I am uncomfortable labeling myself an atheist and find it more troubling to accept faith and magic. I love Jean-Paul Sarte’s quotes and his one about his grandmother was a classic: “She believed in nothing, only her skepticism kept her from being an atheist.”
I remember those callow, less cynical days when church was a staple and holy rolling was a Sunday feast for the soul. When called to the altar, I would feel the tug and the inner battle would begin: the promise of a future rapture and freedom from all the evil my 10 years of living could commit vs. the shame of that Sunday march. Most often the music and the lure of redemption won over the fear of admitting to unforgivable sins. Once at the altar, my churchgoing great uncles would circle the pew and begin their chants to save my soul.
Now getting old and firmly in some camp of science where the door to magic remains slightly ajar, I only have hope for others’ redemption. So I am calling my right-wing friends to the altar, to admit that your belief in “trickle down” has been a prayer to false gods. Turn from your ways of sin and sip not from this elixir of evil; accede the bounty of redistribution into your heart.