Faith as an Illusion
“Salvation is a word that has often enslaved.” — Simone de Beauvoir
I grew up in an “Easter & Christmas Christian” family. I don’t recall attending church outside of those holidays—except for the occasional wedding or funeral. I was baptized. I was confirmed, wearing white pants, with a hot pink shirt tucked in and held tight with a brown belt. I still don’t know why. I went to Sunday school on occasion, though, in hindsight, I suspect it was more to give my parents a break than to save my soul as I usually went with friends or other family members.
I never quite grasped religion as a child. Looking back, I realize I saw through the facade being prescribed to me. It’s highly common now to hear the word “indoctrination” being used, and I can’t think of a better one to describe Sunday school, youth groups, and every other child-focused religious spectacle humans have crafted to prey on the still-developing mind.
On July 8, 1741, Jonathan Edwards delivered his infamous sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” Known for its vivid imagery and fearsome portrayal of divine wrath, the sermon emphasizes the fragility of human life and the ever-present threat of eternal damnation without repentance. Put simply, it was designed to terrify—to paint a picture of an infinitely sinister afterlife for anyone who dared stray from the eyes of God and the church.
Much like capitalism relies on quiet, obedient workers to prevent unionization, religion has always required delusion to sustain itself. It offers a false hope in the face of an absurd and indifferent universe. The burdens and deceptions of religion continue to weigh heavily on society, shaping and distorting individual and collective consciousness. The idea of God is, at its core, a comforting narrative and one humans invented to shield themselves from the cold, inescapable truth of existential dread.
I think back now to that kid, lost in a sea of others his age, attending an overpacked church on a Sunday morning, quietly questioning it all—even then. And I realize now, it was never the idea of a god that comforted me, but the presence of creativity in my life. My god was music, drawing, writing, reading, the safety of my bedroom. My faith, if I have any, rests in the idea that my name might be carried off into the wind, and maybe—just maybe—my art will remain, reverberating the same questions I never stopped asking.