Tag Archives: Christianity

Anti-gay Christians: leave Orlando alone

I am heartbroken over the 49 lives lost in the worst mass-shooting hate crime in our country’s history.  I am sickened by the dismissive words of the murderer’s father.  I am sickened by the people who are more concerned about being allowed to own an assault rifle than the lives ended by one.  And I’m beyond sick of the people who refuse to acknowledge anti-LGBT hatred as the motive. But another thing has stood out for me that blinds me with rage, and that is Christians who want to use this tragedy to score points for their team.  I’m talking about the anti-gay Christians who want to criticize Islam for a crime they also bear responsibility for.  If you are one of those Christians, this post is directed at you.

I am not here to let homophobic Islamic theology off the hook.  By all means, lets call out, condemn, shout about, and destroy violent homophobia in Islamic ideology.  Lets amplify the voices of LGBT Muslims and ex-Muslims who wish to educate us about the harm of homophobia in Islam and the ways to make it better.  But you anti-gay, love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin Christians who want to saunter in and pretend that this somehow makes you different or better than Muslims… you are disgusting.  You are vile.  You have the morality of worm and the empathy of maggots. In no way do I want to detract from the horror of the 50 people killed in yesterday’s bloodbath. But if you want Islam to take credit for that, then you had better take credit for the roughly 1500 LGBTQ children and young adults that die every fucking year due to Christian-supported homophobia in America. Suicide is the leading cause of death among LGBT youth. In case you missed it, here it is again: suicide is the leading cause of death among LGBT youth! And you, anti-gay Christians, are directly responsible for that, as evidenced by the fact that children in non-accepting households are more than 8 times more likely to kill themselves.

FUCK you and your self-righteous, disgusting charade that Christians are love while Muslims are violence. FUCK you and your prayers to a god that you use as a weapon against their own children. FUCK you and your self-serving use of bodies of dead LGBT men and women to further their crusade of bigotry, racism, and Islamophobia. Muslims are not my enemy. YOU are.

While I hear wide-spread, nearly-unanimous condemnation of this attack from American Muslims, I hear no such thing from the majority of the American Christian establishment regarding your crimes. Instead, I see widespread hatred, trampling of our rights, disregard for our lives, dehumanization, and the blood of a thousand of our little brothers and sisters each year on their hands. And so, while I usually prefer to use my blog as a platform for calm and rational discourse, today is not a day I can do that.  You want to wrap you bloody hands, your murders, your torture, your abuse in pleasant words about how much you love the people you are killing, but I refuse to be dishonest like you.  Today I proclaim that I hate your Christianity. Let it go to its hell where it belongs.

Keep your bloody hands off of the bodies of our dead.  You don’t deserve to touch them.

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Definition: Jesus-bombing

Jesus-bombing [verb] (also: Christianing at): The act of inserting statements of Christian faith or religious opinions into an unrelated conversation, usually for the purpose of appearing righteous, derailing the conversation, or proselytizing.  Note: this does not pertain to offering statements of faith or religious opinions in a relevant conversation regarding those beliefs or opinions.

Useage:  “She tried wanted to discuss sports, but she was Jesus-bombed instead.”
“My mother is Christianing at me.”

Example:  A mother and her atheist son are having a conversation by letters, attempting to reconcile some serious differences between them.  The son feels he has been wronged and presents his complaints to the mother and asks for an apology.  The mother replies:

“I admit I haven’t been perfect and I messed up.  I confess that I continually fail at honoring Jesus Christ.  I am a spectacular failure!  That is why I am so thankful for such a great Gospel—for it is the only remedy for great sinners, like myself.  Despite the wickedness of my heart, He is faithful.  He loves me, He forgives me and He has a plan for my life.  My life’s goal is to love, honor and desire God above all and to see and love others the way He does.  I may be billions of miles from that goal, but His grace bridges the gap and I am so grateful! “

The son has been Jesus-bombed.  Rather than addressing the son’s actual complaints, the mother indulges in an unrelated discussion of her personal religious beliefs about failure and forgiveness.  This serves the three purposes stated above:

Appearing righteous: the mother may cloak her language in faux humility, but she also eagerly discusses her special relationship with god, her dedication to him, and her position of favor with him.

Derailing the conversation: the mother does not want to actually apologize for her mistakes.  Instead she brings up her beliefs about Jesus and states that he has forgiven her, thus implying that there is no more need to dwell on her failings.  In addition, she may be Jesus-bombing in attempt to bait her son into arguing religious topics with her rather than continuing to draw attention to her mistakes and misbehavior.

Proselytizing: the mother knows that her son is not a Christian, so she chooses to bring up her faith as frequently as possible in hopes of drawing him in again.  She finds excuses to remind him of the parts of her religious beliefs that she finds most attractive (having a relationship with god, being forgiven for all mistakes, etc).  She hopes that by doing so, he will be influenced to join her religion again.

(Yeah, I’m the son in this not-so-fictional example and yeah, I’m irritated.)

Can the Bible be read objectively?

I’m posting this to facilitate a conversation that I began on the wonderful blog, Darcy’s Heart Stirrings.  There, a commenter going by the name Josh made the following statement (emphasis mine):

If you really understand the whole narrative of the Bible it will always point to two things. God Loves you and He is always working for you to destroy evil, to destroy sin. If you honestly look at the Bible objectively its impossible to not see the love and care God has for us.

Josh went on to insist that, if I held a view of god that did not include his love and care for humankind, then I must be reading the bible in a biased and subjective way.  Now, I agree with Josh that my view of god as described in the bible is subjective.  However, I assert that his view is subjective as well. I disagree that Josh and everyone who agrees with him about god are somehow immune from bias in their reading of scripture, while everyone who comes away with a different opinion are failing to be objective. We could debate about how the character of god is depicted in the scriptures, but to me, it’s a purely academic exercise. We could argue about whether we felt that King Lear from Shakespeare’s play is a sympathetic character or not, but there is no such thing as reading King Lear objectively to find the real opinion of his character. In the same way, there is no way to objectively surmise the character of god from the bible. The very act of reading the bible and interpreting the words into meaning imposes our own biases and subjective values onto it. Josh claims that I can “objectively” read the bible and, if I do, it will be impossible to come to a conclusion other than his regarding the nature of the god depicted there. I just don’t see how that is possible. By what manner do I objectively read the bible? How can I test my level of objectivity or his?

He might object a little to my King Lear comparison if he claims Shakespeare’s play describes fictional events, while the bible describes historical events. That’s a fair objection, but it doesn’t really solve the problem. All it means is that there is a “right” answer to the question “what is the nature of god?” but it gets me no closer to figuring out how to objectively obtain it from the bible. For example:

The bible states that “god is good” and the bible also states that god ordered genocide against entire nations. There are a million viewpoints to take on this. One might say “clearly this is a contradiction and god can’t both be good and genocidal.” Others might say “those people deserved to be wiped out because they were evil. Therefore, god can both be good and order genocide.” Others might say “the bible misrepresents god here; he never ordered the genocide, but the Israelites claimed he did.” Others might say “clearly when the bible says god is good it means he is good only to people he likes.” Others might say “I don’t know why god committed genocide, but since he is good, we must assume he had good reasons.” On and on.

My question to Josh is not “which one of these is right” but rather “which one of these viewpoints (or others) was obtained objectively, without any bias from the person proposing it?” I claim none of them were. All of them are affected by biases: either biased because of our personal opinion of what “good” means, or biased by our assumptions that god must be good, or biased by our opinion of whether the bible is god’s word, or biased by our assumption of if the bible is telling the truth, or biased by our very understanding of what “god” means, etc etc etc. If there is an objective interpretation, I wouldn’t even begin to know how you’re supposed to find it. So Josh can tell me his preferred interpretation if he wants (I’m not telling mine or if mine is even on the list :P) but unless he can explain why his opinion is objective it’s not really answering my question.

One last thing: I do think that some people approach the bible more objectively than others. In other words, you can open the bible thinking “I believe that god is good/evil and the bible is going to prove it!” and read it that way and you will definitely be more strongly biased in that one respect than someone who says “I’m going to form my opinion after I read the book.” But even the latter person will be subjective in his or her assessments, no matter what they try to do to avoid it. It’s inevitable.

I am inviting Josh to respond here on my blog if he wishes to clarify his statements or answer my questions.

Why I Left the Faith: the aftermath

Part 6     (Part 1 here)  (Part 7 here)

I want to start this part with a disclaimer. Religious belief is upheld in my country as moral and necessary and it’s a stigma that non-believers are constantly trying to overturn. Because of this, I want to emphasize that religion is not necessary or good for me. In fact, I am much happier and better off without it. All the same, losing my religion was deeply painful and I am still in the process of grieving it in some ways. I will discuss all of the wonderful things about being free of faith soon. But for now, I want to confess this truth: losing my faith hurt. And that’s what this part is about.

You see, I didn’t want to stop believing. I desperately wanted god to be real. He had been a part of my life as long as I could remember. He had been my friend, companion, comforter, and someone to rely on. My life, experiences, and personality had all been shaped by my former beliefs (I’m still not sure if in good or bad ways). I didn’t want to lose that. I wanted to still believe he was there. I didn’t want to give up.

Unfortunately, I had no choice in the matter. I was rapidly learning that we don’t actually choose what we believe. Sure, we can choose to go to church and surround ourselves with people who agree with us and repeat our doctrines back to us. We can choose to read scriptures and look for meaning in them. We can choose to pray or meditate. But we can’t really make ourselves believe something. I can’t make myself believe that the sky is green. I can’t make myself believe that the earth is flat. I can’t make myself believe that the president is a lizardman. And I couldn’t make myself believe that god was real. No amount of saying “I believe it” could trick my brain into accepting something that it knew there was no evidence for.

I was heart-broken. It was like a close friend had utterly betrayed and abandoned me.

And that made me angry. Yes, just like so many Evangelical Christians’ wet-dream, I was a non-believer who was angry as hell at god. It’s a little odd being angry with someone that doesn’t exist. But I was. I was pissed that he didn’t exist. More specifically, I was pissed that I had made him a part of my life for so long. I had spent so much time and effor serving, reverencing, and prostrating myself to this god, sacrificing my safety, wants, needs, and health to honor him, following his “leading” and performing his “requests” only to find out he wasn’t even there. It was equal parts heart-breaking and humiliating.

Christians trying to re-convert me just made it worse. I was alternately treated like a petulant child or a criminal. As far as they were concerned, I could not possibly have lost my faith due to honest seeking, valid experiences, and years of consideration and examination. No, either I was too stupid to see The Truth (and thus needed to have some more scripture and 1st-grade apologetics beaten into my head) or I was rejecting god out of some sort of malicious intent. Many of them were angry with me for not believing what they believed. My very existence was a threat to them; it was unfathomable that I could have reasonably and rationally come to a point of unbelief. They would stamp their feet and demand that I needed to read more scripture, try this church, talk to this person, read this book, pray more, seek more, and jump through more hoops before I was “allowed” to not believe. I had just finally broken free of their shame-based religion, so it was miserable and infuriating to have more blame heaped on me for it. As a result, I withdrew from Christians and anything church-related as much as possible.

Even so, for a while, I kept hoping god would turn back up. I picked up various different religious scriptures and read through them curious if anything would change my mind. It was fascinating, but ultimately futile. The qur’an was just as trite as the bible, which was just as trite as the ancient Hebrew and Gnostic myths and scriptures I read. Indeed, expanding my religious horizons just reaffirmed my lack of belief as I realized one religion’s Truth was no truthier than anyone else’s Truth. I sometimes prayed absently, usually starting with “well, I don’t think you’re really there, but…” It was partly habit, and partly wishful thinking. As expected, nothing happened. Little by little, I grew tired of yelling into an empty room. If god wasn’t interested in answering or wasn’t there, maybe it was time to stop.

Let me say something to any Evangelical Christians out there: do not dare tell me that I “walked away from god” or “hardened my heart against him” or any other such bullshit. Don’t you dare tell me that god is still trying to reach me and I just won’t listen. Don’t you dare pretend that I’m responsible for the break-down in the “god relationship”. I didn’t turn my back on god; I chased him to hell and back again. I struggled to hold onto him for years. I only let go at the point where it was physically impossible for me to believe any longer. That might be uncomfortable for you. You might hope that you will have some trite and simple answer for me, like “just pray more” or “just ask god to show himself to you” or “just read these verses” or (most annoying of all) “just believe.” Trust me, I tried all of that. I prayed, I begged, I read, and I wanted so badly to believe. But I can’t. If god is out there and he wants me to believe in him, he should either give me some evidence of his existence, or he should not have given me a brain that requires evidence for belief. If he’s out there, he only has himself to blame for losing me.

Alright, that’s enough gloom. Next time I want to talk about what I love about being faith-free.

Why I left the faith: hell is a lie

Part 5   (part 1 here)   (part 6 here)

Despite my misgivings, I continued to search for answers.  The more questions I asked, the more flimsy god became.  One after another, doctrines that I had once believed crumbled away under the weight of serious scrutiny.  Hell was one of the first to go, and it’s the one that dealt the fatal blow to my faith.

Losing my belief in hell was as simple as reading a 1-sentence argument online.  “Infinite punishment for finite sins is not justice.”  That was it.  I am certain that it could not have been my first time hearing some form of this argument but it was the first time I actually let myself consider it.  I realized how cheap and petty the idea of hell was.  In fact, god’s entire reward/punishment system started to look pretty asinine.  God loves us, and yet is willing to let us be tortured for eternity rather than giving us a second chance?  God has to send us to hell because he is holy and cannot exist with sin, and yet he has existed with us in our sinful state for the past thousands of years without any sort of spontaneous combustion?  God is just and merciful, and yet thinks that our actions in a 100-year-or-less lifespan are enough to determine our eternal fate?  How did any of this make any sense whatsoever?

Deciding that hell was a bunch of hogwash didn’t cause me to stop being a Christian.  After all, Christianity and hell need not go together; it was easy to find expressions of my faith that did not include it.  But all the same, it was a pivotal moment for me to realize that taking things on faith had allowed me to be so thoroughly duped by this lie.  Hell, it wasn’t even a good lie.  It was a lie riddled with glaring inconsistencies and with a pathetically obvious motive to manipulate and control church-goers.  It was about as realistic of a threat as putting a dollar-store ghost costume on and wiggling my fingers while saying “woooo.”  And yet I had swallowed it 100% and allowed myself to be fucked by it just as it was intended.  I had let it so deep into my mind that, even once I realized how silly it was, it still could wake me up in the night, scared shitless.  It made no sense.  None!  What had I been thinking?

If taking things on faith had caused me to abandon good sense this badly, what other obvious lies might I have accepted?  What other inconsistencies might I have papered over with the pretty but flimsy excuse called “faith”?

I decided that simply saying “I believe it” was no excuse to fail to prove my doctrine beyond reasonable doubt.  If something was true, there ought to be clear, impartial evidence for it.  I was not going to be duped again.  My rational mind was finally turned on full-throttle and it couldn’t be stopped.  Unfortunately for god, he was no match for it.  No matter where I turned for proof, he failed to deliver.  Proof of Jesus’ divinity?  Nope.  Proof that the Christian god is the right one?  Nope.  Proof of god’s interference in the doings of men?  Nope.  Proof of miracles?  Nope.  Proof of god’s existence?  Nope.  Sure, I could squint and tilt my head and say “if you look at this from just the right angle and say the right things and believe it really, really hard, you can see god there.”  But if I looked at it face-on with both eyes open, god vanished into the patterns and complexities of reality.

At my work, I was often the lone skeptic.  I don’t mean to say I was the lone non-Christian.  No, the school I taught at was full of astrology-following, Reiki-practicing, modern-medicine-eschewing, conspiracy-theory-believing instructors, both Christian and non (and I loved them, despite my occasional frustration with their strange theories).  I once found myself pitted, almost completely alone, against the entire Massage Therapy department in a debate on the existence of auras.  But I digress.  The topic at hand, one day, was whether or not Reiki was an effective healing tool.  After I presented studies and they presented anecdotes, they asked me if I would be open to changing my mind if I tried it and found it to be successful.  “Sure, I’d consider,” I said.  “But I would go into it skeptically since I don’t have any reason to think it would work.”

“Well, if you don’t believe it will work, then it won’t work for you,” they said.

“You know, the number one sign of a scam is when you’re told you have to believe something is real before you’re allowed to see the evidence,” I said.

I might as well have been reprimanding myself.  If god was real, why could I not verify his existence independently?  Why did the evidence only appear if I already accepted the premise?  The sunset only looked like god made it if I already believed god made it.  The bible only appeared to be perfect if I already believed that it was perfect.  God only worked miracles if I already believed he would work miracles.  God only seemed real when I believed he was real.  I was required to trust in the conclusion before I could see the evidence.  It was a scam.

Somewhere around that time, despite desperately wanting him to be real, I stopped believing in god.

Why I left the Faith: the beginning of the end

Part 3  (Part 1 here)  (Part 4 here)

I had originally intended to side-step the part of my story right before I was banished from my family’s home.  It is hard for me to summarize what happened in a concise way and I don’t think I can ever explain just how disorienting and crippling it was.  There’s still a lot of raw emotion wrapped up in it.  However, I felt that, in order to properly document the circumstances surrounding my deconversion, I needed to take a step back and describe what happened. It is important because I had horrible experiences with Christianity, but that did not cause me to abandon my faith… at least not directly. I will expound more on this in another part. For now, I will attempt to plow through this quickly.

My experiences prior to my rejection were horrible. During that time, I underwent a rigorous attempt at re-training by my family and church. Although I was an adult (around 23 years old), I was made all but a prisoner in my parents’ home for two months; I lacked transportation and was banned from using their phones or internet for unapproved communication. I bought a personal pay-by-the-minute cellphone but I was punished with arguments, guilt-trips, and the cold shoulder anytime I used it. To further my isolation, my parents and sister leveled threats of serious emotional and spiritual consequences if I dared to talk about my home experiences to anyone. My parents wanted me to feel I had nowhere safe to turn, so they demanded invasive information about my communications. Even what my doctor or therapist said to me in private was considered need-to-know by my parents and pried out of me. I was offered a counselor but was not told that she was unlicensed… besides which she was also counseling my parents who would inform her what to say and how to treat me. My affection for my own family became a weapon. My mothers’ illnesses were blamed on my rebellion and I was told that I had destroyed the family. Everything they did was designed to leave me feeling hopeless, helpless, and isolated, and it was disastrously effective.

All of that paved the way for what I call “interventions”. These were sessions in which I would be required or coerced or manipulated into sitting and listening to pastors, family-members, or church-goers attempting to set me straight (literally). Their tactics ranged from shaming (“you disappoint God, your lifestyle is disgusting to him”), to guilt (“let’s go around in a circle and have each family member describe how your sexuality personally hurts them”), to scripture (“if you want us to leave you alone, you have to win this scripture debate with us”), to monetary influence (“we paid for your doctor’s visit so now you owe us obedience or you have to pay us back”), to emotional manipulation (“we love you so much; how could you ever think we would harm you?”) to just plain repetition (“say you give your sexuality to god, say you give your sexuality to god, say you give your sexuality to god.”) In a cruel twist, after months of being restricted by my family, they abruptly reversed course and threatened to banish me from their home forever if I visited my girlfriend. I visited. I was banished. That is where we left off.

Let me make it clear: while all of this had worn me down physically and emotionally to the point of almost killing me, my faith in god was still strong. The abuses of Christians did not change that.  I was still trying to find truth and answers, and I still trusted that god could provide them. He had confirmed his love and acceptance to me again and again. How could I doubt him?

Now that the pressure had lessened and I felt safer, I had a chance to mull over my experiences. What was clear was that some of the most spiritually demonstrative months of my life and my family’s lives had come and gone with both of us being equally convinced of completely opposite statements. We were no closer to convincing the other whether god did or did not approve of my relationship. I began to get angry. I wanted answers for why everything had ended so badly. Why had we failed to reach a consensus? Why was it so hard for god to speak to both of us equally clearly? I truly believed god had miraculously spoken to me, but if that was true, why was he unable or unwilling to do the same for my parents? Or if my parents were the ones hearing from god, why was god unable or unwilling to speak to me? And that led me to a fatal question.

How do I test whether or not something is true?

It’s perhaps the simplest question a person can ask. From our earliest moments, we are asking this question as we explore our world. But my particular faith tradition actively scuttles attempts to apply normal testing methods to spiritual things. Charismatic evangelicals teach you to see angels and demons everywhere based on coincidence, scriptural interpretation, and personal feelings. In other words, it teaches you to label your confirmation biases as god. My parents and I clearly had different biases to confirm. But neither of us had any objective proof or compelling reason to assume that we had heard the truth and the other had not.

I remember the beginning of the end like it’s like a photograph. I was walking towards my graduate school campus through a residential neighborhood. I approached the back gate. It was just a narrow foot-path and the gate was always tangled with vines and brush back here. About the time I reached the gate I finally just said it out loud. “Really, how do any of us know that we are right about any of this?” And the questions came flooding in: how do I know for sure if I’m hearing from god? How do I know for sure how to interpret scripture? How do I know for sure I’m talking to the right god? How do I know for sure that god is there at all?

This wasn’t the moment that I lost my faith. They were just questions. I am a scientist; I am used to questions. Questions are great, because then I can start looking for answers. Little did I know that I had just drank a poison that would kill my faith. It turns out, those particular questions don’t have good answers.

Why I left the faith: it wasn’t The Gay

Part 2   (Part 1 here) (Part 3 here)

So I was a Christian.  That much has been established.  What next?

Well, as any good Bible-believer will tell you, Christians sometimes go through trials and tribulations.  Sometimes Christians go through a period where they are are seduced by The World, and they allow their faith to stagnate.  I was no different.  While I was in college, my fire started to fade.  I went through several ups and downs, where I would try to re-ignite that spark, but then would lose interest or feel disillusioned with god and the church.  I just wasn’t sure how certain I could be about god.  I stopped reading my bible, I stopped praying.  I made only a few half-hearted efforts to go back to church.  Apathy towards god had crept up in my life.  It was all very Laodicean.

But like any good Christian, I had a turning point.  I had a conversion story, praise Jesus.  What was that turning point?

I realized I was gay.

Yep, coming out as gay turned me into a hardcore Christian again.  It wasn’t immediate.  At first I was scared.  Holy hell was I scared.  I stewed quietly in my guilt, wondering what in the world I had done to damn me to this fate.  I knew, of course, all gays go to hell… at least those that act on it.  I determined that I would not let my love for another woman compel me to act against god.  I tried to bottle it up, deny it, and hope it would fade away, even as my heart broke over the love I would never be able to have.  During this phase, I wasn’t reaching out to god.  I was hiding from him.  I was terrified, confused, betrayed, bewildered, and ashamed.  God was the last person I wanted to show up.  I was hoping that I had mostly escaped his notice.

But eventually, I was encouraged by the woman I loved as well as my family to study, reach out to god, and seek out answers on the matter.  I started reading, studying, praying, fasting, research, confessing, soul-searching, crying, counseling, and speaking to elders.  Much to my surprise, I discovered a depth to my religious experience that was totally new to me.  I felt god speaking to me again, I felt his overwhelming love.  I felt him embracing me wholeheartedly and welcoming me back to his flock.  Amazing things started to happen.  Without going into the long  and gory details, my revival story has all the hallmarks of a perfect Christian “return to god” narrative: visions from god, supernatural signs, prophecies from various godly men and women, even a miracle that saved my life at the darkest moment.  I returned to my faith with joy and passion.  But there was one little unfortunate problem.

Each of those spiritual Jesus-moments affirmed to me that god accepted my love for another woman.

That was not the answer that my family or my church had expected me to find.  While they had first joyfully encouraged me to seek god’s will, they now began to clutch for power over me to get me to see the “correct” answer.  God could not be telling me that it was okay to be gay.  How did they know?  Well, God had told them that it wasn’t okay.  So there.

Christians in my life, especially my parents and sister, began escalating the number of hoops that they expected me to jump through in order to “seek god’s will”.  “You can’t make up your mind,” they said, “until you try reading this book, doing this fast, going to this church, speaking to this pastor, praying this much, and enduring these trials.”  Desiring to thoroughly test my belief, I conceded to these tests.  Each time I would return with the same answer.  “God accepts me.”

“Well, of course god accepts you,” they complained.  “You just somehow missed the part where he said accepts the not-gay version of you.  Try again!”

What followed was a righteous game of supernatural dick-measuring: whose God Experience was the biggest?  They started sharing their own Jesus Moments with me.  These included demons possessing bedrooms, spirits of oppression, dreams and visions, prophecies, signs from god, and feelings of hatred given to them by the Holy Spirit.  All of these things were supposedly clear messages that I was wrong.  I conceded that this might seem to be the case, but that it didn’t explain why all the messages I was getting were the complete opposite.  How was I supposed to know which one to trust?  “Just trust in our authority,” they said.  But I then committed the gravest sin a Fundamentalist Christian can commit.

I said no.

I said “if God can give us both visions and miracles and messages from on high, then he can damn well make his answer known to me.  I have thrown all of my trust on him… every bit of it and everything that I have to offer.  I know he will come through for me.”

And so, I was banished from my family home.

Why I left The Faith: I was a Christian

Part 1    (Part 2 here)

I was a Christian.  For some of you, my statement is enough for you to believe me and I could stop writing my intro right here.  To you, I say THANK YOU.  You’re awesome.  But for the rest of you who will want to cast doubt on that statement due to the fact that I have left the faith, I urge you to keep reading.

I was a Christian.  I don’t just mean I went to church on holidays and said grace before meals.  I was a diehard, devoted, born-again, Jesus-loving, awe-struck, Bible-believing, all-American, devil-rebuking, 6000-year-old-earth-believing, on-fire-for-God, relationship-not-religion evangelical Christian.  Pentecostalism was the flavor I was raised with.  Yes, I am certain that for many, that makes me a Not-True-Christian, but let me tell you, Pentecostals can “Not-True-Christian” with the best of them.  As far as we were concerned, all y’all other Christians were fake.  Even the Baptists.  Especially the Baptists.  We had a particular dislike for that “once-saved-always-saved” bullshit.  We sure wouldn’t want anyone to get too comfortable that they were safe from hell in our religion!  Can I get an amen?

But lest you dismiss me because I spoke in tongues a few times, let me point out that I didn’t stay Pentecostal.  I chose to go to a non-denominational church in my teen years and dropped a little bit of the weirder Charismatic stuff (although some of it definitely stuck around).  I was less into tongues-speaking and immersion baptism, and willing to accept a wider range of Christians might have a handle on the truth.  Even if my doctrine may not have been 100% pure at all times, according to your metric, no one could deny that I was a Christian.  The evidence and fruits of my faith were numerous.  I read my Bible front to back multiple times, and the New Testament so many times I lost count.  Every single evening I would read scripture and meditate and pray.  I sought god’s will on all of the important (and sometimes non-important) decisions in my life.  I felt the supernatural presence of god.  I trusted in his guidance and I listened for his leading.  I had powerful experiences that other Christians  confirmed were revelations from the Holy Spirit.  My faith was not shallow, nor was it based solely on the demands of others.  By almost any standards, I was considered a Christian with a genuine Walk With God.

I preface my explanation of my deconversion this way because I am tired of self-righteous Christians trying to explain to me “you must never have really known Jesus” or “you were never really a Christian.”  If you had told that to anyone who knew me during my earlier years, they would have tried to rebuke the devil of lying out of you.  They would have laughed.  YOU would have laughed.  If I was an imposter, I was a damn impressive one, so much so that I apparently deceived my family, my pastors, my community, and myself.  NO ONE thought I was a fake.

Now, at this moment, you might still be trying to rationalize where my faith was flawed.  “Too legalistic,” you might say.  Or maybe “not legalistic enough”.  Or maybe you might even imply that demons can masquerade as God and thus I had fallen for Satan, not Jesus (although if they look so alike, I’m uneasy about worshiping either.)  But take an honest look at the way that you judge Christians within your own denomination and church.  If someone in your church appears to have a real relationship with god, people say they see god working in their lives, they pray, read their bible, believe all the right things, they inspire others, would you ever consider telling them to their faces “you probably aren’t really a Christian”?  Or is this absurd “real Christian” standard something you only apply to apostates?  I bet it’s the latter.

So then take me at my word for the sake of this discussion: I was a Christian.  I loved god and I believed in Jesus to save me from my sins.  And now I don’t.  I’m not even convinced that God is real.  I’m going to briefly explain how that happened.

Conviction

I want to talk about the idea of “conviction” in some fundamentalist Christian circles. Particularly I want to talk about how it is used by some Christians both as a gas-lighting technique and as a method of manipulation. However, I have not really had time or the ability to put my thoughts together in a coherent fashion. So instead, I think I will just tell a couple of stories. These stories occurred while I lived as a woman, so I am using those pronouns and terms since they are relevant to the stories.

Note: for those unaware of this particular Christianese phrase, I am referring to the following definition: a feeling of guilt or shame that God inflicts on a person that comes with the recognition of having committed a sin.

When I was outed as gay to my family, I was living overseas and working on my Masters degree in Astrophysics. Needless to say, I was already under a lot of stress, even before dealing with my family keeping me up til ungodly hours on the phone arguing, laying enormous guilt trips on me for hurting the family, or sending me books and articles and pamphlets about how I am deceiving myself into thinking that I can be gay and Christian and about how lesbian relationships are all just co-dependent and unhealthy and guilting me into reading them. (And yeah, according to these sources, gay male relationships are all about lust and sex and lesbian relationships are about emotional codependency. I can’t even start to unpack that sexist and homophobic load of shit).

Anyway. I was quite religious at the time. Having this crisis regarding my family’s rejection of my sexuality had actually driven me deeper into my faith rather than away from it; I suppose I was looking for some stability and comfort which I found in god. I would often go to church to find some solace. One Sunday morning, my parents called me and we had a bad argument that ended in them telling me “we don’t even know you anymore.” I was really upset when I left the conversation so that I could take the train down to church. During the worship service I tried to hold things together but I was so overwhelmed I just broke down and started sobbing uncontrollably. One of the women in the pews noticed me and very kindly asked if I was okay and if I needed to speak to someone. I had a friendly relationship with the current pastor, so I said that I would like to speak to him, thinking that maybe I would admit that I was gay to him and tell him what was happening. I was hoping that, even if he disagreed, he would be loving and supportive in the difficult time I was having and maybe would pray for my family and I. However (as is common in churches) women are apparently only supposed to seek counsel from women, so I was directed instead to the pastor’s wife, whom I had barely met before. This left me feeling a bit scared and vulnerable, but I followed her to a back room where she sat me down and got me a glass of water and tried to make me comfortable. Finally she sat down across from me and waited for my tears to subside.

I was still sobbing and was a bit scared about coming out to a total stranger, but I slowly calmed myself enough to begin trying to speak. “First, there’s something you should know about me. I’m gay, and I’m dating a woman,” I said. I then began to tell her that things were going very badly with my family, but she was not looking at me anymore. She was flipping through her bible. She opened it to Romans 1, and then tilted it a little so I could see it while she watched me intently, clearly gauging my reaction. I started to get shaky and nervous again, trying to ignore it, trying not to look at those pages that she obviously wanted me to see. I kept talking but I felt I wasn’t really being heard. And indeed, as soon as I paused, she interjected and began to tell me that I was living in sin and that god was disgusted with my lifestyle. She asked me if I’d read Romans 1. I said yes, but that I didn’t interpret it the way that she clearly did, that I hadn’t come here to talk about whether or not homosexuality was a sin, and that I didn’t believe it was wrong to be gay.

“Yes you do,” she said.

“No, I don’t think it’s wrong,” I stammered, rather flabbergasted.

“Yes you do. You know it’s wrong. Otherwise you wouldn’t be crying. You’re crying because God has convicted you and you know you are guilty.”

Never mind the stress and anxiety I was under. Never mind that my family was pressuring me. Never mind that people I loved and trusted were attacking a deeply important part of me. Never mind that my family had just told me that they didn’t know me anymore. No, I was apparently crying because I had been convicted. And, you know, I half believed it, because when you’re that mind-fucked by your family and your church and everyone around you, it’s hard to have any sort of perspective besides “well, everyone is saying it so maybe they’re right.” You lose your ability to judge your own feelings and values. It’s disorienting.

I felt like the breath had just been sucked out of me and I mostly just sat there for the rest of the next hour while she read me Romans 1, she talked to me about how I was disappointing god, my relationship was disgusting, I needed to stop running from the truth, etc. I put up a few weak arguments here and there, but I hadn’t come here to argue about sin. I just wanted advice and comfort and safety. I was in pain and I was crying, and she had chosen to use that expression of my pain as a weapon against me by deciding that my tears were “conviction.”

A very similar experience occurred a few months later at my sister’s church, which she had pressured me into going to in an attempt to convince me to break up with my girlfriend. By this point, my parents had threatened to ban me from coming back to their house if I dared to go visit my girlfriend, and I was in a lot of turmoil about what I should do. My desperation and fear left me vulnerable, so my sister talked me into speaking to an elder that she trusted and having that person pray for me. I feared a repeat of the previous time, but I agreed.

I tried to explain to this woman that I was dealing with a difficult family situation and that I could use some prayer or guidance. I avoided admitting the full circumstance at first, but when she kept asking (and in retrospect, she may already have been informed by my sister) I admitted that I was gay. As soon as she heard that word, she stopped listening and started telling me to pray for god to “release me from this sinful relationship that had a hold on my life.” I told her that I wasn’t going to pray for that because that’s not what I felt was needed. This seemed to bewilder her and she continued to insist that I needed to pray for god to cleanse me of sin. At the time, I started to think that maybe she was just very dense or maybe hard of hearing, because nothing I said really seemed to register. Every time I told her “I’m okay with being gay; this isn’t about that,” she just looked really confused, stammered a bit, and then went back to encouraging me to renounce my sin. I think now that she was not being intentionally dense, but she was doggedly convinced that I knew that I was wrong. She was just waiting for me to drop the pretense and admit it. Why else would I be asking for prayer? Why else would I be in a church? I must have been convicted by god.

It couldn’t possibly be that I was dealing with a traumatic family situation. It couldn’t possibly be that I was about to be kicked out of the house. It couldn’t possibly be that I had been strong-armed and manipulated into coming. It couldn’t possibly be intense pressure and guilt from other people that drove me here. Nope, I was convicted and I just needed to admit it. And so she continued to badger me to pray for the strength to “give everything over to God.” Eventually, I half-heartedly did so because I was tired. At least in this situation, I was less emotionally vulnerable, so I mostly felt frustration and disappointment. I guess that’s what you get when you keep believing people who tell you that a “spiritual authority” will know how to fix your problem and you can’t possibly know how to handle it yourself or be trusted to find your own support.

You know what? Neither of these experiences changed my mind about my sexuality. They didn’t teach me that being gay is a sin. They didn’t show me the light. They didn’t convict me. What they did do was capitalize on my suffering to try to manipulate me into changing. What they did do is drive the knife deeper and teach me that church is not a safe place to be. I have never unlearned that lesson and maybe I never will. I am no longer a Christian (for fairly unrelated reasons, actually) but even if I did choose to explore spirituality again, I’m not sure I’d ever feel comfortable in a church. Maybe with some more time and distance that will change. For now, my conviction is that I would rather be anywhere than sit in a pew and anything is safer than being vulnerable in a church.

Love is an emotion, not an action

This thought just hit me like a pile of bricks, and I need to sound off on it really fast.

In evangelical culture, it is often repeated that love is not an emotion. Love is an action. If you google search for those words, a slew of Christian articles pop up. Christian courtship books, books about relationships, evangelical talking heads have reinforced this message. My family said it over and over. Until maybe yesterday I had just accepted this paradigm without question. It made sense. Love isn’t an emotion, it’s so much more than that. Love isn’t a feelings towards someone, it’s doing something to them.

This was rooted deeply in a rejection of emotion and desires in general. After all, feelings are fickle, cheap, short-lived. Feelings are deceitful, like the heart. Feelings are sinful, the lust of the flesh, the pride of life. Wants, needs, feelings, desires… all of these are to be crucified. But love is to remain, so love is not a feeling. Love is action.

And this is why whenever my mom would say “I know this doesn’t feel loving to you, but it is love” I believed her. This is why, whenever I was mistreated, belittled, rejected, and disrespected, I excused it as “just their way of loving me.” Their way of loving, despite the fact that it did not feel loving, had validity because feelings could not be trusted but actions were love. Their way of loving allowed them to consistently wield the power to define what love looked like, regardless of whether I liked it or not.

Accepting that paradigm meant that I could not accept their love while simultaneously rejecting their actions. Each time I tried to insist that I needed them to treat me differently, the answer would be “but we love you. We love you.” And love is action, not a feeling. Whether or not I felt unloved was irrelevant. Whether or not I was hurting, I was scared, I wanted to die, it didn’t matter because those were feelings and feelings can’t be trusted. Love can.

And over and over, I accepted this paradigm. Even as I tried to argue that abuse could be committed with loving intentions, even as I argued that I wanted respect, even as I tried to make them understand that what they were doing was hurting me, I still internally accepted the idea that love is an action as valid and, as such, I had no real ground to stand on. The best I could do would be to quibble over which actions are love, which is a very difficult argument to win since it is so subjective and situation-specific. From me, love looked like trying to still have a relationship with my family after all of the hurt they had caused. From them, love looked like emotional manipulation. Who was I to decide if that was or was not love?

But that’s exactly why the idea that love is an action is so wrong. It gives all of the power to define love to the one loving, not the one on the receiving end. It allows one person to decide that any action done with a feeling of love, is love. In fact, actions can be done with a feeling of hate, and it can still be called love.

I do believe that my family loves me. I think they love me very deeply. But love is an emotion. They can have very deep feelings for me and still act hatefully. They can want the very best for me and still be unbelievably cruel. They are right to say that actions mean more than emotions. But they are wrong to say that love is an action.

It is completely possible to feel love for someone while your actions destroy them.
Because love is only a feeling, it is meaningless to me unless it is demonstrated through actions that make me feel loved. And that’s the difference. If we accept that love is only a feeling, then we must by necessity give the recipient of our love some amount of control over how that love is demonstrated. The recipient gets to define what actions make them feel your love.

And this might seem like a minor distinction, but to me it is so important. Love is not something you can do to me. Love is only something you can feel about me. The actions that you choose to take based on that feeling are separate. They are not love. I can acknowledge and desire your love while simultaneously utterly rejecting the actions you take to demonstrate it.