Screen Doors

Just over a year ago, I came out as an atheist. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I still remember how my heart pounded, how I kept the post in my drafts folder for days, trying to decide if I should publish or not. How I asked my husband repeatedly if he was okay with  me outing us.  How I worried about all the people who would be upset, all the doors that would slam in my face.

I ended up posting it, though, with shaking hands but an enormous sense of relief. The truth was out. I could finally be honest. Now I just wait for the reaction.

And the reaction was more positive than I ever could have hoped. A few people Facebook-unfriended me. A few people stopped talking to me. But the overwhelming majority of people offered me either words of encouragement, words of solidarity, or words of love. Some people offered their own faith and prayers, which I appreciated. Some people confided that my story resonated with them deeply and mirrored their own feelings and experiences. Very few doors slammed.

I was still fairly new in Arkansas at the time, only back a year. I was still making friends. I joined a book club around that time, the best book club in the universe, by the way. They made me feel safe, accepted, unjudged.  I made friends at the gym. They treated me as someone they trusted, cared about, someone worthy of their friendship.

These people around me - they kept the doors wide open and welcomed me freely into their lives, because of who I am, not what I believe (or don't). Most of them are Christians. They believe in living out the kind of life Jesus asked them to in the Bible, one of love, compassion, and acceptance. These people around me - they succeed in their quest to be like Jesus. I waited for the judgment to eventually fall, but it never did. They just loved.

I thought maybe coming out as an atheist wasn't nearly as terrible as everyone said it would be. After all, very few people shut the door in my face, which was far cry from what I'd braced myself for. Those who did were never close enough friends to begin with.

Now a year has gone by. But as I look back over the past year, I see something else that I never expected.

As time wore on, I noticed that some other people seemed to shy away from me, put up their guard. They hadn't shut me out, but they made some distance. This was to be expected. I imagined many people around here knew nothing of atheists beyond the loud, outspoken, and frankly not very nice Richard Dawkins types. They probably had reason enough to be concerned, a little fearful, a little unsure how I was to change. I noticed people who didn't shut the door in my face had at least taken a step back. A curious step, perhaps, or maybe a suspicious one. There was a distance there that hadn't been there before.

A screen door.

Like one who didn't want to give a salesperson too much encouragement, I realized people were standing behind their screen doors to talk to me.  They weren't shutting me out completely, but I was no longer invited in. There was an unbreakable politeness and a general kindness, but the warmth had cooled. At first, I passed it off as my imagination. A year later, though, I'm not sure it's my imagination after all. There are still screen doors making sure I don't get past the threshold.

I guess keeping the screen door closed to me is less cruel than slamming the front door entirely, but it's only slightly less hurtful. It keeps me on the defensive, paranoid, constantly over-analyzing. Is this really happening? Do they really feel this way? Was that me they were referring to? Publishing my memoir has made it even more complicated. It's one thing to be out on a blog with a small readership. It's another to be featured on the popular FriendlyAtheist.com.

I have been so lucky to have so many friends - every version of Christian even, from evangelical to liberal to Mormon - keep their doors wide open. People who can look at who I am and still believe I'm the same trustworthy, good person I've always tried my best to be. I doubt every atheist in the Bible Belt is so fortunate. I'm also lucky to know who not to bother with anymore too - the door slammers.  Good riddance to them. That kind of rejection simply makes my life easier.

But the screen doors?  Where do I go with them? Where do we stand? Will I ever prove to them that I'm not an awful human being simply because I don't believe what I used to? Are these doors locked forever or just temporarily? Is there even any point in worrying about it?

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.

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?