Imagine a garden. Flowers are blooming plentifully. Ripe, plump
tomatoes are waiting to be harvested, next to rows of squash, cucumbers, onions,
beans and lettuce. Birds are chirping their cheerful summer songs and bees are
buzzing tirelessly from blossom to blossom. In the midst of this peaceful scene
sits a woman, her body firmly rooted to the ground. She is sitting in a lotus
position, her feet bare, her hands resting, ever so gently, on her legs. She
meditates. She gives thanks to the universe for providing her with an abundance
of vegetables and fruit – enough food to feed her family all summer and
throughout the fall. It is a deeply spiritual moment, a moment of peace and
relaxing solitude. This woman has reached the end of a long journey, a journey
that had her question everything and everyone. It sent her soaring and dropped
her into darkness. After endless nights of crying herself to sleep, this woman
has made peace with a sometimes troubling fact: She is an atheist, a part of the
most hated minority in America. And she is okay with it. This woman is me. I’m
an atheist – a secular humanist – and this is my story.
Growing up in a small town in Southern Germany, I had religion all around me
(although Germany is a decidedly secular country). I lived in a house right next
to a cemetery and witnessed countless funerals. I would sit quietly in my secret
hiding place and watch the coffin, decorated with mounds of flowers, carried to
a deep hole where family members and friends gathered. All were dressed in
black, holding handkerchiefs, carrying little bouquets of flowers. Then I would
listen to the pastor’s monotonous speech and prayers before they lowered the
coffin into the darkness. I still watched after all the people had left and only
a couple of men were left endlessly shoveling dirt into the hole until it was
filled completely, then decorated the heap of dirt with wreaths and bouquets of
flowers.
I was in kindergarten when I “attended” my very first funeral from my hiding
place in the bushes. I frequently ventured out to the cemetery to read the
inscriptions on the tombstones and I was always sad for the very tiny graves
where young children lay buried. Amazingly I did not wonder about what would
happen to all these people after they died. To me, death was just that, the end
of life.
Then I entered first grade. In Germany, this meant religious education for all
children, except the Turks, who were Muslims and got to play for an hour
instead. And so I was introduced to the subject of religion. My atheist parents
had felt no need to influence me in any way, knowing that soon I would come home
with questions about God, Jesus and the Bible. I vividly remember my very first
religious education class, during which our teacher, a Protestant minister,
asked us what we believed in. My simple response was of course, “Nothing.”
. . .
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Ute Mitchell lives with her husband and two children in a
Portland, Oregon suburb, where she learns, writes, gardens and is known in her
homeschooling community as the friendly atheist. Follow her journey on her
blog.
