The Heretic Mom Gospel: Religion is an ideological tool of oppression (bad), but holidays that involve candy (and family in small doses) are good.

Look, if I were Jesus, I would’ve said, “No, Dad. This is your dream.” I mean, who wants to die in sandals? The guy just wanted to build shelves, but instead, he had to please his cosmic dad by doing unhinged shit like turning water into wine and then later, walking on it like a boss. Talk about pressure. Poor guy never stood a chance. After his untimely death and badass resurrection, he had groupies. He could've been tongue kissing Mary Magdalene. But no, he had to keep performing miracles instead. Now we commemorate him year-round with gluttony and gifts. Weird shit, man.

Anyway, my son is deep into Jesus these days. Subtle school indoctrination has begun, much to my chagrin. He's even been asking to go to church. I tell him it'll be no fun, because I know he's never been able to sit still through one boring adult conversation, let alone a church service. Am I not a good enough preacher? Granted, my sermons take shape as maternal, bohemian-intellectual reinterpretations of ancient parables. You know the one about the two wolves? Though typically delivered in a tangential fashion behind the wheel of a car en route to school, that one’s giving me tons of mileage these days. Whaddya know? No pulpit in sight.

"Why doesn't one wolf just kill the other wolf for good, mom?" Sigh.

The other morning, before I’d even had a sip of coffee, my boy casually said, “Well, who wouldn’t want to go to Heaven? We all know the streets are made of gold,” like was a fool for not booking it as our next vacation. Even though we aren’t religious, I try to give my kids a well-rounded understanding of what we believe, versus what others believe, and how to respectfully coexist. My son has shown interest in the afterlife, so Jesus is an especially intriguing figure. The whole resurrection thing is a hit. As a child, I too had a morbid curiousity about death. He comes by his macabre side honestly, so I wrote JESUS DIED—RIP on his bedroom calendar for Good Friday. And JESUS IS WOKE on the Sunday. I'm a good mom, after all. When he saw it, he shrugged and said, "Well... that's dark."

Maybe it is. But maybe all he needs to know was that Jesus was a man---and by all accounts a good one. A humble one. Then he was targeted by a mob and killed. Simply because people can’t live and let live. The guy would probably be mighty uncomfortable with all this fanfare, and ultimately detest the problems it’s created.

My son’s existential questions have prompted me to evaluate my own struggles with religion—and the dogma that props it up. I’ve always felt there is something more, but I’m okay not having a concrete answer. I believe in the interconnectedness of life, and that’s enough. Whatever it is, it exists within and around us. We’re not separate from any of it.

I feel closest to a higher power in nature—wandering through trees or breathless atop a mountain. I don’t need holy books, doctrines, or blueprints of heaven. I believe this is just one incarnation, and when we’ve learned our lessons here, the soul keeps moving on.

Humans have always been curious about what’s behind the next door. But religion? It feels like humanity’s greatest scam: keep people content with dystopic conditions by dangling a utopian afterlife. It’s the ultimate hustle—don’t worry, it gets better after you’re dead.  Then before you know it, you’re tethered to these beliefs for a lifetime in exchange for something that may not even exist. Even worse, many followers of dogmatic beliefs become a strange mix of docile and self-righteous.

Sure, I’m simplifying the allure. And I respect anyone’s right to find an enlightened path that works for them. But when it comes to my own kids, I’m fiercely protective of that spiritual journey.

For now, just take the chocolate eggs from the magical bunny, my boy. These times won’t last.

Children eventually grow out of believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. But religion? That’s the dark myth that endures.