At some point, I brought up that I was atheist, and asked why I had left Christianity.
I thought about it for a good bit, and realized I didn't have a snappy answer, because it's a pretty complicated affair.
Growing up, I went to a church of one denomination and a school primarily of another denomination. When I was a kid, this mattered very little to me - I remember having conversations in grade school with friends that being Christian is the important part; what kind of Christian was secondary. Being deeply religious, from parents that emphasized education, and from a denomination that emphasized education, I experienced growth in my faith by learning. I read the entire Bible at least a couple times in my life, memorized books of the Bible for competitive events, listened attentively in church and Sunday school, and generally applied a significant portion of my attention to it. The Bible was the Truth - learning from the Bible meant learning about the most powerful being in existence and the most fundamental laws of the universe He created.
As I got older, I understood more and more the difference between the Christianity I was taught in church and the one I was taught in school. The God I was taught in church was a lover, dedicated to move heaven and earth to redeem His chosen people; the God at school was a petty tyrant. I realized that occasionally the sermons at chapel would be direct, conscious attempts to build and knock down straw men of my own denomination. Beyond all that, the preachers were often just wrong. They didn't know the Bible that was their job to teach others about. It'd be like hearing a biology professor saying that cats and dogs weren't mammals because they have tails.
One of the most particularly enraging instances was a missionary who proudly taught savages in Africa that "real" wedding ceremonies involved a ring. He wasn't trying to make them Christian; he was trying to make them American. It reminded me of Matthew 23:15 (which was the book I was memorizing at the time):
As I got older, I understood more and more the difference between the Christianity I was taught in church and the one I was taught in school. The God I was taught in church was a lover, dedicated to move heaven and earth to redeem His chosen people; the God at school was a petty tyrant. I realized that occasionally the sermons at chapel would be direct, conscious attempts to build and knock down straw men of my own denomination. Beyond all that, the preachers were often just wrong. They didn't know the Bible that was their job to teach others about. It'd be like hearing a biology professor saying that cats and dogs weren't mammals because they have tails.
One of the most particularly enraging instances was a missionary who proudly taught savages in Africa that "real" wedding ceremonies involved a ring. He wasn't trying to make them Christian; he was trying to make them American. It reminded me of Matthew 23:15 (which was the book I was memorizing at the time):
"Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You traverse land and sea to win a single convert, and when he becomes one, you make him twice as much a son of hell as you are."
So a divide began in my mind: There was what other Christians believed, and then there was what I believed, and I was going to believe the Bible. It infuriated me when Christians didn't know the Bible (still does, to tell the truth). Christians who said that dinosaurs weren't real - there are dinosaur-like creatures in the Bible! Dinosaurs should be a proof of the Bible, not a condemnation against it! Christians who were bigots - the Bible says that in Christ there is no Jew or Gentile, no slave or free, no male and female. Christians who were obsessed with the end times and phrases like "wars and rumors of wars" - the Bible says that wars and rumors of wars mean it's not the end times yet.
But it was OK. That's what other people believed. I believed in the Bible.
At college, I fell in with a much more diverse crowd than my tiny Christian high school. D&D nerds, tech junkies, the aforementioned drug-fueled partiers (never what I did, but they were great for conversation), international students, punk-rock anarchists, and (most relevantly) Rocky Horror Picture Show shadow cast members and pagans.
At college, I fell in with a much more diverse crowd than my tiny Christian high school. D&D nerds, tech junkies, the aforementioned drug-fueled partiers (never what I did, but they were great for conversation), international students, punk-rock anarchists, and (most relevantly) Rocky Horror Picture Show shadow cast members and pagans.
The pagans played a fairly simple role: It had always annoyed me when Christians said things like "ghosts aren't real" or "magic isn't real" - the Bible explicitly mentions at least one ghost, and explicitly bans necromancy. Why would the Bible ban something that wasn't real? Talking with pagans was exciting and continuously stretched the boundaries of my "I believe the Bible" mantra - any of these occult topics might be real - the Bible didn't really say one way or the other.
RHPS strangely helped me grow as a person because I always strive to be appropriate for my situation. At RHPS, the appropriate, polite, expected thing to do is scream obscenities, dance wildly, and make the crudest jokes imaginable. It's a bit of the when-in-Rome idea. I could let loose because I wasn't letting lose. Dressing up like a zombie with a knife in my side, fake blood trickling down to the floor, groaning in agony was a way to win a costume contest, not a cause for concern.
Well, there's a funny thing that happens to human beings when you cram them together, make them dress differently, sing songs, and dance together: The oxytocin starts pumping. One night, belting out increasingly vulgar renditions of "Hot Patootie" and the like, I was overwhelmed with deep, deep feelings of love, peace, and connection. When I started to think about it, I'd had similar experienced before - singing hymns in church on Sunday morning.
RHPS strangely helped me grow as a person because I always strive to be appropriate for my situation. At RHPS, the appropriate, polite, expected thing to do is scream obscenities, dance wildly, and make the crudest jokes imaginable. It's a bit of the when-in-Rome idea. I could let loose because I wasn't letting lose. Dressing up like a zombie with a knife in my side, fake blood trickling down to the floor, groaning in agony was a way to win a costume contest, not a cause for concern.
Well, there's a funny thing that happens to human beings when you cram them together, make them dress differently, sing songs, and dance together: The oxytocin starts pumping. One night, belting out increasingly vulgar renditions of "Hot Patootie" and the like, I was overwhelmed with deep, deep feelings of love, peace, and connection. When I started to think about it, I'd had similar experienced before - singing hymns in church on Sunday morning.
There were a few other major events - a pastor telling me that God says to leave the love of my life, a deeply depressed friend reaching out to Christians I trusted (basically begging to know how to be saved) and being snubbed - but I'll try to cut this post a little shorter.
My wife showed me a video (related event starts at ~41:00) in which primate researchers hide a treat in an opaque box. They perform a complex series of actions, and then take the treat out of the box. They taught the complex series of actions to primates and human children; both groups perform the series of actions and get the treat.
They then put a treat in a clear box, in which it is completely obvious that the treat can be taken at any time. Only a fraction of the primates bother with the unnecessary steps, but all of the human children do. This experiment was repeated with children from cultures around the world with the same results.
This video deeply unsettled me, and I ended up walking through downtown at 3 in the morning thinking heavily. I came across a woman sitting at a red light. There were no cars coming in any direction. The roads around were straight, empty, and completely visible. The box was clear, the treat was there, and still she did the unnecessary action.
It was one of - if not the - final straw for religion for me. Religion was an unnecessary series of actions (ceremonies, guilt, singing, etc.) to obtain a treat (social order, ethics, etc.). It wasn't that religion didn't contain truth or value, it was just that you can freely reach out and take it at any time.
Maybe that'll be my snappy answer from now on.
My wife showed me a video (related event starts at ~41:00) in which primate researchers hide a treat in an opaque box. They perform a complex series of actions, and then take the treat out of the box. They taught the complex series of actions to primates and human children; both groups perform the series of actions and get the treat.
They then put a treat in a clear box, in which it is completely obvious that the treat can be taken at any time. Only a fraction of the primates bother with the unnecessary steps, but all of the human children do. This experiment was repeated with children from cultures around the world with the same results.
This video deeply unsettled me, and I ended up walking through downtown at 3 in the morning thinking heavily. I came across a woman sitting at a red light. There were no cars coming in any direction. The roads around were straight, empty, and completely visible. The box was clear, the treat was there, and still she did the unnecessary action.
It was one of - if not the - final straw for religion for me. Religion was an unnecessary series of actions (ceremonies, guilt, singing, etc.) to obtain a treat (social order, ethics, etc.). It wasn't that religion didn't contain truth or value, it was just that you can freely reach out and take it at any time.
Maybe that'll be my snappy answer from now on.
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