Why an Atheist Like Me Still Talks About the Love of Jesus

The Christians Who Didn’t Try to Save Me Changed Everything

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When I lost my faith, it was not a quiet process of drifting away — it was an implosion. A violent, disorienting collapse of everything I had built my life upon. In terms of sheer psychological distress, it surpassed even the moment I watched my father die in hospice.

Grief is one thing; the annihilation of meaning is another.

And yet, for a while, I kept it to myself. Not out of uncertainty — I was quite sure I no longer believed — but out of fear.

Fear of what it would mean for my marriage. Fear of how my friends and family would react. Fear, most of all, of what my pastor and fellow church members would say.

Eventually, the weight became unbearable, and I decided to tell my pastor. His response was exactly what I should have expected.

“You’re destroying your family,” he told me. “I don’t want to see you go to hell — or worse, take your son and wife with you.”

Hell. Eternal damnation. The casual invocation of cosmic horror as a means of control. In that moment, my anger toward Christianity crystallized into something sharper than doubt — something closer to contempt.