the beginning

This is the story of how I got to Wheaton and my first year there. This is all Christianity; not even an inkling of atheism yet, but every story has to start somewhere.

I did not actually spend my entire college career at Wheaton. I transferred there at the beginning of my sophomore year, after spending my freshman year at an elite secular liberal arts college that I loved.

I went to Wheaton for one reason only: because God told me to go there. I remember it quite vividly. I was sitting in my dorm room at my desk, and suddenly the idea popped into my mind: I’m going to transfer to Wheaton. Like all ideas that popped into my mind in those years, I attributed it to God. I was convinced that this was God’s will for me, but, as always, you have to give a little test just to be sure. So I told God I would apply to Wheaton, and if I was accepted, I would go. I prayed that if God didn’t want me to go to Wheaton, then I shouldn’t get in.

I got in, as I knew I would academically– but I had hoped for some fluke by which I would be rejected. As my freshman year ended, I really didn’t want to leave my beloved school. I didn’t want to go to Wheaton, and I started a series of mental gymnastics by which I tried to reason out a loophole to disobey God. Because, no matter what I felt about going to Wheaton, I never doubted that God wanted me to go there. To me, it was exactly like the commandments God gave to people in the Old Testament to leave their homes and go to a place where he would lead them.

By the end of the semester, I had done enough reasoning that I could have stayed where I was and been fairly confident that God wouldn’t smite me. For awhile there, it looked like I could go either way. I sought the counsel of my Christian friends and mentors, and all of our discussions seemed to weigh in favor of me staying.

I sent in my deposit, figuring that I could stand to lose $200 if I decided not to go to Wheaton. But I knew, all along, that I was going to go. I couldn’t stand disobeying God. So against all my better judgment, against all my desires to stay with my friends and professors in a thrilling academic environment and a part of the country that I felt connected to, I withdrew from my school and committed to going to Wheaton, sight unseen.

Luckily, when I first saw Wheaton I thought it seemed an idyllic place. At the time, going to a college on a hill with a big sign in front that declared “For Christ and His Kingdom” was a dream come true. I missed my old school, but Wheaton was so different and challenging in its own way that I didn’t feel the loss too severely. My first semester, I took Introduction to Christian Education with Jerry Root. To be honest, I now can not remember a single thing about that class, besides the fact that Jerry quoted C.S. Lewis a lot. But at the time, and for several semesters afterwards, I regarded that class and its spiritual insights as the highlight of my Wheaton life. For awhile, I was enamored with the idea of majoring in Christian Education.

There was no shortage of spiritual highlights at Wheaton. By spiritual highlights I mean both highs and lows, because struggles and anguished fights with God were as important to my spiritual development as the days of spending all my free time reading the bible or praying for hours in the chapel while fasting. The amplitude and wavelength of my spiritual highs and lows were intense enough to keep me occupied during my first year at Wheaton, making me ignore completely all academics aside from religion-oriented classes, which were the only ones in which I learned anything anyway. I grew a lot as a Christian that year, and I even had time to go through sophomore cynicism, a stage that most Wheaton students experience of being disenchanted with the church and with Christianity. It’s the spiritual version of sophomore slump. I fell deep into cynicism and then emerged from it, my faith stronger.

Wow, I wasn’t planning on telling this much of my story. Still, there’s a long way to go before hitting atheism. To be continued, maybe…

reading the bible

Ever since I became an atheist, I’ve struggled with the dichotomy between wanting to put Christianity completely behind me and wanting to honor its role in shaping me. At first I thought the demarcation would be easy; I even thought that I could somehow retain partial membership in the cultural accoutrements of evangelicalism. So for a time, my habits didn’t alter much. I continued to listen to Christian music and read Christian websites, keeping tabs on cultural trends.

Leaving a community is a sad thing. Even while I knew that, I didn’t appreciate what it meant to actually relinquish my claim on the culture and community that was the most significant one I had ever known. But it was necessary, because while I was trying to preserve the cultural identity that Christianity had given me, I was really only preserving my bitterness.

So I swung to the other extreme. I wanted to forget everything about Christianity. I wanted to forget the many memorized bible verses that were written in my mind, the mental gymnastics of theology and biblical scholarship that I used to find fascinating. I didn’t keep any of my bibles or Christian books, I deleted the worship music from my ipod, I haven’t stepped foot inside a church—all in an effort to leave behind the bitterness these things evoked in me. That’s also why I haven’t been back to this blog much since I graduated. Now, going back and reading my entries, I am surprised by how desperate, dark, and sarcastic I was.

I’m not that desperate, dark, sarcastic person anymore. And I woke up one morning and had a desire to read to bible. I simply missed the literature of the bible.  It contains some of the most creative and evocative constructions of language I have ever read.  I no longer feel any bitterness in acknowledging that, and being able to learn from it as I do from many works of fiction.

down memory lane

My mind is open to the most wonderful range of future possibilities, which I cannot even dream about, nor can you, nor can anybody else… I don’t see the Olympian gods or Jesus coming down and dying on the Cross as worthy of that grandeur. They strike me as parochial. If there is a God, it’s going to be a whole lot bigger and a whole lot more incomprehensible than anything that any theologian of any religion has ever proposed.  –Richard Dawkins

The quotation is from a debate between Richard Dawkins and Francis Collins in Time magazine (titled “God vs. Science”) a few years ago. I first heard the quotation from Francis Collins himself, who mentioned it in a lecture I attended around that time. He used it as part of an argument for God, but I saw it as the opposite. Dawkins’ words expressed my feelings about religion perfectly. I wanted something more than Jesus, something more than salvation, more than a God with a plan for the universe. I could imagine something more. I knew then, with those closing words of Dr. Collins’ lecture, that I wasn’t the only one. Richard Dawkins could imagine it too. That was the first time atheism entered my mind, and the universe suddenly seemed a hundred times bigger and scarier.

I’ve met both Collins and Dawkins in person, and I have to say that Dr. Collins is the pleasanter of the two. He’s warm and genial, with a twinkle in his eye and a welcoming handshake for everybody. When he talks about Jesus, when he says the name of Christ, it’s clear that he’s in love. He’s one of the handful of Christians I know who radiates their love for God, whose voice bespeaks an intimacy that makes me jealous.

I used to be in love with God in that way. But it was no longer enough for me; the very fact that I could imagine something bigger and better than Christianity had been a clue to me for some time. When I realized that I wasn’t alone, that others had imagined it before me, I decided to leap into the unknown.  I dared to dream.

hail and farewell

Drumroll, please…

I graduated from Wheaton College this month. Yes that’s right, I’m “free”. I’ve known for awhile that I was going to graduate early. That’s why I stayed at Wheaton after becoming an atheist.

You’re probably expecting me to divulge some personal details about myself now that I have my Wheaton degree. But I’m not going to give a big reveal, and I feel bad about that. I probably owe my readers at least a portion of my life story, for staying with me and enduring my annoyingly vague and anonymous blog. But I’m not actually a blogger or an internet person, so that’s not going to happen. And now that I’m out of Wheaton, I can go back to what’s actually important in my life instead of keeping a disproportionate focus on my lack of religion.

The truth is, I’m really sick of this blog. I’m sick of talking about being an atheist. Frankly, I don’t really care anymore that I’m an atheist. While I was at Wheaton it seemed like a big deal, and it probably was there. But now that I’m slightly closer to the real world, I just don’t think it’s that important whether you’re an atheist or a Christian. It’s definitely not important enough for me to keep up a blog about it.

Thanks for staying with me, and thanks for your comments and discussions. I’m going to keep this site up here for now in the hope that it might help some other Christian-college-student-turned-atheist who goes online for hope that they aren’t alone. I won’t be approving any new comments, but I will be checking the blog email address every once in awhile.

Well, that’s it.  Peace.

Frequently Asked Questions

I decided to take a break from finals to answer some of the questions that have been inundating my email and comments lately. I’ve answered them in a separate FAQ page and made it a permanent fixture on the blog. It only includes the questions that I get asked painfully often, and/or have the most obvious answers, so I really hope I don’t have to add to it. At any rate, any comments asking questions that are answered in the FAQ will be deleted from now on.

As always, you’re welcome to email me with any questions/comments.  If you email me, please specify if you want something answered on the site; otherwise I’ll just answer things privately, unless I get something often enough to add it to the FAQ.

Tastes like the real thing

I had hopes that my evangelical regurgitation would be detected. I had a crazy idea that someone would call me out on it, that after listening to one of my class devotions or reading one of my papers, a professor would pull me aside and say, “nice try, but this isn’t real.” That would have made me feel better about Christianity and Wheaton.

But no such luck. When I give class devotions and write papers about my personal Christian beliefs, I get good grades and people thank me for my sincerity. It makes me feel terrible. And it makes me wonder whether the people who I admired for their sincerity really were.

Regurgitation burns on the way back up.

There are two weeks left in the semester, and I’ve been writing papers. Not to belabor a point that I have probably beaten to death already, but writing in the evangelical Christian voice is not my favorite thing. I was reminded of this quote from C.S. Lewis, talking about his ease of writing in the diabolical voice for The Screwtape Letters:

Though I had never written anything more easily, I never wrote with less enjoyment. The ease came, no doubt, from the fact that the device of diabolical letters, once you have thought of it, exploits itself spontaneously… It would run away with you for a thousand pages if you gave it its head. But though it was easy to twist one’s mind into the diabolical [evangelical] attitude, it was not fun, or not for long. The strain produced a sort of spiritual cramp. The work into which I had to project myself while I spoke through Screwtape was all dust, grit, thirst, and itch. Every trace of beauty, freshness, and geniality [critical thinking, truthfulness to my nonbelief, any trace of my actual self] had to be excluded. It almost smothered me before I was done. It would have smothered my readers if I had prolonged it.

(from the Preface to the 1961 edition of The Screwtape Letters)

The fact that I remembered some random portion of a preface to The Screwtape Letters while writing final papers probably tells you what kind of Christian (or what kind of Wheaton student) I was– the kind who was constantly reading or re-reading one C.S. Lewis book or another. Anyway, I remember that when I read The Screwtape Letters as a Christian, I had the same kind of reaction as a reader that Lewis said he had as a writer– I really liked it, but there was still something about it that crept under my skin and made me feel depressed. Like a good dead baby joke. (Yeah, I’m an atheist. I like dead babies.)

I wonder if my professors can tell, when I write in the evangelical voice, that it’s not my real voice. So much of evangelical culture is like that anyway, requiring fluency in the language, that they probably can’t. Like people who stand up and raise their arms during worship at all-school communion– some of them are just regurgitating choreography. But you can never tell.

question or commitment

“Do I believe in God?” I ask myself this question several times a week– sometimes several times a day. It can be easy to forget the answer, when I’m caught in the moment in the atmosphere of Christianity. Like when I’m at all-school communion. Or when I’m reading a particularly well-written work of C.S. Lewis’ (currently reading The Four Loves). Or even sometimes when I read the bible (which I don’t do often, but sometimes it can’t be avoided). But the easiest way to forget the answer is by assuming you already know what it is.

For me, the question of which ideology or worldview I “follow” is something that I choose every day. I don’t want to get so caught up in being an atheist that I forget whether or not I am an atheist. I’m not committed to atheism, I’m committed to following what I think is the truth. I’m constantly re-evaluating the truth, and I’m constantly choosing atheism.

On the other hand, I saw Christianity as more of a commitment than a choice. Commitment is also something you can renew every day, but the actual question of “do I believe in God?” or “do I want to follow Christ?” was something I only asked myself occasionally. When I did ask myself that question, and answered in the affirmative, I made a commitment to live by it. For example, my decision to attend Wheaton was a result of a commitment to Christ. It was the first time in my life when I asked myself, “is Christianity really something that I want to follow for the rest of my life?” It was the first time I considered Christianity in the long-term, as more than something that I adopted from others or something that I was just trying on for size. I decided then that the answer was yes, I decided to take responsibility for my life as a Christian, I made a commitment to follow Christ for the rest of my life, and I decided to come to a Christian college to learn to better understand and carry out that commitment. That was not the last time I chose Christ before my answer started to change, but that’s ancient history.

The whole structure of Christianity, of being a Christian, demands commitment. I don’t see it being any other way. There is nothing about atheism that should demand commitment, and I would be very uncomfortable if it did. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with commitment. I think the worst possible thing is having neither commitment nor belief, but following something anyway.

I’ve been calling myself an atheist for over six months. During those six months, I’ve asked myself almost every day whether I believe in God– and really thought about the answer. I’m an atheist today, and I will probably be an atheist tomorrow. But I’ll probably ask myself again tomorrow, just to make sure.

FriendlyChristian interview

My friend Bill recently interviewed me for his site, FriendlyChristian, which is a great community he’s created for Christians and atheists alike. Bill is a stellar guy with a great blog, but many of you already know that because you only read my blog because he links to it. Our interview is posted at FriendlyChristian today and tomorrow.

The Giver

Yes, that Lois Lowry book you probably read in fourth grade. It’s about a utopian society where there is no pain or suffering, but also no great joy or love– for everyone except the Receiver, the one member of society who knows the full breadth of human experience. Having Received the memories of failed societies from those before him, he uses that knowledge to advise the community on how to avoid them. When a new Receiver is chosen, the old Receiver becomes the Giver, transmits his memories and experiences to the new Receiver, allowing him to experience them firsthand. Only after having felt pain and sorrow can the Receiver fully know the consequences of failed society.

I wish I could Give my memories to someone. The good as well as the bad. I can talk about them, I can write about them, but words are only a symbolic approximation and fall far short of actual experience. Can you truly understand anything unless you’ve experienced it firsthand?

The things I most wish I could Give are the good memories I have from being a Christian– of landmarks in my spiritual development, “conversion experiences,” etc. Things that were my most precious memories when I was a Christian, but are no longer so meaningful to me now. In fact, I knew I had truly become an atheist when I realized those memories no longer meant much to me.

I’m not ashamed of having been a Christian. But I wish I could give those experiences to someone who would appreciate them. I think they deserve better than the back alley of my long-term memory.

I’ve been posting more prolifically this week than I ever have. That’s because it is absolutely killing me to write devotionals and papers on my spiritual development and Integrate Faith and Learning “For Christ and His Kingdom”. Not to mention reading things like Alister McGrath, who for God’s sake just needs to shut up about Dawkins and get his own material already.