The Theologian's Daughter

Religion is like food. But whether you want to use it to feed your neighbour or shove it down their throat is upto you.

Hello! Thank you for patiently walking with me as I write my journey. One of the hardest parts of writing this series was sitting down to journal, polish, and make sense of everything I’d been through—emotionally overwhelming, to say the least.

When I look at my spiralling and landing into atheism I am reminded of a video I saw ages ago —a pani puri eating challenge by OkTested. It was a challenge where the participants were asked to finish about 500 pani puris and whoever finished first would win. It looked really fun! Later on, when one of the participants confessed in another video that after the challenge he wasn’t able to look at panipuri for the next 6 months because he ate so much of it. I was able to relate to it on a personal level.

I do not know why, but this strangely comforted me. Even something like panipuri can make you feel nauseous when you have an overdose. How much more could my faith feel?

When it came to Christianity, it was not the faith in itself that triggered my loathing towards it. It was the constant compulsion to participate in religious activities, behave within a certain framework and solely subscribe to the theology of the authorities without doubt or debate.

5. At the Table

Quite organically, I found myself back at the table. It came with a sense of unexplainable peace. To be back at the table I knew. But it did not feel the same.

I was at the table. I knew I was. I was sure. Then why did this feel different?

This did not feel like the table I had left behind. Along with a sense of peace, another friend came and sat beside me this time. It was hyperawareness and it came with a deep burden for the misrepresentation of my faith. I was back at the table but my rose-tainted glasses of my faith fell off. And dealing with this was more painful than dealing with not having faith at all.

Luckily, this was during the pandemic so it gave me a lot of time to think and do my own research.

I started researching. about people within the evangelical church who had similar experiences of a fallout. And boy, did I get myself into a rabbit hole!

The stillness of the pandemic forced me to confront a lot of these questions that I had pushed aside the last couple of years. Without the noise of weekly services and constant activity, I could finally hear my own thoughts clearly.

There were plenty of such stories! And a lot of them were way worse than what I went through!

I read stories of people within the church who felt they were indoctrinated from childhood on what to believe. And exploring any other concept/topic would lead to their familes and/or their churches disowning them.

I read stories of multiple forms of abuse spiritual, physical and sexual within the church.
I heard a couple of messages of preachers openly telling the women of the congregation that they must submit to their abusive husbands. And the list went on and on and on.

Although I was able to brush off my own experience and come back to the table, the sudden cacaphony of so many hurting people within the church and those leaving the church for good became so deafening I struggled to see the foundational truths of my faith. I could not come in terms with my formative years of my faith. Everything was suddenly wrong.

I was at the table but I was grieving. I was still mourning.

Not the loss of my faith – that was reforming.

Not the loss of my identity – that was still hanging by a thread.

But I was grieving the loss and hurt that thousands of people faced. From a faith I held so dear.
I read stories of people within the church who felt they were indoctrinated from childhood on what to believe. And exploring any other concept/topic would lead to their familes and/or their churches disowning them.

I read stories of multiple forms of abuse spiritual, physical and sexual within the church.
I heard a couple of messages of preachers openly telling the women of the congregation that they must submit to their abusive husbands. And the list went on and on and on.

Although I was able to brush off my own experience and come back to the table, the sudden cacaphony of so many hurting people within the church and those leaving the church for good became so deafening I struggled to see the foundational truths of my faith. I could not come in terms with my formative years of my upbringing. Everything was suddenly wrong.

And in that grief, I began to feel a deep sense of empathy. Empathy for those who no longer identified with the church. I understood, finally, that walking away wasn’t always rebellion—it was sometimes survival. As someone mourning the loss of her own identity, I realised: leaving isn’t easy.

But maybe, just maybe, a greater sense of peace and clarity could still find me.

And it did—in the most unexpected of places.

(Part 6 to be released soon. I really appreciate your patience. :))