The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas Read Online Free Page A

birth of my wife’s husband. But why not? If ancient priests could do it, so can my wife.
    If you’re a kid born on the twenty-fifth, Christmas sucks. Emerymas, however? A day like any other day, with one very distinct exception: I was born. And according to my wife, that’s something to celebrate.
    I appreciate all that my mother and my grandmother tried to do. They can’t be held responsible for my failed childhood birthdays—they were up against eons of ritual and tradition. Still, if I’d been alive in the fourth century, I could have been sacrificed by pagans, so perhaps I should count my proverbial blessings and be happy that all I had to deal with was losing my birthday to a holiday. It could clearly have been much worse.

Chapter 5
110 Love Street
    C ATIE W ILKINS
    I remember being confused as a four-year-old as I sat in assembly at primary school and everyone said the Lord’s Prayer. I did as I was told and joined in, saying, “Our Father, who art in heaven.” But I thought we were thanking our dads for working hard at their jobs to bring us, their families, home our daily bread, so that we could have Marmite on toast, and jam sandwiches, and other nutritious bread-based snacks. I remember thinking that perhaps I wasn’t really eligible to join in anyway, as my dad didn’t actually work in heaven—he worked for Tesco. I kept my fears under my hat but felt likea potential fraudster.
    My dad, a supremely rational man even when addressing four-year-olds, answered my question “What happens when you die?” logically and truthfully. He replied, “No one really knows, but we have lots of theories. Some people believe in heaven and hell, some people believe in reincarnation, and some people believe that nothing happens.” The other four-year-olds were not privy to the open, balanced information that I had, leaving me the only four-year-old to suggest that heaven might not exist. Unlike John Lennon’s song “Imagine,” this suggestion was not met with delight or praise or musical accolades. The other children just said I was wrong. I became more of an outsider.
    I guess I must have continued to feel like an outsider, as when I was five I attempted to send a Christmas card to the Devil. Not to rebel—I was trying to cheer him up. I sent one to God as well, to keep it fair. I wasn’t taking sides in their cosmic disagreement.
    The card to God (complete with made-up address, 110 Love Street) said, “Well done, you must be very proud.” The card to the Devil (who of course lived at 110 Hate Street) said, “Please try to have a good time, in spite of everything.” I guess I thought he might be feeling blue or left out on the birthday of his arch-nemesis.
    But I think I could relate more to the Devil, and could associate more with his underdog status of everyone hating him. I was chucked out of ballet at the age of four for being disruptive, so I think that the Devil and I both knew what it was like to be excluded from things—he from the eternal paradise for rebelling against the supreme being, I froma ballet class for finding it hilarious to say “no” instead of “yes” when the register was called.
    I didn’t expect the Devil to write back. Everybody knows he’s a bad boy. But God didn’t write back either, and he had no excuse. I’d heard the phrases “Ask and you shall be given” and “Seek and ye shall find,” but I had scientific evidence that Father Christmas was more communicative than either of them. I’d seen that he’d eaten the mince pies I’d left out for him, but when I’d asked God if I could become a mermaid, my legs had stayed resolutely in place.
    However, I decided it was understandable that God was far busier than Father Christmas. After all, while they were both very old and had to keep their long white beards in shape, God had to work 365 days a year (except for Sundays), while Father Christmas only worked for one night, and he also only had to help children, not