Now that the festive time is behind us (at least until September, when the shops will deck their halls with crimson holly once more) I think it’s as good a time as any to write a few words to put the subject to bed for a while.

Christmas probably divides even more people along the love it or loath it line than Hillary Clinton, so I realise that one or two of you will be tutting that I’ve even mentioned the prickly subject once more.

But with all due respect for humbug, I should say that this Christmas has been different for me because I’ve spent such a lot of it in church. In fact I think it’s fair to say that for an Atheist I’ve spent more time in church this season than I did when I actually believed.

For a start there’s the choir that I belong to. It’s a suitably secular organization, which meets in a working man’s club, but the Christmas Repertoire was rather heavily weighted towards performances in churches. And included rather a lot of moments when the MC would suddenly announce that we should all pray.

In school it was all very simple. When the teacher led us through prayers we had to fold our fingers and close our eyes, as if God only listened to the prayers of the blind. But these days I don’t feel nearly as comfortable with that. It still amazes me how many people believe that somehow God is more likely to listen to you if you fold your fingers. For my part, when I hear those “let us pray” words now, I bow my head more to make sure nobody else can see that my eyes are resolutely open for the whole time rather than screwed up tightly with constipated concentration.

But my churchy outgoings don’t just end with choir. My partner attends the church a few yards down the hill just about every Sunday. It’s a big deal to her and she’s well known amongst the regulars. Some of my fellow choir members attend too, so there are plenty of familiar faces there even for me. It was hardly surprising then, that I was also asked to join the church choir in the run up to Advent.

And so I did. For the last two or three months I’ve been learning two sets of carols, attending two different meetings, and getting much more than my fair share of angels and shepherds. At some point the vicar asked me if I wouldn’t mind doing a reading at the Nine Lessons service. And then the curate suggested it might be fun if I could help dish out the Christingles. And then I thought it might be nice to see everyone again at midnight mass….

Of course, during the whole build up I was getting to know more and more people. And being made to feel welcome, even wanted. By the time the Christingle service came about, with all the dozens of primary school angels, kings and shepherds in attendance, I really did feel like one of the regulars, inviting the occasional visitors in with a cheery smile and a helpful hand. And the part of me that loves being in the spotlight came alive when I was out in front of everyone, reading the scripture as if I’d been doing it forever.

“Will you join our Readers List, David?” I was asked, shortly after. Well you can imagine, I jumped at the chance.

I told myself that it wasn’t about God. It was about the Community. With a capital C. I was putting down roots in Holmfirth and taking part in village life. Nothing more. The church just happened to be the place where the community came together. And as an atheist, if the Community wasn’t going to come to me…

During these services, there comes a point where everyone is invited up to the altar to take the Eucharist. Whether they have much faith or little. The devout and the doubters alike, all are made welcome to walk up and receive the bread and wine or simply take a blessing, and it’s the one part of the service which I have never taken part in. I’m happy to sing along with the hymns. But I don’t pray, and I most certainly don’t need a blessing from a God I don’t believe in, any more than I need a buckle from a pixie’s shoe.

But the last time, at the late Midnight service on Christmas Eve, I couldn’t help but wonder what harm it would do. The vicar was talking about Christ being the Light of the World, and explaining about how his birth meant that we could all be saved, and how he loved us, and that all we had to do was accept the gift and let it fill our hearts…

And it was so seductive.

All I had to do was just let myself accept what I was being told and everything would be good. I could swap all the doubt for a comfortable certainty. I could abandon cold reason in favour of a surety of never being alone and always being cared for by the great sky-bourne caretaker of all things…

I wanted to believe.

But it doesn’t work any more. I simply can’t turn my back on what I understand to be the truth. It’s pretty much like the point in your life when you realise there’s no such thing as Santa. No matter how much you might miss the game you’ll never convince yourself it’s real again. I’ve learned too much about the roots of religion, about the way we spread fantasies, about the inconstancies in the faith, about the sheer lunacy of the collective delusion that we all treat with such reverence, that I could never simply shrug my shoulders and let myself be taken in again.

When I made the decision to admit to myself I no longer believed in the God delusion, I was worried that it might cheapen my life. That I would in some way become diminished if I gave up the belief which had brought me so much comfort in the past.

But it never happened. Accepting and admitting that the whole principle of religion was something I no longer needed was a liberating and empowering experience. Until that moment.

“In the bleak mid winter” was playing, and the joy of Christmas was amongst us all. I wanted so much to be able to abandon reason and be loved. But I sat and waited for the next carol, and watched my feet some more.