::Epilogue::
I used to view Atheists as being closed-minded. I wondered how someone could be so sure that there is no god, especially when there are so many accounts of people witnessing strange spiritual occurrences. There is so much in the universe that is unexplained. How can we really know what's out there? How can we possibly dismiss all of this as a series of natural events?
If not the God, then a God. Some God must have done it.
I've only considered myself an atheist for about two years and wasn't comfortable identifying myself as an atheist until the last few months. I still don't tell most people.
People assume things about you as soon as you tell them anything about anything. When you tell them that you're an atheist, they fill in the blanks about the rest of your world views. They can attach negative stereotypes to you and talk to you differently.
People have asked me if I would feel bad about killing someone.
The answer is yes, I would feel bad if I killed someone. I will never kill anyone. I swear.
Obviously there are misconceptions about what atheists actually believe. I can't pretend to have all of the answers. I don't claim that I know everything. I don't think that theists are dumb.
I've merely decided to take all of the answers to life's questions and put them on hold for the rest of my life, or until I figure them out... whichever comes first.
This is my story, as told by my religious experiences.
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When I was a boy, Sunday mornings engendered a strange feeling. The cartoons weren't as good as Saturday morning cartoons, I was even lazier getting out of bed than the morning before, and even my Alpha Bits cereal didn't seem to sit right in my stomach.
I also had to go to church.
I would gobble my breakfast with my messy hair and He-Man pajamas while watching Richie Rich. I needed to stretch as many of those seconds of cartoons in as I possibly could before my mom came in to interrupt and have me put on my Sunday clothes.
By my mid-elementary school years my mom had already given up on trying to make me look fancy at church and settled for "just put on a sweater." After all, there were seven of us kids, and every Sunday my mother and father managed to make sure that we were all dressed, ready, and in the van in time to get to church early enough to find seats next to each other.
My mother is an amazing woman. I can't even manage a bus pass and my mom kept all seven of us in line and on time for the first 18 years of our lives.
Those first ten years of church were BOOOORRRRRIIIINNNNGG... I couldn't stand it. I knew I had to be there, but I didn't quite understand why. On sporadic Sundays a volunteer would bring the kids into a separate room during mass so that the young ones can try other Jesusy activities, but these meetings were poorly organized and barely managed to capture the attention of children raised on video games.
As I got into the double digits I learned about the true meaning of church. I knew some of the stories and was able to pay attention to the priest long enough to realize that he wasn't trying to force me to make up excuses to go to the bathroom.
I began to enjoy church. I sang the songs and I was old enough to eat the bread and wine. Sometimes at home I would play church with my brothers and sisters and our stuffed animals were the congregation.
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