As an exvangelical, I’m often asked about my atheism. Apologist challenges are often loaded with expectation and even indignation… as if my explanation is owed. Then comes the barrage of questions like, “How would you even know that murder and rape are wrong if you don’t believe in God?” My interlocutor doesn’t seem to realize how “you’re a potential killer and rapist” might be considered inappropriate or offensive.
Fundamentalist Christianity has evolved a host of defense mechanisms against doubt and dissent. Hardline believers might gawk, shout, and rush back to the safety of the sanctuary (flight), or they might go on the attack (fight) by clairvoyantly telling nonbelievers how their own minds work: “You hate God.” “You think you are God.” “You just want to sin.”
The more charitable might assert that the atheist has been wounded in a way that scarred a previously receptive heart. There are other angles, yet in every case, too few approach reasonable apostates with the thought, “They’re not stupid. Have they discovered knowledge that I might have missed?”
I was born into a strict fundie family. My mother and father were theologians. My schools, music, books, T-shirts, friends, and culture were overtly Christian. The same trusted parents who taught me to tie my shoes and ride a bike also taught me to love and fear the great eye in the sky—a divine Father who promised Heaven and threatened Hell. In my trusting brain, Jesus was as real as the sun, moon, and stars, and as Christ was not charitable to doubters (James 1:6), I had little motivation to test the truths downloaded onto my mental hard drive. Beyond that, I enjoyed the rush of superiority. The world was deceived and damned, but praise God, I had been born into the #RightReligion.
Reinforcing my faith was a series of leadership roles. I was a student representative for Youth for Christ. I segued into Christian radio with 100.9FM KXOJ. I became a video producer serving churches nationwide. Media production was my ministry, conveniently allowing me to “serve” without proper exegesis. I had drifted out of regular church, rarely prayed, ignored the dusty Bible, and wore Christianity on my lapel like a cheap button. Starting in my late twenties, I began slowly wading out of baptismal waters. But why?
1997 saw the horrible death of a beloved Christian musician named Rich Mullins. I was charged to publish a memorial page on KXOJ’s website, and my co-host and I balmed listener grief with platitudes like, “He’s in a better place.” Yet I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that I was painting my own silver lining on the black cloud.
The attacks of 9/11 saw apologists vomiting godspeak in every direction. The Islamist terrorists murdered for God. Christian faith leaders like Jerry Falwell warned about judgment from God. Terrified Americans prayed for protection under God. Yet I couldn’t help but see only human action and reaction, with each individual believer molding a theological cookie cutter into a shape that served them.
My ten years as a producer placed me in various church sanctuaries of every stripe. With each new ministry or fundraising video, with each disagreeing denomination, with “God’s good work” at the end of pious preachings and hungry offering plates, the siren of doubt grew louder in my skull… until finally, at midlife, I decided to listen to it.
I stumbled upon a 2008 debate video featuring essayist and atheist Christopher Hitchens and the famous Rabbi Shmuley Boteach. I wasn’t Jewish, but I assumed the good Rabbi could properly defend the Bible. Imagine my shock when the heathen made more sense than the believer. At the end of those ninety life-changing minutes, I pledged myself to a proper forensic examination of my faith.
I began with the scriptures, starting at Genesis 1 and combing through to Revelation 22, but on this pass, I promised to not cherry-pick or rationalize. Leviticus alone was enough to rattle me from a lifelong coma. Revelation (which I previously accepted, dragons and all) read like fever-dream mythology. When I engaged “experts” to explain God’s Word, the replies pushed me further from Christianity. Apologists clashed on the basics; conveniently declared the Bible contextual, metaphorical, or even moot; and often retreated to lazy preaching like, “You have to take it on faith.”
For about eighteen months, I ravenously devoured the work of skeptics whose names I’d never previously known: Charles Templeton, Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Dan Barker. A former evolution denier, I finally read Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species and was introduced to the true science of evolutionary biology. And I started to interact personally with those I had previously been taught to fear. Those Icky Atheists weren’t rudderless and raging, but instead were almost always lovely people who simply lived and loved beyond dogmas and superstitions.
Had you told my younger, indoctrinated self that I would one day discard Christianity and be better for it, I would have laughed you out of the room. Yet here I am, sixteen years an atheist, with zero regrets. I know that I wasn’t born broken, nor do I need to be fixed. My ethical compass needs no Ten Commandments. My finite earthly moments are more precious because there’s no evidence for a second round. In short, I’m finally breathing free air.
I always guarantee that, if true evidence for a deity is uncovered, I want that information. I won’t guarantee allegiance, but I should follow the data wherever it leads. Until that day, I’m a fulfilled and happy atheist—good without a god.