Christians (And Atheists) Don't Trust Themselves

I've heard some atheists say before that, if they had a spiritual experience, they would assume that they were hallucinating or that they had lost their minds. This strikes me as strange, since I spent so much of my life suppressing my own instincts and gut feelings, because I was afraid of going to hell and being a bad person/Christian. When people get free of that, wouldn't they want to finally trust themselves?
Other people say that it's not logical to go with your own experiences, over what other people tell you is logical or correct. Just like fundamentalist Christians tell you that you can't trust your own instincts about right and wrong, over what the bible apparently says.
I have seen some people denigrate the spiritual experience of a nice gay universalist Christian friend of mine, who said that he had a vision of Christ on the cross and that that's when he became truly born again after being a "wet Baptist" all his life. I came to his defense, even though I considered myself an atheist at the time, because what else is he supposed to go on, than his own experiences? He says that everyone will eventually have some kind of experience like that, and be as certain as him--and so far, I am not as certain as him and have not had any spiritual experiences. He may very well be wrong--but that doesn't mean that he's wrong to trust his own instincts and experiences.
 Why would atheists not trust their own instincts? After all, I became an atheist to get away from this crap. I'm not saying it's wrong to think that a "spiritual experience" was not in fact spiritual, but automatically assuming, in spite of your own instincts, is.
I was so miserable, for so many years, because I thought I was bound to a "literal" interpretation of the bible, and that if I wanted to see women being pastors or gays getting married, that I would literally burn for it. I went against my own instincts about rightness and justice, and I hated it! I was betraying my own conscience, because of my fears.
I later found out that biblical scholars have a few theories for how God inspired the bible, and that some allowed for imperfect human or cultural influence. That was such a relief, when I read that, in a Christian school textbook of all places! I was free! I couldn't believe that I didn't have to hurt others because of whom they loved, or limit my own potential just because of my vagina. It was almost too good to be true, but I had been a prisoner to fundamentalism so long, that I jumped at the chance to be free from it. I could let God, or my God-given conscience, guide me directly, even about the bible. I can't stress enough how freeing it was to learn that I didn't have to hurt other people, or myself, for God.
What the atheists do, does not come with the terrifying threat of hell, but it is oppressive to me, nonetheless. Why rely on what other people tell you is most likely to be true? I never was much for anti-apologetics arguments, because I could just look at my own life, and know that I had not had the experience of feeling close to God, as I had been promised I would have, if I was born again (which is why I "got saved" so many times, until I sensed a pattern and got tired of the pattern).
I don't consider myself an atheist anymore, at least not very much of one. But atheists other nonbelievers have the potential for freedom, here, and throw it all away. They can be free to trust their own instincts, but some choose to trust what other people tell them is most logical or likely. Why would anyone do that to themselves?
I am so very relieved to get away from fundamentalism and evangelicalism. And sometimes I read articles by LGBT-affirming and universalist Christians, and I think that maybe I can have what I've always wanted. That is the sense of being close to God, and having a relationship with God that brings me joy, and not grief and anxiety about not being a good enough or "real" Christian.
But I don't try very hard to get close to God anymore, if there is someone there. I got free from trying to pray and read the bible even though I was absolutely sick of both activities--and other ways in which I shoved down my true feelings and gave in to the fear which was instilled in me by others all of my life. I don't try to believe or have faith at all, either, because that would not really be believing.
I got free from trying to placate others' versions of God, and I don't want to be a prisoner to other people's logic as well. If I ever do have an apparently spiritual experience, I think I will have a healthy skepticism--unless I believe that it actually is from God, or is likely to be.
I also tell people, sometimes, if they give me crap about not being a "real" Christian, that I don't need their permission to be a Christian, or have a relationship with God. If God has a problem with me, then that supposedly all-powerful being can think of a way to tell me (though if God is in fact unjust to women or LGBT people, for example, then that is a different matter entirely). Until then, I won't allow anyone to tell me anything about God. If I am made by God, then I would say that I am more than worthy of my own trust, because God doesn't make junk!
I just now gained the freedom to trust myself, relatively recently in my life. So I'm not giving that up for anything, whether for "God" or for "logic". I'm going to trust myself, no matter where that leads me. After all, I'm the only one that I know is truly on my side. Those other people are strangers, and are dubious at best. If I don't trust them to visit me at my house, after all, why would I trust them with something as important as God and God's nature?

Say It A Hundred Times

This is how I got the courage to ask total strangers for their signatures.
I was trying to start an atheist/non-religious club at my school, Umpqua Community College, last spring, and the first day I tried to gather signatures, I was very timid, and only got one or two. (No, none of the shooting victims from last October signed my petition for the atheist club, in case anyone was wondering. I do remember seeing some of the victims around the school, though.) I didn't end up starting this club, since I realized that LGBTQ issues were more important to me anyway, but I did pick up a valuable new skill.
I knew that if I had a lot of practice, I would not be timid anymore, so I "practiced." I simply said, over and over in my head, "Would you like to sign a petition for a new student club?" (Since I was very good at saying "Hi," already, and wouldn't need to practice that in order to say it first.)
The idea came to me as I was lying in bed, and I did this whenever my thoughts weren't distracted. The repetition was very comforting after a while.
By the time I was drifting off to sleep, I was thinking things like, "Would you be interested in signing a position for a new stupid club?"
The next day, I drove down to the school, though I had no classes, to get signatures. I practiced constantly in the car, over and over again. But I had the windows down on the freeway, and as soon as I got off and the noise died down, I was just as nervous as before, because my voice was louder, and alone, in my ears. I kept saying it, though my nerves weren't getting any better.
It was a Friday, and so the school was nearly deserted. But I determined to ask the first person I saw--who wasn't wearing a name tag, and wasn't wearing a suit, and looked rather young so that they were definitely a student and not a faculty member, and wasn't in the smoking shelters, because I don't care for cigarette smoke.
I managed to ask two people. The first one, I asked after I had said hi, while she had her back to me and was turning away, which I thought was quite an accomplishment.
"Well, actually, I am religious," she said after my "pitch."
"Oh, okay, thanks anyway," I said, sure I wasn't going to convince someone who was afraid of signing their soul away.
The second person smiled and informed me that she wasn't a student. "Oh, I'm sorry," I laughed, "you must look young!" I shrugged.
"Oh, thank you!" she answered.
I didn't really have an opportunity to ask any more people, though the day was not wasted: I visited two people that I had met at the Safe Space Workshop for LGBTQ allies only a few days before, that had offered to help me both with my new club and on behalf of the Gay-Straight Alliance Club.
I was a little worried that my newfound enthusiasm and confidence would be gone by next week, and told myself the following Tuesday that I just needed to get one more signature that day. Just one, and then I would worry about getting another--if I was up to it. I practiced in the car, and in my head as I walked to the library yet again. I was so scared of my own weakness.
Well, I got eight signatures that day! About half the people I asked signed my petition, and the reactions I got varied widely.
The first person I asked talked in a typical "spiritual" tone and loved the idea, talking about being fascinated by other people's points of view.
"I know, I try to see all sides of things, too," I said, trying to explain that I was the same way--mostly.
"That's what comparative religion is all about," he intoned.
"Yes, I think that...I think there's some truth in almost all belief systems," I answered, though I didn't necessarily think that they were all right about God or even morals.
"I hope you get enough signatures," he said.
"Thank you so much," I smiled.
A few people didn't seem to be atheist or religious, but had no problem signing it. "Of course, signing it doesn't mean that you are an atheist," I made conversation while one girl signed it.
"Oh, yeah," she laughed.
"Yeah, that would be kind of a horrible thing to do to people!" I laughed, trying to make conversation but often feeling like I didn't know what to say, "making them sign a loyalty oath!"
The most common response was, "What kind of club?"
My typical answer was, "Well, it's kind of a support group, actually," then explaining that it was mostly for those who aren't really religious, or have doubts, but have friends and family that are religious--but that all are welcome if they're friendly and respectful, of course.
One girl, when told about the club, shook her head, smiling nervously, and said, "No, thank you!" 
"Oh, okay," I said, waving my hand dismissively (though not dismissive of her), "Thanks anyway."
"Atheists?" one guy asked. "Okay."
He was willing to sign, but didn't seem to understand why having religious family would be hard on some people. "Just, if they're concerned for them, and how do you balance trying to make them feel better, with being yourself..." I explained.
"Oh, okay," he said.
One guy, when told of the club, laughed quietly, rather like a lunatic or movie villain, in my opinion, and walked away, looking at me like I was crazy. A small part of me was hurt and didn't want to be treated that way, but I was rather glad that the (by now) creepy guy didn't stick around to talk.
I must admit that I did wear a very feminine, lacy short dress as a top with pants, sat on the bench outside of the men's room (there was more traffic there--honest!), put on some lipstick, and smiled at any boy who walked by and made eye contact with me. I smoothed my top and tried to be subtly flirty as they were signing it. I don't consider it to be deceptive, though, because I do like guys.
But there was one person I felt completely flustered to interact with, and rather too shy to ask. That person was actually a girl.
She was very bold about saying hi to me, both coming in and going out, and though I had no problem talking to her, I couldn't bring myself to ask--I seemed unable because of my shyness. I had been around bisexual girls enough to know that she was probably flirting with me, herself probably bi or lesbian. Something in her manner said that that was more than just being friendly.
I had had years of practice talking to boys...but not to girls. The thought was scary, especially with her very bold manner. It was scary because a part of me wanted to talk to her, a part of me that I am not very familiar with, still, and have only been aware of for a short time. Though I don't feel negatively about it, I still feel emotional and confused about it. This may take some time to get used to, for me.

My last signature I didn't even ask for. Another girl walked in, stopped, looked right at me, saw my clipboard, and asked, "Do you have something to sign?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm collecting signatures for a new student club."
"Cool," she said, reaching for it. A little taken aback, I repeated my explanation and thanked her as she signed her name.
"See ya," she said as she went into the library to study.
She had acted like she was expecting to see me and my clipboard there. I wondered if anyone had said something to her. Apparently I was getting a rep.
I did get enough signatures, and after only a few days more of this! And I now had the courage, because I had asked that same question hundreds of different times. The repetitive technique of saying it over and over again in my mind has served me well in other areas too, for example boosting my self-esteem when I feel bad about myself (not guilty, but bad for no reason). Once you get in the habit of saying something to yourself, repetitively, the skill doesn't go away, and that's a great thing! :)

Faith, When The Honeymoon Is Over?

What do you do when you get past that initial "high" of getting saved, of having great expectations of your life with God, and you wonder where it went? A lot of Christians get saved again and again, and that is what I did sometimes, though I eventually sensed a pattern.I have seen Christians twice my age (I am twenty-five) try stuff like "believing God" that something good would happen, and doubling down on their "ministry" in church. I honestly wonder how they can keep it up without getting exhausted, like I did. I presume having a church community gives them some kind of incentive.
I never want to have the kind of relationship I used to have with God: striving, always striving, struggling in spite of my many doubts. Sometimes I wonder if I will remain an atheist/"bad" Christian (or whatever I am) for the rest of my life, and I shudder when I think of the possibility of trying so hard again.
If God truly wants a relationship with me, He will have to reconcile himself to the fact that I am no longer going to try. I don't want to pray, knowing that I will get no discernible (to me) answer. I don't want to read the bible (or any other holy book, for that matter), trying to either ignore or justify the reprehensible parts, and pretend that it's not ancient and frankly, boring. I'm tired, and I'm done.
Being a Christian, and trying to please God, has mostly been exhausting and anxiety-producing for me. I was very relieved, actually, when my faith was broken.
"Oh, Lord, please let this work. Please be with him. Please help us. Please don't let my parents divorce. Please..."
It was constant noise, constant chattering, chattering, chattering, and then...
Silence. I couldn't pray anymore. I couldn't feel. I walked around in a fog, emotionally numb.
When I finally came out of that fog, I was different. I couldn't pray anymore, and didn't see the point in it.
I sat in church, and heard the preacher speak of things from fantasy (God answering prayer, feeling close to God, etc) as if they were real. And I knew now that it was all bullshit. How could I sit there, and hear adults twice or three times my age talk about utter nonsense? How could I pretend to believe, knowing what I now knew? I had seen the hard reality of life. I felt figuratively like a prostitute hearing virgins trying to teach me about sex.
I became cynical, and I still feel cynical sometimes.
 I didn't lose my faith, it was broken.
I was lucky in that my faith was "broken" when I was fifteen. My family was going through some very difficult times, on multiple levels. I feared not only that my parents would divorce, but that we would be financially destitute, and I also feared for my little brother's safety (because of outside circumstances, nothing within our home).
All of it together was simply too much. I kept trying, trying to be a good Christian, a good kid, pray and have faith. I constantly felt an internal pressure, like a little voice in my head (only it was my voice) constantly telling me what I "ought" to do, and it was never enough.
Then one day something snapped, and the pressure was gone. I didn't care anymore. God could kiss my ass. It was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Around that time, I remember reading Fannie Flagg's book, "Standing In The Rainbow." One character in it tries to do everything for everyone, and she finally just can't do it any more. She just wakes up one day and does nothing for nobody, staying in bed all day long. Then one day she wakes up out of her breakdown, and goes back to work, but she is different. She is more assertive, and takes better care of herself, rather than everyone else but her. She later says, "All my life I've been on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and now that I've had one, I feel a lot better."
My "breakdown" was the beginning of the end for my faith. At first I would write blasphemous songs and tell God that I hated him, because that was all I could do at the time; it was all I had in my arsenal because I was still in the Christian mindset and trying to get out.
Over the years I have tried again to be a good Christian, a few times, but mostly with the underlying attitude of trying it on for size, of seeing if it fits me or is useful to me rather than trying desperately to fit in its mold. Or of giving it one more shot, before I knew I couldn't do it anymore. Something has fundamentally changed in me (maybe I've lost my soul?), and I think I can credit my "breakdown" for making my life much better today.
Looking back now, I probably needed therapy or medication for depression, though I wonder if they would have been better for me or simply gave me the strength to keep going in the same destructive religious pattern. It's impossible to tell, though I do hope others get the help they need.
I have changed significantly, and it breaks my heart to see others who have not gone through this change. I see adults twice my age and older in a constant pattern of trying to do more in church, be better Christians, have more "righteous indignation." All of the things I thought I had to do, before I got angry (or admitted I was angry) at God for asking too much.
They seem to be constantly under pressure, like they're on the verge of a religious breakdown, that never happens. They can somehow keep going and going for years or even decades at a time. I did not have such strength, and my "weakness" was the best thing for me. I fear that they are too strong for their own good.
I lost my faith partially because I can only take so much abuse.

"You're Only A Christian Because You Want To Sin!"

Theists often believe that atheists and unbelievers are thinking something along the lines of, "If God isn't real, then I can do whatever I want, even if I hurt other people." Yet those same theists, themselves, are often thinking, "I must do what I believe God wants, even if I hurt other people."
I once had a conversation with a woman who said, regarding marriage equality, that she generally kept her opinions to herself, in order not to hurt people. Yet sadly, she believed that God wanted her to have an opinion that, even when stated in the nicest possible terms, hurt people. She believed that God Himself, who was supposed to be all-loving, held this inherently hurtful position. And she believed that God wanted her to fight against people's equal rights, and thereby hurt them, or at least try to. It was one of the saddest, and scariest, conversations I had ever had. I was grateful that many Christians were nothing like her, in this way.
This idea that it's okay to hurt people if Christians do it, is just an extension of the idea that it's okay to hurt people if God does it--and they do believe that God does hurt people, apparently.
It seems the height of arrogance, though, to believe that they are God's policemen. Jesus himself put a stop to that crap when he rescued a guilty woman from being stoned to death. (And remember, he only told her not to sin AFTER he had just literally saved her life--he earned the right to comment on her life, unlike most Christians who wish to talk about the sliver in their brothers' eyes.)
Christians sometimes seem to think that they're immune to the temptation to look down on others, a temptation that I believe we all share sometimes. They hide behind the phrase "Christians aren't perfect, just forgiven," and the idea that since we're all sinners, it's impossible for them to be anything but humble (a direct contradiction of the first phrase, interestingly enough--if they're not perfect, then they're more than capable of arrogance). In other words, than think they can throw stones because of their sin, not because of their perfection.
But being "forgiven" does not make one infallible. Being "forgiven" does not make one humble. And most of all, being "forgiven" does not mean that you're not hurting others.
And loving people does not protect one against these things, either. Everyone has had the experience of accidentally hurting the people they love, or accidentally being hurt by the people who love them.
I know that a lot of Christians will probably be tempted, now, to object that hurting others is sometimes for their greater good, but again, being "forgiven" or loving other people does not make one infallible. They could very well be hurting others, all for nothing. ("But what if you're wrong?!" I would ask them.)
But perhaps some Christians don't wish to answer to God for hurting others--so they make up their own rules, and then pretend that God wrote them.
They pretend that they can ignore the cultural context and original meanings of the bible, in favor of "literal" translations, so that they don't have to answer for their actions. They pretend that their holy book is "clear" on issues that biblical scholars vehemently debate, so that they can get away with doing whatever they wish--even if it hurts others. They pretend that progressive Christians are twisting scripture, but they also pretend that people in the middle ages didn't know how to twist scripture.
In other words, they're only Christians because they want to sin!

Vulgar Christians

I like to cuss. I like to cuss a lot. And I find it interesting, to observe who cusses with me, and who doesn't.
Last Christmas, my kind gay Christian friend shared a photo to Facebook of his husband wearing what he had given him: a warm fleece jacket with a small Oregon State University beavers logo.
In my part of southern Oregon, about half of the locals (by my estimate) support the University of Oregon ducks, and half support the Oregon State University beavers. Even the local dairy company puts out two different team-colored cartons of the same flavor of ice cream. (Unfortunately, it's like they're shitting on both teams, because all of their ice cream products are filled with corn syrup and taste disgustingly sweet, and I avoid them at all costs.)
Anyway, my friend bragged that "Rob loves his new jacket. We'll make a beaver fan out of him yet!"
I was so very tempted to make a dirty joke and blame it on autocorrect.
"I thought he liked dicks instead of beavers," I almost said, "Oh no, I mean DUCKS instead of beavers!"
And yet I didn't, because, though I knew that one of my other gay friends, an atheist, would probably howl with laughter, I didn't want to make my very proper Christian friend uncomfortable. So I settled for, "His smile says, 'I like the beavers now,' but his eyes say, 'Help me!'"
A few months later, I saw a picture of those two on a hike, and Rob was again wearing his warm Beaver pullover, though I'm guessing that he actually divorced his wife and married a man to get away from the beavers. I honestly don't know what his husband was thinking; they're already on the same team, anyway.
Interestingly enough, almost every gay Christian I know is very proper, never cussing or making dirty jokes; always going to church; and never being mean, even to the bigots and awful people. There was the one guy who said that he was a devout Christian, "and when I was born, I had to have a c-section, because I was so gay, I couldn't even come out of a vagina." (That's literally why we're now friends, in fact, because he said that.) But that's as vulgar as they come, at least in my circle of friends. 
The Christian straight allies, on the other hand, say things like, "I just love my lesbian daughter! I tell her all the time, 'I'm so glad I didn't swallow you!'" (It reminded me of my mom, but I didn't tell her that story, because I was afraid that I would hear that, too.) And, "I would draw a pentagram under the welcome mat for a demon trap, but I'm afraid my kids couldn't come in!" (This was said by the ultra-modest Christian who tried to help me start an atheist club at my school, in fact.)
There is a pansexual Christian I know who draws nudes (at least partly for aesthetic reasons), but I don't know if she counts. She seems like the kind to laugh at some dirty jokes, but is proper in other ways (anti-abortion, unlike the ultra-modest feminist woman I mentioned above).
I can see the LGBT Christians trying to prove to themselves and others that they're "real" Christians (if anyone can be called that), but I often wonder why, if they apparently reexamined and rejected one major item of their faith (since a lot of them come from conservative backgrounds--and to a gay person, this item is one of the biggest issues in religion), they don't just go all out and reexamine everything.
Why would God be opposed to "duck" jokes? Or, for that matter, premarital sex? (My own mom advises me to have premarital sex, if I ever have a boyfriend or girlfriend, rather than getting married because we want to have sex.) Why not cuss, if you're not using your words to hurt innocent people? Why be "holy" anyway? Or was the concept just made up by humans, in order to set themselves apart from others, so that they would have people to look down upon (or be able feel better about themselves morally)?
And why are the LGBT-affirming straight people I know so vulgar, even while being Christian? In this area, my proper gay Christian friends seem to have more in common with the homophobes--except that the gays are generally much nicer and therefore will only laugh politely, rather than giving you "sad" looks because you're "lost." The atheists and the straight Christians, meanwhile, will howl and giggle right alongside you.
I'm not sure exactly where I fit into all of this, though. I'm bisexual, so I'm both lesbian and straight. And I was a Christian, then an atheist, and now I often feel like both at the same time. But I'm definitely one of the vulgar ones. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

If I'm Spiritually Shrinking, Then I Prefer To Be Small

When I went to Christian school, they taught us a song that went, "Read your bible, pray every day, pray every day, pray every day; Read your bible, pray every day, and you'll grow, grow, grow, grow; Neglect your bible, forget to pray, forget to pray....and you'll shrink, shrink, shrink, shrink..." And we would try to become steadily bigger or smaller with each line.
I felt bad just singing the second verse, imagining what a bad and selfish kid I would be if I didn't give God enough time every day. There were a lot of other things that they did at that school to drive home the point that secular (without "Christian" activities) equals bad, but that's one of the things that stands out to me the most in my memory.
All through my childhood and early teens, reading my bible was a duty, a chore which I had to do every day--but I wasn't allowed (or mustn't allow myself) to think of it as a chore, or God would be sad or insulted. This was nothing compared to prayer, which I tried to do constantly, in addition to setting aside as much time as possible (as much as I could stand) to focus only on that, every day.
I thought I would get a reward for all of this, in the form of feeling close to God. When I was about fifteen, though, I discovered that I was trying so hard, rededicating my life to Christ so often that that experience was becoming predictable, and I wasn't consistently feeling close to God at all. It seemed, in fact, that the more I tried, the further away he became.
So I started "shrinking." I couldn't stand the feeling of always "pressing in," as my mother put it, and wondering what was wrong with me, that God didn't want to or couldn't have a relationship with me. I was even saying all of the right things, talking about God almost constantly, in front of everyone. And still I was not feeling close to God at all. But I couldn't admit how I felt very often, or be too upset, because I didn't want to be angry or bitter at God.  I had to be spiritually mature, after all.
I started "shrinking." I felt I didn't have a choice, because I just couldn't stand to even look at my bible anymore. I felt like such a bad person, but like I said in another recent post, my grief in this world finally overcame my fear of the next one.
And it turns out I prefer to be small.
I have a kind gay Christian friend, whose husband recently announced on Facebook that he was giving up soda for Lent. My first thought was that I would be very concerned, if my husband was drinking so much soda that it was a sacrifice to give it up (I would make him give up that sugar and substitute another kind of "sugar," if it was me; lots of exercise would be healthier for us both). My second thought was that he was not doing this for himself (or just for himself), but apparently, for God. And I don't think I could do anything "for God" ever again.
Literally, my whole life used to revolve around God. I know that sounds really good, to some people, something to strive for. But I was miserable.
Sometimes I can't believe that I'm "allowed" to read Harry Potter, to listen to secular music, to watch anything I want--to literally do anything that I want to, as long as I don't hurt other people or animals (and I can refrain from smacking another person upside the head, though sometimes it's very hard). I can even think bad thoughts, even about God. I can't believe my newfound freedom.
As much as people try to make it about a "relationship," being a Christian (even a gay or affirming one) usually involves lots of rules, and lots of work. Some people say that it shouldn't be easy, in order to distinguish themselves as better or truer Christians than others. Some people act like it's very easy, at least for them, and look down on those who admit that it's hard. Some even admit that it's hard, but judge others for not wanting to put in all of the work for very little reward (and I'm not talking material things or money, either, but "spiritual" reward, that's virtually undetectable). And some people even seem to have it easy, to the point where I think that they're not really into having a relationship with God.
I used to put away ten percent of all of my money, very faithfully, for a tithe to Christian charities. I was just a small kid when I started, and I really wanted to spend that money on fun things for myself. I remember wondering how much money I would have if I just kept it, or if I put away another ten percent to save. But I gave that ten percent away, faithfully, for many years, because I would be sinning if I didn't. And even today, at age twenty-five, I still have trouble giving any money at all to charity (though I might donate things for them to sell, or help people or animals directly if I can). There's something about money, though, that makes it hurt to give it up.
It hurts to do a lot of things, that I used to do every day, as a "duty." So I don't do them. I once went an entire year or two without even picking up a bible, and then got 100% on a "standardized" bible test I had to take because I was homeschooled through the Christian school. That's how much I used to read the bible, and how much I'm now fed up, for most part, with reading the bible--and other typical "Christian" things.
And just because I'm fed up with these things, doesn't mean that I hate God. I'm just tired of pursuing someone who just doesn't seem to be there. I just want to enjoy my life. And if I'm spiritually shrinking, then maybe less is more.

I Met The Mythical Gay From My Childhood

When I was a child, my dad ran a company owned by the most conservative conspiracy-theorist couple you would probably ever meet. The company was run out of their large home, and as the couple was nice to me and their place in the country was very pleasant, I went with my dad to work as often as I could.
I saw their huge walk-in freezer; ate all of the raspberries and grapes out of the wife's garden (she didn't seem to mind); consumed her generously-offered protein shakes and "healthy" cookies with exotic and funny-tasting ingredients; took a small boat out on their huge pond (complete with a "miniature" hydroelectric dam, because self-sufficiency was everything, when the economy totally collapsed and the government came for their guns--seriously); and played with their daughter-in-law and granddaughter.
I loved it when their granddaughter, who was my age, came to visit while I was there. She was so fascinating to me: Asian (I live in a very white area), a big-city girl; someone who went to public school; she watched Sailor Moon and played amazing and exotic music on her own boombox (I still smile whenever I hear Abba's "Dancing Queen"). Looking back now, I believe I may have had a crush on her, as much as a little girl who knows almost nothing of lesbianism could get a crush. She was cool.
I knew all about that family, from hearing my mom and dad discussing them at home. I knew that they had four sons, whom I will call Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John (frankly, I'm surprised those weren't their real names). I knew that Matthew was the one who helped run the company, with my dad; that Luke and John both lived far away from their parents; and that Mark was an atheist--and, even more scandalous, that he was gay!
I was the little girl who, in first grade in the very conservative Christian school, made a pact with my best friend at the time, that, if we grew up like the boys who married boys, and the girls who married girls, we would marry each other. Looking back now, I'm not sure how I didn't realize I was bisexual sooner than age twenty-three.
But I knew, by the time I was nine or ten, that gay was bad. I wondered what Mark looked like, and what he wore. I found it morbidly fascinating, as all "bad" things are. I never met him, to my recollection. But I wondered how hard it was, for this nice older couple, to have a son like him. I knew that the father was an angry old man, though he was always nice to me, when he was alive. But I was still being raised to think that being gay was very bad (though it was mostly my school, and my mother's views have changed along with mine).
Then, about fifteen years later (a few months ago), I joined a Facebook group for survivors of fundamentalism, and I loved reading people's stories of escape. One day, I saw a story from, coincidentally, a "Mark Johnson." He ended his short introduction with, "I'm now gay and an atheist, haha!"
This group was for people across the U.S.; surely it couldn't be the Mark Johnson? I looked at his profile picture, and he looked a lot like his dad! Then I discovered that he lived in the city that I had heard a few of the Johnson boys lived in.
"Where are you from?" I asked him. "I think I might know you, or at least know of you."
He named a tiny town, near me, in my own state. But I knew that that was not accurate; it was actually a rural area about ten miles north of this town! And I knew this, because I had been to his house!
"My dad worked for your dad!" I explained, giving him my dad's name. "Your parents were John Sr. and Shirley, weren't they? I don't suppose we've met; I would have been a little girl at the time."
He had not met me, he thought, but had met my dad a few times. "But to be honest, I mostly stayed away from my father," he added.
"I am so sorry to hear that," I answered, "But, well...I don't blame you. I can see John Sr. being...hard to get alone with."
"He was a gun-loving rightwing Christian zealot," he answered frankly.
"Yep--I've heard stories!"
He liked that comment, and a few days later, sent me a friend request. My life had turned around 180 degrees.
He's sometimes angry (though at least for good reasons), but considering John Sr.'s anger, he's a bright ray of happy sunshine by comparison. I think anyone who trolls Franklin Graham's Facebook page for fun is kind of a nut, but at least he shares my very penile sense of humor. He hates people and loves animals, a lot like me.
He once shared a link about the Oregon terrorists being arrested, and asked, "But where will people send all the dildoes?"
"I'm sure they'll auction them off," a female friend of his replied.
"I want the real thing, damn it!" he answered.
"I don't like what the real thing's attached to!" she remarked. I was glad I was subscribed to this wonderful comedy gold.
He also once asked Facebook in general, "What exactly is the 'gay lifestyle'? Orgies and cocktails all day?"
I knew he'd been Graham-ing again, from that one. He says from his experience Graham-ing that evangelical women, especially, are "bitches."
"Aren't orgies and cock-tails the same thing?" I asked. (Though I suppose cock-tales are what one tells after the orgies.)
When he liked my comment, I knew I had made the absolute right choice in accepting his friend request. He shares my sense of humor almost exactly.
I think it's really too bad that the only single gay man over fifty I know is a devout Christian and a country boy, as I have no one for either of them (though my other friend is a universalist, so he could theoretically be with any guy, because in his belief system they'll become a Christian eventually, anyway). I often wonder what these two would be like together, though, because they're wrong for each other in every way. It sounds like a great comedy.
I don't know if I believe in fate or God or something, but it sure is strange, that I became friends with him this way, after originally thinking of him and other LGBT people as such a fascinatingly scary species--almost mythical. I like having this connection to my past, too, especially because he was also the very first gay person I had ever heard about, at least in real life. And now he's just one of my many gay and lesbian friends.
It's weird how some things work out.

Thank God I Lost My Faith

A lot of gay Christians talk about their years-long struggles with themselves, and how they beg God to change them, but it does nothing. I had a similar experience, long before I knew I was bisexual, except that my experience involved the struggle to get close to God, and not feeling close at all.
Have you ever had the experience of trying to tackle a very difficult project, and finally, you feel so frustrated, that you just give up for good? Now imagine if you are afraid to give up, or even to ease up on your efforts, because you're afraid that you will burn in hell for eternity if you do!
I continued at that same level of frustration (and constant stress!) for years, and the struggle to get close to God and to please him continued literally every second that I wasn't distracted or sleeping. And I thought it was all my fault, that I didn't consistently feel close to God, because God could never be wrong, and it was blasphemy to criticize him or be even a little upset with him.
Later I realized that some Christians thought you could get mad at God, and not be sinning, but it always seemed that it had to end on a positive note; you always had to "come back" to God, or else it was being bitter and sinning. So it was less than useless, pretending to be "over" something when you weren't.
I was either constantly failing to think Christian thoughts, in my own mind, or else trying to make up for them with Christian thoughts. I read my bible and prayed even when I was tired, and tired of it, but the most difficult, and stressful, part was trying to be in constant communication with God, and being painfully aware that God was watching when any sexual, angry, or blasphemous thoughts popped into my head, seemingly of their own volition. I couldn't relax, and had so much trouble getting to sleep, because I had to be constantly vigilant.
I finally got so emotionally numb that I just couldn't do any of it anymore. My faith was "broken," like the bruised reed that was not supposed to be broken. My misery and stress in this life finally overcame my terror of the next one, the stress was so great.
And the worst part was that I still had the great fear of hell, of not being a real Christian, and I still had the feeling that it was all my fault that I couldn't get close to God. And, even worse, it was all my fault that I couldn't be a Christian, and it was all my fault that I would go to hell.

But I see people in my family, and sometimes my life, who never, to my knowledge, went through all that. It doesn't seem easy for them, but they seem to be cramming their feelings down, putting on a happy smile, going to church, and judging all of the people that they're told to judge. And I think they have an easier time doing this than I did, because they didn't go through other things that I went through. My family raised the neighbor's baby, and when I was fifteen, we went through the father's custody battle along with him. I was so terrified that the baby would go to his neglectful, meth-addicted mother. And there were stories in the newspaper, at that time, of mother's boyfriends molesting, abusing, and even killing babies and small children. She had a lot of boyfriends, unsavory characters all.
I'm not exactly sure what combination of things led to my faith being broken, though. And I wonder, if I hadn't gone through all that, how I would be now? Would I still be homophobic? Would I know that I was bisexual? Would I know, and not like myself? Would I still be trying, so, so hard, and ruining my health and my mental health, and my life, because of it?
I would be so unhappy and depressed, if I was still my thirteen-year-old self. And I wouldn't even be allowed to acknowledge that I was unhappy, miserable, and depressed. I grieve for what I went through, and I am still recovering from it all, emotionally and physically, but I wonder if I would be worse off today, if I hadn't gone through that.
I remember an acquaintance, Ruth, who is twenty years old and almost exactly like I was, at thirteen. I sense her ambivalence, that she's torn between two worlds, but I distance myself from her, because it's too painful to see it, what I used to be. And for all I know, she could come through this time in her life even more homophobic and anti-equality, and I don't want to be around or be friends with someone like that, no matter how "nice" the oppressors are. It would only make me miserable, and life's much too short.
If there was one thing that would have made my life easier, back then, it would have been not trying at all to be "good." I spent so much energy trying to be "good": a "good" Christian, "good" daughter, "good" kid. I was scared to death of being "bad," and since one little thought could be a sin, I was "bad" constantly. That really does a number on your self-esteem, and your life in general. I was depressed, and couldn't see my life ever getting any better. I didn't like myself, either. Not one little bit; I couldn't stand myself.
When I learned to love myself, it wasn't because I was a child of God or something, it was in spite of the damage of the church's teachings. And they certainly didn't intend to inflict that kind of damage; they were "kind," "gentle," "loving" and all of the other self-congratulatory cliches. There were a few years where I had to just purge all mention of religion or Christianity from my life, and ignore it as much as I could. I'm glad I did, too. I desperately needed a long break from it.
I've learned so much over the years, and I wouldn't trade what I know now for anything. I learned to trust myself, where before I had been so focused on my relationship with God, that I had no relationship with myself. At first, I had been totally lost for how to fill my hours, my thoughts, and my life, if God was gone from it. I didn't know how to function, with all of that stress suddenly gone. But I knew I couldn't bear to do anything "Christian" ever again, even if I had such fear of hell. My misery in this life was greater, though the fear and self-hatred were still very much there.
I learned what kind of music I really liked, not having to worry about always listening to Christian music. I learned how to fill my spare hours in ways that I liked. I learned to cuss, which was fucking awesome! The biggest shock was my mind being seemingly empty, though, after constant prayer and vigilance every second. I literally didn't know how to think for myself! :)
But I learned, and I like my life now. I like myself, now.
I don't know if I would be so well-off today, if all of that hadn't happened to me. I'm still recovering from everything I've been through, but I'm so grateful that I'm here. I can't imagine how miserable my life would still be, in so many ways, if I hadn't lost my faith.
Maybe losing my faith was a gift from God. It certainly is a blessing, of some sort, even if I become a devout Christian again. (Which I don't think is likely, because I'm not putting any effort into being "devout" ever again! I already paid my dues, and I'm not fucking up my one guaranteed life for a theoretical afterlife!)
Maybe my life would be better, in some ways, if I had not been through such painful experiences. But, though I would not go through it all again, I shudder to think what would have happened if I had had the energy to keep trying to be a Christian. 

Umpqua: I Am On The "Friendly Atheist" Blog

After the shooting at my school (Umpqua Community College) happened, the school was suddenly in the national spotlight. So I thought that some people would like to hear my story about being an atheist at UCC, and trying to start an atheist club there last year.
But my blog is small, and even people who would want to hear it might not get to. So I contacted Hemant Mehta of the Friendly Atheist blog, whom I had long respected and admired, about being a guest writer there. I thought I could be friendly enough, after all.
Here is my story, which I don't feel I should reprint here--after all, I wrote it for Hemant's blog. But I will provide the link to it, and I may elaborate on the same story here on this blog if I have time.
Some people who have commented on The Friendly Atheist have said that they would like to see me contribute more to that site. I think that I will (with Hemant's permission), if I have something that would be of interest to all or most atheists, and is specifically on the topic of atheism or religion. Here, it is more about life's journey, so that I talk about all different subjects, and interesting or funny incidences that happen to me.
If I write again for The Friendly Atheist or any other site, I will provide the link on this blog.

"I'll Pray For You"

The words "I'll pray for you" can either communicate good intentions and caring on the part of the person saying it, or judgment and condescension. I've never actually heard the phrase, "I'll pray for you" said in a condescending way to me, or in an argument, yet, but others certainly have, and I might just yet, so I came up with a short list of possible responses.

Here are some of my suggestions (I haven't had a chance to test any of them yet, so I am not sure how people will react, but if you don't care how people react, feel free to use them):

"Do it right now! I dare you!" You can even take this one step further, if they do decide to take your dare, by demanding that they kneel out of "respect for God." They will probably feel silly, praying for you right then and there, or they may pray AT you, not TO God, and thus look silly and angry. If the Christian is clever, though, they may try to drive the demons out of you.

"That sounds passive-aggressive." This is probably the one that I would be most likely use. I prefer to tell people exactly what I think the problem is, even if they deny it. If they do deny it, you can ask them why they would tell you that instead of just praying for you.

"No, you won't! You're lying!" This is one to use if you just want to be petulant (and I believe there are times to be simply petulant). This could also lead into "Do it right now..."

"You don't have to pray for my salvation; I've prayed for my own many times, and meant it." This one really only works when said by ex-Christians or ex-theists, obviously. But for ex-theists, it will highlight the fact that you were once sincere. It would probably work best if said to someone who tried to listen to you at least a little bit.

"I'd rather you pray for abused children." They are bigger problems in the world than unbelief.

"While you're at it, pray for yourself, too." If they ask you to elaborate, you can then draw attention to the fact that they are just assuming that you are mistaken and they are not, and that they are praying for you to find truth, but not for themselves, and that that is rather arrogant or not equal.


What would you suggest in how to respond to this phrase, whether it is said in a condescending or a caring way?

The Silliest Question Christians Can Ask

My mother once related having breakfast with my grandparents, when my grandfather asked her, once again, to come to church with them. She said that she was busy, to spare his feelings, though really she does not care for their church.
It was before breakfast, and rather late in the morning, so my grandfather was apparently feeling crabby. "What are you going to say to your Maker on Judgment Day?" he asked.
"The bible doesn't say that Christians have to go to church for salvation," she said. She was probably nicer than I would have been, though I love my grandparents as much as I love my animals, and that's saying something.

But then I wondered, what does one say to an omniscient god? Wouldn't literally anything one could say be redundant?
"Well, God, I was a Christian for a long time..." I would begin.
"Yes, I know." 
"And I tried really hard to get close to you and to please you..."
"I know." 
"...but it just seemed like nothing ever worked..."
"I'm aware of that. I was there and I read your mind."
"So I finally started thinking that maybe the reason I couldn't get close to you, wasn't that I couldn't figure out what my sin was, and it wasn't that I wasn't spending enough time in prayer and bible study, and wasn't that my childhood toys were an idol, but was that you weren't there at all."
"But I was there." 
"Then why didn't you say anything?!"

When theists, usually Christians (in my experience), ask what nonbelievers will say on judgement day, they don't really expect an answer. And if God really is all-knowing, any answer I can give would just be repeating something that God already knows I will say.
When theists ask this question, what they are really doing is clearly issuing a threat. What they are really saying is, "God's going to get you!" And they wouldn't be arrogant enough to issue this threat if they actually had any "fear of God," and understood that they didn't have the authority to say or predict who would go to heaven, and who would go to hell. (My standard reply when someone tries to threaten people with hell is, "God? Is that you? No one else has the authority to say that, so maybe you DO exist!" I especially get upvoted when I post it as "Atheist Journeys.")
But if they can be so assured of their own salvation, then I can be assured of mine (if there is anything to actually be saved from, that is). I see many atheists defeat the Pascal's Wager argument with simple logic ("What if another god is real, instead of the Christian god?"), but the main reason I don't go for the Wager is simpler than that: I already have been a sincere, devout Christian.
Most modern evangelical Christians would subscribe to the "once saved, always saved" doctrine, though interestingly enough, it seems to be a relatively recent fad in church history--in the 1678 Christian morality play, Pilgrim's Progress, the protagonist actually loses his salvation (symbolized by a scroll, to be presented at heaven's gates after crossing the River of Death) at one point, and has to retrace part of his faith-journey. There is also plenty of evidence from both the Old and New Testaments of the bible that Christians can lose their salvation, and it is not entirely clear on when names are written in the Book of Life found in Revelation (whether when one "gets saved," or when one dies as a Christian, or before one is born, or some other time). I'm not sure what that means for my own potential salvation, but I also don't believe that there's anything to be saved from.
I believe that most Christians subscribe to the "once saved, always saved" doctrine in order to make themselves feel better, when they hear about atheists being former Christians. They can't lose their faith and therefore their salvation, because they're true Christians, while the atheists never were true Christians, never were sincere.
Except that I know I was sincere. Many of us know that we were sincere.
When I related a short version of my story recently, to someone that I was debating online, he asked me if I was a Catholic. That's Protestant-speak for, "Did you try to earn your way to heaven with works?" (or possibly "Did you commit idolatry by praying to Mary or other saints?"). I answered that no, I had not tried to earn my way to heaven with works. (It amazes me that so many Christians I have encountered seem to think that atheists simply forgot to recite a form of the Sinner's Prayer and mean it.)

I am glad that I did not go with my mom that day, because I probably would have been somewhat crabby before breakfast too. "I'll say, 'Thank you very much,' because He will have said, 'Well done!'" I would have been tempted to say, though that might have been a little arrogant, and unintentionally deceitful, since it makes it sound as if I'm a Christian too.
If I was pressed, though, for a nicer, "real" answer, I would say that at least I know that I sought the truth, whatever it was, and (especially when it came to LGBTQ issues, which is how this silly question often comes up for me), at least I know that I loved, and that I tried to make things better for people in the one life that I knew we did have.
But then, my Maker would have already known that--and would know that now.

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I Have A Pseudofaith Underneath My Atheism

I wrote recently about what I would do if my child were an evangelical, and convinced I was going to hell. I couldn't stop thinking about that scenario since finding a book called "Letters From A Skeptic," by Dr. Gregory A. Boyd and Edward K. Boyd, about that very situation.
I imagine that an evangelical child, friend, etc, of mine would have a harder time convincing me than the co-author had of convincing his father (and it was a long correspondence), because I don't just take the evangelical Christian version of God as a given, as the default version. I have what I call my "If List," based on what I know of goodness, love, and loving behavior.

I remember my Christian homeschooling textbooks, Accelerated Christian Education curriculum, mentioning a story from the middle ages, The Holy War (really!),by John Bunyan (At least, that's what John Bunyan tells us in the introduction, as he says he didn't steal the story from anyone!). This story portrays the attack on the town of Mansoul, by a figure who was most obviously Jesus. Years later, I had a chance to download a copy for free (for it's not copyrighted, obviously) and read it for myself, so I did.
Mansoul's defenses were nothing more than its wickedness and stubbornness, it seems. The residents didn't want to listen, so the forces of Jesus took a battering ram to the Ear Gate, in spite of the town's protests. Many Christians have since adopted that style, and use it heavily to this day.

Christians often want to "break through" their family members' unbelief, and they often think that that is all that is necessary to get them to accept evangelicalism. Because to them, evangelicalism is Christianity, or it is a belief in God. They take it for granted that to accept some of the "Truth(TM)," you have to accept all of it (their beliefs) as true. I have seen famous Christian apologists in debates do this same exact thing.
Edward K. Boyd took it for granted at the start that if God existed, it was his son's version of God. That his son knew more about a potential god, and what that god would look like, than he did.
Now, I know that he is probably very proud of his son, especially having a kid who is so well-educated in religion, and probably a good and loving person too...but does that mean his son was right, even if God existed? Does that mean that Edward Boyd should not have come to his own conclusions, independent of what his son believed? If he cheats off his son's test paper, what if his son is wrong?
If my evangelical loved ones were ever to prove to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was a god; if they were to totally and utterly obliterate my atheism for all time...they would still fear for my soul. I know they would--I have conservative evangelical relations, and they don't even know that I'm an atheist (yet), and yet my parents and I have still been treated as if we were "lost."

My atheism is just one, relatively thin, layer, on top. And my belief in love, and what I know of loving behavior, is much, much stronger than my belief that God is unlikely to exist. Atheism is just statistics to me, just what I think of the world, while the inner layer is my deeply-cherished values. Obliterating my views of statistics and evidence is not enough to make me question my values.
Since writing the post "If," I have become aware that I have some sort of secondary beliefs, a conditional belief system of "If God is real, she is like this..."
Atheism is my main "category," that I would put myself in, but unlike what seems to be the case with most other atheists, I have a secondary category, a backup system, in case God is proven to exist (and nothing more). I would probably either be "spiritual" or at most, a progressive Christian.

I have been asked before why I care about the conduct or beliefs of Christians (sometimes about or towards other Christians), when I'm not one, and also once politely told, about a debate online regarding a certain topic (homosexuality and gay Christians, as usual), "This topic concerns Christians, not really atheists."
I was flabbergasted! Guess which Christian in this debate was the evangelical? None of the progressive Christians were bothered by my being there (of course, I was disagreeing with the evangelical, which is probably why I wasn't welcome, in his opinion). I told him that I thought a lot about what God would look like, if God was real (and good), and asked him why my being an atheist meant that I wasn't welcome there and couldn't have an opinion on this subject?
I guess that shut him up. He ignored that comment and went on to others.

When I first thought about this thing I had, other than atheism, I thought of the word, "Pseudopod." An insect or amoeba often has something that looks like a foot, that acts like a foot, but is not quite a foot. A pseudopod.
I have a thing that acts like a faith, that often looks like a faith, but is not a faith. A pseudofaith. I only believe in this pseudofaith if God can be proven to exist.
Some would say that the presence of my pseudofaith means or proves that I'm not really an atheist. I imagine that both some atheists and some theists might have a problem with it.
But I don't really care. This is what I know of love. And more than I'm an atheist, more than anything...I believe in love.
And if I go to hell for that, so be it. At least I will know that I loved.

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If My Child Were An Evangelical

I decided to call this post, "If My Child Were An Evangelical," rather than, "If My Child Were A Christian." I used to be more anti-theist, but I've met some wonderful pro-LGBTQ, feminist, universalist, and science-friendly Christians in the past year, and I know now that it's possible to be a happy and decent person, and still be a Christian (for some, at least).
I came across an old book recently, called "Letters From A Skeptic," (1994) by Dr. Gregory A. Boyd and his father, Edward K. Boyd. Since perusing it, I can't stop thinking about what I would do, if I were in the (then) skeptical father's position.
The father, Edward, makes a big mistake, that I see a lot of atheists make, in that he decides what he thinks about a theoretical "God" based on what others--his son--tells him about God. Even if his son convinces him that God exists, it still only proves a deist or theist position. It doesn't prove Christianity, and certainly not evangelical Christianity, at all.

I have a "buddy" online who is a Christian universalist. He believes that God will show Himself to everybody eventually, and that since God is love, "No one will be able to resist Him!"
I'm sure that my buddy thinks that I am merely in my pre-Christian (or post-Christian, pre-Christian), stage, but it doesn't really bother me. He lives his life, I live mine, and maybe God will show up for me one day. If he's right, it won't be unpleasant for me, and I'll be okay, either way.
He doesn't have to convince me of anything, or make me do or pray anything. And I don't have to convince him of anything. It's one of the perks of being a universalist and a non-anti-theist (except evangelicalism/fundamentalism).
This man's son, however, does believe in hell. So he feels compelled to convince his father of a slew of evangelical beliefs, not the least of which is that God is actually good for, or in spite of, sending or allowing people to go to hell. A tall order, especially if one is compelled to do it, or know that their loved ones will be tortured for eternity with no hope of rescue.

So in the (non-fiction) book, the son, a bible scholar and apologist, writes his dad a letter and tells him that he wants to correspond about the subject of Christianity. His dad agrees, and opens the floor with the question, "Why has Christianity done so much harm?"
In addition to assuming that "Christianity" means his son's particular brand of evangelical Christianity, that his son knows more about a potential god than he does, and that any transcendent being would have to be all-powerful in this realm, his first mistake was opening the floor, in my opinion. I argue with Christians online all the time (usually, in fact, on behalf of Christians); I don't want to argue with my loved ones. If my child really wanted to debate me, I would have to say, "You first," and let them pick the topic.
But first I would want to sit them down and ask them about their obvious beliefs in hell. What makes them think that I'm in danger, when I've been a Christian, tried sincerely to get close to God, and still sincerely seek the truth? Why wouldn't God know that, and deal with/judge me accordingly?

I had a similar conversation once, when I was about twelve or thirteen, with my paternal grandmother. She told me her beliefs about God, which were more of spiritual than an evangelical nature, and then asked, "So now do you feel better about this?"
I said yes, because I wanted to please her and didn't want to make her mad or hurt her feelings, but I really was bothered by her "wishy-washy" beliefs.
So I would want to make sure that my child could tell me how they really feel. I don't want them to feel that they can't confide in me, or that I would try to make them feel guilty or manipulate them, or that I only accept one answer.
If they really felt I was going to hell, I would try to reassure them that I sincerely wanted to find the truth, if there was a truth to be found, and I might even pray with them, that we would both find the truth, whatever it was. I think if it was for my child, I wouldn't be bothered by prayer. Even if no one else heard it, it would make my kid feel better.

But I would also challenge their notions of hell. Or rather, of how they think people go about avoiding it. Do I have to say that I believe in God and Jesus, when I don't? Do I have to "profess Christ," and thereby lie about what I think is likely to be true?
And then, do I have to go to a church I can't stand, that preaches things I don't agree with morally or intellectually? Read as fully divine a bible that I think was at least influenced by fallible human beings? Pray, when I don't think there is likely anyone there to hear me? Talk about and think about God as if "He" actually existed, when I think it's more likely that God doesn't exist? Convince others of something I don't that even believe myself?
In other words, do I have to pretend to believe everything they believe, and do everything they do because of those beliefs, or burn in hell for eternity? Do I have be their intellectual clones in order to please their version of God?
Am I going to hell if I'm not conservative and don't vote Republican? What if I don't believe in the Rapture? What if I don't believe in hell, or don't believe that sending or allowing someone to go to hell is morally right at all? What if I'm not a young-earth creationist? What if I identify as a feminist--and am pro-choice too? What if I don't submit to my husband? What if I have a wife instead--because since discovering that I was bisexual, that's a very real possibility if I ever get married.
It's a lot more complicated than Jack Chick would have everyone believe. 
I already have family who seems to think that the only "saved" Christians are their intellectual clones. Doing research about religion, for some of them, seems to consist of listening to not one, but TWO(!) evangelical radio preachers! They don't even like to do research about other views within Christianity. I hope to raise my child better than that, if I ever adopt one (because I could never waste my own eggs when so many children need homes, and the earth is overpopulated already), though it's ultimately their responsibility where they end up.
I can't stop thinking about what I would do if I had a child who was truly convinced I was going to hell. I know it's a reality for a lot of people, and I'm not sure how to comfort my potential kid (or little brother who is like a kid to me in a lot of ways), while still being honest. I know that I would have to be honest, both for myself and to set an example for them. Even if it hurts them.
I do know one thing, though: The most important thing that I could teach my evangelical child is that they are loved--if not by God, then most certainly by me. 


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When "God" Wants You In A Box

 Note: This is not about God killing people and putting them in coffins. You can relax now.

There were many years, after I had a kind of crises of faith, that I didn't know what I was, and I didn't know how my relationship to God was (when I thought of God as real, which was only sometimes). I had tried, and failed, to fit into the evangelical box, and now, because of that, was God done with me--or prevented from having a relationship with me because of my "sins"?
The hardest part about my faith was the praying, and almost constantly talking to God in my thoughts. I couldn't think certain thoughts because they were sinful, blasphemous or otherwise unacceptable, and it was exhausting to keep these thoughts out. I couldn't think of people on TV shows saying "Oh my God," or about the fact that Jesus was probably naked on the cross, and I couldn't have sympathy for LGBTQ people when the subject of hate crimes or human rights came up without an internal caveat that they were still not "doing" (I put it in quotes now, because homosexuality, etc, is what someone is) what God wanted for them. In fact, I couldn't be in favor of gay rights either, even if it made sense to me.
I couldn't think anything bad about the bible, even that it was merely mistaken, and I certainly couldn't think about its disrespect of women and its extra rules for women in church and in marriage. I was proud to be a feminist (because what modern woman is not a feminist, and grateful for feminism?), and strove to be strong and confident as a woman, but I couldn't be too feminist, too outspoken, and I certainly worried about having to "submit" if I ever got married.
All of these caveats, all of these internal sanctions on what I could and could not think, constantly trying to make my thoughts Christian and prayerful, and trying to keep up a running conversation with God (who didn't respond very clearly), were exhausting. And yet I couldn't relax, because I had to be vigilant and take my thoughts captive, and so it became harder and harder to get to sleep. I suffered depression, poor health, and insomnia, mostly because of the mandates of "God."

A woman in my theater class has a nephew with special needs, behavioral and mental health issues, and says that the school district thought of him as a monster because he couldn't fit into "the box" of their expectations.
I thought that God had a tiny, odd-shaped box for me to fit into. I thought I had to be a certain kind of person, a certain kind of Christian, which I discovered did not come naturally to me.
I heard the message to "be yourself" from Christian and secular culture alike, as well as feminist literature. But I couldn't "be myself" too much, because that was my "sin nature." I thought that what was in fact me, was not me, and had to be fought against with all my strength--or I would slip into sin and "fall away" from God, or become a shallow Christian or a bad Christian or a bad person.
This is the big question for struggling evangelicals: How much is "you," and must be embraced, and how much is your "sin nature," and must be vehemently fought against?
Whenever I put "God" in quotes, I am talking about somebody else's version of God. Now I am the things that "God" hates. I am technically an atheist, because even though I have a spiritual side and think of God sometimes, my practical side tells me that there's probably not a higher power for us. Even though I've never even been kissed, at twenty-four, I am very sexual and I have a huge appetite for fantasy and masturbation. I have very strong emotions, and they often come out in strong words and cursing.
I am a woman, and in the bible I get the impression that women are literally damned if they do, damned if they don't. There are so many rules and so much confusion, and women are also literally told, in the bible, that they are more wicked than men.
I think that if God is all-powerful, that she is a bastard, because of all the crap that goes on in the world today, and I refer to God as "she" because I don't think that any good god would be so sexist that the word "she" would be an insult.
I'm not very "feminine" or flirty in my mannerisms, I love to argue, I love alternative points of view about God or gods, and I'm bisexual, which I thought for a long time was just feminism (still a feminist, only now I'm a bisexual feminist). I don't fit in the typical evangelical Christian mold at all.
And it was so hard for me when I started to discover all of this. I spent too many years unsure of what I was, but knowing that I was definitely not a "Christian."
And after I had tried so hard, too! Was it all some cruel joke, that I was destined to fall away from God and go to hell, after having such great intentions? I wanted nothing more than to get close to God, for my relationship with God to be easy and not a constant struggle with myself, like so many people claimed to have. But it was not to be--after all that effort, it was not to be! That was so unfair!
I couldn't even stand to look at a Christian book in a thrift shop for many years. I couldn't even look at a Christian book or a bible, because it was much too painful. I was hurting and bristling every time I glanced at a Christian billboard or cross by the side of the road. I tried to watch atheist videos a few years ago, curious about what they had to say, but I had to turn them off very quickly, because they would start talking about religion--or worse, talking to a Christian trying to witness to them or use apologetics on them. I couldn't stand the subject, because it hurt my heart too badly.
I felt a strong connection with the song "Losing My Religion" by REM, because of the sadness in the words. I wanted to be good, but I couldn't be what I was supposed to be. I couldn't be what everyone wanted and expected me to be, including, I thought, God.

I disappeared into music and thinking of stories about superheroes. To this day, when I hear many REM songs that I know (as well as many other songs), I think of DC's Captain Marvel, and it makes me happy.
It bothers me a lot when people judge me for not fitting into the evangelical Christian box, especially some of my family, but I try to tell myself that they don't know how sincere I was. They haven't been where I have been, they haven't gone through what I have gone through. They don't know how hard I tried, and they don't know my intentions, even to this day.
I just want to know the truth, and if God is anything like what they imagine, I don't want anything to do with him. And if God is like anything like what I imagine, I have nothing against her. I don't necessarily want a relationship with either of them, with what I've been through, and I don't necessarily think that either of them would even exist, but my god would understand.

"But his mind is wide open, and far beyond that of the average kid," my classmate says of her nephew. "And I find that amazing."
I don't fit into the tiny, narrow evangelical box, and I have determined that I will never again try to fit. But maybe that's okay. If her nephew can be amazing, then maybe I don't have to fit into the box to be a worthwhile human being.
And you don't either. It's time to kick the box off the stage.

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"I Can Hear It In Your Voice"

I recently attended a "Safe Space Workshop" for LGBTQ allies at my community college. At one point we talked about families, and I mentioned my own, wondering how they would react if they knew I no longer believed. My parents are supportive, but my extended family often bothers and worries me.
"I can hear it in your voice," the woman in charge of the workshop nodded. I had not realized that my voice was cracking so much.
Part of the problem is being physically afraid of one relative, due to being picked on by him ruthlessly as a child. Though he of course has some good qualities, he is the most homophobic, in my estimation, and the one most likely to be condescending and arrogant about any differences in belief (as he has before, even when I was a Christian).
On one of the last few occasions that I saw him, Fox News happened to be playing in the background (which my grandfather was watching), and the subject inevitably turned to everything that is wrong with Obama. One of the pieces of evidence, that Obama was becoming too powerful and forcing his communist-like "agenda" on America? The fact that he promoted the idea that "being gay is okay."
"And I'm with Tim on this one," my relation added, talking about a pastor friend of his, "I don't care if they're gay, just stay in the closet!" he laughed. "The way they're flaunting it now..."
"I don't agree with that," I said quietly, my heart racing. "They're not flaunting it..."
"Yes, they are..."
"No. They're not..."
He nodded, and I shook my head, as the subject trailed off, and he mentioned yet another fault of Obama.
That was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and the scariest, yet it doesn't feel like enough. It never feels like I have stood up to my family enough.
On the way home, my mother and I were talking about what had happened. She had also argued with him about the Rapture (she doesn't believe that it's a very sound doctrine), and both she and I about the "lost gospels." It was my impression that he accepted whatever his favorite speakers or pastors said at face value, and thought that that was enough--and that I was a foolish child for thinking otherwise.
"I'm not casting my pearls before swine," my mother said, shaking her head. "He just doesn't want to listen."
"If we keep arguing like this, I might let it slip to our family sometime that I consider myself an atheist," I added. "Would that be okay with you?" I asked, a little nervous. I thought that she would be okay with it, but wanted to warn her ahead of time and make sure.
"Be yourself!" she enunciated. "That's fine by me; you'll get the sad looks, and not me!" she scoffed facetiously.
It's hard to get over the hurdle of being afraid to speak up, afraid of being hit or physically intimidated. Though I don't think he would hit me or physically threaten me today, especially since I have taken two years of martial arts and have fiercely, violently protective parents, the fear is still there. It may be there for a while, until I feel more comfortable and get more confidence speaking my mind, as he often does.
But I decided to buy two flag pins, an LGBTQ rainbow pride flag and a bisexual pride flag, to wear to family functions, and therefore "flaunt it."
The rainbow flag will probably be easily recognized, while the bisexual flag will probably need explaining, which I would be happy to do if asked.
I don't know if he will notice the tiny pins, or say anything, but a couple of my relatives often wear Christian parody t-shirts, so why can't I wear my beliefs on my sleeve as well?
It will be good for my younger cousins to see that I don't parrot the Official Family Opinion. I don't have to say anything unless asked, either. But it potentially provides a good opportunity to be open about both my beliefs and my sexuality, as well.
I also received a rainbow ribbon pin for attending the LGBTQ workshop, so that I have three pins to wear now. I would be happy to explain how I got the workshop pin, too.
My mom laughed when I told her that I got the bisexual flag pin because I thought I was bi, but even if I wasn't, I would still say that I was in front of our family. I have been majorly spanked in the comment sections of pro-gay articles for suggesting that very tactic, but I do think that people who are straight and are in a good place to do so could benefit the LGBTQ community by telling their bigoted family members that they are bi.
One person said that that was not a good idea because some people saw bisexuality as a betrayal, for not "choosing" one gender. I say, that's all the more reason to do so! I'm not talking about Facebook statuses or marching in pride parades, being "in the closet" in reverse. I'm talking about dropping a bombshell, shocking your friends and family to hopefully make it easier on those not in such good situations.
I have supportive friends and family, while others do not. If I can "take the fall" for others and be the one to give my family their Tolerance Training Wheels, I would be one very happy woman. And if my family hears of my bisexuality and decides to tell me what to do, I hope I can remember to say that I don't recall making them my lord and savior, that I didn't ask for their Ten Commandments, and that what I do is between me and God, not me and them (because I still think about God sometimes, though I think that practically speaking, from what we know now, God is not likely to exist).
I do have some hope for my family, though: Though he tends to ask my mother and me to come to church with him every few months, and is a worrier, my grandfather did express support for a lesbian couple a few months ago.
My grandmother mentioned a woman my mother knew, and added, "I guess her daughter moved in with her girlfriend."
"Oh, I don't care about that, Mom," my own mom replied, "I'm just glad they both found someone to love."
"That's right!" my grandfather agreed, strongly.
My mom says she almost fell off her chair.
I guess that couple goes to church.

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If

If: A Manifesto:


If God exists, she is not as powerful in this realm as many believe her to be. She deals in the afterlife and has little influence in this world. She does what she can, and grieves for what she cannot do.

If God exists, she is not so sexist that it is an insult to her to be called a She. She has both male and female characteristics, and one side is not dominate to or more important than the other. It's actually refreshing to her, to have her female side finally acknowledged.

If God exists, she has a healthy sense of humor about herself, and does not mind jokes or criticism directed her way.

If God exists, she does not condemn or allow anyone to be subjected to eternal torment (even her divine servants who have rebelled against her, such as Lucifer, if she exists). She takes special care of suicide victims and other victims of violence. All receive exactly what they need for both healing and humanizing.

If God exists, she grieves at the doctrines that promote or excuse violence or bigotry, such as the belief in hell, the belief that believers of a certain sect are more special or righteous than others, or any doctrine that sees anyone as condemned, deserving of special punishment or torment, such as racism, sexism and anti-LGBTQ sentiments.

If God exists, she loves her gay children. She loves all of her children, though some grieve her by the harm they inflict on others.

If God exists, she does not nor ever has made some rules for one type of people, and another set of rules for others. All are equal. She has not made the straight person for the holiness and the sexual "joining together" of marriage, and the gay person for the hardship of lifelong celibacy. She has not given the option of sexual fulfillment to some but not to others. Likewise, she has not made the woman for the hardship of "submission," and the man for the very easy task of showing love to his slave, the wife.

If God exists, she loves me.

If God exists, she approves of me. She even approves of my atheism and my skepticism.

If God exists, I have a good relationship with her.

If God exists, she made me this way for a reason, and she put my clitoris on the outside for me to enjoy.

If God exists, I trust her with my soul when I die.

If God exists, it doesn't matter if you call her Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Shiva, Zeus, or Venus, male or female, gay or straight. Even if she "is" one of those things, or something else entirely, she understands if we get confused, and she doesn't condemn us for it.

I think a lot about God, about IF she exists. I have no fear for my soul, because I have a good "relationship" with God. I trust her.
But at the same time, when I think practically about God, and about what little we know now, I don't think it's likely that she exists. I don't think it's likely that we'll ever find out that she exists, either.
I have two minds about God: The "spiritual" side, I suppose it would be called, and the practical side. Having an "IF" side does not make me any less of an atheist, or any less logical. I do not make my decisions based upon the "IF." I do not base my life upon or do anything impractical because of the "IF."
The "IF" is comforting to me sometimes, but it is not something to rely upon. While I sometimes take comfort and security in the "IF," especially when others are worried about my soul...I plan for the "IF NOT."



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This Blog Has Changed My Life

Around this time last year, my mother got tired of my discussing religion all of the time, and said that she did not want to talk about it with me anymore (we talk about it all the time again now). She had always been the only one that I really felt I could confide in, and I had been thinking about this subject a lot, discovering so many new things thanks to atheist personalities on the internet.
And now I had no one to talk to about those things.
I was pretty desperate. I had to do something.
I had so many thoughts about the blogs I read and the videos I saw, and the ideas they presented, but the thought of setting up various online accounts and sharing my opinions with strangers was very intimidating. I wondered if my reasoning was sound or if I would look dumb.
But I had so much to say, and think about, and I wanted something of what these other people had: A forum for their thoughts, a community of like-minded people, the respect of others. Someday, I wanted a blog, or to write a book, or to make videos. But the thought of figuring out how to go about any of these things, and put my thoughts out there, was daunting and confusing.
Someday I wanted to have a small piece of the internet, and I wanted the courage to share an important part of myself with others. And now I had nowhere else to turn, if I wished to discuss matters very dear to my heart.
Then late one night in May of 2014 I decided to take the plunge. Reading about religion and atheism just wasn't doing it for me anymore. I had to do something more, and this time (for the first time in my life) without the support of my parents.
I was extremely nervous, afraid that my dad would find out what I did on his computer (I didn't know if he would care, but I didn't want him, or anyone, to know, because I was venturing into unknown territory). This was the first time that I had made any major decision without my parents' knowledge, and it felt like a huge rebellion. I worried that this was the wrong choice, I worried that my mother would hate what I did if she found out, I worried that I would say something I regretted or reveal too much about my loved ones.
I have always known that she loved me, but she didn't seem to understand why I was so fascinated with the subjects of religion and atheism. I think she thought that I had an unhealthy fixation (maybe anger or bitterness over what had happened to me), and she may not have understood how important this was for me.
"What am I going to do?" I thought when she said that she did not wish to discuss these things anymore. "She is the only one I can confide in, and now I have no one."
So, with much trepidation, I got myself another Gmail account. Then I used that to get myself a Blogger site of the same name. Unfortunately, it was very late at night, and I spelled both of these as "Atheist Journies." I was able to correct my mistake; however, I have a now-defunct blog named "Atheist Journies," and an unused email account to match.
I had wondered for a while what to call my blog, what my handle online would be, what I would write about, and if I could keep up the writing regularly, or if I would someday run out of things to say.
 I wanted a username online that would be emotionally significant to me, and that I wouldn't outgrow in a few months or years. I often wondered what made people choose names like "Angry Atheist," "Atheist Canuck," or "The Darwinist." I didn't really feel strongly towards words like "reason," "Darwin," or "logic." I wanted something that fitted me, not just atheism.
"I am an atheist now," I thought. "Though I never thought I would ever be here, years ago. And I don't know what I'll be in a few years, though I think I have an idea of it..."
Basically, this was where I was in my journey.
My life has changed so much in the past year. I have changed so much. I have my driver's license, after years of not having the courage to take my test. I am trying to start an atheist club at my community college (which is why I haven't been publishing very frequently lately), and having to approach strangers, admit that I'm an atheist, and ask for their signatures for the petition (and it's scary, but I'm slowly but surely doing it). I am publishing Accelerated Christian Education gay fan fiction, which as far as I know is the first ACE fan fiction on the internet. I am on Twitter and Disqus, and often debate Christians on these forums.
My mom asked me recently what I thought had made me so confident, in the past year. I knew, but I'm afraid I didn't answer the question with complete honesty. I confide almost everything to my mom, but for once it's nice to have something all to myself. It was one small act of independence, and it led to many bigger things.
My point is this: If you're thinking of starting a blog, whatever the subject matter, please do. You won't lose interest, if it's something you're passionate about. It will make you feel more independent, if that is what you need in your life. It will give you a place to share your thoughts, if that is what you need in your life. And the thought that your ideas and opinions are "published," for the world to see, even if you are the one publishing them and only a few people see, will give you a bit more confidence than you already have. And if you publish anonymously (as I am, for now, though I don't plan to always do so), you can be yourself, where you might be afraid to otherwise.
I still struggle with confidence issues, and I still wonder often if what I say is dumb. But I have come a long way, and I would encourage anyone in my former position to take that first step. You won't regret it.

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