The large print giveth and the small print taketh away (or, how I became an atheist) Posted by Damp Cardigan on March 30, 2013 · 26 Comments

I wasn’t born an atheist. No one is born this angry and cynical, well, unless you’re Tom Waits and you originally penned the quote that titles this page. At the same time, I wasn’t born a Christian or belonging to any particular belief structure as children would never concern themselves with the complexities of faith by choice. Both of these approaches to modern living are learned. Let me explain, I was raised a Christian by Christian parents and through them I learned the truly frightening possibilities of the consequences of my actions and at no point did I question the judgement of the power that presided over all of us. I didn’t need evidence as the very real direction of children’s faith is directed solely at their parents and that level of blind trust is never evidence based.

My father was a Religious Education teacher. Some of my earliest memories of him involve him being holed up in his makeshift office, furiously marking exam papers for the extra money needed to fund two week long caravan holidays to France. Evidently, this was a man with a lot of faith. In the odd little suburb we lived in was a church that me, and my two older siblings, were encouraged to attend from the earliest age. This wasn’t an old looking, stone building of rustic worship. It’s a strange monstrosity of seventies architecture capped by a terrifying red crucifix that still lights up at night like an all too easy metaphor for the evil that presides within. We even joined the choir and had to deal with fashion choices that reflected the morose nature of the hymns that are supposed to celebrate faith. I was christened in this church and, when I reached religious maturity at the grand old age of thirteen, I was confirmed in a bigger church.

So I had a pretty solid basis for a life of continued faith but somehow, somewhere along the way, my faith deserted me and in its place a new thing that I would eventually learn was called atheism.

The first time I remember questioning what I was being told was not long after my confirmation. I was sat in the choir stalls on another Sunday morning whilst all of my friends were playing football or getting heavily into some Sunday morning cartoons. My family had since stopped attending church and seemingly were using my continued attendance as an excuse to get things done around the house without the irritating teenager spreading his acne-fuelled indignations on an unforgiving household. It was no longer a family activity, but more an exercise in domestic convenience. I sat there wondering why it was only me who was forced to dress like a Victorian girl and sing archaic, nonsensical songs whilst my family stayed at home and dealt with Grandma’s incessant need to peel potatoes, even when none needed peeling.

When I would get home after a couple of hours of being lied to she would tell me how proud she was that I sang in the choir and sometimes, would ask me to sing to her. Often I obliged but never without a sense of unfairness. The horrible old bat could have left the spuds alone and come to see her grandson sing in the arena his parents had chosen for him but instead expected these performances for free. Not even a hint of an extra quid in the thinly spread pocket money. At this stage it became clear to me that it was as much a chore for them as it was for me with the only difference being that they had the power of refusal.

As my teenage argument style grew into a force of nature I too stopped attending the church and whilst I dealt with the awful awkwardness of those formative years my time spent in the service of God was forgotten about.

It was when I was eighteen years old and my father had just revealed to us that he had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis that I would look again at everything that I had been taught.

All of this was new ground as for the first time I viewed it from someone else’s point of view. I had always looked at my father as a religious person but on reflection I wondered how religious he could have felt after being told his body would waste away and ultimately, fail him. Also, he really wasn’t a practicing Christian despite this image I had of him. He would attend church but only as part of his role as an R.E teacher which ultimately translates to ‘I’ll go if someone pays me”. If I couldn’t get any extra pocket money for going then why the hell should he?

It would seem that our involvement in the church as children happened as a result of a misplaced sense of responsibility on our parent’s behalf and not due to any aggressive belief in what would be learned there. Perhaps it was the hope that base level morals would be instilled as if somehow children can’t figure out that killing and stealing is bad for themselves. Scaring them into it’s better right?

As I have become older and more cantankerous my hatred for the hypocrisy of organised religion has grown along with my newfound ability to shout at the television and admire a good pair of slippers. I struggle to see how it does any good for anyone and the more I learn, the more the terrible lies told to children represents a sinister exercise in control. It’s fear mongering and afforded no credibility when you consider the terrible crimes done to children by men of the cloth and the profits made and kept by organisations that pretend to spread the word of a peasant, son of a carpenter who sacrificed himself for us. He didn’t by the way. If he was real, and I mean if, he was misunderstood and martyred. We’re good at that aren’t we?

So I’m an atheist now. This does not mean I belong to a group of other atheists and we sit in a purpose built room of non-worship to discuss and sing about all the things we don’t believe in. Even if it’s a movement that carries this danger the reality is we’re a growing number. Christians argue that it’s just fashionable at the moment. They’re wrong again, unless realistic thinking and alternative methods of teaching morality is in this month. How did we get this way? We realised that the contract offered by those selling faith is ultimately flawed. Basically, the large print giveth, and the small print taketh away. Thanks Tom.

Phil Watson.