Surprised By The Joy of Godlessness.

(Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Listen To Bright Eyes)
In Seven Chapters To Read At Your Leisure.

Chapter 1:
“It is an old world, it’s hard to remember
Like a dime store mystery”

So its Thanksgiving and I decided to break with tradition. Usually every year I post a link to a William Burroughs poem titled “A Thanksgiving Prayer.” This year is different. I was reflecting on a question posed to me by a dear friend who asked: “How did you go from being a devout Christian to Atheist.” Normally, before I answer a question like that I consider whom is asking that before I answer. If its someone whom I know will argue and try to convince me otherwise I will be brief and impersonal. If its a friend I will say lets grab a beer or coffee and talk. This was my friend Dennis that I had lost touch with and then reconnected with through Facebook. A friend that spent just about every day with me for a few years in college. And a friend who I’ve always known is a pretty deeply committed christian in his own way but is never dogmatic. A friend filled with a lot of love for life who is damn funny too! So I was hesitant to answer him quickly and off the cuff and told him I would get back to him since it was certainly a question that required a decent amount of thought. So I was putting it off and then the other day I got inspired. After a show in a very religious part of the country, an audience member asked me what role religion or god played in me changing my life. I had so much to say but in that format could say so little. Where to begin. I was not happy with my answer to the kid. So I wrote the following. To two people. My friend Dennis and that kid in the audience the other day. So I wrote. And I wrote. And I wrote. And I thought about it and reread and I couldn’t help but think this was for everyone. Not to start debates. Please. People. Don’t. But rather to just share a part of myself with many from my past who have wondered “What the heck happened to John?” And also to reintroduce myself to friends who didn’t know me “then.” So here goes

Dear Dennis and that kid,

It seems necessary that to trace how I turned into an atheist from a christian, I should naturally be compelled to tell first how I became a christian. I was raised in a catholic home with little thought or discussion about it. Actually, I thought catholicism was my nationality for the longest time. I honestly thought that because my grandparents were from Italy, I was Roman Catholic. I remember getting mixed up at school. A kid would ask. “What’s your religion?” I would reply, “Italian.” I saw church as a compartment of my life, but I believed. I remember having nightmares from a picture in a children’s bible. My dad read me a story from it once and there was a painting of jesus on the mountain being tempted by Satan. “Get thee behind me!” read the caption. A scary red scaley skinned horned devil was being cast away. Ya know? It was a bible. For kids. That night we also looked at a picture of god destroying the earth by flood. It was an artist’s rendering. My Dad said: “See that! Thats why we should fear the lord thy god.” Book was closed. Sweet dreams. Lights out. Under the covers, I knew that the devil was real and after me. The scriptures, that everyone told me were true, said that the devil was after us but Jesus could protect us…As long as you didn’t make him angry. If you do, bust out the water wings kid.

These images were soon commingled with personal turmoil in my life. I had little supervision as a child and very few friends. My parents had split up when I was 7. I was alone all the time as my dad worked long hours and my brothers and sisters were much older and had their own set of friends. The way they dealt with their feelings of loss and confusion in a late 70’s broken home was drugs and partying. Like so many of that generation, which I will call the Zeppelin IV generation, they found a close set of friends that were a displaced kind of family for them. In the meantime, I was alone. Left with my two dogs, some cassette audio tapes of bugs bunny cartoons that I played on my little GE tape player to memorize, and this horrible fear that the devil was after me and god was pissed. My only comfort was TV and some murmured prayers. Up all night at the age of 8-11 years old I watched reruns of Grouch Marx, Three Stooges, Monster Movies, The HoneyMooners, Johnny Carson, and anything that kept me company through the night until the national anthem played with a flapping flag backdrop and fighter jets red, white, and blue and then that damned test pattern. This concludes our broadcast day. And there I was alone. Sleeping in my clothes. With the devil. No life preserver. The boat capsized.

Chapter Two:
“All your friends and sedatives mean well
But make it worse”

There was my brothers death. There was Dad’s cancer. There was a move to Massachusetts. There was a new school and kids that had a dumb accent. There was living with my Aunt. There was a move to a housing project. There was a neighbor whose name I will not mention. He was a man of his mid thirties who lived with his parents and, looking back, was a closeted homosexual. A nice guy. He befriended a lot of the neighborhood kids and played baseball with them. He would even buy us things. And talk about the red sox with us. And talk about the Bible. He would talk about the “end times.” He would talk about the need to accept jesus as your savior or else that meant we would all miss the rapture. And if we missed the rapture of god’s people we would be left on earth and then the only way to be saved would be to accept jesus…But by then we would be attacked for our faith in the midst of a demon controlled world and we would be tortured and we would be beheaded. But at least we would be saved. He told us all this. He played with us. Funny thing…He only played with the neighborhood boys. He was alone with boys a lot. This is not a judgment of his possible sexual orientation…But I wonder if he ever abused any of the kids. I mean he took teenage boys on trips and gave them money. There were whispers in the neighborhood. I know he he never touched me. I think he knew he would be barking up the wrong tree or maybe he just wasn’t that way. But his jesus stories did something much worse. I was mentally raped and enslaved by religious fear. I was never given a bad touch but I sure was “f—–d.” A simple cub-scout-like abuse would have been much easier to deal with in the long term than the mental torture I was subjected to as I tried to fall asleep at night. A young teenager in fear of his life and the life of his family. So I was processing all this and still exploring things in my social life. I was discovering girls. I was discovering pot. I was discovering myself. I was discovering how much I loved slow dancing with girls in 7th and 8th grade and holding them close and the smell of their teenage luvs baby soft and cherry lip gloss. Soon after, I discovered why the bedroom and bathroom door had a lock. I discovered how awkward some girls made me feel. I discovered what it felt like to be poor. I discovered drinking whiskey straight. I discovered how much you can puke after drinking peppermint schnapps. I discovered weed.

I never fully committed to being a stoner because of my religious fears. I never went “all the way” with a girl for the longest time because of those religious fears. A few years later my sister, who used to buy schnapps for me, and her boyfriend had a religious awakening of their own. In short, my future brother in-law tripped on acid and after listening to a rock group called Kansas and connecting with the lyrics he became “born again.” They went to a church that was filled with the “spirit and the love of god.” It was not catholic. It was assembly of god. Pentecostal. It was packed on friday nights and sunday mornings and the people were smiling. They all seemed nice but I remember feeling that none of those people were like me. They were richer. They were cleaner. They dressed better. They were a little phony. But when I attended the service I felt something real. I felt an emotion that I mistook as love. I felt as though God loved me. God accepted me. I felt as though I was this dorky kid that didn’t fit in anywhere in the neighborhood or at school but perhaps god had a place for me. I was in a house with a parent that was rarely around to parent and a brother who was a heroin addict and a sister that seemed to care about me a lot but was struggling with her own feelings. So here was this great feeling of total acceptance. A great feeling that there was “someone” who loved me and accepted me. I look back on this moment as the same moment an addict must feel when he tries heroin for the first time. A wave of feeling that despite all the external circumstances that are swirling around them, there was a mellow “high” of total peace and escape. A deep spiritual and emotional assurance that “it is well with my soul.” Until the drug wears off. And then you awake feeling cold and alone and unable to deal with an evil demon haunted reality…So you seek a fix. Unlike my brother who sought out two or three bags a day…I got my “fix” from youth groups, christian self help books, and christian music. And just like a junkie craves more and more until they are no longer in control of their own choices, so too I lost myself in god. I ignored all reason and doubt and gave myself over. I was 18. I was lucky to graduate high school. I had no plans for college. I liked being on stage in school. I had a teacher that thought I should do stand-up. I had a church that thought I should do “drama for the lord.” I chose to go to Evangel University, a christian liberal arts college, and study Theatre and Communications. For god.

Chapter Three:
“Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt
Better find yourself a place to level out.”

Evangel was filled with the same people that filled the assembly of god church I attended. Smiling. Clean. Phony. Church kids their whole lives they were experimenting with being alone and away from their parents. Most enjoyed the sinful feeling of sneaking out past curfew and drinking. Maybe they even touched body parts that were never touched before. But honestly, they all seemed like strangers to me and I never fit into their world. Thank god I didn’t. But I now was at college and I felt a sense of mission. A deep seated drive for knowledge and an opportunity to elevate myself and get away from my small town hopelessness. A drive to be the only one of my siblings that wasn’t a f–k up. With these feelings driving me I threw myself into a “christian liberal arts education.” Little did the college know it would backfire.

In the religion classes we began to study the history of the bible. How it was written. When it was written. Who wrote it. And many of my images were shattered. First of all there were apparently many other books, prophets, and gospels that were not included in what we call the bible. So who decided what books were included. Councils of men. But it was O.K. because those councils were inspired by god and felt that those books did not pass certain tests. For instance the gospel of thomas mentioned jesus as a young boy healing frogs and birds. The church fathers felt that was ridiculous and incredulous. My bible teachers mocked that story and pointed to it as an example of why it was “obvious” that those stories would not be included in the bible. I secretly thought “Yeah thats crazy to think that jesus would heal a bird. Absolutely crazy. About as crazy as it is to think that he turned water into wine and turned a loaf of bread into a meal for five thousand.” Things began to unravel in my young mind. Slowly. I began to see this “infallible” book as being something different than I thought. It was not a history book because it did not line up with recorded history. It was not a science book because it was way off in its interpretation of fairly common accepted scientific facts. The age of the earth. Evolution. The arrangement of the planets and the universe. So I began to see the bible as a book for inspiration. I rationalized my faith with the thought that the bible was indeed written by men. But it was by men who were “inspired” by god. So yes, it was not accurate factually with science and history and twentieth century knowledge. But that did not take away from the power of its words and the story of my saviour. Did it? After all Christianity was not about science and the brain and proof. It was about faith. It was about the heart. It was about some basic assumptions. There was a creator. The creation, mankind, was imperfect because of sin. The creator sent a saviour to redeem mankind. If mankind believed in the saviour and abided in his truth then they would be saved and live eternally.

Christianity was indeed about faith and faith only. And even though I read apologetics by “great” christian thinkers like Josh McDowell and C.S. Lewis, at the end of the day, my faith required me to ignore certain things to continue to exist. Even though wise teachers would admit there were “problems” with the bible they would simultaneously say that EVERY word in it is infallible. I even defended this thought to outsiders but deep down I knew it was impossible. I had serious doubts.

Most christians felt very satisfied with the answers that were provided to them when they experienced doubt. A common one was the following. “Secular history tells us that Jesus existed. The people that knew Jesus wrote about him. Jesus said he was god. The choice is simple: Jesus was either a liar, a lunatic, or he was who he said he was.” Everyone around me seemed to be believing that he was indeed the lord of lords and king of kings. I tried really hard to believe that. But in the back of my head I had a troubling sliver of doubt. A sliver that begin to get infected. An infection that began to spread from the subconscious to the conscious mind. I was torn. I felt that my faith, for it to continue, would require me to ignore things that seemed like common sense. For instance. Many people claimed miracles. The bible was full of them. The blind seeing. The dead raised. Walking on water. Staffs being turned into serpents. Conveniently, all of these things happened years ago. But they happened. Trust us. The bible says so. And we know who wrote the bible? How do we know because God said so. Where did he say it? Thats right. In the bible. Oh boy my head was spinning. And even when I examined the legends of the “miracles” that did happen today, they did not survive basic scientific tests. Like people actually seeing them. Or if they did seem real, they could easily be dismissed as medical anomalies. Demon possession was obviously insanity or multiple personality disorder and yes, sometimes cancer did just go away. The world was indeed a strange place filled with “unexplainable” things but to ascribe those things to a god or person that lived two thousand years ago seemed intellectually dishonest. It began to seem a little crazy to me that a person would pray for things to happen and expect a god to change the laws of the universe for them…Perhaps to the detriment of a whole bunch of other people on the other side of the world. And if people were being healed of diseases…Why was it just those people and not all people. Did god only answer those who knew the right words. Rumplestiltskin! This question was easily dealt with. “Who are we to know gods plan. His ways are not our ways.” This seemed like the perfect excuse for EVERYTHING. “I know it doesn’t make sense…but its not supposed to. The things of god cannot be understood with our little finite human brains.” What kind of latitude would that excuse cover. Apparently an entire religion and billions of people for thousands of years.

Chapter Four: “
It’s an infinite coincidence
But it doesn’t form a plan”

Soon these thoughts became sickening to me. All these years I was scared to listen to my own brain. The bible actually said “trust in the lord and lean not on your own understanding.” That was the bottom line. For me to continue in christianity would require me to not trust my own understanding. Exactly how does one not trust their own understanding? Its the only thing we know how to do. Its the only reality we know. Ignore that?

There were many wise teachers at Evangel that seemed to synthesize their intellect and their faith very well. English teachers and philosophy teachers who were by no means intellectual lightweights. And yet I looked at them, in a way, as betraying me. Surely they did not believe that all the animals of the world were once on an Ark? Surely they did not believe that the world was created in six days. (Which by the way many christians glossed over by saying “It was not a literal six days..after all the bible says that a day with the lord is like a thousand years.”) Even if they did relegate these things as part of the bible mythology that “Obviously” was not meant to be taken literally, who decided which things were literal and which were allegorical? What was the difference between Jonah in the belly of the whale and Jesus rising from the dead. What was the difference between god raining frogs and plagues and the belief that the holy spirit was everywhere or that jesus was still alive and could hear me. Because some of mainstream christianity could allow you to dismiss the old testament stories as fables and stay in the club…but they were pretty adamant that believing in the resurrection of jesus was “essential christianity.” And I was growing tired. Tired of not listening “to my own understanding.” Tired of feeling like an outsider in a club that I would never fit in with. Tired of my addiction and need for divine love. Tired of the arguments and having to be right…so I could be right with god. Tired of defending to myself something that was intellectually impossible to defend. Tired of living in a bubble that was too small and in clothes that were too tight. And on top of all this, there was the regret that in my zeal I had judged so many. I had called so many people sinners. Not with my words necessarily and all be it in a nice way, “God hates the sin but loves the sinner.” Sadly when I looked in the mirror I saw a judgmental prick underneath the veneer of a loving christian. And underneath the veneer of that judgmental prick was a child. A scared and insecure child that still had never accepted his life, his family, his feelings, and himself. “Hello, my name is john morello and I’m addicted to god.” I knew I could not continue in this way.

Chapter Five:
”I never thought of running
My feet just led the way”

As most addicts, I knew I wanted to change but the desire is sometimes not enough. I still clung to those feelings of emotional and spiritual security that i felt from god. Maybe I was just hitting a rough patch. Maybe I just needed to rediscover that “Still small voice?” Maybe these things didn’t intellectually make sense but how could I deny the FEELINGS I had when I was younger? The feeling of the holy spirit. The feeling of gods love. the feeling of acceptance by the creator of the universe. And for a few years I tried a middle path. A lonely hybrid form of god. Maybe I didn’t believe in christianity as defined by those “fake” christians but I could still believe in Christ’s teachings right? I mean the sermon on the mount holds up as an amazing statement of love and compassion and is a pretty deep way of looking at life. I could consider myself a christian but maybe a christian in exile from the church? Or maybe I could believe in the “energy” of god but not a “god” per se. That was pretty popular with most people. The idea that “I know there is more to life than “just this.” “There is something but I do not know what.” I could consider myself “spiritual but not religious.” That would be cool. That would be something that even people outside of christianity could find acceptable. I would imagine that,currently, the majority of our country feels this way. Disenfranchised by “organized religion” but holding to a belief in some kind of divine. I even dabbled in Buddhism and I suppose of all the religions it still is the one that,if I had to choose, would be the one for which I feel the strongest sentiment. And even after I was an atheist, for a while, I still told people I was a Buddhist. The ideas of suffering, alleviation of the suffering, meditation, acceptance and non-attachment to the temporary ring true to me. But they have their gods and superstitions too and ultimately it felt intellectually dishonest. It still felt like a sell out. If I abandoned my faith it would have to be honestly and completely and then that would mean one thing. I would be on my own. I was an addict looking at my faith like a drug that was killing me. My brother saw heroin take away so much of his youth. He stayed in a state of denial. He felt powerless over it. And when he wanted to escape it, he would just come to the conclusion that it was easier to just remain an addict. With me, it was easier to stay with a nice warm fuzzy lie that helped me cope with real life. I actually needed to make a commitment to detox myself from Christianity and god and that would require me to change. It would require bravery to follow my own path amidst long held fears of damnation. It would require me to look at all that christianity had done for me, some good and some bad, and turn my back on it. There was no middle ground. If I was to be honest with myself and the universe I would have to do so in the face of fear that if I was wrong…I would be going to hell.

Chapter Six:
“Mixed-up tea leaves
Phantom pain
Fuzzy logic in the the crazy rain
Getting better every day”

I soon realized that I would be leaving so many friends in the church. So many “junkies” that I used with for so long. I would be admitting to all my family and friends that I was wrong. And many who were christians would think I was now accusing THEM of being wrong and misguided. And I also knew that my christian friendships would be tinged with judgement and pity from those who saw me as “backsliding” and “lost.” Yes, this was not going to be easy. Not just socially but on a personal spiritual level it would mean that if there was no god…I was alone. That we were all alone. I was not a special child of a god. There was no benevolent person somewhere, or even an energy everywhere, that had my best interest in mind and loved me unconditionally. There was no divine someone I could turn to when things in life felt out of control. The universe was out of my control. I was powerless over it all. I was my own boss and in essence I was my own god. To come to terms with all that would not happen overnight and require a lot of reprogramming. There’s no twelve step meetings for this and it was a journey that by definition would be taken alone. It would require strength and courage. And ironically enough it would require…FAITH. In myself and faith in the world. Faith that although life did not mean what the christians, jews, or muslims said it meant. Still… LIfe had meaning! This much I knew! This thought was my rudder that I trusted as I set sail.

Its been a few years now on this voyage and like any sad sailor in recovery some days are better than others. Overall though, I feel so at peace and so comfortable. I feel a sense of accomplishment for overcoming my demons that were disguised as angels. I feel a sense of pride in myself for getting to the point where I am now. And in my liberation I can still, at times, see religion in a decent way. The writings of Joseph Campbell and his book “The Power of Myth” have been wonderful companions to me and helped me to not see religion in such a negative light. I can see them all as metaphors and constructs that help us all as humans deal with a very complicated and overwhelming life and also to help us celebrate big moments in our lives. Baptism, marriage, Bar mitzvah, etc. All are powerful ways and ceremonies to add touchstones to our lives. And at times we need our heroes to save us when life is overwhelming. To me, Joseph Campbell said it best by saying that the “hero has a thousand faces.” I tend to avoid those religious constructs most of the time because of my history. Most alcoholics and addicts avoid the parties and crowd where they once were lost. And to continue the analogy, they know that one drink may lead them down a road that will enslave them. I am still a weak human though and I can get very nostalgic for the old days when religion organized everything so perfect. And because our religions are tied in with our childhood and families it can be very tough to separate those feelings. Nor should I always try. I was very moved at my fathers funeral when they played the hymn from Isaiah “On Eagles Wings.” I am very emotional when I take my daughter to Sunday mass at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. Were it up to me I would find a different church or none at all. But her mother is catholic and out of respect for her and peace in our divorced parenting I “play nice.” Plus, I kind of enjoy the tradition and symbolism of the mass and, in all honesty, where else can one take their child socially and discuss deeper questions of life and morality and ethics. Sure I can and will do those things with her as she grows but there sadly is no other place outside of our home. Is there a Chuck E Cheese temple? A Buddhist Gymboree? Yes there is. Its called the Unitarian Church. But alas, “we” are raising her catholic. So I go to Sunday mass with my daughter.

Chapter Seven:
“I tried to pass for nothing
But my dreams gave me away”

So in the end I feel at peace with my decisions and my path. Sometimes I feel as though I have put more thought into my lack of faith than most christians put into their faith. Ironically enough, now that I’m an atheist, I feel more sensitive to “spirituality” and “supernatural” things than ever. Instead of believing that just some things are holy I believe that all is holy. Instead of believing one day is holy I believe they all are holy. Instead of feeling like life is eternal and every moment affects our eternity, I have something so meaningful to me. I have a beautiful feeling that life is not eternal. It is finite. It ends. Our time is brief and we have very little control over many, if not all, circumstances. And so every moment is EVERYTHING. Every moment is holy. Every look in the eye of a friend. Every hand I hold. Every tear. Every laugh. All the moments with those who have died are eternal in my brain until I die. And all the moments with those who are alive can be sacred. Every amazing moment with my daughter. Its all so beautiful and holy and “spiritual” in its own way…And yes, sadly, it is temporary. I am temporary. And so are you. And that is the truth baby. And that’s O.K. Its more than OK, Its amazing. Amazing to think that this grand universe of stars and atoms and cells has come together in me and in this moment. And I have the opportunity to do whatever I want with it. There may be nobody “up there” to help me but that just empowers me to have faith that nobody “down here” can stop me.

John Morello
11-25-08