The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 like 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 understand 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