I am seventeen years old. I have been an atheist for about a year now. I don’t wish to sound overdramatic, but it’s been hard. I’ve never been on the receiving end of mistrust or had to hide myself before, and it’s been difficult to get used to.

I grew up very religious. My mother is a devout Catholic, and she had the most influence over my religious beliefs until I gave up my faith. My father is an agnostic with a healthy disdain for organized religion, though he never talked about this with us (I guessed, and finally got the truth out of him two years ago). Nearly every night, my mother would read to my brother and I from our children’s bible. She taught us, however, that the church and the bible weren’t always right-her way of coping, I guess, with the contraception ban and the thinly veiled hatred of gays. Later on, I went to Sunday school and then to Catholic school, which I still attend now. I believed in and loved God and Jesus with all the fervor of a young child.

As I grew older, however, things started not making sense. The whole notion of a “loving God”, for one thing. I went on a mission trip to El Salvador and saw for myself human suffering of a magnitude I had never known before. When I asked how God could let these people live that way, I was told that God was just as upset as I was, but he couldn’t do a thing about it. But how did they know? Was that something they were just telling themselves to reconcile all of the pain in the world with a God who loves us like his own children? A religious trip ended up sowing the first seeds of doubt in my mind.

I started thinking of Moses, who had supposedly met with God on Mt. Sinai to make the Ten Commandments. If those events had actually happened, couldn’t Moses had just carved the tablets himself to cement his control over the Hebrews? Could all the prophetic dreams that happen in the Bible just have been that-dreams? Could people have just been hearing voices? Mental illness had to exist back then, after all. I was very worried about the direction my thoughts were taking me. I didn’t want to burn in hell for eternity, and I didn’t want to have to admit to myself that death was the absolute end. But my thoughts consumed me until I had to admit to myself that the Bible had no authority to me anymore, and concede my atheism. And though the lack of an afterlife disturbed me at first, I realized that I would not feel anything, since I had not felt anything before I was born, and therefore I would be unaware of nonexistence.

I was at peace with my new identity when my mother forced the truth out of me. I had originally planned on not letting her know until I went away to college, because I had had a feeling she would be upset. It was during a fight we were having because I’d told her to the truth about not going to Confession that day at school. She gave me the third degree and finally, I cracked. Her reaction was worse than I’d thought it would be. She accused me of “dropping a bomb” on her, and that someone had obviously influenced me to believe what I believed now, and that this was just a phase that teenagers went through. As I pride myself on being a free thinker and that I’d come to this conclusion on my own, that irritated me. But then she told me that if I continued down this road that I would lose all my morals, and that I would end up as a criminal or worse. I think as a result of that day there’s a rift between us, and I honestly believe she has less respect for me than she did before.

I don’t plan on keeping my atheism a secret forever, but I’m “closeted” for now until I meet people who are more open minded. At my Catholic school, most of the people I know are very religious. One of my best friends teaches religion at her church. I don’t want to alienate them; when they think of atheists, they think of Christian-hating nihilists who want to kill all believers-not an exaggeration. I’m not one of those people at all, but indoctrination tends to get the best of people, and I don’t want to end up without friends. I’m also dating a guy who is great in every way except that he’s a Baptist religious conservative, and I wouldn’t want to alienate him either. My mom is trying to get me back to believing. This year for Christmas she got me a book about “miracles” that happened during the Holocaust. I really wanted to say that if God had managed to prevent the Holocaust, that would’ve been the greatest miracle of all, but I held my tongue. And it’s even worse that slandering atheists is acceptable everywhere, from the media to the highest levels of government.

Despite all of this, I am very happy in my unbelief and I don’t see myself having faith again. I like the new integrity and peace this identity brings me. When I do good things for people, I’m not doing them to score brownie points with a deity. I don’t have to rationalize and justify the Bible-“oh, God can’t think that about gay people. It was just Leviticus’ own prejudices coming through”-in order to believe in it. I don’t have to angst over why a benevolent God would allow such evil to go on in our world, I can just accept that no higher power exists and that people cause the world’s woes, with no supernatural entity that can stop them but won’t. I can just live my life knowing that this is the only one I’ll get, so I should live it well.

Something that is said a lot at my school is that faith sets you free. I don’t understand that. Faith had only chained me with doubt, confusion, and guilt over so-called sin. Lack of faith has set me free-free from dogma, free from hatred, and most of all, free from a petty, malicious, overgrown Santa Claus spying on me in the sky.

Julia Brandon

Not really — if HL Mencken wrote a letter for the “Why I am an atheist” series, I’d really have to reconsider the whole premise. But Mencken was asked by Will Durant to answer the question, “What is the meaning of life?” in 1927, and his reply would fit in pretty well here. So I stole it from Letters of Note.

(By the way, new submissions to that story now trickle in at the rate of a couple a week, and I’m still throwing them all into the pool. There is no shortage of future entries, but you can still email them to me. Of course, now you’ve got to match Mencken in quality.)

Dear Durant

You ask me, in brief, what satisfaction I get out of life, and why I go on working. I go on working for the same reason that a hen goes on laying eggs. There is in every living creature an obscure but powerful impulse to active functioning. Life demands to be lived. Inaction, save as a measure of recuperation between bursts of activity, is painful and dangerous to the healthy organism—in fact, it is almost impossible. Only the dying can be really idle.

The precise form of an individual’s activity is determined, of course, by the equipment with which he came into the world. In other words, it is determined by his heredity. I do not lay eggs, as a hen does, because I was born without any equipment for it. For the same reason I do not get myself elected to Congress, or play the violoncello, or teach metaphysics in a college, or work in a steel mill. What I do is simply what lies easiest to my hand. It happens that I was born with an intense and insatiable interest in ideas, and thus like to play with them. It happens also that I was born with rather more than the average facility for putting them into words. In consequence, I am a writer and editor, which is to say, a dealer in them and concoctor of them.

There is very little conscious volition in all this. What I do was ordained by the inscrutable fates, not chosen by me. In my boyhood, yielding to a powerful but still subordinate interest in exact facts, I wanted to be a chemist, and at the same time my poor father tried to make me a business man. At other times, like any other realtively poor man, I have longed to make a lot of money by some easy swindle. But I became a writer all the same, and shall remain one until the end of the chapter, just as a cow goes on giving milk all her life, even though what appears to be her self-interest urges her to give gin.

I am far luckier than most men, for I have been able since boyhood to make a good living doing precisely what I have wanted to do—what I would have done for nothing, and very gladly, if there had been no reward for it. Not many men, I believe, are so fortunate. Millions of them have to make their livings at tasks which really do not interest them. As for me, I have had an extraordinarily pleasant life, despite the fact that I have had the usual share of woes. For in the midst of these woes I still enjoyed the immense satisfaction which goes with free activity. I have done, in the main, exactly what I wanted to do. Its possible effects on other people have interested me very little. I have not written and published to please other people, but to satisfy myself, just as a cow gives milk, not to profit the dairyman, but to satisfy herself. I like to think that most of my ideas have been sound ones, but I really don’t care. The world may take them or leave them. I have had my fun hatching them.

Next to agreeable work as a means of attaining happiness I put what Huxley called the domestic affections—the day to day intercourse with family and friends. My home has seen bitter sorrow, but it has never seen any serious disputes, and it has never seen poverty. I was completely happy with my mother and sister, and I am completely happy with my wife. Most of the men I commonly associate with are friends of very old standing. I have known some of them for more than thirty years. I seldom see anyone, intimately, whom I have known for less than ten years. These friends delight me. I turn to them when work is done with unfailing eagerness. We have the same general tastes, and see the world much alike. Most of them are interestd in music, as I am. It has given me more pleasure in this life than any external thing. I love it more every year.

As for religion, I am quite devoid of it. Never in my adult life have I experienced anything that could be plausibly called a religious impulse. My father and grandfather were agnostics before me, and though I was sent to Sunday-school as a boy and exposed to the Christian theology I was never taught to believe it. My father thought that I should learn what it was, but it apparently never occurred to him that I would accept it. He was a good psychologist. What I got in Sunday-school—beside a wide acquaintance with Christian hymnology—was simply a firm conviction that the Christian faith was full of palpable absurdities, and the Christian God preposterous. Since that time I have read a great deal in theology—perhaps much more than the average clergyman—but I have never discovered any reason to change my mind.

The act of worship, as carried on by Christians, seems to me to be debasing rather than ennobling. It involves grovelling before a Being who, if He really exists, deserves to be denounced instead of respected. I see little evidence in this world of the so-called goodness of God. On the contrary, it seems to me that, on the strength of His daily acts, He must be set down a most cruel, stupid and villainous fellow. I can say this with a clear conscience, for He has treated me very well—in fact, with vast politeness. But I can’t help thinking of his barbaric torture of most of the rest of humanity. I simply can’t imagine revering the God of war and politics, theology and cancer.

I do not believe in immortality, and have no desire for it. The belief in it issues from the puerile egos of inferior men. In its Christian form it is little more than a device for getting revenge upon those who are having a better time on this earth. What the meaning of human life may be I don’t know: I incline to suspect that it has none. All I know about it is that, to me at least, it is very amusing while it lasts. Even its troubles, indeed, can be amusing. Moreover, they tend to foster the human qualities that I admire most—courage and its analogues. The noblest man, I think, is that one who fights God, and triumphs over Him. I have had little of this to do. When I die I shall be content to vanish into nothingness. No show, however good, could conceivably be good for ever.

Sincerely yours,

H. L. Mencken

I am an atheist because, if I am to be an honest person, it is the only way I am able to be.

When I was struggling with trying to be Christian in my early 20’s, other Christians who knew I was struggling would tell me to “have faith” and “it will come with time” if I just believe. I was subtly told that I was over-thinking the whole question. (What does it mean to “over-think”?) I tried to be open to God, but I couldn’t stop “over-thinking”. I pleaded with God to reveal himself to me and wondered what was wrong with me that he never did. I wasn’t even asking for much of a sign–I didn’t want a burning bush or a miracle, I just wanted a feeling like so many Christians I knew claimed they had–a feeling of knowing the “truth” and knowing that God was there with me.

I never got such a feeling and I slowly came around to the idea that maybe there was nothing wrong with me. Maybe the reason I wasn’t picking up God’s signal was not because I was a poor receptor but because he wasn’t actually there. The moment I let myself think that, I was on a very quick path to atheism. My “eureka” moment was not “God does not exist” but rather, “I don’t have to believe in God.” It seems obvious to me now, but at the time it was a real revelation (so to speak). I started to see faith for what it is: not the noble, humble position as it is touted, but a lie to oneself–deliberate deceit self-imposed in order to believe in something that’s not true.

I’ve recently become not only an atheist, but an “out” atheist. I talk about it with the religious members of my family. I say it outright if someone asks me if I belong to a church. I updated my facebook “philosophy” to read “atheist” (this was surprisingly difficult for me for whatever reason). I’ve even told a handful of my students when they’ve asked. This newfound zeal came about this year when my husband and I started looking for resources on raising our 3-year-old daughter without religion. We want to raise her to not be afraid–of being different, of being creative, of being smart, of being rational. And so I had to stop and examine how I was living my life and I saw that I had been hiding. I didn’t believe, but I sometimes pretended I did to avoid conflict. I was noncommittal or weakly compromising at best and untruthful at worst, and I don’t want to raise my daughter to think that’s OK.

I became an atheist to be honest with myself and so I had to come out as an atheist to be honest with others.

We teach by example, so I’m working to be an example worth learning from.

Holly
United States