‘When I read about the Inquisition, I became an enemy of the church.’

A group of people who don’t believe in God but don’t feel like bearing the weight of their godless world alone converged on a Granada Hills neighborhood one evening recently for an atheist soiree.

Most were members of Atheists United, a national organization for people who have discarded their belief in God or found out that they never had it in the first place.

The organization has an office in Sherman Oaks and holds public gatherings at Burton Chase Park in Marina del Rey.

This spring some of the Valley members formed an offshoot group primarily for social intercourse. They gather once a month in the large, Tudor tract home of psychologist Newton Joseph to talk among friends and share their perceptions on belonging to an oppressed intellectual minority.

Twenty-four guests showed up for this session. As they arrived, Joseph directed them to a large upstairs studio where they formed a circle on an assortment of couches, chairs and pillows.

Among them were a real estate agent, a college professor, a former priest, a college student and several young and middle-aged people whose professions were not announced.

Because the group is new, each person gave a quick autobiographical sketch.

These led to the impression that atheists have something in common with homosexuals. They all could pinpoint fairly precisely when they knew they were “different,” and many then spent a considerable time in the atheist “closet,” inhibited by religious pressure from making the news public.

“I went to Hebrew school and never finished,” Joseph said, speaking first. “At 11 or 12 I could not relate to the Biblical tales. I was a mixed-up and frightened kid. When I went into the service, I was fearful of saying I didn’t believe. I went along with the religious ceremonies even though I knew I didn’t believe.”

Many said their disbelief came from books and learning.

“I was raised Lutheran,” one well-dressed woman said. “But, when I was 14, I read Bertrand Russell, and that was that.”

“I like to read history and archeology and philosophy, so here I am,” a man said.

“I hate injustice,” another said. “When I read about the Inquisition, I became an enemy of the church.”

Others were shaped by experience.

“I’ve been an atheist since I was 12,” a young woman in a decorator T-shirt said “My mother used to threaten me with God. I thought, ‘Why do you need a God like that?’ ”

One middle-aged woman confessed that she still likes Jewish traditions, even though she doesn’t believe in God.

“I like Jewish weddings and bar mitzvahs,” she said. “I’m an atheist. Yet I like lox and cream cheese.”

Several people confessed that they are still halfway in the closet. They asked that their names not be published for fear of harassment at work.

Even the college professor, who has written a book called “Lucifer’s Handbook: a Critique of Popular Religion,” insisted on the use of his pen name, Lee Carter, “so I won’t get fired.”

The group has a president, Charles Brueckner. But its spiritual leader is obviously La Canada real estate agent Spencer Blackwelder. He wore a lapel button with the word “GOD” crossed out and spoke in a piercing tenor voice.

Blackwelder has helped to establish several atheist discussion groups. He said they are needed to “give atheists a place to go to talk to other people like themselves, to be able to come out of the closet and not have to hold their heads down because of who they are.”

Blackwelder can get a touch evangelical about atheism. He contends that there are masses of former believers who have become atheists on the sly.

“The problem is they haven’t been willing yet to make that statement because they’re so indoctrinated with the fear of God that to openly say, ‘I don’t believe in God,’ turns their stomach upside down,” he said. “Those are the people we’re trying to reach. We want them to realize they don’t have a belief and what they really are is an atheist.”

One of the members suggested that the organization needed to grow faster. He suggested that it might do better by offering its public something tangible, like an Atheist Manifesto.

“I’m sorry,” Blackwelder responded sharply. “You’re talking religion. Atheists have no creed. They have no particular philosophy. Any philosophy that does not have any theism in it is atheist.”

Carter, the college professor, spoke up then. “There is a Humanist Manifesto,” he said. “But atheism has a chance to be stronger than humanism because of our simplicity of purpose--the separation of church and state and the promotion of unbelief. The humanists have a whole list of things.”

“I think what atheists need is a voice,” the former priest, Pat McGuire, said. “Religion has a voice--The Los Angeles Times, people like Ronald Reagan. Atheism has no voice.”

No one in the room had any compelling ideas on how atheism could get that voice. Even without it, though, they showed considerable self-satisfaction about the authority of their inner voices.

“Atheists should be really proud of themselves because they think for themselves,” one man said. “They are the elite.”

Everyone nodded.

After two hours the group moved up and went downstairs for cookies and coffee and unstructured chat on subjects such as Bertrand Russell, the religious right wing and the Humanist Manifesto.