FROM FAITH TO UNBELIEF

(*I wrote this in February of 2020 on a long flight, and I have since made minor revisions.*)    

As I sit down and begin to type this out, my first thought is of all those who may read it. At this point in my life—post-college, post-“first full-time job”, married, almost 30, having traveled extensively, having started my own business—I am struck by how many people I have been fortunate to meet over the years. I have friends and family who span the spectrum from extremely conservative evangelical Christianity, liberal modern Christianity, atheism, agnosticism, and secularism, with many other religions and traditions in between. I realize this is not possible, but I am going to attempt to share my story in a way that is accessible for everyone to read and understand. Here goes nothing. 

In the plainest terms: For the vast majority of my life I believed in “God" (specifically the “Triune God” of Christianity), and I no longer do. I don’t believe in any God or subscribe to any religious tradition at this point. To many reading this, that will come as a shock.

I grew up in a Christian home and have two truly amazing parents—both of whom are dedicated, life-long youth ministers. I was baptized at a young age by my father at the christian camp where he worked, and I professed faith in Jesus around the age of 6 or so. I played in church worship bands starting in middle school, began leading worship for congregations and groups in high school, and got my first full-time job as a worship director before I graduated college. I wrote, recorded, released, and traveled the country to perform music, most set lists being comprised of strongly Christian-themed—if not outright worship—songs.

I want to make it really clear that I truly and sincerely believed in Jesus Christ. I believed I had a relationship with him (in the same way I could have a relationship with any person). I believed I could speak with Jesus and that he was guiding my life and decisions. I believed in the doctrine of the trinity, as far as I could understand it. I believed that Heaven was a place of eternal glory where I would spend an infinite time worshiping in the presence of Jesus. I believed Hell was a place of eternal damnation and separation from God for those who did not accept his free gift of grace. I regularly had deep conversations about faith and how to serve the kingdom and submit my life to Christ. I spent most summers volunteering at  christian camps in order to share what I considered incredible and infinitely important information about Jesus with tens of thousands of teenagers over the years. I attended Bible studies. I consumed devotional material. I was by absolutely no stretch of anyone’s imagination a perfect person or Christian—but as far as any metric I know, I was a true Christian. Living in God’s grace. And that was how I was known. It was the defining trait of my character and worldview.

...So what happened? 

Before I explain this, I want to point out that there are so many different reasons for and paths people take on the road to “losing their faith” or “spiritual deconstruction.” So I am going to explain my path. I would kindly ask that you don’t associate other people’s experiences or reasons you may have heard for “leaving Christianity” with me unless I actually say it happened. Everyone should be granted a fair chance to have their own journey with religion and faith. Let’s not rob each other of the opportunity to be genuine by pointing fingers or making statements without knowing what’s really going on. 

This process started over 5 years ago while I was still on full-time staff at a church. I loved my job and all the people there (I still do). None of what I’m about to say has anything to do with “being burned by the church”—though that does really, legitimately happen to people. Fortunately for me, my home church and the vast majority of people in my religious circle were nothing short of kind and loving humans by most standards. I still love them all, and I still continue to support many functions of what they do and partner with them on creative projects. Anyway, the church I worked at was a college campus “non-denominational church” that had a vast array of theological ideas and personalities on staff, myself included. Every four years almost the entire congregation turned over due to the majority undergraduate student makeup. Two-year-long minister interns were always on rotation and bringing a healthy variety of views and ideas into the space. Needless to say, I was exposed to a lot of new and different thoughts on Christianity during this time (I consider this a very good thing in most ways). Different ideas on apologetics, different ideas of theology and what to share with the congregation, and different ideas on how to correctly live out different aspects Christianity. 

One person in particular who had new and different ideas was Amir. I met Amir while working on staff, but he did not go to our church. In fact, I met him because he was protesting our events and our worship services. Amir was an open-air (street) preacher—not quite the fire-and-brimstone kind that tend to make viral videos, but not shy to say extremely hurtful and offensive things about large groups of people (like Catholics, members of the LGBTQ+ community, “lukewarm” Christians, etc.). 

To make a long story short, I ended up messaging Amir on Facebook asking if we could meet up and talk about our disagreements. Perhaps I thought I could explain why our church wasn’t what he thought and ultimately change his mind; obviously I was naive. 

We ended up meeting, talking, trading stories, and finding out just how much we disagreed. But I was also so intrigued by Amir. He was disliked and even despised by most, including the Christians in town. He had few, if any, friends. And he spent his free time on the corners of campus with a microphone and speaker telling people of their wrong ways. One time I even went and sat with him while he street preached on campus just so I could see the depths of his conviction in action. He very kindly brought a stool for me, and I sat next to him for an hour while he read from the Bible with frequent injections of personal commentary on the evils of catholicism, modern Christianity, fornication, gay people, etc… It was uncomfortable to say the least, but extremely eye opening. 

Here’s why I even bother telling this story: Amir believed 110%, down to the core of his bones, that he was correct about God and Jesus, and that most other Christians were wrong and doomed. He spent the majority of his free time standing on street corners preaching to hundreds of people who begrudgingly passed him by. I would venture to say that the majority of people who encountered him extremely disliked him, what he stood for, and wanted nothing to do with him—especially the Christians on campus. And Amir loved that. It proved that he was on the narrow path of righteousness. He was more than willing to forego having any friends, any good status in town, and actively have most people be against him—all for the sake of the Gospel. 

I remember thinking after meeting Amir, “He has a very different version of Christianity than I do, but he believes and lives his faith to an extreme level I’ve never seen before.” And I remember thinking, “I could never do what he does.” And even though I knew he was wrong, I questioned how he could believe with so much conviction but be so wrong. I’m not sure I could have articulated it at the time, but in retrospect this was one of the first times I was considering “what if I’m mistaken on some things I know to be true and feel convicted about?”

Fortunately for me, the brand of Christianity I subscribed to would never require me to forego having any friends or community. I had it easy compared to what Amir was self-inflicting. But he was self-inflicting it... He had the choice to stop street preaching and to live a normal life and have friends and hobbies and be a member of a church where he was loved by all and to follow Jesus that way—but instead he lived by his extreme convictions.

This dissonance of “conviction of belief” versus "truth of belief” stirred in my head constantly.

So I did what I think most Christians do when something feels shaky in their spiritual life: I decided to dive in deeper devotionally to my faith. When in doubt, run to Jesus. That is always the answer. That’s where peace and answers and truth are. Right? 

And so I doubled down on my faith. I spent more time doing devotional activities on my own and with others than I ever had—all in a sincere effort to let my inward convictions and love for God flow outward to show how seriously I took my relationship with Jesus and my job as a minister.

This is when I decided I also needed to get serious about digesting deeper theological and philosophical material. Not only did I want to understand things deeper for my own relationship, but I wanted to be prepared to explain all facets of Christianity in every way possible to everyone else.

I started spending large amounts of time watching sermons and informational videos on YouTube. I re-read classic Christian staples like C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity and Tim Keller’s Prayer.

Because of how YouTube works—the more you watch of a certain genre or channel, the more similar content it will populate and suggest for you. I had been in a deep dive with a theologian named James White who seemed rock-solid with his grasp on Christian history, theology, and answers to questions. Then, one day, YouTube suggested I watch a debate between Dr. James White and biblical studies professor Bart Ehrman on the topic of the reliability of the New Testament. 

Up until this point, everything I had been learning was devotional and theological in nature. By that I mean that it was aimed at answering the big questions and the inquiries from a position that already acknowledged that Jesus is God and Christianity is true, and that truth is where you look in order to gain deeper knowledge and love for God. This of course felt normal, because this is how a Christian operates within the framework of Christianity. I was learning what the Bible said and taught about being a Christian, but not necessarily about the Bible or about Christianity from an objective viewpoint.

So, this particular debate between Dr. White and Professor Ehrman was around 3 hours in total. The first time I watched it I understood almost nothing that was being said. I had heard almost none of the content before and was mostly unaware of the concept of academic textual criticism. And of course, I cheered for James. He was defending the integrity of the Bible. And Bart Ehrman was just some jerk agnostic trying to make Christianity look bad. 

But some of the things Ehrman said throughout the exchange struck me. He claimed that the New Testament is not entirely historically reliable. I don’t think I ever held to a fundamentalist reading or understanding of the Bible, but this was well beyond that.  He explained and demonstrated how the words we have now are not the original words that the authors wrote in a lot of cases. He said we don’t even know who the authors of the Gospels are. He pointed out some interesting contradictions and errors that I had never personally noticed.

...WAIT. Hold on. That’s so dumb. We all know Jesus was real and the Gospels are a historical record of his life. Written by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Duh. We’ve all been in a Bible study and read through them and learned them. Plus, all scripture is God-breathed.

So I watched it again. This time I retained maybe 20% of it. I could at least follow their debate style better and understand their disagreements. And as I really focused, Dr. White started looking less convincing to me. He seemed to be stretching quite a bit to make his points valid. 

This made me feel nervous and a bit shaken. I tried casually bringing up these concepts with a few close people in my faith circle, but the conversation never went anywhere. I realized that most people in my life had been so committed to growing in our devotional love of Jesus and sharing it with others that we hadn’t spent much time learning about—or, if we had, simply discussing—the other parts of our religious tradition. The history. The issues. The opposing views. 

I was unaware of the vast amounts of information available that had opposing viewpoints to what Christianity teaches. I was well aware that the world was filled with sin and people who weren’t Christians, and those who hated Christianity because it made them adhere to “rules”—but I did not realize there were well-formed, thoughtful, historical, and academic-level viewpoints out there that could disarm Christianity in a rational and logical way. And I wanted to learn all of it. 

And was there ever an abundance. I started reading books. I watched debates. I started learning everything I could from anywhere I could, about all sides of Christianity. I read and watched and listened and learned from protestants, Catholics, career apologists, Muslims, Jews, secular scholars...everyone I could find.

For the first time in my life I took a serious interest in learning about science. I listened to college lectures and watched experts speak on subjects like evolution, cosmology, paleontology, and anything I could get my hands on. I had to really reframe my ideas around “standards of evidence” and critical thinking.

And I want to make this point clear: the entire time I was rooting for Christianity. I wanted to come out of this knowing how absolutely and unambiguously true and easy it is to be confident in the truth of Christianity. I wanted to watch the Christians slam-dunk on the atheists in debates. I wanted the apologetics books to make so much more logical sense than the secular, academic Bible books did.

But that is not what happened. 

Instead, I was met face first with a wall of refutations, rebuttals, and counter viewpoints to the Christianity that I was so tightly clinging to. 

And so began a years-long process of learning, praying, struggling, and deconstructing of faith.

I learned the Bible better than I had ever known it before, which subsequently led me to abandoning my view that it was inerrant or the inspired word of God. I began to see its inconsistencies, flaws, and contradictions—many of which are blatantly obvious but, until pointed out, went undetected in my reading. And as soon as you can see and admit just one flaw or small inconsistency in the Bible, it becomes easier to see and admit the next. Eventually, enough piled up to where it was no longer intellectually honest for me to consider it the workings of God. I started to see the majority of the Bible as some history, mixed with some religious propaganda, blurred by decades of oral tradition, legend development, handwritten copying, and “best we can” translation choices. 

I dove deep into the philosophical side of theology and took long and hard looks at all of the arguments for God that I could find. One by one, the Cosmological, Ontological, and Teleological started looking more like desperate grabs for “God points” rather than rock-solid proofs to believe in God. The moral argument, argument from contingency, argument from free will, argument from suffering, argument from irreducible complexity, arguments from miracles and answered prayers, arguments for the resurrection, consciousness, altruism, consensus, purpose, prophecy, Pascal’s wager… I spent hundreds of hours poring over all of these ideas from all sides, and I found that when they are used to try and prove theism—let alone Christianity—they are rather unconvincing to me. 

For a long time I didn’t know how to digest everything as fast as I was learning it. I screamed out in prayer nightly in search of God in the midst of all of this. 

I went on for months and years learning new things, struggling to hold on to my faith—but not letting go easily of any single thing I had previously held to be true. This was a slow and somewhat painful internal process of pieces of doctrine and beliefs about God fading out one by one, all the while traversing what this meant for my job as a worship pastor, my relationships with friends and family, and most importantly, how this affected my identity and how I most intimately knew myself. I wrestled with fears like “How can I stand in front of people and tell them to worship God with me?”; “What happens if my family or friends find out I don’t believe these things anymore? Will everyone abandon me?”; and “How will I pay my bills and survive? I have no other career path set up for me.”

At some point (I don’t remember the exact day or where I was), I came to the conscious realization that I just no longer believed the things I used to believe. I didn’t believe the Bible was inerrant. I didn’t believe that Jesus was raised from the dead. I didn’t believe that prayer had any supernatural effect on the world or that miracles—even ones I had previously claimed true—actually happened. And when I finally admitted this to myself, I felt a sense of relief. It was a feeling akin to the moment when the last raindrop falls after a long, heavy storm. When it’s still grey outside. There’s still some wind. But it’s also suddenly quieter. Everything around looks weathered and tired from enduring what just happened. But it’s also the exact moment of relief. The moment you realize you can take a deep breath and then begin cleaning up the trail of debris left behind. 

This whole process started happening while I was still getting onto a stage in front of hundreds of people on a weekly basis and trying to lead them into a place of worship and communion with God. While I was still spending summers at camps singing original songs and sharing a personal testimony of faith with teenagers. This is how literally thousands of people knew me, looked to me, talked about me, and interacted with me. 

No words or sentences could even begin to explain how I felt. The disconnect from the world around me. The internal isolation. The incredible fear of what would happen if people found out. 

And there was really only a small handful of people who I had felt safe enough to share these things with at that point. They weren’t my my best friends who I lived with, or my parents who were so proud of the man I had become, or the staff at my church. I had tried (albeit in probably cryptic and indirect ways) to bring up these topics with some people around me to see if I could get some insight, but never felt like the conversation went anywhere. I know that there are plenty of people who have a serious question, march right into their pastor’s office and demand to talk about it… but that’s not how I work. That wasn’t the position that I felt I was in. Throughout this process I experienced an extremely intense weight of all the new things I was learning. It felt like I had been given a live grenade with the pin pulled. I truly felt that if I were to share what I was learning and experiencing with the people closest to me, I would be handing them the grenade and saying, “Good luck with this!” So I didn’t. Partially out of fear for myself, and partially out of the sincere idea that I would be bringing others down with me. 

I found a way to peacefully leave my job at the church without burning bridges or causing problems for anyone involved. I found a way to casually stop posting religious things online or performing music in a way that needed to be in tandem with Christian themes. And I found a way to start a new creative career that didn’t require me to adhere to any certain belief set. 

Oddly enough, what made it so easy to transition away quietly was that nobody asked me about it. Nobody asked me directly about my relationship with God during this time, or what I thought his plan or purpose was for my career change. Nobody asked why I stopped going to church right after I stopped working at one. Most people just made assumptions. And I get it—nothing about my outward personality or how I treated people had really changed. I wasn’t suddenly “sad and lost” or “angry and vocal.” In fact, I felt—and probably acted—rejuvenated and a bit more lively. 

In the first year after I left the church and started freelancing with success, people on numerous occasions would say to me, “Wow, this is so cool that you’re following God's plan for you”, or “Your obedience to God’s calling is so evident. The success speaks to his love for you.” I distinctly remember each and every one of those interactions. It was never phrased as a question—always a statement. And I recall thinking, “I guess if I just nod or say nothing then I can continue my relationship with this person and not mess anything up.”

It wasn’t until almost 10 months after I left the church that I told my closest friend what had happened. It was a completely unplanned conversation and I felt a sharp sense of nervousness right at the tip of my tongue. 

But one of the best things that could have happened, happened. My friend listened closely to my story and responded, “I honestly had wondered if maybe something like this was the case. And it’s okay. You are still my best friend and I don’t think any differently of you.” 

*** I’d like to just stop and quickly point something important out: You only get one chance to have a “first response” to someone telling you something they’re terrified to share. Whether it’s a “coming-out” story, something they feel guilty about, or something they are just scared to vocalize. You only get one chance to respond, “Thank you for sharing that with me. I am so glad you trust me. I still care about you exactly the same way. No strings attached.” That simple sentiment can literally mean the difference between a lifetime of deep trust and friendship, or a lifetime of backpedaling. ***

Fortunately, I had a really good friend (who is still one of my best friends, and someone I will never have a backpedaling issue with).

Shortly after that, I decided to test the waters and talk to somebody at the church I had worked at. I met my friend Jeff for a beer, and with no prior knowledge of why I had asked to hang out, I told him my story too. Again, I was met with compassion and understanding. He didn’t try to evangelize me back to the church. He didn’t even remotely try to debate me. He listened, he heard, he understood and nodded (even expressed agreement on many points), and he cared for me by simply being a good friend. We finished our beers and I felt another weight lift off of me. (Jeff, if you ever read this—know that I will remember that encounter for my whole life and forever be thankful for your friendship and character.) 

I eventually had conversations with my parents (at different times). Those were harder talks, with no shortage of dry-throat, nervous moments. But thankfully, like I said before, I have amazing parents and our relationships are stronger than ever. I shared with my brothers, which was also difficult—mostly because we live so far apart—but they, too, received me with kindness and are wonderful and loving humans in their own ways. 

As of now, I have shared all of this with a handful of other people. My general rule of thumb has been “if they ask any questions about faith, tell them.” But otherwise I just won’t bring it up. And for the vast majority of people in my life, it never comes up. It has actually made me wonder if Christians realize how little they check in on each other, or ask sincere questions about faith to each other rather than making comments about faith to each other.

I am now many years out from this process starting (and completing). And if anybody is wondering—I am fine! Honestly I am better than fine. I can sincerely say I’ve never been a happier, more confident and mentally healthy person than I am today. I feel like in the last few years I’ve gained a new perspective on life, purpose, and loving my fellow human. I have been able to be a better friend and advocate for my friends in the LGBTQIA+ community. I’ve been able to learn more about people who look different than I do and those that think differently than I do. All without any religious structure to pre-shape how I view or hear those who are different from me. 

(This paragraph was added in March of 2021)

If I had to sum up in-short where I stand as of today: I am an agnostic atheist. Simply put, I don’t believe I have any knowledge of a god (agnosticism) and I therefore do not believe in one (atheist). That is not to say I am an anti-theist (I believe there is no god(s)), but I do have thoughts on specific “God claims” that people make that I think are refutable. I believe everybody bases their life on some set of axioms or presuppositions, and for me those would simply be Descartes’ “I think therefor I am” and the laws of logic (identity, non-contradiction, excluded middle). From there I think I can have a worldview that accounts for most important things (including epistemology, morality, science, etc.). 

All this being said, I still find myself struggling with the rest of the world not knowing something about me that was such a vital part of who I was and the reason why I know so many of the people I do. I’m also starting to feel a small bit of unfairness/injustice. Why can everyone else be vocal and open about their beliefs with posts about bible verses and sermons and personal revelations, but I feel like it’s something I must keep hidden for fear of consequence? How many other people are living in a situation similar to what I went through and also have no one to talk to and nowhere to seek help or resources through it? (Spoiler: that number is high; I have learned that I am hardly the exception to the rule in the case of spiritual deconstruction.) Why can’t Christians and “non-Christians” exchange thoughts and ideas more openly in a kind and respectful way? Why is there seemingly so little depth and discourse about all of this information within the church and religious institutions?

I am realizing that I don’t want to spend the next 30 years of my life feeling like people can know me—but only to a certain point. I want to be okay with people knowing who I am and the things I do and don’t believe in. I want to be able to have conversations about theology and philosophy (I love nothing more than having deep, thought-provoking conversations about all views in the world). 

Most of all, I just want people to know that it is okay to have beliefs, it is okay to have beliefs change, and it is okay to lose certain beliefs altogether. It is absolutely okay. And it is okay (actually, great) to continue being friends with, working with, playing music with, singing with, celebrating with, and engaging with people who have different beliefs than you.

I write all of this knowing full well that I will not be met with kindness and understanding by everyone. I understand that some people will add their own lens onto my story and come up with different reasons and conclusions as to why I am no longer a Christian/theist.  

I only ask that instead of just talking about me, you would talk to me. I am more than happy and willing to answer questions, hear your concerns, and give you more details. If the word “atheist” scares you, talk to me about that. If you want to hear about or question me on the things I learned, talk to me about it. If you feel the conviction to re-convert me—talk to me about it! 

And especially, if you have or are currently experiencing any sort of doubts or questions and don’t know who to talk to, please reach out to me. I know that many people possess the will power to go ask direct questions to pastors/mentors/parents, and that is great. But I also know that at least some do not. Some people have no idea how to phrase a question or doubt, let alone the confidence to voice it. I am more than happy to be a safe ear to hear your thoughts and to share any relevant resources I have. I am also happy to explain more of what I learned that changed my mind. My main goal is simply to help people learn more about what they believe and think critically about why they believe—not to get people to leave their faith or adopt any specific conclusion. 

I am trying to do my part to create the world I want to live in—and that world involves all of us being open and respectful with our beliefs and who we are without fear. A world where people can freely chose to believe in God, and people can come to the conclusion that they don’t believe in god. And a world where people on both of those paths are met with sincere kindness and respect. 

And one last time — I would sincerely love to talk to you (yes you—family member, and you—distant associated person who I maybe have never met, and you—childhood friend I haven’t spoken with in 15 years) if you have any desire to do so. Please call me, email me below, DM me, etc… 

So there you go. That’s the story of how I stopped believing in God, and why I think it’s okay—even good—for you to know. Thank you for reading that whole mess of run-on sentences.