A Journey Beyond Belief Story
I’m tired. I was out late last night with friends. It was the Saturday before the last week of classes, and we’re all seniors now. My friends wanted to go out one last time before we graduated to enjoy the time we had left as students. I’m not much of a party person, but I hang out with them because sometimes I enjoy their company. They keep inviting me, so I guess they like mine, too.
The night itself wasn’t particularly memorable. They all got tipsy while I nursed the same beer for most of the evening. We didn’t have any meaningful conversations or interact with anyone outside our small group. We were just there, passing the time.
The next morning, I was rolling out of bed when my mom knocked on my door, informing me that it was time to get up and prepare for church. To be honest, I don’t care for it. I don’t think my family does either, but it’s just what you do here. Everyone goes to church. My family isn’t exactly devout, and I’m not sure what being a “true Christian” even means. I think they believe in God because it can’t hurt, and it keeps the community together. In this small town, we rely on each other, and the church provides an easy way to connect.
Truthfully, I’d rather do anything else than listen to someone lecture me about how to be a “good person” for two hours. At least my friends go to the same church. They’re all in, every Sunday, feeling like the pastor is speaking directly to them. I don’t understand it. They even tithe without question. My dad once said he feels like giving money to the church helps him with his finances. Whatever you tell yourself, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for charity, but why doesn’t anyone question how the church spends the money? With other charities, you can see how funds are split between the cause and operating expenses. But churches? It’s a mystery.
I’d never bring that up to anyone, though. They’d judge me for questioning the legitimacy of the church. After all, they preach that only God can judge us, but in my experience, religious people can be the most judgmental. My sister got dirty looks from people in the church when she started dating another girl. She wasn’t parading it around, trying to “convert” people to her sexuality, but people still couldn’t mind their own business.
After getting ready for church, I head downstairs for a quick snack to hold me over until lunch. My dad is already dressed and watching *SportsCenter*, where the commentators are making their predictions for the afternoon’s football games. We get in the Suburban and drive to the mega-church where everyone in town goes. I hate it. It’s not that the people running the church are bad. It’s the followers that get to me. Or maybe I’m just speaking about myself here because I do have a choice. My sister stopped going to church because she couldn’t stomach the pastor’s anti-gay rhetoric, and honestly, I’m sure my parents didn’t mind. Christians love to judge, and they love to gossip. There’s nothing worse than being the center of gossip in a small, conservative town.
When we arrive, I see my friends, dressed up and buzzing with energy, probably from whatever caffeine they consumed before church. I say hello to them and their families. I’m good at playing the role of a churchgoer. I don’t deceive myself into thinking I’m following God; I know I’m following the church. They would probably argue that’s the same thing since the church is “the house of God,” but I’m not falling for that.
I’ll never make the mistake of asking questions about God again. I did that once when I was younger, asking the youth pastor why we were created in God’s image. He gave some vague answers about love, and when I pressed him for more, he just smiled less and started glaring at me with annoyance.
I don’t pay attention to the sermon. It’s usually the same thing, just reworded. Hope, peace, prayer, the greatness of God. So I let my mind wander. At least I can work on my creative side while I sit through the ninety-minute ordeal. The first thirty minutes are gospel, so we stand the whole time. I don’t mind it, though. I enjoy watching the band play. But my favorite part is when the church is finally over and we head to the hibachi buffet for lunch.
After the service, my mom always asked what we thought of the sermon. I say it was “as good as always,” a neutral response. Then my dad followed up, asking me specifically what was good about it. I feel like they’re testing me. I give an answer that avoids the question: “Well, it was as good as always. I think it reached a lot of people.” And it’s true. I know for a fact that the people in that room ate up every word. My parents just stare at me. I guess I didn’t give the “right” answer.
Finally, my dad asks, “You don’t care for church, do you?”
I look at both my parents, trying to read them. We’ve never really talked about what we truly believe, we just do what’s expected. “I don’t care for religion,” I answer.
My mom speaks up first, after a long pause. “Yeah, I don’t believe in a merciful God. If there was one, we wouldn’t have all these horrible things happening in the world. I can’t believe that God allows people to suffer.”
I wasn’t expecting that. My mom isn’t a typical Christian. At least, not the way people usually think of it.
“What do you believe?” my dad asks, his voice more serious now.
I’m not sure where he stands. I don’t want to give the impression that I’m an atheist—I’m not. I don’t want an argument to start, but I feel this strange urge to share my thoughts. “I believe I follow your God,” I say slowly. “I believe most Christians follow their father’s God.”
My mom raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know anything beyond the way I was raised. And neither do you. When I asked you where we came from, you just started talking about Genesis.”
“Yeah, that story is pretty far-fetched,” she mutters.
“That’s exactly my point. You told me a story you don’t even fully believe, just because that’s what your parents told you. And their parents told them the same thing.”
My dad’s tone shifts, a little more firm. “So, what do you believe, then?”
I take a breath. “I believe we follow the word of the church. I don’t believe God is watching over us. I don’t believe we were made in His image. I think we made God in our image. I believe the major religions are outdated. I believe there is a God, but He doesn’t care if we pray to Him love Him or care for others. I think God is everything—love, hate, everything in between. I think religion shows that we’re all self-centered, thinking we’re better than all other life. Truthfully, I sometimes wish an advanced alien race would come and stomp on us, just to show us how insignificant we are. At least then we’d have something real to pray to.”
I’ve said more than I meant to. My parents are silent, stunned. I try to backpedal, “Of course, I don’t want aliens to invade. I just wish people cared more about others outside their circle.”
But the damage is done. No one adds anything else to the conversation. I’m not sure if they’re reflecting on what I said or just don’t know how to respond. This has been building up inside me for a long time, and now I’ve said it all. I know they won’t see me the same way again, but maybe that’s better than pretending.
The next Sunday, my family stopped going to church altogether. My parents must have only gone for my benefit. I never knew they didn’t believe it. One day, I asked my dad about it. He told me the truth: they only went because they thought I was really into it. I must have played the role of a good churchgoer so well that they believed it.
January 17, 2025