The grieving atheist’s consolation is not in hope but in love.
The theme of reunion runs through a lot of religions, and many people of faith rest the burden of their grief on the hope that someday they will be reunited with their loved ones. They believe that they will see their loved ones again. For these people, the very concept that such a reunion might not happen is downright horrific, and they cannot conceive how an atheist’s grief is not made exponentially worse without that promise. They perceive an atheist’s notion of death as a singularly final and empty event, and project their own fears of being alone and without hope onto the atheist’s experience.
As an atheist, though, I never felt the need for that hope. It would be like pining for Santa Clause; comforting, perhaps, but no less ridiculous and unrealistic. It is hard to explain that this is not a decision I came to, but rather is an emotional state that is very natural and organic for me. Atheist logic fits my argument beautifully, but had no bearing on how I felt about matters nor in how I explain it now. There is a huge difference between arguing that Heaven (and Hell) does not exist, and simply knowing that to be true. Is that the essence of blind faith? Perhaps. I’m okay with that, because in the end, human emotions will never resolve into a rational argument. All we can do is provide the best evidence we can for our beliefs.
Atheism is my default setting, so this lack of hope was not traumatic for me. I remember studying with some Baha’i followers during my Great Search for God who told me I should find comfort in knowing I would be reunited with my parents after my own death. My knee-jerk (and probably thoughtless) reply was, “why?” I did not understand why this would a source of hope for me, rather than an argument for committing suicide. I remember this moment clearly because the kind Baha’is looked floored by my comment, and I realized for the first time that my grieving emotions were out of lock step with the majority of mourners.
I have worried at this discrepancy for a while. I mean, it does seem odd that I am not utterly distraught by the idea that I will never, ever ever see my parents again, that their deaths are final and absolute. They are gone, and I am here, and that is a permanent divide. As long as I am self-aware, I will be mourning them and there is no end to that other than my own death, which will be just as final and resolute as theirs.
What I eventually realized is that my consolation, when I find it, does not need hope. My consolation is in the continuity of my love for my parents, a feeling that is boundless and constantly present. I loved them while they were alive, and I love them now, and I will love them until my own mind goes dark. That is eternity, for an atheist; so for all of eternity my parents are here with me, now, in every moment.
