The BBC podcast on atheism brought home several points for me that I suppose I should have already realized.
Atheists can be as obnoxiously fundamentalist and militant as any religious zealots. I think that in my 20s, 30s and 40s, I was borderline obnoxious and confrontational about my lack of “faith.” While I’ve become even more convinced that my atheist position is appropriately valid, I have become more tolerant of those who don’t agree with me. See, maybe wisdom does come with age.
My contributions to the BBC discussion ended about a third of the way through the program, but I was rather pleased to hear other, later, participants refer to things that I said.
Some of the more militant atheists insist that the world would be a better place without religions, since so much of the historical intolerance, genocide, hate, war, and persecution were (and are) done in the name of one religion or another.
In general, I don’t disagree with that position, but I also recognize that there is a need in many people for the solace and purpose that religion can offer, a way to feel more secure in what otherwise can seem a random and chaotic universe. So, I doubt if there’s any chance of ridding this world of its various religions.
What would help considerably, however, is if religion became something personal instead of institutional; if each individual understood about the range of belief and (non-belief) systems on this planet that provide a “moral compass;” if each individual could choose the ethical/moral system of beliefs that work for her or him and not have one imposed by culture or family.
One discussion participant taught in a Jewish elementary school, and when asked if it would be possible to enable children to learn about other religions as part of the school curriculum, the teacher responded in the negative.
The purpose of Catholic schools and Jewish schools etc., is to indoctrinate children with the dogma of the religious sect while they are also being taught the academic subjects. I should know. I went to Catholic schools from kindergarten through high school. We had a required course in “Apologetics” so that we could defend our religious positions to non-believers.
I think we can assume that each family has the right to teach its children the values, beliefs, and culture that the family holds dear. No government should interfere with that right of every parent.
And it is in the schools that children should learn about other religions, other mythologies, other cultures. They should be encouraged to question and think critically and come to conclusions that take into account their own personal hunger for spiritual nourishment, their appetites for awe, and their need to feel connected to something greater than themselves.
Personally, as an atheist, all of those yearnings, for me, are satisfied by the awesomeness of the natural world, the complexities of human creativity, and the drama and mysteries that science continuous to reveal. This world, this life, is enough. I long ago discovered that notions of god get in the way of living and loving authentically and honestly.
One of the atheists in the discussion offered a challenge something like this (and I’m paraphrasing):
Can you name an ethical statement or moral action done by a believer that any non-believer couldn’t make as well. He maintains that you can’t.
Can you name a wicked action or wicked statement undertaken by a believer that any unbeliever could make. He maintains that you can’t.
Think about it.
I remain, godless on this awesome mountain.

She has stopped eating unless I feed her (except for coffee and homemade sweet bread) and she sleeps almost all of the time. And she doesn’t talk. And she cries.
Yesterday, I got her to tell me why she was crying. “I’m afraid,” she muttered, devoid of energy, of purpose. She was sitting at the kitchen table, slumped over and still.
“Are you afraid of dying?” I ask. She nods. “Are you afraid of being alone? I ask again because she used to articulate this fear often. She continues to nod, her eyes half closed and unfocused.
“Mom?” I say, trying to get her attention, getting on my knees to try to look into her eyes.
“Mom,” I continue, you don’t have to be afraid of being alone. If you think you’re dying, remember that everyone in your family is up in heaven waiting for you. Your mother and father [she’s begun calling for her momma], your husband, all of your brothers and sisters. They are all there waiting for you. You won’t be alone.”
Of course, I don’t believe any of that, but she does, and that’s what’s important. In younger years, I would argue vehemently with my parents about my unbelief. That was then.
I see her take a breath.
“And if you keep living, you are not alone here either,” I add. ” I am here. Your son is here. You granddaughter and her family are coming to visit you this weekend. We all love you and you are not alone.”
She slumps in her chair.
“Do you want to go back to sleep,” I ask.
She nods.
She sleeps.
My brother refuses to believe that it’s possible for a body that is more than 91 years old to just wear down, wear out. He wants her to get her blood tested, get a CAT scan of her head, which she is often rubbing on the right side. He wants something else to be wrong. Something than can be fixed.
I am ready to let her go. I think she is ready to let go. He does not want to let her go.
She cries.

A poignant hope of a poem, one of Jim Culleny’s daily poetry sends:
Fat is Not a Fairytail
Jane Yolen
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted,
flinging herself down the stairs.
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.
I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listener not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess.