The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas (4 page)

Chapter 7
Hark the Herald Villagers Sing

Z
OE
M
ARGOLIS

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 bri
bes by the staff for good behavior; 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, while they attempted to condense a few thousand years of religious doctrine into a child-friendly atheist version. But even then I was cynical: I’d learned early on that the tooth fairy was pretend, and 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 lik
e 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 mom 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 mom was defending her prima donna daughter; it was only as an adult that I learned she had accused the teacher of discrimination. I now underst
and and appreciate the importance of my mom sticking up for her atheist beliefs and the right of her child not to be subject to prejudice because of them.

The teacher finally caved in to my mom’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. That was the lead role, and I wanted it.) Or as an angel! (Again, not sure what or 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. (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.

Damn. Lost the lead role. Oh well, I will still be a pretty angel!

“Cathy!” the teacher said, and proceeded to make my best friend an angel.

I grew ever more excited, though: I couldn’t wait to try on the tutu!

“Fiona!” the teacher barked, and my friend went off to get her tutu fitted.

It would be me soon!
Tutu, here I come!

“Helena!” shouted the teacher, and yet another friend was sent to the angel queue.

This went on for a while, until there were a dozen angels, as well as a few wise men, and only a couple of us left standing in the queue.

I think I knew at that point that my hopes of having a starring role were about to be severely dashed. But—ever the (non-eternal, reincarnation-cynical) optimist—I thought that perhaps I would be made a special angel: a lead angel who was in charge of all the other angels and who got to boss them around and stuff. Maybe I could wear a black tutu instead, like in
Swan Lake
?

My name was finally called: I was at the back of the line, there were few costumes left, I was the last pupil to be given a role.

“You’re going to be a villager in the choir,” my teacher informed me.

I stared at her, gobsmacked.

“Tell your mom that you will need to bring a scarf, gloves, and hat with you to wear to all the rehearsals.”

Oh, great, I don’t even get a costume.
My dreams of stardom vanished in a second.

“And,” my teacher continued, “you get to hold this lantern. Isn’t it nice?!”

I think, even back then, I knew she was being sarcastic. Bitch.

My teacher handed me a long wooden stick with a pretend lantern dangling on one end.

And it was at this point that I had a stroke of genius: a way for me to decline this minor, irrelevant role, and be promoted into a proper acting part.

“I can’t hold that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I’m allergic to wood.”

I don’t know if she was more surprised by the absurdity of what I had said or by the fact that it had been said by a smart-alecky, upstart six-year-old, but whichever it was, she wasn’t pleased. She wrote a huffy note, which I gave to my mother later, that said I had been offered a role but was now making up lies to get out of it.

My mom sat me down that night and asked me what I wanted to do (while sniggering about my wood allergy comment, I should add). My only options, it seemed, were either not be in the school play at all or accept the role of an extra and perform in the choir. With all my friends already practicing their lines, and not wanting to be left out, I chose the latter.

Photographs taken of the play, when it was performed some weeks later, just before Christmas time, show a very cheery Mary and Joseph, some happy wise men, many elegant and joyous angels, and, standing in the back of the villagers’ choir, one extremely pissed-off, scowling six-year-old, holding her lantern askew. Let’s just say I was not at all happy.

Years later, when I look back on that event, it seems clear to me that that was the defining moment when I realized I could not believe in God. Sure, as an adult, surrounded by science and reason, it’s obvious to me that God doesn’t exist. But, as a starry-eyed six-year-old, my disbelief in religion came down to three simple facts:

1. I never got to eat a strawberry cream, because being last in line all the time meant everyone else had already nabbed them. (God can’t be that cruel, surely.)
   
2. I did not achieve international stardom from my role as a villager. (God can’t be that mean, surely.)
   
3. Anyone who would allow a child to be forced to sing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” is a sadist, not a deity. (I am assuming God is not into S&M.)
   

Although I suppose it could be argued that God might exist, for the world at large was prevented from being exposed to my performing at a professional level. Given my singing voice, that really is something to rejoice and say “Hallelujah!” over.

Chapter 8
The Christmas Miracle Event: A Story

E
VAN
M
ANDERY

Nathan Townsend’s father had only ever given him two pieces of advice: One, don’t fight a two-front land war in Europe. Two, don’t get drunk at the office Christmas party. This wasn’t much of a parental legacy, but it seemed like good advice and, up until that evening, he had faithfully followed both of Herb Townsend’s maxims, the first with little or no inconvenience, though the second with some, given Nathan’s fondness for eggnog, particularly eggnog with whisky or brandy or rum, each of which was present in abundance at the party, and which, Nathan learned that night, combined to surpr
ising and substantial effect.

Now, the holiday gathering at the Ludwig Andreas Feuerbach School of Ethics and Moral Culture wasn’t specifically a Christmas party. That really wouldn’t fly with the PTA. Technically, it was a celebration of Juleaftensdag, the eve of the pagan winter festival, Yule. The party-planning committee aimed to be broadly inclusive and incorporated elements of many different Germanic heathen cultures. Dried straw was laid across the floor of the gymnasium following the Estonian custom. Each of the first and second graders left a shoe in the window, in the hope they might be visited by one of the t
hirteen Yule Lads, who imperfectly filled the role of Santa in the Icelandic tradition. Some of the Yule Lads leave modest gifts like potatoes or apples. One helpful fellow, called the Pot Scraper, cleans the kitchen pans.

The food was similarly multicultural. They had beetroot salad from Finland, roast goose with red cabbage representing Denmark, and
sill
(pickled herring) from Sweden. The pièce de résistance was a traditional Icelandic food from the Westfjords: fermented
skata
(stingray) with melted tallow and boiled potatoes. The spread was authentic but grim. Nathan tried the
skata
and thought it tasted like spoiled bologna. But the liquor was good, and thus Herb Townsend’s second adage should have applied, particularly given that Nathan ate nothing other than the sliver of stingray and lost count of t
he glasses of nog.

The trouble began when Nathan got roped into a conversation with Potter Everson. Nathan hated Potter Everson. Potter taught the advanced placement course in the history of cynicism and three years running had been voted the senior class’ most coveted superlative, Lea
st Likely to Inspire. He paraded around the school like a big man on campus, wearing suede moccasins, Madras shorts, and cardigan sweaters, a combination he described as “postmodern hip.” At any normal school, the students would have mercilessly teased Potter Everson into an insane asylum, but the students at the Feuerbach School were, by persistent training, tolerant of almost everything (with one notable exception). They embraced Potter Everson. Nathan, however, avoided him at all costs.

But thanks to the rum or the brandy or the whisky—he couldn’t be sure—Nathan’s guard was down, and when Joe Kafka, a grizzled veteran of the science department, grabbed him by the arm and said, “You’ve got to hear this one,” Nathan hardly had time to protest. Before he knew it, he was standing with Joe in a large circle that included, among others, Ellen Nordberg, the principal’s secretary, and Flip Anderson, the custodian who regulated the pool’s chlorine content, listening to Potter Everson tell a hilarious story.

“So I’m standing on the corner of Seventy-second Street and Broadway waiting for the bus, and the Lubavitchers are out in force. The Mitzvah-mobile is parked on the corner and they’re scouring the intersection, in full regalia, sloughing off menorahs on unsuspecting pedestrians. They approach the bus line and ask, one person after another, ‘Are you Jewish? Are you Jewish?’ Everyone ignores them until they come to this man at the end of the line. He’s wearing a derby and a gray raincoat and looking generally meek and vulnerable. ‘Are you Jewish?’ they ask. He looks at his shoes and sheep
ishly says, ‘I’m an agnostic.’ ”

The group howled with laughter. In any other environment the story would not have been regarded as especially funny. It wouldn’t even have qualified as a joke. But at the School of Moral and Ethical Culture, agnostics were regarded with the same derision reserved in the general population for the Polish, hillbillies, and congressmen. As with these comically disfavored minorities, agnostic jokes had become something of an art form. Thus the favorable reaction.

Potter went on. “ ‘In that case,’ the Lubavitcher said, ‘you might want to take a menorah—just to be safe.’ ” Within the circle, chortles and smirks were suppressed, as the faculty and staff eagerly anticipated the punch line.

“So what does the guy in the gray raincoat do?” The group was ready to burst. Wait for it.

“He takes the menorah!”

Hereupon followed even more voluble howls of laughter, shortness of breath, and general glee. Ellen Nordberg grabbed her stomach to keep from keeling over. Flip Anderson wiped tears from his eyes. Doris Keeling, the third-grade teacher, suffered a paro
xysm. The wave of euphoria infected everyone except for Nathan, who did not find the story amusing at all. To the contrary, he found it decidedly annoying.

In retrospect, Nathan would find it difficult to explain why he had such a negative reaction to the joke. He had heard agnostics made fun of many times. While, for a variety of reasons, he didn’t find the jokes particularly funny, he didn’t regard them as offensive, since religion, unlike race or ethnicity, was a matter of personal choice. Thus, within the precise ethical code of the school, the subject was fair game. But a negative reaction he had all the same. Whereas everyone else was in hysterics, Nathan groused and frowned and moped. Without thinking, he muttered, “I’m an agnostic.”

Ellen Nordberg spit out her raspberry seltzer. She thought it was part of the joke.

Joe Kafka hit him on the back and said, “That’s a good one, Nate.”

But Nathan said, “No, I’m serious,” with a look that showed he really was. “I’m an agnostic,” he repeated.

The room rapidly deflated. Nathan Townsend was both lucky and unlucky in this moment. At another school, they would not have cared that he was an agnostic. So that was unlucky. But at another school where agnostics were scorned, they might have openly derided him. On this count Nate was fortunate. In the rigorously precise ethic of the Feuerbach School, it was decidedly unacceptable to mock someone to his face, no matter what the offense. Thus no one dared ridicule Nathan openly.

But leprosy would have been a more popular admission. At the Feuerbach School, it went without saying that everyone was expected to be an atheist, or more precisely a secular humanist. Secular humanism is a value system that embraces reason and justice and rejects religion as a basis for moral decision making. This repudiation of dogma was utterly essential to the culture of the school. The following quotation was emblazoned above the main door, through which each student and faculty member walked every day:

R
ELIGION IS ALL BUNK.

—T
HOMAS
A
LVA
E
DISON

So fervently committed to this outlook on life was the leadership of the Feuerbach School that it had been trying for years to have the American government recognize secular humanism as a religion. To the indoctrinated observer, this might appear to be a contradiction, but to the Feuerbach School it was a matter of high principle. Also, the designation carried with it certain tax advantages. Inevitably, the debate had devolved into litigation, which was not going well for the school. The trial judge, and the members of a unanimous appellate
court panel, had all attached great weight to the Edison quote. In the view of the school’s attorneys, this was too literal a reading of the quote above the door. For example, the following colloquy occurred during the argument before the Second Circuit Court of Appeals sitting en banc:

Judge Hiram Fernandez:
Counsel, how can you argue that the Feuerbach School has a religious mission, and hence is entitled to IRS Code Section 501(c)(3) status, when the sign above your door says “Religion is all bunk?”

William Daley, Esq. (of Daley, Daley, Daley &
Dealey):
Your Honor, with all due respect, I submit you are reading the inscription too literally.

Judge Hiram Fernandez:
Oh? How should I read it?

William Daley, Esq.:
The critical point is that my clients are zealously dedicated to their absence of faith-based conviction. One might reasonably say that they are . . . religious about it.

Judge Hiram Fernandez:
I see. Very clever.

In truth, Hiram Fernandez was not impressed at all and, as every lawyer knows, as goes Hiram Fernandez, so goes the Second Circuit. The school lost the appeal 9–0. Bill Daley blustered to the press about an appeal to the Supreme Court, but no one at Feuerbach held out much hope, and the case was something of a sore spot at the school.

“Don’t you believe in the scientific method?” Joe Kafka asked incredulously.

“I certainly believe in the fact of it,” Nathan said. “And I believe it has produced many socially useful results.”

“Then why are you willing to make a leap of faith and say
that God may exist?”

“Let me ask
you
this,” Nathan replied. “Applying scientific evidence, what evidence is there that God does not exist?”

“Only my experience,” Joe said.

“Is it not then a leap of faith to say that he does not exist?”

Joe Kafka had no answer. Silently he took a step away from Nathan. So did Potter Everson and Ellen Nordberg. Even Doris Keeling retreated, and she could tolerate almost anything: her husband had been having an open affair with a goat for thirty years. One by one, the faculty and staff filtered away until only Flip Anderson remained.

Quietly Nathan asked, “Flip, do you really believe there’s no chance that God exists?”

“Well, he sure don’t keep the chlorine levels straight,” Flip replied. Then he walked away, leaving Nathan alone.

At Hi Life, on Eighty-third and Amsterdam, Nathan related the story to his friend, Lou Pinto, an eastern gray kangaroo whom Nathan had met several years earlier at a Bikram yoga class. Nathan hadn’t stuck with it—the moist heat aggravated his sinuses—but Lou had, which was ironic in a way, because he had a bit of a temper and, generally speaking, didn’t seem the yogic type. Nevertheless, he was now enviably flexible.

Lou lived all the way up in Morningside Heights, but he was always happy to go out for a drink. He didn’t sleep much, and besides, it was Christmas Eve. The Hi Life patrons were dudded up in festive reds and greens with floppy Santa Claus hats hanging from their heads, drinks in their hands, and cheeks aglow. The room was abuzz, abounded in good holiday cheer, which had affected everyone—everyone, that is, except for Nathan Townsend. Lou Pinto noticed as soon as he hopped in.

“Who died?” he asked. “You look like someone killed Santa Claus.”

Nathan told him what happened.

“That’s too bad,” Lou said with obvious sincerity. Lou was a good and patient listener. “Why do you think you said it?” he asked. “Was it the nog?”

“Maybe,” Nathan said, “But I really think it was that Potter Everson. Something about him always throws me off.”

Lou nodded. “What do you think is going to happen to you?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“You have tenure, after all.”

“True.”

“So why are you beating yourself up about it?”

Nathan sighed. “I’m jealous,” he said. “I look at my colleagues at the school with envy. They have conviction about things, about what’s right and wrong, and the ultimate direction and meaning of life. It gives them a sense of purpose and certainty. Perhaps it’s smug on their part. I don’t know. Call it what you will, but it seems like a happier life they have.”

“You can have that life too,” Lou said.

Nathan’s face revealed his inner turmoil. “It isn’t as easy as that.”

“Why not, brother?”

“I have doubts! I have such doubts!” Nathan said. “I look around me and what I see fills me with awe. In this city are animals of every kind, living together. I read about mountains that touch the sky and volcanoes miles under the sea. Soaring birds, glorious plants, fish of every size, shape, and color imaginable. Such wondrous life! Could it truly be all random? Perhaps, but can anyone be sure?” He look at up from his drink and faced Lou. “Don’t you ever have doubt?”

This was a bad question. Lou’s father had been grossly abusive. If he failed to clean his room or talked out of turn, his father would box hi
m, often in public. Years of therapy and tantric meditation had helped Lou release the anger, but he had no uncertainty about the absence of God.

“No,” Lou said.

“How can it be that easy for you?”

“It’s just a matter of faith,” Lou said.

Nathan nodded. “If only I could make the leap,” he said.

Lou smiled. “We’ve both probably had enough to drink,” he said. “How about I walk you home?”

“It’s all the way on the East Side, completely out of your way.”

“What are friends for?”

Lou was a good one. He even pulled his wallet from his pouch and picked up the tab.

The Central Park Reservoir can be spectacular on a winter evening. In the cold crisp air, the lights of the New York skyline reflect off the water. It is a sight without parallel in the great cities of the world, and that evening was as fine as any there had ever been. Lou Pinto appreciated its beauty. He had jogged around this track countless times, often late at night, but he had never seen anything like this. He hoped the nighttime splendor would cheer Nathan, but it had no effect. His friend stared at the ground as he trudged along, moping.

Lou felt his friend’s pain. He did not specifically understand the angst of a crisis of faith. Lou had never questioned the nonexistence of God. For him this had always been axiomatic. But he knew what it was like to be different from those around you, to be an outsider. This anguish he understood all too well. He placed a gentle arm around the shoulder of his friend and tried to absorb some of the hurt. Sadly, it had no effect.