It’s Easter Sunday, and churches are ringing with messages of hope and rebirth — and how horrible it must be to be an atheist.

What meaning would life have without the reality of immortality? Otherwise life would become only a dismal journey of ‘getting and spending,’ only to end in utter and hopeless oblivion.

Hey, don’t knock getting and spending — it’s fun, and besides, the government might target you as some kind of subversive. And what kind of argument is that, anyway? Shorter version: “If we just died, that’d be too sad. So that can’t be true!”

Lots of Christians have written about how hopeless atheists must feel. It goes way back to Paul. Muslims even get into it from time to time — at last, something everyone can agree on.

But is life without belief in a Supernatural Being really that hopeless? This is my first Easter as a born-again atheist, and I’d like to say that while unbelief comes with some responsibilities (like life itself), you get a lot in return.

You are free of sin.
Sin is transgression against the laws of God. Subtract God, and the idea of sin becomes meaningless.

In its place is something far more difficult: ethics. Even if there’s no such thing as sin, you can still behave crappily towards other people. The problem is that no one will forgive you if you pray. If you choose to live ethically, you have to try and be aware of the effects of your actions and try and minimise harm to other people.

In return, you get to choose your actions based on how it will affect you and other people, without worrying about offending a Supreme Being whose commandments change depending on who you’re talking to. You are free of sin, and always have been.

You are free of false beliefs.
Well, at least some. Watch it, though — even when you think you don’t have any, you really do. Unexamined assumptions need to be ferreted out and checked against reality, as best as we can perceive it. This seems a bit wobbly — what good is your belief system if you can’t be certain? But the pursuit of knowledge requires a willingness to relinquish certainty and accept wisdom, including the wisdom of knowing that we may be wrong.

Giving up superstition allows you to use humanity’s most successful invention: science. To commit to a scientific approach is to commit to truthfulness, to discover and overcome your own personal biases, to be honest in reporting your data, and to be appropriately cautious about the conclusions you draw.

In return, you can be reasonably confident that your beliefs are true and well-supported, as least until more data comes along. Just think — people who believe in unprovable superstitions can never have that assurance. It drives them nuts. Sometimes they even kill each other over the comparative value of their delusions. You can be free of this.

Your mind and your body are your own.
No god is trying to put thoughts into your head. No devil is on your shoulder whispering words of sweet temptation. No mysterious promptings to puzzle over. When a thought comes into your mind, it comes from your mind, and you can choose what to do with it.

When you close the door of your room, you are blessedly alone. No angels, ghosts, or unseen spirits to pry into your boudoir.

It can be lonely without an imaginary entourage. Existential loneliness is something we all have to deal with. But in return, you get privacy. You also get a sense of personal ownership. No one has paid for you, so no one properly owns you but yourself. Your body, your mind, and your thoughts are yours.

After death, what?
There are lots of theories about what happens after death, but none of them are verifiable. From where we’re standing, it looks a lot like nothing happens, so that’s our starting point.

I don’t like the idea of not existing. I try to imagine what it’s like not to exist — like sleeping forever? — and I can’t do it. I look at people in the city, and I see my fellow travelers to the grave. I tuck my boys into bed at night, and I realise that they too will die, and I can’t stop it. And someday we will all pass out of living human memory.

And yet, though we may not exist after death, our influence may be felt. My children contain some of my genetic code, which will mix with that of all humanity. Perhaps someday some of my work will be useful to someone, and my words and ideas will linger after I’m gone.

This is the inspiring part of life, for me. For one brief instant, I was a part of human experience. And I think that’s beautiful.