Sun 16 Nov 2008
Something special happens when a deeply religious person loses their faith. Religion is unique among beliefs. It creeps below everything else, and situates itself as a ground truth – a universal foundation. Changing your mind about religion is not like changing your mind about your favorite color. Religion really isn’t a “belief.” It is more than “God exists” and “Jesus is Lord.” It is something else.
It is the basis of community – not all community, and not of necessity. But it has become the basis of a community. It is the common thread that binds a disparate people together. People, who would otherwise never meet, never get along, and perhaps even hate each other, are nevertheless coaxed lovingly together by the wide and powerful arms of a shared ideology, and a common enemy.
It is the explanation of moral action – not all moral action, and not of necessity. But it has become the explanation of morality, suitably convenient for explaining such things to children. Why not steal? Because of an implicit social contract with our fellow human beings? No, because God is against it. More than an explanation, it is a motivation. Why not kill? Because society will punish us? No, they are fallible. But God can get you no matter where you go.
It is the lens which colors perception and thought. Scientific discovery must pass the test – it must fit within God’s acceptable boundaries. Faith is most important, and therefore reason is its slave.
This uniquely powerful position gives rise to a uniquely moving experience when such a belief is lost. It’s like pulling the rug out from under a life. Nothing is certain. Everything is equally questionable. It is so important to be confident about some things and not others. We must be able to distinguish reliable from unreliable, to know what to trust and what to doubt. But when the foundation – that which is MOST certain – is taken away, this is impossible.
I have experienced and witnessed this process. And, what was at first completely mysterious, is now becoming clear. Patterns are emerging. I want to describe, to the best of my ability, the process of losing faith. But there are some caveats.
First, I will only talk about people who started with a deep personal religious conviction. Many parents who have this conviction have children who don’t, even though they go to church as much as anyone else. You can believe the stories without having a passion for them. I want to talk about people who really loved Jesus, who talked to him every day, who asked him for help and thanked him when he gave it. I want to talk about people who cried at revival meetings, and lifted their hands in the air when they sang. I want to talk about people who made it personal.
Second, I will only talk about people for whom the community, family and morality of the religion were very important to them. I have known people for whom this wasn’t true. They tend to leave the religion in spectacular fashion. Once they doubt its truth, they have no compunction against sharing their opinions, regardless of who it offends. For them the abandonment of faith is less traumatic. Religion really is a belief for them. It is not community, nor a lens for rational thought. So I will not speak to their process.
Third, there are, of course, exceptions to what I’m going to say. The particulars of life are too rich for me to capture everything. And I admittedly write from my own limited experience. But these events have been consistent for many people, and must therefore be worth something. I will tell you what would happen if you lost your faith, and you can know that what I describe is how many of us lost ours.
When you lose your faith, there is always a singular, profound “ah-ha” moment. This is the moment you first think the words “I don’t believe in God.” Later, you can recall this moment in absolute vivid detail. Mine was while I was driving home from teaching youth group, turning left from Boyson Rd. onto the interstate. A friend had hers while looking herself in the mirror one morning. It’s like remembering where you were when JFK was shot, or the Challenger exploded, or the Twin Towers collapsed. It is a moment of trauma, and it gets etched into your memory.
The remarkable thing is that this moment is not a decision, it is a discovery. It’s the moment you realize you don’t believe in God. It comes long after you’ve actually stopped believing. It happens in an honest moment of questioning – not of beliefs but of yourself. It’s the first moment you ask “what do I really believe?” A question you’ve been dreading for a while. You step back and survey yourself. And this introspection brings a moment of clarity. You have abandoned your religion, and now you know it.
The immediate reaction is relief – relief from the tension of self deception. You’ve been fighting to hold on to your religion for a long time, and you’ve been afraid to ask these questions. There is always an urge to cling to the categories we know. There’s something safe about staying a “Christian.” And you’re terrified of the word “Atheist.” Atheists are the villains. They are the “other.” They are the hated. How could you become one of those?
A lot of times it’s hard to distinguish between community or morality and religion. You think “I can’t stop being a Christian, I love my friends too much.” You’re scared of how your family will react. And you wonder how you could still be a good person. These fears combine with the others to stop you from asking the “what do I believe?” question. You suppress your thoughts, and you stay “Christian” through sheer force of will. But this can’t go on forever. Eventually you’ll be honest with yourself. And that’s when the moment comes. That’s why there is immediate relief. The internal conflict ended. One side won.
But, right after the relief, you realize that the WRONG side won, and then comes absolute terror. What does this mean? Who am I now? Am I still a Republican? What do I believe about evolution? Do I still support the death penalty? What about drinking, drugs, premarital sex? What do I believe about abortion? What about gay marriage? What about spanking children? Do I still love my wife? What the hell should I do now?
The rug is pulled out from under your life, and there is absolutely no guarantee that its going to be okay. After all, God isn’t there. He doesn’t have a plan for you. He isn’t working all things for good. Nothing is for sure.
So when did you decide not to believe in God? Never. You don’t abandon your belief. It is taken from you. Not all at once, but in 100 little bits, barely noticeable, spread out over time. And it all started with the loss of complacency.
The perfect Christian is happy with his situation. He likes going to church. He loves the community, and they love him. He’s unhindered by their moral stipulations. He’s surrounded by all the good of religion. Your first step is the loss of this happiness. It is when your love for your religion no longer overcomes your own curiosity.
Church can become boring. The people might judge you, or even just annoy you. You might start sleeping in on Sundays and simply grow distant from the community. You might discover that drinking won’t ruin your life, and that its fun to do. Then you might start to disagree with what’s said in the pulpit. There are a lot of ways that your relationship with the church can grow stale. All it takes is one.
You don’t want to leave the faith - you love it. But that love isn’t tangible. You need the community and the beliefs because they’re all you know. But your mind can wander. You might question your church’s stance on homosexuality. Or maybe you learn about Christianity’s history of racism or sexism, or how it’s responsible for the torture and murder of hundreds of thousands of “witches” (in which the church no longer believes). Maybe you start to see the hypocrisy of the Christians around you, or begin to wonder what a “soul” really is. Maybe you ask yourself “Why would God ever change his mind because of my prayer? He’s all-knowing and has pre-determined the whole history of time. Why does my pastor tell me to pray?” There are a million little nasty thoughts that can creep in. And that’s how it starts.
It’s innocent enough. But the conclusions get scary. “The church is wrong about this.” And a little bit of your faith is taken away. Not because you decided it, but because you realized it. You try to cover it up. You try to come up with excuses and explanations. You rework your doctrine until it hangs together again. You ignore the problem as best you can. But the process has started. You are a kid with his finger in a dam.
And then it repeats. Your faith is taken bit by bit. You believe less and less. Of course, you never stop to survey the damage. You’re still a Christian damn it! It’s all you’ve ever known. But you’re heading inexorably towards that moment of clarity, when you realize that every bit of your religion has been stripped away. It’s amazing how slowly this process can go. I fought for at least a year. I know others who went longer. Maybe there are people who can stop it completely – who can hold back the waters forever. I think those people deserve their religion.
The only question left is “What happens afterwards?” The “ah-ha” moment represents an internal change. You know explicitly that you don’t believe in God. You were faking a belief before that point, but you didn’t know you were faking. Do you go on faking after? Most people decide that yes, they will. They’ll keep their decision secret, and just play along. They’ll go to church, say grace before meals, and sing in the choir. It’s not that much of a bother. And they’ll still have what’s important – family and friends.
In my experience, it takes about 1 year for the internal change to completely diffuse to the outside. After a while church is just too much of a hassle. You start to see how crazy all your religious friends really are. The things they say about homosexuals, women and Democrats make you cringe. You want to laugh every time they remind you that Jesus is coming soon. Prayer is just an annoying pause before you can eat. You can’t go on like this.
You never have to say that you’ve stopped believing. After long enough, everybody just starts to realize. And then the transformation is complete. You are a new person. About the same time you get comfortable with your new beliefs. It’s okay that God’s not there to take care of you. It’s okay that you’re not part of a cosmic plan. You can be in charge of your own life. There is still meaning in the world, no matter what your Pastor used to tell you. And then, after three or four more years, you gain enough perspective to write an essay like this. You realize how liberating this transformation is, and you want to help others do the same. You finally understand religion as a shackle and you want to help set people free. And then, hopefully, the cycle repeats itself all over again.





