To the Omnipresent Atheists,” said the guy at the head of the bar’s lodge-style table, clinking drinks with his neighbors. The lights were low, and a stationary disco ball hung above, glinting light over the room. He saw me enter and looked over, bringing everyone else’s gaze with him.
I felt like a middle-schooler with braces, thick glasses, and a unibrow walking into the lunchroom (aka, Reba circa 1993). It’s amazing how quickly certain situations can reincarnate much younger, less fashionable, and more tweezer-challenged versions of ourselves.
“Hi . . .” I gave a small wave. “I’m here for the Omnipresent Atheist meeting?” I gulped, remembering how I’d protested atheist demonstrations and argued against them in creation debates. I’d joined hands with classmates and prayed for their deliverance from their so-called logic. I’d tried to “help” them, and now here I was hoping they could help me.
“Welcome, fellow atheist!” cried a girl.
Um . . . not quite. I stood awkwardly, unsure what to do, until the guy who had given the toast walked over.
“I’m Daniel,” he stated, pushing his glasses to the top of his head. “The president of the group. Why don’t you sit by me?” Yes! An invite to the cool kids’ table! I thought. In his early forties with close-cropped dark hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow, Daniel did not strike me as the kind of person who smiled goofily for photos. He struck me as the type who would want to have a Deep Intellectual Conversation. An older gentleman scooted over to make room for me on the bench seat.
As we sat, I became physically incapable of holding in the truth.
“I’m not an atheist,” I rushed, stumbling over the words. “I’m doing this yearlong religion project, and, well, I didn’t think I should leave out the flip side. Atheism is the yin to religion’s yang, you know?” Too late, I realized that I had just used a quasi-spiritual metaphor.
“We welcome everybody,” said Daniel.
“We welcome everybody open-minded,” corrected a young blonde gal mid-table, who was busily knitting a red scarf. “A couple of times, fundamentalist Christians showed up at our meetings wanting to ‘save’ us, and we gave them the boot.” She stabbed her knitting needles at the air to demonstrate.
“As long as you’re not here to convert us, you’re good,” added the older gentleman.
“I’m definitely not here to convert you. Hell, I wouldn’t even know what to try to convert you to.”
“What are you drinking?” Daniel asked.
“Vinho verde, pinot grigio, house white. Whatever they’ve got, really. At home I drink the stuff from the box out of a mug, so I’m not really that picky.”
Everyone laughed, which broke my internal tension. I thought back to Vinnie, who had said that atheists looked angry, and realized I’d expected anger too. Though there was a lively conversation going on about theists, no one seemed mad. It could have been any pub theology group, swapping out religion for science.
“Why did you decide to do a religion project?” Daniel asked.
“Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome,” I sighed. “I’m trying to get over it.”
He hooted. “Hey guys,” he called. “This girl has Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome. Anybody else?”
The little crowd started laughing as several hands went up.
“I guess I’m among friends then!” I said.
“So, tell me about your journey,” invited Daniel. We discussed our backgrounds and the places I’d visited. After about forty-five minutes, he sat back and looked at me. “My father would have loved your project,” he said. “He was a Lutheran minister for more than forty years. He also turned out to be an atheist, something I only found out shortly before he passed away in 1994.”
“A stealth atheist?” I was aghast.
“I was shocked! I asked him how he reconciled not believing in God with his profession. He told me: ‘To the old, infirm, and dying, I can bring comfort. To the young, I can bestow rational thought. You know, one thing people never consider about atheism is that it gives us even more of a reason to be good people. This life is all we have. No second chances.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way,” I responded. “I’ve always heard people use the argument that atheists can’t have morals because they don’t believe in eternal consequences.”
“Hogwash,” Daniel said and shifted in his seat. “If there’s a reunion in the sky, none of us knows. It’s all wishful thinking. But we can be a positive force right now.”
“What if you’re wrong, and there is a God or an afterlife?”
“That would be great,” said Daniel, which was not the answer I’d expected. “I’d be glad to be proven wrong. Our point is—there’s no way to know this side of a heart attack.”
A girl with hipster glasses and a carefully distressed T-shirt interrupted our conversation, directing a question at me. “Did you ever consider that there might not be a God?”
“No,” I answered truthfully. “The idea of a great big void isn’t any easier for me to swallow than the concept of, say, an eternal, fiery hell.”
I thought someone would immediately attack me for this view, but the discussion just moved on to what it was like to be an atheist in a theist society. It wasn’t long before the Sickness exhausted me, so I said my good-byes.
“I’m so glad you came tonight,” Daniel said. “Even if you believe in God, you have an open mind and that’s something we value. You’re welcome any time. Let’s connect on Facebook.”
THE NEXT DAY I posted on Facebook about the atheists, and my wall blew up in a debate about my project. I called it “Team Reba vs. Team Jesus.” Team Reba—my secular friends, book club, and everyone with a case of PTCS—sent supportive comments with messages that read like elementary-school grading stickers: “Way to go!” “Awesome!” “Wow!”
Team Jesus—hard-core believers and extended family members who will remain unnamed—was on a mission to expose my folly and make sure my “spiritual exploration” (a phrase in quotes, as if it were an alleged crime) ended at the foot of the cross. They sent messages that read like the PTCS-trigger handbook: “I am prayerfully concerned about the status of your salvation, Sister.” “The Lord still loves you.” “Repent!” and my personal favorite “You are being deceived like Eve.”
“Trent,” I yawned, “I found a great way to experience PTCS. I don’t even have to leave the bed. I can just open my laptop.”
“My wife, always finding the most efficient solutions,” he said.
“You know what’s weird? Some friends I thought would be behind me aren’t, and others I expected crap from are supportive. I did get one interesting message from my seventh-grade teacher—remember I told you about her, Mrs. Easton? She wants to have dinner. I’d like to see her, but I’m afraid she’s going to try to ‘save’ me.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
I clicked reply and stared at the blank white screen. My mom had said thankfulness was the antidote to unforgiveness. Maybe being thankful for Mrs. Easton would be a good place to start.
I WAITED AT A table by the restaurant’s windows, overlooking a grove that blazed red and orange and yellow—trees dressed in fall finery before the nakedness of winter. A gust of wind blew, and leaves fluttered to the ground like colorful snowflakes.
“Ah!” Mrs. Easton cried when she spotted me, “my favorite student.” After folding me into a long hug, she held me at arm’s length. “You’re not in middle school anymore.”
Her hair was my first shock. I knew Mrs. Easton (Susan, as she quickly corrected me) as a short-haired redhead, but she now had long hair, pale as a moonbeam. If not for her heart-shaped face and huge, “I haven’t seen you in fifteen years!” smile, I might not have recognized her. Instead of the dress I always pictured her in, she wore jeans and ample turquoise jewelry.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” I said, hoping behind my smile that I would not live to regret this lunch. With the Sickness pulling, I didn’t feel up to a conversation about my eternal salvation. If Susan tried to save me, I’d pray the Sinner’s Prayer just so I could close my eyes and rest my head on the checkered tablecloth.
“Why don’t we order, then catch up,” I suggested. “Do you mind if I order a glass of wine?”
This question was an unscientific test. Susan had belonged to an even stricter congregation than my own. This kind worshiped Homeschool Jesus, who favored long skirts, especially denim, paired with white socks and athletic shoes. If your Jesus thinks the road to hell is paved with playing cards, you know alcohol is taboo.
Susan made a dismissive gesture. “Get whatever you want. If I wasn’t driving, I might have one.”
Hello, shock number two. We perused our menus, giving me a few minutes to reconcile this relaxed Susan from the rigid Mrs. Easton in my memory. In the museum of my middle-school self, I kept Mrs. Easton under glass alongside every belief and Bible verse I’d memorized at Bridgeville Christian School. She was a symbol for all the teachers and preachers who were disappointed in how I’d turned out. She was not the living, breathing person across from me who said,
“You must tell me about this project of yours. I am so interested. I want to know everything! Scientology, Buddhism, the drive-in church.”
“W-What?” I stuttered, reeling as though someone had come into that middle-school museum and shattered the exhibits. The shock showed on my face.
Susan laughed. “Did you think I was here to try to change you?”
“I, um . . . yes?”
“Oh, please,” she drew the word into a sentence. “Honey, I’ve been through a lot in the past decade. What did you call it on Facebook . . . ? . . . Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome? I have that and then some, but I still love Jesus. Do you still love Jesus?”
Being sassy to avoid answering, I retorted, “I don’t know. What version of Jesus do you love?”
“I love a Jesus who has tattoos. Not only that; the God I love has sleeves of tattoos.”
From Homeschool Jesus to Tattoo Jesus? My brain blinked: Unable to Load Mrs. Easton/Susan Version 2011.
Something cracked open inside me as I sat there staring at the teacher who represented a cacophony of voices telling me I was “a backslider fit for being vomited out of God’s mouth.” I was furious with these voices because they had taken my spirituality hostage. Looking at Susan, I realized the voices were no more real than a preteen Reba. I was letting shadows of former people hide out in my mind and tell me who God was or wasn’t, who I was or wasn’t, and what I should or shouldn’t do.
Susan grabbed my hands and leaned in. “Rebecca, even in seventh grade you had this light inside you. For most of my kids through the years, faith was something their parents put on them, but with you it was different, almost like you were glowing from the inside because you were so connected to the Spirit. Wherever you’ve gone, whatever you’ve done, that light and that connection are still in there—even if you don’t see it. So tell me about your fascinating journey.”
“Mrs. Easton,” I said, forgetting to use her first name. My eyes filled with tears. But these were not angry tears; they were thankful ones. “You’re not at all what I expected, but you’re exactly what I needed.”