Finding God in the Waves: How I Lost My Faith and Found It Again Through Science

by Mike McHargue

I know what it’s like to know right from wrong without the aid of divine laws, instead relying on careful examination of how human actions can violate others’ consent and produce suffering.

Why would God make His Holy Word and the night sky tell two different stories?

How had I missed all this before? The only thing worse was the answer proffered by apologetics: that God had a right to do with His creation as He pleased. To me, that God seemed like a sociopath.

He said that what I was going through was one of the problems with systematic theology. I was trying to see God as an equation to be solved instead of a living being who partners with us in His creation.

The Bible was inspired, yes, but it was also the work of humans. And humans had opinions, fuzzy recollections, and agendas.

Science doesn’t ask you for faith. It’s happy to show you its homework.

That’s the rub. Christians believe that God is self-evident, and skeptics see no earthly evidence of God at all.

I was the world’s least interesting secret agent—an atheist under deep cover in the Baptist church.

You don’t need some God to tell you to be good—you can be good on your own. And isn’t that more meaningful? To love and to make the world a better place because you choose to?

Some skeptics are offended when people offer to pray for them. I never was. Sure, sometimes “I’ll pray for you” is a passive-aggressive quip. But more often, when someone says she’ll pray for you, she’s truly saying, “I care for you deeply, and I think about you a lot. I’m going to ask the most powerful force in the universe to help you.”

Our churches will never be healthy as long as those experiencing doubt feel they have to hide.

“Brené Brown says that the opposite of faith is not doubt. Faith and doubt need each other. The opposite of faith is certainty,”

I threw the fullness of my doubt about God at them, and they held it with grace. They didn’t shout me down or take apart my arguments. They didn’t try to win me over or rebuke me. They just accepted me.

But I’ve learned that the need for certainty is an addiction we can kick—that it’s possible to have faith, and even follow Christ, without needing to defend historical Christianity like a doctoral thesis. We can approach beliefs not as gems to be mined from the earth and protected with clenched fists, but as butterflies that land on an open hand—as gifts to enjoy but not possess.

If anyone asked me what I thought about God, I could tell them in simple terms: God is at least the set of forces that created and sustain the universe.

Unfortunately, the Angry God is ripe for exploitation. When life’s meaning or one’s eternal destiny is closely associated with such a God, it’s easy for authoritarian systems—whether churches, governments, or even terrorist organizations—to drive people to dangerous behaviors.

The Angry God plus authoritarianism can be a toxic, dangerous combination that drives religious people to reject science, demonize outsiders, and even commit acts of violence. Thankfully, the Angry God isn’t the only God on the block.

God is at least the natural forces that created and sustain the universe as experienced via a psychosocial model in human brains that naturally emerges from innate biases. Even if that is a comprehensive definition for God, the pursuit of this personal, subjective experience can provide meaning, peace, and empathy for others.

Think about how common the admonition to pray is in our culture. For people who’ve felt neglected by God, prayer becomes the silliest of superstitions, a false source of hope in an uncaring world.

Prayer became less about asking God for something and more about being in God’s presence.

These days, my intercessory prayers are an act of surrender—a way to voice my hopes and my hopelessness, my power to act and my powerlessness. When I pray for things I hope for, I am searching for ways I can act to make a situation better. When I pray in situations I find hopeless, I’m searching for that redemptive perspective.

Prayer is at least a form of meditation that encourages the development of healthy brain tissue, lowers stress, and can connect us to God. Even if that is a comprehensive definition of prayer, the health and psychological benefits of prayer justify the discipline.

Jesus is at least a man so connected to God that He was called the Son of God, and the largest religious movement in human history is centered around His teachings. Even if this is all Jesus is, following His teachings can promote peace, empathy, and genuine morality.

I didn’t necessarily invite Jesus “into my heart,” as the saying goes. Instead, Jesus lives in my anterior cingulate cortex, the seat of compassion. He reduces my tendency toward selfishness, anger, and fear. He teaches me a more patient approach to life—as He’s been teaching those who follow Him for over 2,000 years.

Sin is at least volitional action or inaction that violates human consent or produces human suffering. Sin comes from the divergent impulses between our lower and higher brain functions and is accelerated by our evolution-driven tendency to do things that serve ourselves and our tribe. Even if this is all sin is, it is destructive and threatens human flourishing.

I was openly LGBTQ-affirming, and my church saw same-sex relationships as a rebellion against God. I was an evolutionist, and some of our leaders saw that as an affront to God’s authority. There was no way of denying it: Nothing about my theological views fit within the Baptist faith.

The church, the spiritual body of Christ, meant to mend the wounds of those who suffer, instead can become the bully, an advocate for the powerful, and an enemy of the oppressed.

A holy commission to go out and make disciples is twisted into a call to make others into enemies in a culture war. That kind of church is dying, and it needs to. It has little to do with Christ.

But the science on processing pain, grief, and trauma is clear: When people attempt to shortcut or disavow the sorrow of emotional wounds instead of expressing it, they might unconsciously harbor hostility or helplessness instead of forgiveness.

A church doesn’t have to be a building with pews, a choir, a pastor, and Sunday-night socials. That’s the church many of us have known, but it’s not the only way to seek contact with God among like-minded people who will know, love, and accept you.

Despite compelling passages about love, forgiveness, justice, and peace, I couldn’t shake the sense that this was a book full of primitive brutality.

I’ve learned that my problems aren’t with the Bible at all. All the anachronisms, contradictions, and similar stumbling blocks I found in its pages aren’t flaws in the Scripture. Instead, they are flaws in the assumptions I hold as I read the Bible.

Many Christians have felt that they must either accept the lens I was given at birth or dismiss the Bible entirely.

These books were written by different people over an impressive span of time—1,500 years. Each book was written by a specific author, for a specific audience, with a specific agenda.

Far from being accidents, the contradictions found in the pages of Scripture are often intentional, reflecting the different motivations and opinions of the Bible’s many authors.

Biblical apologists spend all their time weaving these different viewpoints into a single frame, in an effort that often looks like squids playing Twister: fascinating, appalling, and hard to follow.

When I let go of the Bible as an inerrant document and embraced it as a multi-party discussion about God, all of a sudden, I began to see a book I could appreciate on its own terms.

The Bible is at least a collection of books and writings assembled by the Church that chronicle a people’s experiences with, and understanding of, God over more than a thousand years. Even if that is a comprehensive definition of the Bible, study of Scripture is warranted to understand our culture and the way in which people come to know God.

Ancient literature must be read in a historical context, and the Bible is no different.

If someone asks me if God inspired the Bible, I say yes without hesitation. I think the Bible was inspired by God in the same way “Song for Jenny” was inspired by Jenny. She didn’t write it—what a strange notion—but you can learn a lot about her if you hear it. You learn just as much about how I feel about her and what our relationship is like. You may even catch higher themes about what it’s like to be in love and the value of marriage.

The value of the Bible is revealed in that way. It’s the stories of people like me, and maybe yourself, who have looked up at the night sky and searched for God. Their achievements and their failures are there. There are stories of transcendence and war, grace and exploitation—stories that reflect an unfolding drama as broad as the human condition.

Christian can invoke some troubling historical baggage: colonialism, imperialism, systemic and personal racism, sexism, homophobia.

sometimes you just want to be able to answer the question “What religion are you?” without vaulting into a speech.

Somehow, over time, we humans seem to find the image of God we need in order to serve and grow and face that often challenging task of existing as a conscious entity. I’m done saying I’ve found the right one—mysticism tells me that these are all metaphors, all symbols, pointing to a single God who is beyond anything I will ever be able to imagine.

Gender is an earthly idea. It’s not innate to the universe, much less to God.