On Religion
At nine years old, the church was more than just a building to me—it was my second home. My father’s church stood as a constant in my young life, a place where faith was intertwined with daily routines and Sunday sermons were as predictable as the rising sun. Yet, on one particular Sunday, a peculiar restlessness took hold of me. I remember sitting in the small classroom of the Sunday school, feeling an unfamiliar sense of rebellion bubbling inside me.
Mrs. Cunningham, our Sunday school teacher, was a kind and patient woman, a fixture in our church community. She was the type of person who seemed to embody the very teachings she imparted, always gentle and understanding. But that day, something in me snapped. Maybe it was the monotony of the lesson, or perhaps the weight of expectations as the minister’s son. I can’t say for sure. All I knew was that I felt an urgent need to challenge everything she said.
I started questioning her teachings, one after the other, not out of a genuine desire for understanding but to provoke her. I remember the way her eyes softened as she tried to answer each of my challenges, her voice calm and unwavering. But I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to push further, to see how far I could go. Then, in a moment of youthful defiance, I blurted out, “I don’t want to be here, and neither do you. The only reason you're here is because you get paid.”
Looking back, I cringe at the memory. It was a foolish and baseless accusation, one that revealed my ignorance more than anything else. Mrs. Cunningham wasn’t paid for her time; she was a volunteer who poured her heart into the church. She sang in the choir, organized events, and was there purely out of love and devotion. But at that moment, I was too wrapped up in my rebellion to see any of that.
In hindsight, I realize that this was more than just an act of childish defiance. It was the beginning of a deeper questioning, one that would follow me into my teenage years. At that moment, my motive was simple—I wanted to escape the confines of that classroom so I could go play. But the seed of doubt had been planted. That small act of rebellion marked the start of my skepticism, though it would take years before I fully understood its significance.
When I was thirteen, my budding skepticism collided with the harsh realities of life in a way that would shatter my faith completely. My brother—my hero, my role model—was shot to death by a Southern Appalachian youth involved in running guns. The details of that tragic incident are still too painful to recount in full, but it left an indelible mark on me. My brother was everything I admired and aspired to be—a leader, a friend to everyone, a cool hippie with a bushy beard who dedicated his life to helping others. He ran a senior citizen program and a developmentally disabled activity program at the church. He was loved by everyone who knew him.
His death didn’t just break my heart; it broke my spirit. In the quiet of my room, not long after his murder, I had what would be my last sincere conversation with God. My young mind couldn’t comprehend why someone so important, so good, should die while I, a selfish and quiet kid, was left to live. In a desperate attempt to make sense of the senseless, I made a deal with God: I would willingly give up my life if He would bring my brother back. I went to bed that night fully expecting not to wake up the next morning. But I did.
The disappointment was profound. In my grief and anger, I turned to the other side, praying to the devil that night, offering the same deal. Again, I woke up the next morning, my life unchanged, my brother still gone. It was in those two nights that I lost my belief in a higher power. If neither God nor the devil would answer me, then surely, they didn’t exist. The comfort of having someone watching over me, guiding me, protecting me—it was all gone. I felt a profound loneliness, one that came not just from the loss of my brother but from the loss of my faith.
As I grew older, that loneliness evolved into a firm reliance on logic and reason. The more I learned about the world, the more I saw religion as a mythology, a collection of stories people told themselves to make sense of the unknown. But for me, the unknown was no longer a mystery to be solved by faith. It was a puzzle to be approached with logic, science, and a questioning mind. Those two nights of desperate prayer had set me on a new path, one where belief was no longer based on faith but on evidence and reason.
And so, at thirteen, I began a journey away from the comforting myths of childhood and into the cold, clear light of logic. It wasn’t an easy path, and it was often a lonely one, but it was mine, shaped by loss, doubt, and an unyielding desire to understand the world as it is, not as I wished it to be.