Why I am an Atheist… and Why I’m Not
This essay is part of a series where I look at various faiths and explore where they have inspired me and where I have issues. Although I am a Christian, I believe that God wants us to explore and learn from other traditions as part of our spiritual journey. This is my journey, no one else’s, and the articles merely record how I see things. They are not intended to offend or convert, nor do I expect you to agree with me. I do however, appreciate feedback, friendship and further learning.
Other essays in the series:
Why I Am A Sikh… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am A Sufi… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am A Catholic… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am An Orthodox Christian… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am A Pagan… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am A Hindu… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am A Buddhist… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am A Jew… and Why I’m Not
Why I Am an Anglican… and Why I’m Not
If I were to describe my spiritual life, it would be as a Trinity.
That’s not because I’m a good little dogma-following Christian, but because I feel myself caught between three poles that both attract or repel, mystical electromagnets as it were that switch on or off depending upon how close I am to them.
The first is the faith of my childhood. Village Anglicanism. A simple, pure, pleasant faith. A faith centred around the parish church in the village where I was raised. A faith that is entirely English, not particularly strict, or judgemental, but good and nice. It is a faith of old ladies and spring flowers, freshly-mown grass and a Jesus who is peaceful and forgiving. It is the faith contained in the illustrations of the Children’s Bible that I read avidly as a boy.
It is my faith and so I am drawn to it. The familiarity, the sense of belonging, the certainty of simpler days.
But when I get too close, the magnet switches. I notice the hypocrisy of some of the worshippers, the coziness of the Anglican Church with some of the least progressive forces in British politics and society. The fact that, dogmatically, it is a fudge, a church based on the whims of a king who wanted a divorce and, more importantly, money and power for himself and his mates.
I am pushed away.
The second magnet that draws me close is that of a foreign faith. Foreign in the sense that it was not the religion practised in my childhood village. These exotic creeds tempt with their exoticism, their new ideas, their seeming absence of the flaws of my childhood church. I long to delve into their strange rituals, wear their weird outfits, pray to their curious idols, and meditate in their wonderful temples.
Until I get too close. And then the flaws appear. The hypocrisies that exist in my own creed exist in theirs too. The seeming equality actually translates into misogyny. The acceptance is not so total after all, and the strong walls of faith seem to have foundations of straw.
The story of my explorations of many of these faiths has been the story of this series of essays.
I am pushed away.
And then it is the third magnet that pulls me near. My own faith is flawed, as too those of all the others. The problem is not this belief or that, but the very idea of belief at all. It is all irrational, all imagined. If we are living in a village at the foot of a mountain shrouded in cloud and I am wondering which path to take to the summit, then I am but Majnun, a madman. He pined for Layla and I long to climb the mountain. But if the cloud ever cleared, I would learn that the mountain does not even exist. It is just as plain as far as the eye can see. And Layla, she too is just a figment of the imagination, a feminine ideal created to fulfil my fantasies. All that is real is here and now, flesh and blood.
God is dead because He or She never lived.
Atheism is the answer.
And by Science it is! For atheism has all the answers! Why are we here? How are we here? All those supposed miracles? There’s a scientific explanation for it all. That is biology, or chemistry or physics or psychology. If you are looking for answers, then merely pick up a tome by Richard Dawkins. He explains it all clearly and succinctly. He is masterful.
Nor is her the only one. Watch any debate where an atheist faces up a religious figure and the atheist always wins. Hitchens, Harris, Dawkins, they can make mincemeat out of the lot. The lesser luminaries like Zakir Naik dare not go up against them. The braver souls like Rowan Williams have a go. But the atheists always win.
And they win because they are rational. If it is proven, they accept it. Any argument against and they can comeback with the simple, “And where is the evidence?” The feelings we get on pilgrimage, on prayer, in a religious service, they are not quantifiable or verifiable. They must, therefore, be in the mind, a product of your own psychology.
A friend of mine told me about a religious experience she had when she felt a presence on her shoulder as she prayed. It was so momentous; it affirmed her conversion to another creed. An atheist would merely laugh at this and explain it as being part of the state of her mind at the time. Her mum was dying, she was searching for some meaning, and it was in the early hours of the morning. The brain manufactured some solace for her afflictions. And the fact that following her conversion, she underwent religious trauma would merely be grist to the mill that the experience was false.
I have had religious experiences myself. Usually on pilgrimage. Whilst walking to Bardsey Island, I had a moment of great transcendence when I noticed every blade of grass, every insect and flower and became consumed by the beauty, jumping up and singing with joy. I call it my Franciscan revelation; the atheist would merely put it down to heightened spiritually-focussed brain activity over the preceding days coupled with almost complete physical exhaustion from the walking. Ever wondered why so many visions happen to half-starved nuns and monks? Well, there’s your answer.
Atheism has it all. It is rational, it is complete and, unlike any religious faith with its provable flaws, it is perfect.
So, have I become an Atheist?
Erm… no.
I won’t say that I haven’t thought about it. The magnet pulls and its attraction is strong. Yet, like the other two, when I get too near it seems to switch and it starts to repel.
That much is clear, yet the reason why is not. Or at least, like so much connected with faith, it is hard to put into words. It just is.
The best expression is perhaps that of the “God-shaped hole”. Take God out of the equation and you are left with a gaping wound. The atheist may argue this is due to childhood indoctrination and they may be right (although any Anglican will tell you that there is remarkably little indoctrination going on in that creed), but it is still there. Something is missing.
Is it even a God-shaped hole? I am unsure. There is a hole, a hole caused because I know there is something else, something beyond the rational, beyond what my eyes can see. The atheist in me argues that such thinking is irrational but then… well, isn’t that the point?
Part of me is irrational.
I have spoken before of experiences that I have had. Like my Franciscan moment on the lane to Bardsey, like when I met St. James in the form of Jacquie on the Way to Santiago; when I encountered a stranger, I believe to be Al-Khidr in Nicosia who made me contact a mysterious girl who changed the way I think about life and opened me up emotionally and spiritually. The logical, rational side of me scoffs at such things. They are the result of exhaustion, of mental strain. They are merely coincidences that my pattern-loving brain wishes to ascribe some meaning to. And yet I cannot accept that. I am not wired that way. I believe even when I don’t necessarily want to.
That said though, I cannot say that the atheist magnet has left me completely untouched. As with all the religious creeds I have encountered, atheism too has been a teacher to me… and a good one at that.
My beliefs about life after death, for example, are, these days, far more in tune with those of an atheist than an orthodox follower of Christ. Is there a Heaven and Hell? I very much doubt it. I’m not ruling out the possibility but if there is an afterlife, then it is more likely to be a single place where all find peace than dual realms of pleasure and pain. And more likely than that, there’s a void.
And that is not an unhealthy way to think. Knowing that this one life is all that I have, causes me to live it to the full, to make the most of it. My grandfather died when I was about nineteen, regretting all he had not done on this earth. I vowed not to die the same. Every dream I have, I follow; every opportunity I am presented with, I take. Greedily. If there is a hereafter, great, it’s a bonus. If not, I know I will die having lived fully and ethically.
And when I look at religious faiths, the mirror image of this disturbs me. I remember once in a Bible group, a good friend talking about how miserable her life was and how there was no hope for it to ever improve. “But at least I know there is Heaven to look forward to,” she concluded, glumly.
I have seen it again and again. The more conservative, more controlling, more toxic the cult, the greater the emphasis on Heaven and Hell. My friend who is married to the Salafist imam says that they are actively taught to put up with miseries now as greater will be the reward in Jannah (Heaven). Such teaching sickens me. It is the very perversion of a good and merciful God who wishes us to live joyfully here and now. In comparison with this, the atheists have it right. When Marx described religion as “the opium of the people” this was what he was referring to.
Most of all, atheism has taught me to be cautious and critical. When presented with something, to ask for the evidence. When I read the Bible (or Qur’an, Vedas, sutras, etc), I cannot just read on face value. I want to know where this text came from, how accurate is the translation, what is the context and how do we know this is all that it seems to be.
And almost always it isn’t. the simple stories of the founding of the faith (any faith) that are taught to children, are invariably false. They whitewash history for a particular agenda, always that of those with power. Dig into any tradition and suppressed counter-narratives emerge, inconsistencies in teaching, textual issues, gaps in the archaeology.
All religions bear the imprint of man.
That is my atheist side. The believer though, is open to the possibility of the imprint of the Divine being there as well.
Side-by-side, a still, small voice, that invites us in, to be open to the possibility.
To thrust one’s head into the Cloud of Unknowing and breathe in deeply.
And so, I am pushed away from that magnet, and I return to the first.
Which is what I shall address in my final essay of the series.
Written 05/09/2023 Smallthorne, UK
Copyright © 2023, Matthew E. Pointon