Article
Atheism
Belief
Creed
2 min read

Naming the same light: a gentle response to faith from the other side of belief

A response to my friend, Jonah

Lloyd explores faith, morality, and human experience with curiosity, compassion, and open dialogue.

Spiritual Experiences in London
Dan Kim, Midjourney.ai

Last week Seen & Unseen published Jonah Horne's article: Atheism discovers Christianity — just not the inconvenient bits.

Lloyd Thomas replied to his friend.

Jonah, I want to start by saying how much I appreciate this article. I read sincerity and a clear love for your faith, which I deeply respect. Your reflections on the ways people engage with Christianity shows that you care not just about doctrine but about the lived experience of others. That quality is rare and valuable in public discussions of religion.

I do, however, find myself seeing some things differently. You describe atheism as “cannibalistic” and self-defeating, suggesting that atheists ultimately cannot escape some form of reliance on faith, even if it only faith in oneself or in society. I can understand why you might see it that way, especially when atheists acknowledge the moral and social benefits of religion. However, I think that framing risks misrepresenting what atheism actually is.

Atheism is not a belief system, but simply the absence of belief in gods. It does no prescribe moral codes or ways of life. What follows that absence is human creativity, philosophy, and ethical reasoning which gives shape to how we live. For many atheists, this takes the form of humanism, secular ethics, or a commitment to curiosity, kindness, and living well.

Recognising the value in religious practice, as Alex O’Connor suggests when they encourage someone to keep their faith if it helps the live well, is not a contradiction. It is an acknowledgment that religion can bring meaning, comfort, and transformations. These qualities can be appreciated without subscribing to metaphysical claims.

Humility is not the exclusive province of faith. True humility involves acknowledging the limits of human knowledge while striving to live gently, thoughtfully, and ethically in the world. Many atheists I know try to live humbly and compassionately, guided by curiosity and care for others rather than divine command. In this sense, humility and moral insight are not dependent on religious belief, even if they are often inspired or nurtured by it within faith communities.

Where I think we most deeply meet is in our shared care for love, justice, and courage. You see these as reflections of divine grace. I see these as expressions of our shared humanity. Perhaps we are naming the same light in different ways. Recognising that shared light feels like a fruitful place for dialogue and mutual respect. Our motivations may diverge without diminishing one another.

I hope this response affirms your sincerity while sharing an honest perspective from my own experience and understanding. I see faith as something beautiful and transformative and I celebrate it even though I don’t share it. I also believe that believers and non-believers alike can share moral depth and virtue even when differing in our responses to metaphysical questions.

Much love x

 

This article first appeared as A Shared Light, on Lloyd Thompson's Medium page.

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?
 
Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief

Snippet
Advent
Care
Christmas survival
Creed
Weirdness
3 min read

The mess, grit, and dirt of the post-partum stable

No cheerleaders, nor midwives, no older women who had walked Mary's path before.

Imogen is a writer, mum, and priest on a new housing development in the South-West of England. 

A Korean style historic illustration of the nativity.
Kim Hueng Jong (Korean, 1928-), Christmas Scene.

Clean, calm and collected, 

That’s how it would have been. 

The stable of filtered imaginings, 

A picture perfect scene. 

  

Perhaps more messy - 

Undignified, unexpected, unseemly - 

A not-so dream-like site, 

As a king’s birthing barn that night. 

  

Our unimagined stable. 

No perfectly planned polaroid, 

But in mess, mud, blood, 

Is God with us 

The stable of our Christmas cards, illuminated shop window scenes, and our children’s nativity plays is neat and tidy. A newborn babe lies quietly sleeping in a straw-filled trough, wrapped perfectly in a Persil white blanket. The mother, clothed and clean, looks on adoringly, standing over her child. Any animals present are gentle, still, and lying on the ground, unaffected by this unusual occurrence in their home. This is the stable of our imaginations.  

However, the Bethlehem stable was the delivery suite for the Saviour of the world. And even a Saviour’s birth includes mess. I have experienced a variety of delivery rooms over my three pregnancies and each one has been messy. From birthing pool to theatre there is noise, blood, water, and tears. Birth is messy. And that’s not even beginning to acknowledge the mess that would have been in the stable to begin with! Despite this, the stables we see and celebrate never include the mess that Jesus would have been born into.  

Birth is also extreme. It pushes the woman’s body to the limit of her physical and emotional capacity. She has laboured - aptly named for it is indeed hard work. Her body has been torn to enable this little life to be pushed or pulled into the world. She is exhausted. And now the work begins to sustain this little one outside of the womb. While inside he has been given all that he needs, now outside they must learn together how to feed. As the newborn babe is held close to his mother, he recognises her rhythmic heartbeat, his temperature regulates, his smell and touch encourages her milk to develop, and as he feeds, he contracts her womb for the placenta to be born and her body to begin to heal. They are still dependent on each other in these early hours. 

Usually, this extreme and messy moment is done in community. It is not something we embark on alone. We have a support network of skilled people to help and guide us through birth. We have birth partners who encourage us, champion us, and remind us of our body’s innate ability to birth this baby. But Mary did not have this normal group of cheerleaders. There were no midwives at her birth, no older women who had walked this path before. Only her new husband, afraid and unsure of what his young wife was about to do. And then soon after, the Shepherds arrived. A bunch of slightly smelly, nocturnal chaps walking into a delivery room. Although they would have been familiar with mess, noisy animals, and birth, I’m not sure I would have rejoiced at their unexpected arrival. Somehow though, Mary graciously welcomes them into the space of what was probably a very messy stable.  

Perhaps instead of the sanitised stable of our imaginations, we might consider an alternative imagining - the messy stable of the Saviour. A stable where the humanness of birth, of mother and child, and of life’s mess is fully felt. Because it was into the mess, grit, and dirt that the Saviour came. And it was from this mess that he was going to save.  

Join with us - Behind the Seen

Seen & Unseen is free for everyone and is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you’re enjoying Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?

Alongside other benefits (book discounts etc.), you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing what I’m reading and my reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin

Editor-in-Chief