An atheist invades Christmas dinner – 12/22/2023 – Cozinha Bruta

It took me my whole life to discover myself as an atheist.

I am the son of a Catholic mother, I had my first communion at the age of 9 and, at 10, I had completely lost the faith that the catechism teacher had pushed into my head.

However, he kept his fear. Catholics are addicted to fear and guilt, it is difficult to detox.

Fear of going to hell when I died. Fear of some spiritual presence stalking me at night, after I fall asleep.

Interestingly, the fear evaporated on a trip to Rome.

There, I was introduced to the opulence of the Holy See and a few dozen relics. The head of Saint John the Baptist. The nails that nailed Jesus Christ.

No modern human, with discernment and some study, should take such objects seriously. In Portugal alone, there are eight churches displaying fragments of the cross that gave rise to the whole thing.

The Sacred Foreskin – foreskin with a capital letter, as Your Foreskin – would have disappeared after the sack of Rome in 1527. Several supposed foreskins have appeared across Europe since then, but none worthy of the Vatican’s seal of authenticity.

Anyway, enough about the foreskin. I came to say that atheists also celebrate Christmas. Every year, on December 25th, I give gifts to the children, eat more than I should and drink fruit before bed.

“Ah, how hypocrisy!” That may be so, but I wasn’t the one who invented Christmas hypocrisy.

Nobody thinks about the birth of Christ when they open another bottle of sparkling wine to drink until their senses become numb and tolerate the presence of relatives they don’t speak to for the rest of the year – for reasons that become evident at Christmas dinner.

No image of the manger crosses the mind of those who slice the turkey, skewer the loin, complain about the raisins in the rice, chew with their mouths open and spit farofa at their aunt while talking badly about their gay cousin who didn’t even bother to call.

Unchristian thoughts occupy the minds of those who swear in line at the shopping mall, max out their card out of mere social obligation, and give gifts to children in an attempt to make up for their own absence during the other 364 days.

Christmas, by the way, is not even a pure-blood Christian festival. I’m not referring to the frenetic consumerism of the end of the year, but to the origins of the tradition.

Santa Claus, tender ham, Christmas carols and even the date of the celebration have roots in Germanic paganism and its winter solstice rituals – the longest night, the beginning of the most difficult time, when it is necessary to appeal to the supernatural to survive.

Christianity adapted this symbolism and included the baby Jesus as the personification of hope for the future. Genius move, impeccable.

Christmas is a call to renew, every year and even if reluctantly, the tribe’s commitment to cohesion. We are as primitive as the Lapps of the Bronze Age, let us not be fooled by the technological charm of the air fryer and the Stanley cup.

I don’t need to believe in Jesus to answer the call. Neither you. To paraphrase Jack Palance, believe it or not.

Merry Christmas to everyone. I’ll be back next year.

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