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I don’t believe in God. There, I said it.
It’s not exactly something I’ve shared openly before, especially given my religious upbringing. Faith wasn’t just a part of life; it was life. Church wasn’t a Sunday event; youth group, mission trips, playing drums in the worship band almost every week… it was like being in a never-ending episode of Jesus Idol. Okay, maybe I’m being a little dramatic, but the Christian faith was a big part of my upbringing, nonetheless. Most family gatherings included scripture readings, hymn singing, or lengthy conversations about the Lord. I appreciated the wholesome vibe, but it wasn’t exactly the time or place for me to raise my hand and ask, “Wait, are we sure about all this?”
But here’s the thing: even as a kid, I didn’t “feel” anything during those worship services or prayer gatherings. While everyone else was raising their hands and swaying in spiritual ecstasy, I just stood there wondering, “What the fuck is going on?” I went through the motions because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but the more I tried, the less sense it all made. Even after I got married and moved out on my own with my wife and what accumulated to like 20 dogs, we continued going to church because that’s what we were supposed to do, right?
As I got older, I began to see that my values and beliefs didn’t align with the church’s teachings at all. I’d often find myself sitting in a church service almost feeling guilty for even being there. When I voiced doubts or asked hard questions about faith, the answers always boiled down to the same thing: pray about it. To me, that response felt dismissive… like being told to consult the very thing I wasn’t sure existed in the first place. Kind of like being handed a broken flashlight and told to look for answers in the dark.
The more I thought about it, the more the logic unraveled. Free will? If God already knows our choices, then how are they truly free? And if He’s all-knowing, why create people He knows will reject Him and end up in hell? That doesn’t feel loving; it feels like setting someone up to fail and then blaming them for it. What’s the point of dedicating your entire life to earning a spot in heaven when God has already predetermined your eternal destiny? I’ve been told that Christians and non-Christians alike are sinners, and that’s why we must put our faith in God; not the church. But here’s the part I can’t reconcile: you’re telling me that God sent His Son, who is somehow also Himself, to die on a cross to forgive us for our sins. And yet, if we live sinful lives or simply don’t believe in Him, we’re still condemned to eternal suffering? That simply doesn’t sit right with me.
And don’t even get me started on miracles. The Bible’s full of them: parting seas, people surviving giant fish stomachs, water turning into wine (honestly, respect for that one), but where are the modern equivalents? I recently read an article about an attendee at James River, a megachurch near the city I grew up in, that claimed a woman regrew her amputated arm and hand during prayer. No proof, no medical records, just “trust us, bro.” If miracles like that happened in today’s world, you’d think we’d see them on TikTok at least… Whenever I’ve asked for solid, concrete proof of God’s existence, I’ve been met with anecdotal “miracles” as evidence of divine intervention. But where I personally struggle is deciding whether a miracle is truly divine or simply the result of natural processes or human actions.
Being on social media, I’ve seen countless posts about divine intervention: people practically thanking God for every “miracle” they witness. Take the assassination attempt on President Trump in 2024, for example. Posts and comments poured in, crediting God for sparing his life when a bullet grazed his ear. But here’s the kicker: that same bullet killed an innocent bystander: a father, husband, and firefighter. So did God decide to play favorites, like handing out VIP passes to political figures while leaving the rest of us stuck in line? It’s deeply unsettling and makes you wonder if the Almighty’s got a secret fan club for political figures, while the rest of us are just background extras.
Working in law enforcement has also profoundly deepened my religious skepticism. Every day, I confront the darkest corners of humanity. People committing unspeakable acts of cruelty. I’ve witnessed things that make me question the very existence of a benevolent God. If God is real, all-knowing, and all-powerful, how can he stand by and allow such suffering? How can he watch children in our own communities be kidnapped, sold, and exploited? How can he let families scrape by, living in their cars and scavenging through dumpsters for their next meal? How can he permit torture, murder, and the relentless cycle of pain that so many endure? If reading this makes you uncomfortable, good. It should. These aren’t abstract horrors; they’re happening right now, everywhere. And if God exists, if he truly has the power to stop this and chooses not to, then I want no part of him. A God who allows such suffering is not a God I can respect, let alone worship.
Many of the same people who commit the most heinous crimes, individuals who have inflicted unimaginable pain and suffering, eventually claim transformation. They often credit their redemption to religion, citing a newfound faith as the force that saved them. And while their sincerity may be genuine, I can’t reconcile the idea that someone who has caused irreparable harm can earn eternal paradise simply by “accepting Jesus into their heart.” Meanwhile, an atheist, someone who may have lived a life of kindness, integrity, and generosity but doesn’t believe in God, would, by this same logic, be denied that same eternal reward.
If heaven is filled with violent offenders-turned-saints while selfless, moral atheists are condemned to suffer, then I’m not sure I want a seat at that table. The disparity is staggering. It reduces a lifetime of actions, of choices, sacrifices, and moral character, to a single measure: belief. A system that prioritizes faith over deeds, that rewards repentance over consistent goodness, feels unjust to its core. If that’s the divine order, then I can’t help but question its fairness or its worth.
And then there’s politics. I’ve got a love-hate relationship with politics. Like that one friend who’s both a total jerk and oddly indispensable when you need them most. On one hand, I absolutely despise how politics turns every conversation into a pissing match and splits us apart faster than a bad group chat (those of you who know, know). On the other hand, I’m fired up about the issues that actually matter: stuff that politics inevitably shapes, whether we like it or not. Politics shape almost every aspect of our lives: politics shape our paychecks, the price of goods, access to healthcare, rights for minorities and immigrants, and initiatives like DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion). And yet, religion, something that’s supposed to be a personal choice, still plays such a dominant role in shaping political decisions.
And since we’re on the topic of politics, I can’t ignore the influence religion has on them. People often say politics aren’t personal, but they absolutely are. Religion is supposed to be personal, but somehow it’s always forcing its way into the political arena like the drunk uncle at Thanksgiving who insists on giving his unsolicited opinion about what he reposted from a right-winged conspiracy theory Facebook page. There’s supposed to be a separation of church and state, but lately, it feels more like a toxic codependency. It’s like they’re attached at the hip, and one can’t function without the other, except instead of being a cute couple, they’re more like a dysfunctional reality TV show.
I’ve been labeled a “liberal” by my friends and some family members, both directly and indirectly, because I support things like LGBTQ+ rights, access to healthcare, and bodily autonomy. Many Christians talk about facing religious persecution but seem unwilling to acknowledge how they, in turn, often persecute those who don’t conform to their beliefs. Apparently, these are the “sins” of modern society now. But you know what? If loving others and supporting their rights makes me a disappointment, then I’ll wear that label proudly like a badge of honor. A liberal badge of honor that probably won’t get me invited to the next family function, but hey, it’s worth it.
Speaking of bodily autonomy, let’s talk about a deeply personal trauma my wife and I endured in 2021 and how it shaped my political and religious perspective. We were ecstatic to be expecting our first son, Arthur Wayne. We’d already picked out a name, started assembling the nursery, and were so ready to meet him. But life had other plans. When complications made it clear that Arthur wouldn’t survive, we weren’t given the choice to end the pregnancy. Instead, my wife had to carry a baby we knew was gone, and eventually, she had to deliver him already lifeless.
Why is this political? Because of abortion laws written by politicians who seem to think they’re better at deciding our futures than doctors or the people actually living through these heartbreaking experiences. Ending the pregnancy wouldn’t have been “murder.” It wasn’t an easy decision. It was an act of mercy that we weren’t allowed to make.
And yet, some evangelicals… those same people who hand out “What Would Jesus Do” bracelets, still claim that a pregnancy resulting from rape is “a blessing.” Do you hear how twisted that sounds? That logic implies God blessed someone by allowing them to be raped. What in the actual fuck? It’s like saying, “Hey, I just gave you a gift. It’s a rock. A rock that fell on your face, but at least it’s a gift!” It’s vile. And I don’t care how much scripture you throw at me, that’s not something I can reconcile with any sense of morality.
The church’s stance on so many issues: LGBTQ+ rights, abortion, “love the sinner, hate the sin,” feels more like a contradiction than a guiding principle. Why is there a need to withhold support for someone simply because of who they love or how they identify? Using the Bible to justify a lack of support feels like a contradiction to the message of love and acceptance that Christianity often preaches.
It’s one of the key reasons I find it hard to embrace the faith. If your faith leads you to strip away someone else’s rights, dignity, or humanity, maybe the problem isn’t with them. Maybe it’s with you. Just saying.
At the end of the day, I’ve chosen to walk away from faith because I can’t reconcile its contradictions. I don’t believe in God, and I’m okay with that.
So here it is: I don’t believe in God and I’m an atheist. I’ve chosen to walk away from faith because I can’t reconcile its contradictions. And honestly, I’m perfectly fine with that. For years, I tried to squeeze myself into a mold that never quite fit, like trying to wear skinny jeans after Thanksgiving dinner, which by the way, I tried it—definitely not worth it. I’d rather live authentically with doubts and questions than pretend to have peace in a belief system that feels fundamentally flawed. I’ve spent far too many nights wrestling with guilt, fear, and the pressure to be something I wasn’t. But guess what? I’m done pretending.
I choose to value actions over beliefs, humanity over ideology, and critical thinking over blind faith. You know, like choosing to actually read the directions before assembling that piece of furniture, rather than just hoping the universe will sort it out for you. If there is a God out there, I hope He appreciates honesty over empty words. And if not, then I’ll keep living my life the way I see fit. Not because I’m expecting a divine reward, but because, you know, it’s the right thing to do. I’m not necessarily trying to make it to heaven. I’m just trying to be the best husband, father, and public servant that I can be while I am here on this earth. And for me, that’s enough.
Peace.
For a Thought 
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