I Am An Atheist - and I Am Home

by Dianne Davis-Meadow June 29, 2025

I'm sure you already figured it out and won't be shocked by what I'm about to say because you've already seen the Order of Service. I am an atheist. It feels strange, honestly, to be standing inside a church and saying that out loud. As an atheist, walking into a church feels a little like going to a costume party where I’m the only one not in costume… and I’m afraid they might hand me a Bible instead of a drink. But for the first time in my life, I’m in a place where I can speak my truth without fear—without being turned away, glared at like a heathen, or told I’m going to hell. Unitarian Universalist minister Rev. John Wolf once said, “Belief is not the beginning but the end of all knowledge.” That line has stuck with me because, for most of my life, I kept my beliefs—or lack of them—quiet. I learned early on that what I believed (or didn’t believe) often led people to view me differently. And more often than not, those differences weren’t exactly kind. Sociologist Phil Zuckerman, who studies secular life said “In many parts of America, openly identifying as an atheist can mean social rejection, broken relationships, and even threats to one’s job or safety. It’s one of the last stigmas that remains widely acceptable.” It's one that I myself have experienced. Today, I want to share how I got here. How I came to find peace with what I believe—and what I don’t believe.

And oddly enough, it all started with one person… Santa Claus. (brief pause ) Yes, you heard that right. Santa Claus turned me into an atheist—at the ripe old age of ten. Growing up, I attended church regularly. My father was raised in a devout Catholic household, and my mother came from a Southern Baptist background. My mom never converted to Catholicism and didn’t want her children forced to be Catholic before they could decide for themselves. So we attended both Catholic Mass and a Sunday School at the local Baptist church.

Being raised “Catholic-adjacent” was strange. We’d sit in the pews listening to stories about God's love, but when communion came around, we were the only ones who stayed seated. We weren’t baptized in the faith, so we weren’t allowed to participate. And in that massive cathedral, the stares felt extra loud. I never really felt like I belonged.

But back to Santa. I was a kid who really believed in him. I mean, devoutly. For a child growing up in a struggling household, Santa brought magic to an otherwise difficult reality. One night a year, our living room transformed. Wishes came true. And so, while other kids whispered rumors that Santa wasn’t real, I dismissed them. How could he not be real? We could barely put food on the table—where else could those gifts possibly come from?

That year, I decided I’d stay up and see Santa for myself. We didn’t have a chimney, so I figured he’d use the front door. I could see the driveway from my bedroom window, so I camped out—pretending to sleep, then peeking every few minutes. Santa of course had to think I was sleeping, right? Finally, after what felt like forever, I saw movement. My heart raced. And then… it was my parents. Backing my dad’s truck into the driveway. Unloading presents.

Something inside me broke. I couldn’t sleep that night. And the next day, the magic was gone. The trust was gone. I realized that my parents had created an elaborate lie—encouraging belief, even manipulating our behavior in exchange for presents.

If they had lied about Santa, what else had they lied about? That was the moment the questions began. And once they started, they didn’t stop. What if Heaven and Hell weren’t real either? If God is all-powerful, why doesn’t he stop suffering? If God loves everyone, why do bad things still happen to good people? Why does God let people hurt each other in His name? My parents did their best. They pulled out our children’s Bible, pointed to stories about love and miracles. But I didn’t want stories. I wanted truth. I wanted proof. And no one could give me any. The more I listened in church, the more the stories began to sound like fables— fantastical, magical, comforting… but fictional. Just like Santa Claus. And once I crossed that line in my mind— that God might not be real— I couldn’t go back. Carl Sagan once said, “It is far better to grasp the universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring.” This quote articulated a framework I hadn’t yet found the language for. Because I wasn’t trying to rebel. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just wanted to know what was real. But the more I questioned, the more uncomfortable people got. My Catholic father was not okay with it. Dinner table conversations turned into tense debates. And I learned very quickly: In our home, children were expected to believe what they were told. No questions. No doubts. Just faith. But after Santa, I couldn’t do that anymore. I no longer trusted unverified truths. I needed evidence. I needed to understand where beliefs came from— and why they held power. . As a young atheist still learning to carry that identity, one of the hardest moments came during the following Thanksgiving. We went to visit my grandparents in Philadelphia—my dad’s devout Irish Catholic family. I loved visiting them; we didn’t get to go often.

I was helping my Granny with dishes on Thanksgiving day, and we started talking about Santa Claus. Santa of course was coming to visit soon. I proudly told her I didn’t believe in him. Then—because I was a very willful child (if that wasn’t already obvious)—I added, “And I don’t believe in God either.” I can still feel the slap.

She began screaming at me. My mother rushed in. I was banished to the room I was staying in, told I couldn’t join Thanksgiving dinner, and that I was no longer welcome in her home. Eventually, my mom came to get me—said I could eat, but then I had to pack my things. One of my aunts would take me in for the rest of the trip.

That Thanksgiving broke something in me. I hadn’t changed—I was still me. And yet, one sentence made me unworthy of my own family.

I couldn’t understand what had just unfolded. Standing here today I still in disbelief by the events. I was still the same kid. I got good grades. I didn’t drink or steal. I believed in the sanctity of marriage. I genuinely tried to be a good person. The only difference was this: I no longer believed in God. But to others, that made me a different person entirely. Suddenly, I wasn’t thoughtful or trustworthy. I was dangerous.

Lost. Even evil. My grandparents immediately went into “damage control.” They decided that clearly, this was a result of public school. So they told my parents they would pay for private Catholic school. All my cousins attended catholic school and none of them were spreading blasphemous ideals. I told my mom if she enrolled me, I’d run away. Thankfully, she believed me.

She told me I needed to stop discussing my beliefs with family. So I did. I never talked about God with my Granny again. This experience taught me something at a young age: being an atheist often becomes your defining trait, whether you want it to or not. You can be kind, generous, responsible, loving. But once you’re “outed” as an atheist, those things get overshadowed. I learned to be careful. At school, at church, even around family— I kept my mouth shut. I laughed at the jokes, sang the songs, bowed my head when others prayed. But inside, I felt like I was pretending. Wearing a mask just to get through the day. Because every time I spoke my truth— that I didn’t believe in God— I watched people flinch. Like I’d said something obscene. They didn’t ask why. They didn’t want to understand. They wanted me to stop. To stay quiet. To believe again. But I couldn’t. The questions were louder than the answers. And the answers I did hear— they often came with a warning. With fear. With shame. “You’ll change your mind when you’re older.” “You just haven’t felt the Holy Spirit yet.” “You’re letting the Devil win.” I began to wonder if they saw me at all— the me who still cared deeply about right and wrong, who cried when animals died in movies, who held friends when they were hurting. The me who still believed in kindness, in justice, in something bigger than myself— just not a man in the sky. I didn’t have the language back then to explain the kind of truth I was searching for. But I knew it had to be something real— something I could live with, not just recite. So I stayed quiet. For years. I learned to compartmentalize. To avoid the questions that made people uncomfortable. To shrink the parts of myself that didn’t fit the mold. However when I started dating, it became harder to hide. Belief—or the lack of it—was no longer theoretical. It was relational. And I knew I couldn’t build a life with someone who saw my beliefs as a problem to fix. I decided to be upfront with partners. Most said it was fine.

But over time, I noticed the same pattern: a slow campaign to “bring me to God.” Like love was conditional. Like I had to change to be worthy of it. One of the hardest heartbreaks came when I dated an evangelical Christian. I loved him. And in the beginning, he said he accepted me. But then he told his parents. And his mother said, “being with her will lead you to Hell.” After his talk with his parents He came by my house and said, “I can only be in this relationship if God can be in it too.“ To which I responded, “You knew from the beginning that wasn’t a possibility.“ That’s when he began to beg, couldn't I just try and let Jesus into my heart?. Then the disappointment. Then the loss. He didn’t stop loving me because I wasn’t kind, or honest, or loyal. He stopped because I didn’t believe in God’s love. James Baldwin once said, “Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” In that moment, I realized: I was done wearing the mask. Eventually, I met someone who didn’t ask me to. My husband didn’t try to change me. He didn’t see my atheism as a flaw, or a hurdle to overcome. He saw me—fully—and chose to love me as I am. And after years of trying to make myself smaller in relationships, that love felt like a kind of liberation. But even in that acceptance, something was still missing. I had love at home—yes. But not community. Not a space where I could show up with my whole self and feel connected beyond just one relationship. And then We moved to the Valley where I knew no one. I work from home, and the isolation hit hard. I craved connection— not just conversations. Then… I remembered something I'd seen on Facebook. A friend back in Tennessee who was also an atheist posted that she attended a local UU church. I was confused. Why would an atheist go to church? So I looked it up. I read stories, mission statements, then I found a line that stopped me in my tracks: “You can bring your whole self: your full identity, your questioning mind, your expansive heart.” My questioning mind. That’s me. Always has been. So one Sunday, last February, I walked through those front doors— unsure, maybe a little guarded. But curious. And what I found was… a surprise. I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to apologize for who I was. In this community—this Unitarian Universalist community— I found something I hadn’t experienced before: Belonging. A home for myself and my family. A place where my children could learn values based on compassion, kindness, and justice—without the pressure of indoctrination or shame. They could ask questions, explore, and be supported on their own paths. That is one of the greatest gifts I can offer them: a place to grow that encourages their minds to seek truth without fear. Unitarian Universalism teaches, “We do not believe in belief alone. Our faith is in action, in the deeds of kindness, justice, and equity." And that is exactly the values I hope my children take with them on their journey in life. UU isn’t about telling you what to believe. It’s about asking: Can we grow together? Can we care for each other? Can we be kind, even when we disagree? Unitarian Universalism believes in these shared values. Interdependence: Acknowledging our interconnectedness with all living things. Pluralism: Celebrating diversity and embracing different perspectives. Justice: Working towards a just world for all. Transformation: Embracing change and growth. Generosity: Cultivating gratitude and compassion. Equity: Affirming the inherent worth and dignity of every person None of these require belief in a higher power. But all of them invite us to live our highest values. Rev. Theresa Soto writes, “You are not wrong. The spark of the divine lives in you, no matter what you believe or do not believe. Come in. Bring your doubts. Bring your questions. Bring your whole self.” So no, I don’t believe in God. But I do believe in showing up. I believe in kindness. In awe. In community. In the power of people gathering and saying, “We’re in this together.” As UU minister Sophia Lyon Fahs said: “It matters what we believe. Some beliefs are like walled gardens. They encourage exclusiveness and the feeling of being especially privileged. Other beliefs are expansive and lead the way into wider and deeper sympathies.“ For me, Unitarian Universalism offered that expansive path. I didn’t find faith in God. I found faith in people. In imperfection. In compassion. And here—among you— I found a place where I belong. In other churches, I’ve been prayed for like I was broken. In this one, they just asked what committee would I like to join. That shift—from being someone to “fix” to someone who belongs—was everything. It gave me space to breathe, to question, and most importantly, to be. In this community, I’ve learned that worthiness isn’t something you earn by believing the “right” things—it’s something you already carry by being human. And so, I say this with a full heart: I am an atheist. And for the first time, I can say it out loud without fear. Because here, I am safe. I am welcome. I am home.