G. K. Chesterton

I lost my faith fifteen years ago after studying philosophy in college. I'm at peace with it—I find meaning in relationships, beauty, human achievement. I don't miss believing. But I married a devout woman, and we have three children being raised in her faith. I agreed to this. I attend church, stay quiet during prayers, participate in rituals that mean nothing to me. My oldest is 12 now, and she's asking questions. "Dad, do you believe in God?" I've been dodging it, but she's persistent. She's noticed I don't pray. My wife wants me to affirm the faith for the children's sake, even if I don't believe. "You don't have to lie," she says. "Just don't undermine what I'm teaching them." But my daughter asked directly. She deserves honesty. And yet—I remember the comfort faith gave me as a child. Am I depriving my children of something valuable by sharing my doubts? Do I owe my children my truth, or do I owe them the chance to find their own? — The Atheist at Christmas in Connecticut

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