Sometime mid November, I was listening to an episode of the Thinking Atheist podcast hosted by Seth Andrews. It’s part of a regular, weekly lineup of podcasts I look forward to. This particular episode is titled “My Casket is Not Your Soapbox.” In it, Seth shares his recent experience attending the funeral of a child of deeply religious parents. He explained that he’d gotten some pushback from people asking why would he even attend a Christian funeral, or why hadn’t he taken the opportunity to speak out against the trite part-of-god’s-plan-type lines coming from the pulpit. “Time and place,” Seth said¹.

The podcast’s topic and the timing of its release were opportune for me because on November 6, 2023, my granny died. She was 98. Proud matriarch of 4 children, 11 grandchildren, and 3 great-grandchildren, just missing her fourth by a few weeks. Granny lived an exceptional life, beginning with her immigration from Jamaica with my grandfather in the 1950s. She chose a life of service here in Canada, in healthcare at first, before moving to volunteer work and reliably finding ways of helping her community thrive, even while enduring hatred and bigotry (Canada is not the bastion of positive race relations people might believe it to be). Nevertheless, granny persevered, living a rich life full of kindness and compassion, surrounded by so many friends and family who loved, cared for, and respected her.

And she was devoutly religious.

My granny was a member of the United Pentecostal Church (UPC), an extreme evangelical organization distinguished from other evangelical faiths by its Oneness doctrine: the idea that god the father, god the son, and the holy spirit comprise one single entity—god—rather than three distinct beings². UPC adherents speak in tongues. The women must not cut their hair (although this rule seems to have been relaxed a bit) and must dress modestly in skirts or dresses only, never pants, and at a length well beneath the knees. UPC men must be clean shaven. Men are, of course, the heads of the household, and women and children must submit to them.

The UPC church leans politically far right despite the diversity of its members. They despise the LGBTQ+ community, liberals, feminism – the usual. I grew up partially in this church before my parents took a small step back to join the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada. There are a few differences in dogma but a lot of overlap. I’m grateful to have put it all behind me.

I’d known for several months that my granny wasn’t well. I’d gone to Ottawa to stay with her for a few days to give my aunt and uncle some relief from her round-the-clock care, only leaving when her personal support workers were with her. Our conversations never entered religious territory. I gave her updates on my sons, the plans I’ve been making with my fiancé, my job. Granny knew I no longer attended church, although I doubt she was aware of the extent of my leaving. Her belief in Jesus, salvation, Heaven, and Hell never wavered.

One night while I was staying with her, she’d fallen asleep with the TV on in her room – some hate preacher was preaching; think a Greg Locke-type. I quietly went in her room to turn it off, grateful she was asleep lest she see my eyes rolling and my head shaking in disgust. It was hard to reconcile that kind of vitriol with who I knew my granny to be.

Granny deteriorated rapidly over the course of about 6 weeks. We’d talked on the phone several times, including a video chat, and it was obvious she was in pain. Still, she spoke of god and how good he’d been to her. She spoke of her upcoming reunion with my grandfather, who died almost 30 years ago. She flashed some anger briefly in acknowledging that she’d likely miss the birth of my sister’s first child; sadly, she was right about that.

When it was clear her time was at an end, my sons and I travelled to Ottawa to see her. Her place was full of family and healthcare staff. Many of her well-wishers had to be turned away. There just wasn’t enough room for everyone.

Granny was in a lot of pain. I was in her room when she cried out for help – her PSW tried to make her more comfortable; my dad pulled out his bible and began praying out loud for god to give her some relief. I left the room in frustration at that so she wouldn’t see. I felt so angry. My granny gave everything she could and more to god, this all-powerful deity, who, if he really wanted to, could supposedly take her pain away. Where was he now? My granny asked that question too. “Where is god?” “Why is he letting me linger?” followed by, “I’m ready to go. I’m ready to see my husband. I don’t understand…” Granny eventually asked my dad to stop reading bible passages to her, not because at the eleventh hour she’d had some kind of epiphany about our place in the universe. I think she just found it annoying.

On our last day in Ottawa, two days before she died, my sons and I sat with granny in her room for a few hours. She slept for most of that time, which was fine – she looked peaceful. As we said our goodbyes for the last time, I thanked my granny for the beautiful life she’d led, and with honesty, I told her that I hoped to model my own life after hers through kindness and through service to others, which of course I can do outside of the confines of religion, and in this way, serve humanity, including my LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters.

I said to her, “Granny, I’m going to miss you so much when you’re gone.” She answered, “I’m sorry, I can’t help it!” One of the strongest women I’ve ever known, always fiercely in control, accepting that her story was ending. She asked god to bless my sons and me, and we thanked her for that. We hugged her one last time and headed back home.

Granny’s funeral was on November 25. It was a cold but sunny day in Ottawa. I knew the service and funeral would be deeply religious. I gave my sons and my fiancé another warning that they might hear and see some bizarre things, and I only based that heads-up on my grandfather’s funeral years before, which had featured shouting, talking in tongues, and hellfire speak. We agreed to debrief afterwards. For now, we’d just be present. We were here for granny.

There were lots of prayers and worship songs sung. Granny’s faith and her love of Jesus punctuated each of the eulogies. The pastor seemed unprepared and largely pulled from the short message my brother had given. We all noticed the plagiarism, but the hypnotic, evangelical rhythm of his speech, which, predictably, crescendoed into excited shouting, was effective in drawing out the “Yes, Lords!” and “Praise Jesuses” from the audience.

When we were called on to bow our heads and pray, I bowed my head out of respect for my granny. But I didn’t pray. I took that time to think about the impact she had on so many. I did find parts of the service moving, especially some of the music. But I don’t attribute my feelings to anything mystical. There was nothing supernatural at play. I think a lot of nonbelievers can still be affected by religious music in a way that won’t lead us to the altar.

I am not a believer. Still, I learned two of my granny’s favourite Christian songs to play on the piano during the procession. Still, I bowed my head during prayer. And still, when granny’s church-going family said, “god bless you,” assuring me I would certainly see her again one day as if to comfort me, I accepted their words graciously. Time and place. My love for my granny outweighs my lack of belief. Each time. I think I honoured my granny while honouring myself and who I am as a nonbeliever.

I’ve been reflecting on the past few weeks, on how I reacted, and on how I’ve been mourning. Grief comes in all forms, and each one of us grieves differently. There’s no right or wrong way, and there’s certainly no definitive instruction manual. For nonbelievers in a believing world, it can be challenging to navigate. Rebecca Hensler, founder of Grief Beyond Belief, created a Bill of Rights for nonbelievers who are grieving³. The Bill outlines our right to grieve without faith, to seek support from other nonbelievers, and to reject religious-based comfort. I took a mixed approach, and I chose to save the battle of rational thinking and debate for another day.

Going forward, I will try to model my life after my granny’s, with a few humanist tweaks of course.

I love you, granny. Travel well.

-- Shannon