Skeptic; Noun (skep-tik)

1. a person who questions the validity or authenticity of something purporting to be factual. 2.a person who maintains a doubting attitude, as toward values, plans, statements, or the character of others. 3.a person who doubts the truth of a religion, especially christianity, or of important elements of it.

 

That’s me in a nutshell.

 

Part of my skepticism, the part that gets me in the most trouble, is my Atheism.   I don’t believe in a god or gods. I also don’t believe in fairies, unicorns, ghosts, goblins, vampires, werewolves, little green men, angels, demons, leprechauns, Atlantis, ESP, Spiritualism or honest republicans. The only thing on the list that has its own label is my lack of belief in god(s). I don’t get criticism, derision or the occasional death threat because I don’t believe in Big Foot, (and calling myself an ‘anti-sasquatchian’ just doesn’t sing).      I was born without a god belief, we all were.      At an early age however, my grandmother who raised me in the backwoods of south east Texas, took me to church. It was Pentecostal, a primitive, dark and uncomfortable place where in the sweaty heat of a summer Sunday the sounds of fire and brimstone preaching led to holy wailing and the gibbering of glossolalia that rattled the clapboards.   They had a small baptismal, made I think from a livestock watering tub behind the preacher’s raised wooden platform. One Sunday, out of boredom and a desire to fit in, I joined the small que and got myself Baptized. I sputtered and coughed after being held down for a long 10 count, and didn’t feel a bit different, just soggy and a little foolish. I guess it didn’t take.   Somewhat later, I began going to a Southern Baptist church with my Aunt and Uncle and an old car jammed full of cousins. Sometimes the car was so crowded that my Uncle would open the trunk and us young kids rode the 4 or five miles back there.   This church was a bit more modern, with air conditioning and running water. The people didn’t yell quite so much and there was a lot of kids my age there as well. I liked the singing and the arts and crafts of Sunday School. And as I grew older, I developed a liking for the pretty girls in their Sunday dresses. Again, I was dunked, this time in the muddy, slightly brackish waters of the Sabine River.  Again, I was soaked to the bone and didn’t feel anything but a little silly.   This was all well and fine for an adolescent boy in the deep south in the early 60′s. I liked singing, visiting with my friends, fine southern food at the socials and pot lucks, and the pretty girls and such… One tiny problem, I didn’t believe the central thesis.  I didn’t really believe in god.   I kept it to myself, because I was sure there was a place that they put people like me who didn’t conform to the norms of society. As I grew older, I felt a prickling of conscious, an overwhelming sense of hypocrisy. I reached a point in my early teens when I could no longer pretend.  I quit the church and never returned.

 

 

LC >;-}>