Gather round, children, and I will tell you the story of Chanukkah (which I brazenly lifted from the internet).

Long ago in the land of Judea there was a Syrian king, Antiochus. The king ordered the Jewish people to reject their God, their religion, their customs and their beliefs and to worship the Greek gods. There were some who did as they were told, but many refused. One who refused was Judah Maccabee.

One of the interesting developments of the past several years has been what seems to be a more prominent place in American dialogues for the voices of non-believers.  Best-selling books on the subject of atheism have emerged from Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris and Christopher Hitchins.  A humorous examination of religious belief was offered up in cinematic format by Bill Maher.  All of this has more or less been part of rather uncharacteristically mainstream attention, much to the chagrin of self-labeled culture warriors.

This post is not about a break-up or a political conversion. It is literally about how I lost my religion, more or less, and became an atheist. I thought about posting it yesterday but decided to spare the believers who care about me from witnessing me commit sacrilege on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when we are supposed to beg for God's forgiveness in case he left us off the Book of Life this year. I don't think there is any evidence that atheists suffer from higher death rates than believers, so whatever the drawbacks to atheism, premature death does not appear to be one of them.