Sunday School, Atheist Style

My mother had become the children’s education director at our church, St. Luke’s.
This was right around the same time there was a change in ministers.

The new minister was younger and had a daughter, Annabelle, who was my age.
They moved to Charlottesville from Mobile, Alabama, for him to take the position.

I was already on the non-believer train at that point in my life.
Church was mostly a waste of time.
I could have been learning something useful.
Or playing video games.
Or literally anything else.

But Annabelle… she was beautiful.
Porcelain skin, long red hair.
So I started showing up a bit more regularly.
Not like I had much choice on Sundays anyway—
but I started tagging along on other days too when Mom was working.

With Mom working there, I had access to the church computers.
I started tinkering.

Alf Weaver, a computer science professor at UVA, noticed me.
He was officially in charge of maintaining the church’s systems,
and started teaching me more about how they worked.

I showed him some basic programs I’d written in BASIC and FORTRAN.
He started teaching me C.
Taught me networking too—his specialty.

Occasionally I’d catch Annabelle (Anna) at the church after school.
She didn’t go to the same school—I went to public in Greene County.
She went to the private school, St. Anne’s.
I had friends there too—Matt Lang transferred there after 5th grade.

I was way too shy to let Anna know I had a crush on her.
She wasn’t the only one.
There was also E.B. Hawk.
I remember printing out a note asking her out.

She sent her friend over to respond.
“E.B. says: Not in a million years. Not even if you were the last guy on Earth.”

Around this time, Mom was preparing a lesson plan for the older church kids.
She called it “The World Study of Religions.”

In hindsight, it should’ve been called
“The World Study of Abrahamic Religions.”
Because that’s all it really covered.

Catholicism, Episcopalianism, Baptists.
Islam.
Jehovah’s Witnesses.
That was the scope.

She set up a study group after Sunday service.
All the older kids—twelve and up—were encouraged to attend.
Most of us did, including me.

I remember the moment.

We were sitting in a circle, study books in our laps.
Some kind of worksheet or assignment we were supposed to be doing.

“These are all the same,” I said.

“No they’re not,” someone said.
“They have different names, different saints, different leaders, different stories.”

I had taken a Sharpie to my booklet.
There was a section with stories from each religion—
each had blanks to write down which one it belonged to.

I crossed out the names and places in each story.

“This is a madlib,” I said.
“Same stories, different names.”

The kids stared.

“They’re the same. These religions hate each other for being the same,
just with different labels.”

One of the Whitlock twins flipped through his booklet.
“You’re right,” he said.

Another kid chimed in:
“These aren’t even all the religions.”

Like dominoes.
One by one, their faith started slipping.
They began questioning what they were being spoon-fed.
And that was it. I shattered their faith.
Turned them into non-believers.

One of our church family friends had a son named Daniel.
His mom suggested we should all go to a church camp together.

So they sent us to a “youth retreat.”
More like a brainwashing camp.

First night, they put us in a circle.
Each kid was made to spill their guts.

Some boys said they thought they were gay.
A few girls admitted they wanted to try sex.

When it was my turn, I refused to talk.
“Boompa taught me not to have diarrhea of the mouth,” I said.
“And this camp leader looks like a flaming homo.”

They dragged me to the punishment room and whipped me.
I didn’t make a sound—
except to say, “You hit like a pussy.”

I made it to the punishment room almost daily.
Two weeks straight.

They made us watch films about why God hated gay people.
Said they’d never be allowed into heaven.

“That’s a load of shit,” I said out loud.
Punishment room.

“Chicks can have dicks too,” I added
when they bashed Tim Curry and transvestites.
Punishment room.

“I can statistically prove the probability of God existing is slim to none,”
I said—
and I started writing out equations on the chalkboard.
Punishment room.

I graduated from punishment to hot box
when I was caught naked in bed with Anna.
She was sent home.
I spent two days locked in a metal shed—
no food, no water.

Even though I never saw her again,
that camp never broke me.

On the bright side,
my mother was fired from the church.