By nature, humans are storytellers. We have sought to make sense of the world around us for millennia—its beauty, chaos, and boundless mysteries. From the delicate hum of bees pollinating flowers to the violent eruption of volcanoes, we have crafted narratives to explain what we could not otherwise comprehend. Religion, for many, has been the repository of these stories, offering meaning, solace, and structure. But for me, these answers no longer resonate. This is my confession—not of sin, but of doubt—a doubt so pervasive and undeniable that it became my belief in the absence of a god.
I grew up surrounded by faith, though never fully immersed in it. My family was a mosaic of beliefs: my father’s side was deeply religious, my dad himself identified as Protestant in a passive, cultural sense, and my mum leaned more toward spirituality than organized religion. Yet, I harboured a quiet certainty from a very young age: I did not believe in God.
This conviction wasn’t born out of rebellion or resentment; it wasn’t the product of anger or some deep existential crisis. It simply was. My mind could not reconcile the narratives of divinity I was presented with, even as I was steeped in religious practice. My grandfather, a devout believer, insisted I attend church with him, and my education took place in the halls of a Catholic school. Sundays became a ritual of enduring sermons and reciting prayers that felt hollow, even alien. I would sit in the pews, lost in the rhythm of tradition, wondering why it all felt so detached from truth.
Catholic school, too, played its part in shaping my understanding of religion—or rather, my distance from it. I was taught the doctrines and rituals: memorized the Ten Commandments, participated in Mass, and learned to confess sins I didn’t truly feel guilty for. I was fascinated by the beauty of the rituals—the solemn cadence of prayers, the stained-glass windows that painted the air with light, the incense that curled upward as though trying to touch the divine. Yet, it all felt more like theatre than a revelation of truth to me. The stories of miracles and divine intervention seemed no more credible than the myths of Greek gods I studied in my history books.
By my teenage years, I could no longer even feign belief. Outwardly, I still attended church and participated in the motions of faith, but internally, my mind was made up. God wasn’t real to me. Prayer felt like speaking into a void, and concepts of heaven and hell seemed more like mechanisms of control than profound truths.
My atheism wasn’t born out of bitterness or rebellion but from clarity—a recognition that the world made more sense without a god than with one. This absence of belief in a deity means that I do not hold a belief in the existence of any gods.
But this clarity never dampened my fascination with religion itself. In fact, the absence of belief in a deity has only deepened my curiosity about the many ways humans have sought to make sense of existence. I remain endlessly intrigued by world religions—their philosophies, rituals, and profound influence on culture and history. Studying them offers insight into the human condition: our fears, hopes, and ceaseless yearning for connection. From the meditative practices of Buddhism to the intricate pantheon of Hinduism, from the poetry of Islamic mysticism to the stoic ethics of Confucianism, religion is a testament to humanity’s creativity and resilience. While I do not share the faith of believers, I deeply respect the intellectual and emotional richness of these traditions.
I won’t pretend there haven’t been moments of doubt in my own non-belief. Religion provides a sense of community, belonging, and a framework for addressing life’s most daunting questions. There’s an undeniable comfort in the notion of a higher purpose or an eternal plan. Yet, for me, that comfort comes at the cost of intellectual honesty. I find greater beauty in acknowledging uncertainty than in accepting answers that don’t resonate.
Atheism isn’t a void; it’s a reorientation of wonder. I find awe in the intricate dance of ecosystems, in the immensity of the cosmos, and in the fragile, fleeting connections that make life meaningful. I don’t need a god to marvel at the world’s beauty or to seek purpose in my actions. The brevity of life makes it all the more precious.
This isn’t a denunciation of those who believe. Faith is deeply meaningful to millions, and I understand its allure. My own journey, however, has been one of asking difficult questions and being unafraid of the answers—or the lack thereof.
So here I am, an atheist who once sat in church pews out of obligation and memorized prayers with an empty heart. My path has led me not to a god, but to a deeper appreciation of the world as it is—imperfect, fleeting, and profoundly beautiful. To me, the absence of divine purpose doesn’t diminish the value of life; it magnifies it, making every fleeting moment a treasure.
Christine Ball
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