Ariane Sherine - The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas

And when you get to that point, you realise, if that’s what God is, then there’s no such thing.

For me, the hardest thing about losing my faith was facing the possibility that this life is all there is. One of the foundation stones of all religion is people’s fear of death and non-existence. People will do anything and believe anything if they can think, ‘You don’t really die. There’s somebody up there who says you carry on and you go to heaven.’

The Buddhists believe in reincarnation, but I tend to think it’s rather unlikely that we’re going to come back. However, I think there’s strength in agnosticism, because you accept that there are things that you cannot know—I cannot know if I’ve ever existed before this life, and I cannot know if I’m going to exist again. The idea of faith is almost as though, ‘If I believe it enough, it’ll be true.’ It’s a romantic ideal that just doesn’t wash with me—I’m too logical.

It’s a hard truth, because our instinct is to survive and to continue existing, but I’ve come to accept that this is it. I’m not scared of not existing. Socrates said that death is unconsciousness, there’s nothing to fear.

I don’t want to die, and I’m scared of things which can kill me, so there is a dread of not being around, of not experiencing things, of not seeing the sun rise in the morning, of not knowing what goes on in the world, of not being part of it. But that’s normal. There’s nothing I can do about it: it’s the one great truth, that we all die—you just have to accept it. And I hope that, when I do die, it’ll be at a point when I’m completely ready for it.

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I quite like the Atheist Bus Campaign slogan, ‘There’s probably no God’. I didn’t like it at first—I thought it was too nice. I thought you should have been harder, and wanted you to say, ‘There’s no God, so forget it! You’re living in a dream world!’ But then it made sense to me, because probability is one of the things I really believe in, in a scientific sense. It’s quite healthy to have an open mind.

Religion helps people cope with many things. It helps them deal with death. And I believe in marriage—I doubt the institution of marriage would have existed without religion. To some extent, religion has upheld essential morals and modes of behaviour. There are some really important values in all religions.

However, I think human beings go through different stages. As a child, you have someone looking after you. And then you start to break away from that, and eventually you achieve a degree of independence from your parents. Maybe humanity needed a parent and that was the part religion played. Maybe we’re at a stage now where we are growing up and ready to achieve a greater degree of independence.

Although it’s very tempting to defer responsibility to ‘God’, I would like to see humanity taking responsibility for its own actions. There’s a certain bravery in standing up and saying, ‘We are alone, there’s no one looking after us.’ It’s a kind of liberation.

Despite having lost my faith, I still celebrate Christmas and I love church music. I go to church to listen to the music. But there’s a definite school of thought which says, ‘If you don’t believe it, you can’t celebrate it! If you don’t believe in God, you can’t have Christmas. Sorry—you’re excluded!’

To me, it’s important that people can believe whatever they like. I’m a liberal, I’m just not religious. If someone else wants to believe in God, they have every right to. I always felt I had the right to believe when I was a Christian.

Most atheists and agnostics feel the same way—we say, ‘Okay, if you want to believe that, that’s fine.’ It’s essential that everyone discovers and develops their own beliefs.

Part of me would like there to be a God, because part of me wants there to be a parent looking after me. To say, ‘Hey, it’s okay, it’s all under control. No matter how much you mess up, I’m here to save you.’ That’s a very natural feeling, very normal. But on the other hand, I don’t think it’s enough. I’ve found I’m more responsible, freer and more liberated living a life without God. And I love my freedom. I think we all overestimate our freedom, but in reality, the freedom to think, to feel and to experiment is one of the few freedoms we have left.

My first encounter with religion was when I was six years old. At school one day, my teacher told me that I couldn’t be in the Christmas nativity play because I wasn’t the ‘right religion’. I remember returning home, crying, devastated that all my friends were going to be having fun in rehearsals, and I would be left alone without their company at break time. And, more importantly—to a six-year-old wannabe actress—I would miss out on the fame and stardom from acting in the play, which was to be performed in front of the entire school. Not to mention not receiving the free sweets used as bribes by the staff for good behaviour; I would do anything for a strawberry cream, me.

Brought up in an atheist household, I didn’t understand what my teacher meant by ‘religion’: for some reason I thought it suggested I had the lurgy or that something was wrong with me. If I was the ‘wrong’ religion, then surely I could try to become the ‘right’ one and then be part of the school play?

That night, my parents patiently tried to explain the concept of ‘God’ to me. I must admit, being the snotty-nosed brat that I was, who absorbed books like oxygen, I was slightly impressed by their bringing out a copy of the Bible to show me, whilst they attempted to condense a few thousand years of religious doctrine into a six-year-old-child-friendly atheist version. But even then I was cynical: I’d learned early on that the Tooth Fairy was pretend; I’d recently discovered that Santa Claus was purely fictional (and was pretty devastated by that); so why should I believe in this God bloke? It’s not like I’d ever seen any evidence of him—and he’d certainly never left me any coins under my pillow or filled the stocking at the end of my bed with presents. What had God ever done for me—besides prevent me from getting a starring role in the Christmas play? Even then, I knew I didn’t like him. And that whole burning bush thing scared me a bit, if I’m honest.

The following day, my mum grabbed me by the arm, stormed into the school, and had a huge argument with my teacher; I remember lots of heated words being exchanged. Back then, I just thought my mum was sticking up for her wannabe actress, prima donna, daughter; it was only as an adult that I learned she had accused the teacher of discrimination. I now understand and appreciate the importance of my mum sticking up for her atheist beliefs, and the rights of her child not to be subject to prejudice because of them.

The teacher finally caved in to my mum’s persuasiveness, and agreed to let me have a part in the play. I was joyous with happiness: now I would have fame! Glory! Attention! Me, as Mary! (Whoever she was: I didn’t care—she had the lead role and I wanted it.) Or as an angel! (Again, not sure what/who they were, but if they got to flutter around in a white tutu, I was more than game.) I was so excited: I could almost see my name in lights. Almost.

I bounced around the rest of the day and, like the precocious diva I was, looked forward to my costume fitting. And, when it came, I lined up with all my friends and waited for my name to be called as the roles were divvied up in alphabetical order. (NB. This has been the bane of my life, given my name begins with a Z. Last in line for everything.)

‘Ashling!’ my teacher called, and my friend was given the role of Mary.