On the Fence?

As part of my attempt to become more clear thinking regarding my new epistemic position (one in which I take an increasingly atheistic viewpoint), I decided to pick up Richard Dawkins's The God Delusion.


Those familiar with the book (or Dawkins in general) won't be surprised by this basic fact: Dawkins allows there to be no middle ground in the fundamentalism v. rationality debate. Moderate religionists and atheists/agnostics who tolerate religionists are, according to Dawkins, only giving fundamentalists more time, energy, and freedom to entrench themselves against the voices of rationality. Allowing people to maintain their illusory and fanciful beliefs in a deity does the least good for humanity as a whole. In no uncertain terms, Dawkins (speaking primarily to those sympathetic to his atheistic worldview) tells the reader that even allowing notions such as "the Bible is, generally, a good book" or "religion can help people be good," such notions only undermine widespread acceptance of thoroughgoing rationality and, conversely, unwittingly endorses the more destructive and irrational forms of religion. To be on the fence is to give the game away to religionists.


I appreciate Dawkins' passion and commitment to rationality. I think, on the whole, that he argues clearly and handles a wide range of topics with care (though not always the care a specialist might give them). Moreover, I agree with him that religion does, on balance, encourage a lack of clear thinking, self-reliance, and critical scientific inquiry. 


My problem comes, however, with the notion that anyone who endorses the same views as Dawkins must work to dissemble religion in our society, through doing such things as, e.g., dismantling the foundational beliefs of those religions (as Dawkins has attempted to do in the book). The reason I cannot affirm such an antagonistic position comes from my own experience:

The Hard Part

The letter to friends, family, and professional contacts (who need to know, at least) has gone out; the awkward personal conversations have, for the most part, taken place. That was by no means an easy thing to do, but the hard part, I've just realized, lies ahead of me.


See, the hardest part of leaving Christianity wasn't telling my closest friends and my family. Truth be told, I'm coming to see how challenging it is to discovering a new normal. My relationships with friends and family members now has to find a new center of gravity. If it's not our shared faith and worldview, then what is it? I've only had a few chats with friends and family who know, and I could feel the strangeness of it all. The camaraderie of being co-religionists ran much deeper than I realized. No longer can we absent-mindedly maintain our common assumptions about what's important in life. It's only just becoming clear how often faith and church life came up in conversations, and now that this is gone, what then?


Sure, over the next few weeks and months, I'll probably still talk a good deal with folks about my deconversion. Eventually, though, it will become an issue with which both my friends and family grow weary of discussing—and, no doubt, I will too. And that's the rub: what then? How will we understand our relationship? What things will people choose to share or withhold from me? What will I decide to talk about?


Add on top of this all the fact that, major changes aside, I'm still working hard to figure myself out. I'm trying to process through a wide range of my own insecurities and dysfunctions, while trying to become more aware of those of others (so I can better understand people). Plus, there's the whole business of rearranging my metaphysics and a priori assumptions from the ground up, which, I gather, will take a bit of time.


I never imagined, though, that the long-term effects of coming out would require so much mental energy. The challenging part, it seems, is still to come.

The Word Is Out

Some people are surprised that I felt the need to tell my friends and family about my deconversion from Christianity. A few of my wife's friends, who happen to be de-facto or weak atheists, said something to the effect of, "It's not their business what you or your husband believe." At any rate, the ol' cat is out of the bag and the beans are spilt. I sent off an email to about 40 friends, family members, and colleagues, and there's no going back.


So far, about a half dozen folks have responded already, each of them offering support, concern, and (for many) prayers. I really don't mind it when people say they're praying for me; it's a sign that they care about me enough to talk to what they think is the highest being in the universe on my behalf. Are many of them praying that I change my mind? Yeah, but if there's anyone on the other end, I hope those prayers are answered; if not, then it doesn't do any measurable harm.


Strangely enough, this feels like a bizarro version of Christian baptism, the rite of initiation into the church. In baptism, a confession is made in which one publicly renounces the former way of life, etc., and embraces the peace that comes with new life in Christ. Plus, baptism often takes place on Easter Sunday. Oddly enough, I openly admitted to my wife on Easter Day that I was no longer a Christian (tough words to say at the time), and now, with this letter sent out to my loved ones, I've made my anti-baptismal confession in public. The one thing that is the same is the peace, though it is of a very different sort, unmingled with the dependence on someone else to bring it.  

Disaster

Is the term "disaster" a bit of a hyperbole? Maybe. But it captures what things feel like right now.


In two separate instances, I royally failed to communicate with anything approaching clarity. The first was a post (that I've since deleted), filled with what I felt were only loosely connected ramblings. The good news is that I could just delete it, and only the people who read that god-awful post would know how horrible it really was.


The second—and far more abysmal—took place when I spoke to a mentor (a former pastor and friend) over the phone, telling him I was leaving the church. I was so scared and anxious about speaking with him that I didn't really say anything that I thought, and most of the things I said were muddled half-truths that utterly failed to say what I now believe about the world.


It was nothing short of embarrassing.

Letter to my friends and family

Here's a copy of the letter I'm planning on sending to most of my friends and nearly all of my family—the exceptions are my nearly 90-year-old grandparents, both of whom are devoutly religious, and for whom the news would come as a severe blow. Ignorance is bliss, right?

To my friends and family: 

This email is being written to you because I love and respect you, and want to let you know about a difficult and significant change that has taken place in my life, one that will, no doubt, come as something rather unexpected. Various issues, thoughts, and circumstances in my life have led me to the realization that I can no longer call myself a Christian. I find myself unable to continue to affirm its core beliefs and doctrines. In fact, I’ve come to a place where I seriously question the existence of any divine being, and if one exists, I think it probably isn’t the God of Christianity. I’ve only recently recognized the many jumps of logic I have allowed myself in order to continue in my beliefs, and I cannot in good conscience continue to ignore them. 

What caused this seemingly sudden change? It certainly wasn’t the outcome of a single issue, question, doubt, life issue, etc. Rather, it was the result of a long process stretching over several years, and I’ve struggled with coming to this decision. The core of it arises from my dissatisfaction with and eventual lack of belief in the “answers” given by Christianity on a range of issues, issues that I’ve only recently begun to face with intellectual honesty and integrity. 

Let me stress that this decision has nothing to do with the my denomination, or any local church, or anything like that. I still respect and love the people of the churches I’ve attended for their loyalty, friendship, and encouragement. I know that I couldn’t be who I am today without their support. What are the immediate results of this change? I’m still going to finish my PhD and try to pursue a career as a biblical scholar and a teacher, though this will certainly take a different shape than I had imagined up to now. I’m still focused on becoming a better, more integrated, and more thoughtful person. I’m still committed to many of the values I hold dear, such as concern for the earth, for the wellbeing of others, and belief in love, honesty, and personal responsibility. In short, I’m still the same person.

This has led to a period of profound clarity, and I feel at peace in this new perspective. I also feel I have a great deal more integrity of thought, no longer forcing the world around me to “fit” into my earlier preconceived view. In no way do I think I’ve got it all “figured out,” but I expect to continue to grow and mature. I’m sure this news will come as a shock to many of you, and may offend some. I’m truly sorry for that. Others might not have an opinion one way or another. Some may be excited and see this as a positive change in my life. Whatever your reaction to this news, I want to take this chance to express my thanks to you for your friendship, love, support, and guidance throughout my life, and I deeply hope to depend on your continued love and encouragement.

Many of you will likely have questions or responses to this letter, and will want to talk about these issues further. For my part, I would be happy to hear from you! Just know, though, that I’m interested in discussion rather than debate. I would hope the conversation would be respectful and open (rather than combative and closed). So, if you would like to talk further, just reply to this email, or send me a letter (my address is below) and I would be happy to chat. 

Sincerely,

Evan 

Thoughts?

How Do You Know?

One of the key problems that I now have with Christianity is what philosophers and theologians call "epistemology." Namely, I've grown increasingly uncomfortable with claims within Christianity (or any revealed religion) that certain people have come to possess knowledge of God and what God wants for humanity, while such knowledge remains inaccessible—in an immediate sense—to all others. A great example is the "conversion experience" of St. Paul on the Damascus Road (Acts 9:1-19), where Paul (then Saul) had a vision and heard a voice, and suddenly believed in the Christian message. Because of this experience, Christianity became for him an irrefutable truth. Were anyone to ask, "Paul, how do you know it's true?" He would simply have said, "Because I had a vision of Jesus. You can't argue with that, can you?" Thus, Paul held a religious trump card that, at the end of any argument, he could lay down to demonstrate his authority, his "rightness," or the veracity of his religious claims.


And this is what happens all the time. For example, when I was a Christian and came up against serious intellectual challenges to my faith, I could always fall back on that one stronghold: "Ok, there are some problems that aren't easily explained, but I know it's true because I've experienced X, Y, and Z!" Other Christians do this more frequently than I did, especially Christian fundamentalists who have more fronts to defend. Yet, for many non-Christians, such claims to certainty seem absurd, if not downright delusional.


So, I've now come to see this is a major problem, but I had no idea how close to home it would hit. 

My Parents

This past weekend, I finally "came out" and told my parents I was no longer a Christian. Things unfolded like I thought they would: my parents acted as if they saw it coming (I don't think they did), they then tried to dissuade me by using apologetic tactics (none of which I hadn't heard, if not believed, before), then they gave up, said they loved me no matter what, and promised to keep praying for me. It wasn't easy, but at the same time it wasn't nearly as hard as I imagined. While my parents were visibly emotional, I had a zen-like calm (something I didn't expect), which I thought actually undermined one of their arguments that I didn't have "hope". Truth is, I have a lot more hope now than I used to!


Overall, it was a good experience, though I don't want to repeat it.

Coming Out & 'Creation'

About a week ago, I sat down with one of the couples my wife and I know and told them, rather bluntly, that I'm no longer a Christian. While I had anticipated a number of questions from them—since he's a minister and she is a fellow graduate student at the seminary—I didn't anticipate the silence. The problem was, I think, that I never really let either of them in on my journey. For all they knew, I was just as deeply committed to the Christian faith as they were.

A few days later, my fellow student emailed me a list of questions, trying to be more constructive than simple expressing shock. It was nice of her to make the attempt, and I felt like I was able to say more clearly what changed and why. Even more, I think she realized that any sadness I expressed in my "coming out" was due, on the one hand, to my recognition of their sadness, and on the other, to a real sense that God has "died." I've lived for almost 30 years thinking that God was there, helping me along, hearing my prayers, etc., and now I'm forcing myself to think about the world apart from the help of God—at least the God talked about within Christianity—and that transition carries with it a sense of grief.


(More on this and 'Creation' after the jump...)