the holy writ of the church of ennui
"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?" --Epicurus
I can't pinpoint when I became completely comfortable living without a god, but I know my descent into unabashed atheism started when I was a young boy. I would often lay in bed at night terrified that there was no heaven, no hell, and no purgatory. That there was no afterlife; just ashes to ashes and dust to dust. The end.
My childhood agnosticism festered in my soul until high school, where I discovered the serviceable, but ultimately pointless, waypoint known as Deism. From there, it was a short, effortless hop to godlessness.
My parents are lapsed Catholics, and never took their children to church. Not even at Christmas and Easter. My religious upbringing consisted of whatever I could glean from various sources, like Sunday afernoon movies on television, my grandparents, and the general, underlying Christianity of American culture. Somewhere along the way, I was instilled with a belief in God, but maintained a poor knowledge of the Bible he lived in.
A friend from the neighborhood once invited my sister and me to his church youth group that played dodgeball and talked about Jesus on Wednesday nights. We'd sit through a felt-board lesson about Jesus, then go throw balls at each other for a half an hour on the playground. After dodgeball, we went back inside for graham crackers, milk, and more Jesus-talk. It was like school, but stupid, so we quit going after two weeks.
By seven years old, I had already decided Jesus was not my answer. It wasn't anything in particular about him that turned me off (though his vengeful behavior toward a barren fig tree struck me as odd), but his most vocal followers just plain creeped me out. Even those whom I considered friends.
"If the Bible is true," I asked Nathan, "How come there's no dinosaurs in it?"
"Because they came before," he replied, cooly.
"Before God?"
"No! Before the Bible," a little less cool.
"God came before the Bible, too," I replied, "But he's in it. So how come he left out the dinosaurs?"
"Just because!" he answered with a dissmissive wave and a groan.
I knew that answer all too well. It was the same answer my mom gave me when I asked why I wasn't allowed to swear, or drink beer, or smoke cigarettes. It was the answer she gave when she just didn't want to bother explaining. It's an easy out for authority, but it didn't jibe coming from a follower. Unlike my mother, he wanted to explain, he simply couldn't. So he dismissed the question. Problem solved!
But, somehow, I held on to a belief in God above.
In high school, I found Deism in the writings of the Founders of the United States, and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Here was the exact theology I'd been tossing around in my brain for years spelled out and laid bare by the greatest thinkers of the time. It was simple, it was elegant. It allowed me to believe in a Creator without having to sit through all the Jesus mumbo-jumbo, and without worrying if God was pissed because I like bacon. It allowed me to have a faith without having to have any faith. It was my very own "Just because." Perhaps I couldn't prove God's existence, but nor could I prove his non-existence. Suddenly, I was able to cast my agnosticism into the back of my head and feel secure that some Creator somewhere didn't really give a shit what I was up to. Perfect.
Years passed before the next time I thought seriously about God, and I realized I didn't care if he existed anymore. Years of neglect in the recesses of my mind left him worn and useless; more impotent than omnipotent. In the end it really wasn't much of a descent into atheism at all, God just sort of faded away, like so many old friends. I still can't prove he doesn't exist, but it's not my job to do so anymore, it's his to prove he does. I am an atheist.
And I no longer lay awake nights worrying about the afterlife. The nowlife gives me plenty to worry about.
"And the day will come when the mystical generation of Jesus, by the supreme being as his father in the womb of a virgin will be classed with the fable of the generation of Minerva in the brain of Jupiter." --Thomas Jefferson
I can't pinpoint when I became completely comfortable living without a god, but I know my descent into unabashed atheism started when I was a young boy. I would often lay in bed at night terrified that there was no heaven, no hell, and no purgatory. That there was no afterlife; just ashes to ashes and dust to dust. The end.
My childhood agnosticism festered in my soul until high school, where I discovered the serviceable, but ultimately pointless, waypoint known as Deism. From there, it was a short, effortless hop to godlessness.
My parents are lapsed Catholics, and never took their children to church. Not even at Christmas and Easter. My religious upbringing consisted of whatever I could glean from various sources, like Sunday afernoon movies on television, my grandparents, and the general, underlying Christianity of American culture. Somewhere along the way, I was instilled with a belief in God, but maintained a poor knowledge of the Bible he lived in.
A friend from the neighborhood once invited my sister and me to his church youth group that played dodgeball and talked about Jesus on Wednesday nights. We'd sit through a felt-board lesson about Jesus, then go throw balls at each other for a half an hour on the playground. After dodgeball, we went back inside for graham crackers, milk, and more Jesus-talk. It was like school, but stupid, so we quit going after two weeks.
By seven years old, I had already decided Jesus was not my answer. It wasn't anything in particular about him that turned me off (though his vengeful behavior toward a barren fig tree struck me as odd), but his most vocal followers just plain creeped me out. Even those whom I considered friends.
"If the Bible is true," I asked Nathan, "How come there's no dinosaurs in it?"
"Because they came before," he replied, cooly.
"Before God?"
"No! Before the Bible," a little less cool.
"God came before the Bible, too," I replied, "But he's in it. So how come he left out the dinosaurs?"
"Just because!" he answered with a dissmissive wave and a groan.
I knew that answer all too well. It was the same answer my mom gave me when I asked why I wasn't allowed to swear, or drink beer, or smoke cigarettes. It was the answer she gave when she just didn't want to bother explaining. It's an easy out for authority, but it didn't jibe coming from a follower. Unlike my mother, he wanted to explain, he simply couldn't. So he dismissed the question. Problem solved!
But, somehow, I held on to a belief in God above.
In high school, I found Deism in the writings of the Founders of the United States, and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Here was the exact theology I'd been tossing around in my brain for years spelled out and laid bare by the greatest thinkers of the time. It was simple, it was elegant. It allowed me to believe in a Creator without having to sit through all the Jesus mumbo-jumbo, and without worrying if God was pissed because I like bacon. It allowed me to have a faith without having to have any faith. It was my very own "Just because." Perhaps I couldn't prove God's existence, but nor could I prove his non-existence. Suddenly, I was able to cast my agnosticism into the back of my head and feel secure that some Creator somewhere didn't really give a shit what I was up to. Perfect.
Years passed before the next time I thought seriously about God, and I realized I didn't care if he existed anymore. Years of neglect in the recesses of my mind left him worn and useless; more impotent than omnipotent. In the end it really wasn't much of a descent into atheism at all, God just sort of faded away, like so many old friends. I still can't prove he doesn't exist, but it's not my job to do so anymore, it's his to prove he does. I am an atheist.
And I no longer lay awake nights worrying about the afterlife. The nowlife gives me plenty to worry about.
"And the day will come when the mystical generation of Jesus, by the supreme being as his father in the womb of a virgin will be classed with the fable of the generation of Minerva in the brain of Jupiter." --Thomas Jefferson
posted by poverty at 8:37 PM
1 Comments:
You should read "Surprised By Joy" by C.S. Lewis. His thought process as a confirmed atheist might intrigue you.
Post a Comment
<< Home