The Christian definition of marriage should not be the only definition in a country where freedom from such restraints used to be our crowning glory.

Christians and other religious people, or people simply anti-gay (I am purposely steering clear of the word "homophobic" because while it is a correct description for many anti-gay people, it isn't quite fair on all of them), have further reasons they use against same-sex marriage. They believe that it is detrimental to society and detrimental to children. I can only assume, since this was never a position I totally understood, that that is position comes from the stereotypical concept that kids need both a motherly mother and a fatherly father to get the balance right. While I rarely see that stereotype play out perfectly in even heterosexual marriages, I assume the assumption is that in same-sex marriages, kids miss out on one or the other.

The profound misconception here is that women always act like "women" and men always act like "men". Therefore, in a heterosexual couple, there are equal and opposite traits that culminate in a completely wholesome companionship.

This speaks to absolutely nothing of the truth or reality.

In heterosexual couples, you have women who can be described as having one or many of these stereotypically male traits: domineering, authoritarian, outspoken, unemotional, tough, competitive, sexually aggressive. Men can be described in stereotypically feminine ways: nurturing, gentle, soft-spoken, irrational, emotional, submissive, accepting. Some couples are so similar that there is hardly any opposing characteristics; both man and wife can be calm, gentle, soft-spoken, passive and nurturing with no authoritarianism, outspokenness, aggressiveness, or, say, confidence. Conversely, some couples are both domineering, assertive, loud, imposing, authoritarian, strict and judgmental, with no signs of gentleness, irrationality, softness or perhaps compassion. All of these are, of course, generalizations, but they hopefully get the point across.

Again, I'm speculating, but I assume the Father-Mother scenario assumes a give-and-take of masculine and feminine traits that round out a family. This is simply not the case in many, if not most, relationships.

And in homosexual couples, the scale isn't tipped the other way. Two women do not equal two emotional roller-coasters and door mats. Two men do not equal two dictators and workhorses. Same sex or different sex - at the end of the day, it's just two individuals coming together to form a partnership. Some are great matches, some are bad ones.

There is also that study that was in the media a while back, claiming that children with homosexual parents fared worse than children with heterosexual relationships. This would be compelling indeed, if the study had been a good one. As it turns out, it was a terrible study that pretty much just showed what we already knew - children from broken families fared worse than children with families intact. Turns out, it had pretty much nothing to do with whether the parents were gay or not, but still together or not.

So, in a few short words, yes, it's complicated. Sort of. It's extremely difficult to untangle oneself from the net of cognitive dissonance. It's easier to hold to the black and white than to sift through the many shades of grey (no reference to that awful book intended). But really, it's not a complicated matter. People should have the right to marry who they love, as long as both parties involved are consenting adults. It only gets complicated when people make it that way, trying to create slippery slopes and outlandish resulting outflows. (That's not to say deciphering all the possible outcomes is wrong. Legislation definitely needs to be written in such a way that it does not inadvertently allow for things that would be problematic.)

It may clash with your religious beliefs. You have the right to dislike it. But two total strangers getting married only affects you insomuch that you may possibly one day have to explain why Jonny has two mommies to your child. It does not creep into your marriage and defile it. It really has very little, if anything, to do with you at all.

But it means everything to the people who want to marry and can't, who want to express their undying love for each other by committing to a lifelong union, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Who want to know their best friend and soul mate will be cared for financially when they die through life insurance plans and inheritance. Who want to be parents, who want to be parents that raise their kids in a secure home, with family health care policies and legal custody for both parents, and no discrimination.

For you, it's about a religious principle and someone else's possible afterlife. For them, it's about basic human rights and their own quite literal, very tangible day-to-day experiences.

If affects you little. It affects them in every way. Isn't there a way to be morally opposed, but legislatively in favor?

To Church Or Not To Church? That Is the Easter Question.

Easter Sunday morning.  I'd wake up to a bright sun shining through my lacy white curtains and Keith Green's "He Has Risen" turning on the record player.  Mom would be making pancakes, or cinnamon rolls - something special on this special morning.  I'd put on my brand new springy dress, one of the only times a year I wanted to wear a dress, and if it was still a little chilly outside (a March Easter, perhaps), a pair of soft white pantyhose.  I'd run down the hall to find my pink plastic basket in between my brothers' blue and green ones, all filled with green plastic grass and multiple multicolored plastic eggs, full of chocolate and jelly beans and Sweet Tarts.  After gorging on special breakfast and however many eggs my parents would let me open, the five of us would pack into the minivan and drive to church.  The church would be full of beautifully dressed little girls, some of us with white straw hats, and combed little boys in shirts too starched to be comfortable.  We'd sing joyful, boasting songs like "Up From the Grave He Arose" and listen to the glorious story of the man whom death could not defeat.  After church, we'd drive to my grandmother or my aunt's house for a huge family feast - all the cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents would be there - and we'd hunt for even more Easter eggs, some plastic, some boiled and dyed (always a disappointment to find) in the large country yard before stuffing ourselves for the second time that day, only now with ham and deviled eggs.

If you grew up in America, and particularly if you grew up a Christian in America, this is a familiar scene from start to finish. While Easter was never as big to as Christmas, or even Thanksgiving, it was in the Top Three for exciting annual holidays.  Even as a child, getting the whole family together for a huge feast was the top reason I loved these holidays so much.  (Well, maybe it was in the Top Three reasons I loved them. Presents and chocolate were major factors too.)

As I got older, and the church calendar began to take on greater meaning for me, I started practicing Lent every year before Easter.  Lent was a deeply personal experience for me. I never attended a church that observed Lent, so I was pretty much on my own for figuring out what it was all about.  For many years I practiced it on my own, giving up a wide range of indulgences or vices, from chocolate or alcohol or meat to anger or shouting at my kids. Some years I even fasted on Good Friday.  Lent was a time of recognizing my shortcomings as a human, acknowledging my sinful nature, and finally rejoicing on Easter Sunday in my salvation from my broken and helpless state.

When my kids came along, we started up the secular traditions of Easter too - rolling eggs down a hill, egg hunts, Easter baskets and the confused Easter Bunny who for some reason lays eggs instead of giving birth to live young like all other honest, hardworking mammals. I continued my personal favourite Eastertime tradition of getting a new dress, for myself and for my two darling, sugary sweet daughters. And of course, we always went to church and sang "Up From the Grave He Arose", and when I remembered, I played Keith Green, no longer on vinyl but compact disc.

This is my first fully secular Easter.  Last Easter was complicated, as I was deep in the throes of confusion and doubt over my faith, but desperately holding onto belief in Christ and his resurrection with everything I could muster. I struggled through Lent last year, each day a reminder that I didn't fully believe anymore, as if I needed any more reminders tacked to my weary, conflicted heart. We rolled eggs down a hill on Easter morning, but the church service, as beautiful as it was, left me empty.  A year later, I'm now facing my very first Christian holiday as a confirmed agnostic, and I have no idea how to confront it.

Actually, that's sort of untrue.  Almost forty days ago, I faced Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent with a sad tug at my heart.  Observing Lent now meant nothing to me, but I missed it.  After wrestling with the concept for weeks beforehand, I decided I could practice Lent for personal reasons without including the spiritual aspects of it, but I couldn't stick it out.  Without the religious ties, Lent had no strength or power over my cravings, and I gave in after the first week.

I asked my husband what we would do for Easter.  He shrugged.  Having been raised in the United Kingdom in a church that didn't formally celebrate holidays, Easter involved some egg rolling and a slightly more built up Sunday dinner.  If he was lucky, someone would call out "Up From the Grave He Arose" for the congregation to sing, but it wasn't a given.

I told him I thought maybe we should just go to church.  It's Easter after all, what else does one do on Easter?  He didn't see the point.  I didn't either, but really, how else would Easter be Easter?  And getting down to brass tacks, if we didn't go to church, there would be no justification for a new dress!

Yes, if we're all honest about it, despite what we say is the "true meaning of Easter", consumerism, like pretty much all religious and non-religious holidays, is always going to be at the forefront.

Scott told me just to go buy new dresses if we wanted them.  And we'd do an Easter egg hunt and make baskets and such.

Without church, though, it seems, well, sort of a let down.  Rather anti-climactic.

None of this changes how I feel about church, however. The whole Jesus story is just a fairy tale now, like something I read in a children's book full of pink fluffy cloud illustrations and angels in white gowns with wings speaking with exclamation marks in word bubbles.  In fact, the church side of Easter, aside from the actual ritual of attending, irks me.  I realized just how much it irks me this morning when the young two kids and I went to the community library for Story Time, like we do most Thursdays.  The books were about Easter.  The first was a story about a little chick doing something inane and cutesy, and the second was about a little girl who lost her special Easter egg.  So far, so good.  Until halfway through book number two, when the little eggless girl explains what Easter is. "A man called Jesus came to earth to save all of us from our sins. But the people didn't like what he was saying and they killed him and put him on a cross.  However, three days later, the rock that was in front of his tomb had been rolled away and Jesus came back from the dead!"  She tells us that on Easter we go to church to learn about this man Jesus.

I didn't want to be that stereotypical anti-religious person who kicks up a fuss about religion being expressed to my children in the form of truth, so with great difficulty, I kept my mouth shut and my face smiling.  I did not manage to suppress a couple of deep sighs, though.  Luckily, a mother with a toddler and a five year old is allowed to sigh for any reason under the sun, so it wasn't noticed.  I looked around the room.  The likelihood is, most, if not all, these mothers, would be in total agreement with the story - in fact, grateful that the "true meaning" was being expressed.  I chalked it all up to part of living in a religious society, and at least it was Lolly who was hearing the story and not the Fifi.  Lolly has always been our resident atheist child, the one who told us when she was barely old enough to speak that Jesus was pretend, who has always refused to pray before meals or join the chorus of "amen"s after, and who recently told me with the decisiveness of a forty year old that "I am not a Christian" despite my never saying similar things to her. And Jaguar, well, he's not even two.  He just wanted to pull the books off the shelf.

It all comes down to this: I don't know what we'll do this Easter.  I have plastic eggs ready to fill and three baskets with plastic green grass.  I have new springy outfits for all of us, and will be bringing deviled eggs to the big family Easter lunch. We may go to church out for cultural reasons, or we might stay home and roll eggs down a hill (stone rolling away from the tomb associations aside).  I'm covering new ground here. Maybe in a few years we'll make our own traditions as we meet others like us.

No matter what we end up doing, however, I will never buy, nor can I understand why anyone, especially Christians, would ever buy, one of these.

Surely this is, like, six kinds of wrong?