So, there I was, suddenly awake. Regularly attending church. Going to small groups. Volunteering on Sundays. Surrounded by christians. In the middle of the Bible Belt.
Great.
Now what?
Now what?
I simply no longer belonged here. I was no longer a christian. I was a freethinker. An agnostic. An... Atheist.
It was weird to think that was the right word for me. It always seemed to carry such a negative connotation. But it was accurate in the literal sense. I didn't believe in a god. I was no longer a theist. It was that simple. But could I explain it to others? Would they understand me? Would they even listen? Or would they simply reject me?
I began to think back on multiple conversations I had with my wife, Meredith, in our early years. I remembered when she would confess that one of the main reasons she was even interested in dating me was because she learned that I was a christian. I remembered several conversations about how important that was to her, and about how, even though we didn't have much in common, we'd still be able to work things out because we had God.
I realized that I had just thrown our common ground out the window. I became terrified that she would pack her bags and leave me the moment she found out. I wouldn't blame her, either. After all that I had dragged her and the kids through, only to abandon the one thing that had brought us together.
So instead, I faked it. I continued to volunteer and go to small groups. I feigned interest in going to church and worshiping and taking sermon notes and making new friends, but very carefully, I tried to distance myself from everyone so they couldn't catch me in my lie. I began to grow distant at home, too, hiding the fact that I was secretly searching for the truth. Some days, I pretended to be diligently studying the bible, while in reality, I was searching it for discrepancies. Others days, I privately researched evidence for evolution.
I pretended to remain a believer for months. Even going so far as to endure the Ark Encounters theme park in Kentucky.
Meredith, Ethan and Asher stand before the massive vessel. Although the camera didn't do its size justice, I couldn't help but feel it should have been bigger.
I lived a constant duality. Taking in and processing everything as if it was true just to keep up a facade, yet disbelieving all of it at the same time. It was torture for my brain. There were dinosaurs on a wooden boat. Did any of this even make sense? What did I believe about dinosaurs, again? What was real? Is anything true anymore? Is this just fantasy? Was all of this just some awful nightmare?!
I had to sort out these thoughts. I needed to talk to someone.
Ethan screams outwardly, while I scream inwardly.
Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I called up a friend and—after much effort—finally confided in him about my lack of belief and why. I was afraid of rejection, but was actually pleasantly surprised to learn that he also had doubts to express about religion. I finally had an outlet, so I began calling this friend regularly before bed while hiding out in the car, out of earshot of my wife so she couldn't catch wind of our conversations.
During the day, however, I remained a closet atheist. I went to church with my family like usual, but I began to search for subtle ways to escape church life. I began declining invites to volunteer while offering little more than "I need a break" as an explanation, but I'd still hang out with the team so I wouldn't arouse suspicions. Meredith noticed how distant I was becoming, though, and begged me to let her know what was wrong. I assured her I would tell her what was really going on with me eventually, but I was still worried she would leave me... so I continued putting it off for as long as possible.
She's smart, though, and eventually figured it out on her own. One day, she just asked me if I no longer believed. I was so overwhelmingly relieved that she had finally figured it out, I had to hold back a smile. A weight had been lifted off my chest. I could finally drop the act. She never did threaten to leave me, so it turned out that my fear was completely unfounded. As for her initial response? I'll go more into that next week.
Now that the cat was out of the bag, it became a little easier to tell people. After all, I no longer had to worry about what would happen if word got back to Meredith somehow. She already knew.
So, when the lighting director from church inevitably asked me if I could cover for him one Sunday, I confessed my lack of faith to him, too. After that, I eventually stopped getting invites to volunteer, but word spread and people still tried to get me to join their small groups for awhile. Eventually, those invites also faded.
At Meredith's request, I didn't stop going to church right away. I went for maybe another month or so just to keep up appearances, but the whole time I felt like I was playing a constant game of hide and seek, except I was the only one trying to hide while everyone else tried to search me out so they could talk to me. At the time, I didn't really want to talk to them. I worried that if I really told them what was going on in my mind, I may make unbelievers of them as well. At the time, I still cared about their hope.
However, on the occasion that they did find me, I was surprised to find that no one really asked why I stopped believing. They didn't seem to care about that at all. They glossed right over that fact as if they didn't want to hear it from me, and went straight to answering questions I didn't even have, like "did God create evil?"
I realized then that they had each already jumped to their own conclusions about my reasoning. They had already misjudged me. In their minds I was just depressed, or angry with God, or failed by the church, or mislead, irrational, maybe even stupid. It was just as well, though. There was no longer anything any of them could say that could convince me God was real. Only God could do that now—if he exists—and he has still done nothing.
Going to church was now just a big waste of my time. Driving half-an-hour out of my way. Socializing with people I could no longer relate to. Singing boring songs I didn't even like, with worthless lyrics that meant nothing to me. Listening to a simplistic sermon about stuff I already knew, but no longer believed in. And then driving half-an-hour back home—if we didn't first get stopped to socialize more, or get invited to an after-church event.
Eventually, I decided I had had enough. I made a stand; I wasn't going to put myself through church anymore.
It was painful. Likely more so for Meredith. She told me about how the kids would ask where I was when she picked them up from kid's church—alone. It hurt. I hate hurting my family, but I couldn't keep faking it forever. Eventually, the kids would have to get used to the idea that their dad wasn't going to church anymore. It was better that it happened while they were young, before they could remember what it was like to go together as a family. It wouldn't hurt as much in the long run. It would eventually become normal.
I've since stopped going to church altogether, and the kids have stopped asking about me. I now have an extra two hours on Sunday to catch up on chores and relax a little. I know this may seem heartless of me, but it's actually quite nice. Besides, if anyone thinks it wrong of me, let me ask you, would you think it better that I just keep lying to my family?
It was weird to think that was the right word for me. It always seemed to carry such a negative connotation. But it was accurate in the literal sense. I didn't believe in a god. I was no longer a theist. It was that simple. But could I explain it to others? Would they understand me? Would they even listen? Or would they simply reject me?
I began to think back on multiple conversations I had with my wife, Meredith, in our early years. I remembered when she would confess that one of the main reasons she was even interested in dating me was because she learned that I was a christian. I remembered several conversations about how important that was to her, and about how, even though we didn't have much in common, we'd still be able to work things out because we had God.
I realized that I had just thrown our common ground out the window. I became terrified that she would pack her bags and leave me the moment she found out. I wouldn't blame her, either. After all that I had dragged her and the kids through, only to abandon the one thing that had brought us together.
No. I couldn't tell her.
So instead, I faked it. I continued to volunteer and go to small groups. I feigned interest in going to church and worshiping and taking sermon notes and making new friends, but very carefully, I tried to distance myself from everyone so they couldn't catch me in my lie. I began to grow distant at home, too, hiding the fact that I was secretly searching for the truth. Some days, I pretended to be diligently studying the bible, while in reality, I was searching it for discrepancies. Others days, I privately researched evidence for evolution.
I pretended to remain a believer for months. Even going so far as to endure the Ark Encounters theme park in Kentucky.
Meredith, Ethan and Asher stand before the massive vessel. Although the camera didn't do its size justice, I couldn't help but feel it should have been bigger.
I lived a constant duality. Taking in and processing everything as if it was true just to keep up a facade, yet disbelieving all of it at the same time. It was torture for my brain. There were dinosaurs on a wooden boat. Did any of this even make sense? What did I believe about dinosaurs, again? What was real? Is anything true anymore? Is this just fantasy? Was all of this just some awful nightmare?!
I had to sort out these thoughts. I needed to talk to someone.
Ethan screams outwardly, while I scream inwardly.
Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I called up a friend and—after much effort—finally confided in him about my lack of belief and why. I was afraid of rejection, but was actually pleasantly surprised to learn that he also had doubts to express about religion. I finally had an outlet, so I began calling this friend regularly before bed while hiding out in the car, out of earshot of my wife so she couldn't catch wind of our conversations.
During the day, however, I remained a closet atheist. I went to church with my family like usual, but I began to search for subtle ways to escape church life. I began declining invites to volunteer while offering little more than "I need a break" as an explanation, but I'd still hang out with the team so I wouldn't arouse suspicions. Meredith noticed how distant I was becoming, though, and begged me to let her know what was wrong. I assured her I would tell her what was really going on with me eventually, but I was still worried she would leave me... so I continued putting it off for as long as possible.
She's smart, though, and eventually figured it out on her own. One day, she just asked me if I no longer believed. I was so overwhelmingly relieved that she had finally figured it out, I had to hold back a smile. A weight had been lifted off my chest. I could finally drop the act. She never did threaten to leave me, so it turned out that my fear was completely unfounded. As for her initial response? I'll go more into that next week.
Now that the cat was out of the bag, it became a little easier to tell people. After all, I no longer had to worry about what would happen if word got back to Meredith somehow. She already knew.
So, when the lighting director from church inevitably asked me if I could cover for him one Sunday, I confessed my lack of faith to him, too. After that, I eventually stopped getting invites to volunteer, but word spread and people still tried to get me to join their small groups for awhile. Eventually, those invites also faded.
At Meredith's request, I didn't stop going to church right away. I went for maybe another month or so just to keep up appearances, but the whole time I felt like I was playing a constant game of hide and seek, except I was the only one trying to hide while everyone else tried to search me out so they could talk to me. At the time, I didn't really want to talk to them. I worried that if I really told them what was going on in my mind, I may make unbelievers of them as well. At the time, I still cared about their hope.
However, on the occasion that they did find me, I was surprised to find that no one really asked why I stopped believing. They didn't seem to care about that at all. They glossed right over that fact as if they didn't want to hear it from me, and went straight to answering questions I didn't even have, like "did God create evil?"
Who cares? I don't even believe in evil.
I realized then that they had each already jumped to their own conclusions about my reasoning. They had already misjudged me. In their minds I was just depressed, or angry with God, or failed by the church, or mislead, irrational, maybe even stupid. It was just as well, though. There was no longer anything any of them could say that could convince me God was real. Only God could do that now—if he exists—and he has still done nothing.
Going to church was now just a big waste of my time. Driving half-an-hour out of my way. Socializing with people I could no longer relate to. Singing boring songs I didn't even like, with worthless lyrics that meant nothing to me. Listening to a simplistic sermon about stuff I already knew, but no longer believed in. And then driving half-an-hour back home—if we didn't first get stopped to socialize more, or get invited to an after-church event.
Eventually, I decided I had had enough. I made a stand; I wasn't going to put myself through church anymore.
It was painful. Likely more so for Meredith. She told me about how the kids would ask where I was when she picked them up from kid's church—alone. It hurt. I hate hurting my family, but I couldn't keep faking it forever. Eventually, the kids would have to get used to the idea that their dad wasn't going to church anymore. It was better that it happened while they were young, before they could remember what it was like to go together as a family. It wouldn't hurt as much in the long run. It would eventually become normal.
I've since stopped going to church altogether, and the kids have stopped asking about me. I now have an extra two hours on Sunday to catch up on chores and relax a little. I know this may seem heartless of me, but it's actually quite nice. Besides, if anyone thinks it wrong of me, let me ask you, would you think it better that I just keep lying to my family?
Great article! I can relate to so much of it, but the thing that jumped out most was the part about people jumping to their own conclusions as to why you no longer believe! I have experienced the same and it still frustrates me. "You're just mad at god" is the most common, followed by "You've been hurt by the church", which inevitably gives birth to "But that's not god who did that; you need to put your faith in him, not in people. People will always let you down." And my favorite... "God still believes in you." (Insert facepalm here!)
ReplyDeleteAgreed, "You're mad at God," is one of the most common. That was why I placed it as the title of my first blog post. I knew I had to clear that one up first.
DeleteThe one about the church letting you down is almost kind of ironic. Of course they'll jump to the conclusion that it was the church's fault. It couldn't have been God who failed. However, if you do say that it was specifically God who let you down, and that he hasn't done anything when you needed him to, then their response is often something akin to, "Well, God works through people. I know he cares, because I care for you." So, yeah, even if it was the church that failed me, it was still God who failed me, since he supposedly works through the church.