I threw on a pair of jeans and paid no attention to which T-shirt I grabbed from the top of the pile. I was setting forth on a morning walk with the dogs, and it has been my experience that dogs care more about hydrants, trees, and fence posts than whether the human they’re dragging behind them is a Beau Brummell. If they don’t point and laugh, I figure I’m good. It’s not as if I’m trying to impress anyone.
Yet that morning, impress someone I did. About a quarter mile from my house, a passing pickup skidded to a halt and backed up. Down came the driver-side window. This proved a wise precautionary move on the driver’s part. Otherwise, he would have injured the finger he stabbed in my direction.
“Your shirt!” he yelled. I glanced down at my shirt. Ah.
“Thank God I’m Atheist,” shouted my shirt to the world. Merch from one of my favorite podcasts.
The owner of the stabbing finger continued, “It’s an oxymoron!”
The old Inner Smartass was already at work on a quip. Like, “Oops, I meant to wear the one that says God told me he’s not real.” Or, “Not so loud. The dogs think it says, ‘I heart dogs.’” Or maybe even, “Let me guess. ‘Oxymoron’ is today’s vocabulary word that you must use three times to retain.” A brief look at the man’s substantial build and his reddening face, however, convinced the old Inner S to pipe down. “Yeah,” I said, “It’s a joke.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” fumed the finger-stabber. “YOU don’t make any sense.” This he underscored by laying scratch as he sped away.
(Having noted a large crucifix dangling from his mirror, I’ll go out on a limb and speculate that my new friend was a Christian. But lest any of us be tempted to criticize his approach, all I can say is, “Atheist, heal thyself.” Don’t try telling me that upon passing someone wearing a cross you don’t skid to a halt, back up, and cry out, “That thing hanging from your neck! It’s an instrument of torture!” Or that when you pass a Mormon you don’t scream, “That underwear! Those are Masonic symbols!” Or that when you pass a Buddhist temple you don’t cry out, “That incense! It’s harmful to asthmatics!” Oh, wait. You don’t do those things? Then never mind. In fact, skip this paragraph.)
Not all believers react to atheism with outrage. Recently, a new acquaintance asked which church I attend. She rewarded my “I’m an atheist” with a crestfallen face and a mournful moan. An onlooker would have thought I’d just repor ted the death of a child or, worse, a puppy. (Please take no offense at “worse, a puppy.” It’s a wisecrack. I don’t really mean it. Honest. Unless we’re talking about that one kid a few houses away who can’t play outdoors without screaming a constant E-flat above high C north of 85 decibels. If you live in the Lower 48 and wondered what that godawful screeching was, now you know.) I suggested that atheism is not something to mourn. Pouting, she assured me that it indeed is.
Some people flat-out deny that nonbelief is a thing. My friend Harvey replied to “I’m an atheist” with, “There’s no such thing.” When I claimed to be a living, breathing specimen of just such a thing, he rejoined, “Then why are there no atheists in foxholes?” Brad, another friend, was equally direct: “You believe. You just don’t want to admit it. Every time you say you don’t only proves that you do.” There is no out-debating the likes of a Harvey or a Brad. If you don’t believe me, just ask them.
I admit to bringing the abuse upon myself. If I really wanted to avoid stabbing fingers, crestfallen looks, and mind-bruising Harveyisms, I would discard the atheist shirts, whip out on demand the name of a church—any church— and never, ever invoke the A-word. That’s a solution that works for a lot of atheists. It even keeps quite a few safe.
But for those of us who can safely let our atheism out of the closet, there is some utility in braving the stabbing fingers, crestfallen looks, and mind-bruising illogic. The very reason that “I’m an atheist” brings negative reactions is that too few people realize just how many of us are out there. Numbers have a way of legitimizing. That’s why people no longer gasp in horror to once shocking admissions the likes of “I’m vegan,” “I like black licorice,” or even “I watch reruns of Friends.”
My favorite approach, when possible, is first to earn trust and friendship and only then to let my atheism out of the closet. With it established that I’m a halfway decent person—I beg the benefit of your doubt—dropping the A-word wields a certain amount of power. More than once I have been present to hear someone subsequently marvel aloud to a group of friends, “He’s honest, and he doesn’t even believe in God.”
Who knows? Maybe someday “honest atheist” will cease to strike people as an oxymoron.
There. I just used “oxymoron” for the third time. Perhaps now I, too, will retain it.