The last time I stood before a congregation as a minister was the following month, during the Christmas week of 1983. I had flown up to San Jose for meetings in one church, and after that I drove a rental car over to Auburn, northeast of Sacramento, to do a Christmas concert for a young, growing congregation meeting in a public school building. The arrangement was for the Auburn church to provide my plane ticket back to Southern California. They had made a hoopla of the occasion, and as I entered the building I saw that the church was packed with townsfolk.
Before the meeting, I met in a side room with the pastors and other leaders of the church, and we all held hands in a circle and prayed for God’s blessing on the evening, a very familiar but now strangely foreign ritual. They were especially excited because there was a man in the audience who was in church for the very first time. The man’s name was Harry, and he was the town atheist! Everybody liked Harry. He was a respected businessman who would give you the shirt off his back, but he wasn’t a Christian. Harry had recently remarried, and his new wife had become born-again and had convinced him to attend church with her for the Christmas concert. Harry came because he loved music and wouldn’t be just sitting through a sermon. They were all praying that my ministry would influence Harry that evening, and that Harry would turn his life over to Jesus Christ. They laid hands on me and prayed loudly that God would instill a very special blessing on my ministry so that Harry would be saved.
I was dreading the concert, hating myself with every ounce of disdain. As I walked up to the grand piano that was sitting under the spotlight, I tried to scan for Harry, though I had no idea what he looked like. Everyone was seated in near darkness, as if I was singing to a faceless congregation. So, in my mind I was singing to Harry, and to Harry alone. I went through the motions and performed my songs, thinking how utterly stupid they were and how ridiculous I must be sounding to Harry. Between songs I did my patter, tiny sermonettes that tied things together. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do in my life. It took a tremendous effort just to get the words out, words that I no longer believed. It can still make me cry to think back on that moment. At a couple of points I just stopped talking, deadly silent, blank as a new sheet of paper. The audience must have thought that the Holy Spirit was moving in my soul. I somehow managed to fall back on showmanship and willed myself to continue. At one point near the end of the concert I almost lost it. I was singing some of my particularly dumb lyrics and almost stopped right in the middle of the song to say, “This is crap.” I wanted to turn to the audience and say, “Harry! You are right. I’m sorry. There is no God, and this is mumbojumbo nonsense.” But I avoided that dramatic possibility and somehow, like Pagliacci, got through the performance. Besides, they hadn’t yet given me my plane ticket back home.
Afterward, certain people were invited over to the pastor’s home for Christmas refreshments. Harry and his wife showed up. I guessed that this was supposed to be my opportunity to “lay it on” to Harry and convert him to Jesus, but I didn’t talk to Harry at all that night, except maybe to shake his hand. I was so ashamed of myself, so embarrassed at how we were treating this man, singling him out like he had a social disease. I sat near the Christmas tree, Harry sat across the room in an armchair, and I avoided eye contact. How I was wishing everything were different, that I was really free and grown up and that he and I could just get together and talk. I don’t know if I would have liked Harry or not. I don’t know if he would have had anything profound to say, or if he would have even cared about my dilemma. But I respected the man immensely. He had the courage to be different. Sometime during the little party the pastor spoke up and said something about how nice it was for all of us to get together to celebrate the birth of the Savior, and Harry in a loud voice immediately said, “Not all of us.” He was fearless. He seemed proud to be identified as an atheist, and happy to be an independent thinker. The sermons and songs of the thousands of dedicated Christians I had ever known did not measure up to that one simple and brave comment spoken by an unbeliever.
I never preached another sermon. I never accepted another invitation to perform a religious concert. To be fair to myself and to everyone else, I knew that I had to cut it off quickly and cleanly. In January 1984 I wrote a letter to everyone I could think of—ministers, friends, relatives, publishing companies, Christian recording artists, fellow missionaries—breaking it off for good, telling them that I was no longer a Christian, that I was an atheist or agnostic (I didn’t have the distinction clear in my mind then), that I would no longer accept invitations to preach or perform Christian music, and that I hoped we could keep a dialogue open. I remember that moment, hesitating for a few seconds at the mailbox beside Chaffey High School in Ontario, California, holding those dozens of envelopes in my hand and thinking, “This is it.” Dropping those letters into the slot was a million times more satisfying than any religious experience. It was real.
Chapter Three
The Fallout
My letters were mailed, every important person in my life would soon know that I was no longer a Christian—and I walked away from that mailbox a free person. I knew there would be strong responses, but I was not afraid. I had made my own free choice, and no believer in the world would deny me that freedom. You can’t believe if you don’t have the freedom not to believe. Here is the letter I mailed, dated January 16, 1984, to more than 50 colleagues, friends and family members:
Dear friend,
You probably already know that I have gone through some significant changes regarding spiritual things. The past five or six years has been a time of deep reevaluation for me, and during the last couple of years I have decided that I can no longer honestly call myself a Christian. You can probably imagine that it has been an agonizing process for me. I was raised in a good Christian home, served in missions and evangelism, went to a Christian college, became ordained and ministered in three churches as Assistant Pastor. During those years I was 100 percent convinced of my faith, and now I am just about 100 percent unconvinced.
The purpose of this letter is not to present my case. Yet I will point out that my studies have brought me through many important areas, most notably: the authenticity of the bible, faith vs. reason, church history—and a bunch of other fun subjects like evolution, physics, psychology, self-esteem, philosophy, parapsychology, pseudo-science, mathematics, etc.
I’m not sure what the purpose of this letter is, except to serve as a point of information to a friend or relative whom I consider to be important in my life, and with whom I could not bear to be dishonest. I have not thrown the baby out with the bath water. I still basically maintain the same Christian values of kindness, love, giving, temperance and respect that I was raised with. Christianity has much good. Yet I feel I can demonstrate an alternate, rational basis for those values outside of a system of faith and authority. Of course, I admit, those values cannot save me from the fires of hell—but it is irrational to hold a fear of something which is nonexistent, and to allow that fear to dominate one’s philosophy and way of life.
If the bible is true I will run to it willingly. If there is a God, I would be silly to deny Him. In fact, the little child in me still sometimes wishes to regain the comforts and reassurances of my former beliefs. I am a human being with the same fears and feelings we all share. The bible says those who seek will find. You know me. I am constantly seeking. And I have not found. Right now I am somewhere between the agnostic and the atheist, although I spend a great deal of time in both camps.
There is much more to say, and I would greatly appreciate any input you can offer. I would suggest, though, that before we attempt any meaningful dialogue, we should understand as much as possible about each other’s thoughts. If you wish, I will send you any of various papers I am preparing, including: The Bible, Faith vs. Reason…
Finally, I am not your enemy. Our enemy is the one who doesn’t care about these subjects—who thinks that you and I are silly to be concerned with life and values. I intend no disrespect to you, or anyone who is genuinely interested in religion and philosophy. It is the non-thinker who bothers me and with whom meaningful interaction is impossible.
Dan Barker
Today, I would write a completely different letter, but that’s where I was at the time, in the process of changing one worldview for another. Today, I would point out that the “Christian values” I found to be praiseworthy are simply human values, and that not all Christian values are good—in fact, no values that are exclusively Christian are admirable. The “little child” nostalgia lasted about a year, and has been replaced with embarrassment that I ever believed or missed my belief. The definitions of agnosticism and atheism have been clarified. But that letter is a perfect snapshot of who I was, and reading it again brings back many of those old feelings.
It wasn’t long until the reactions started coming in, and they were all across the board. Some were predictable, but others surprised me.
“Sorry to hear about your recent commitment to be uncommitted to the Lamb of God that you so beautifully had written about and put to music in such a successful way,” wrote Assembly of God pastor Mark Griffo. Mark was one of the kids in the choir I directed at Glengrove Assembly. I had encouraged him to enter the ministry over the objections of his family, and we had served as missionaries together in Mexico.
“I realize you’re not my enemy, as you stated, but Satan is! He’s out to rob, kill and destroy life... My heart tears within me trying to figure out the answer you’ll give [children] when they ask you, ‘Dan, can you write more songs so my future children can know the source of love, Jesus Christ, like you do?’ I’m praying for you always and looking forward to your resurrection.”
To Mark, I am dead.
Mark’s wife, Debbie, was less charitable: “Meaningful interaction you want? There is nothing meaningful about the beliefs that you have chosen... I am sorry that the Lamb you once wrote about is no longer Lord of your life. To really know the almighty God, Saviour, King, all knowing, all powerful, all loving creator of you and I, is to
never
leave Him... Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord.” There’s that recurrent theme: I was faking my Christian life, but she wasn’t.
David Gustaveson, director of Youth With a Mission’s Pacific & Asia Christian University in Hawaii and one-time pastor at Glengrove Assembly, wrote: “I was somewhat shocked by your letter… I guess I’ll just have to pray harder... I believe an acid test is to simply cry out to God (whether you believe or not) and ask Him to radically and ruthlessly correct you if you are wrong. It would be better for God to use ‘any means’ to show you the truth, than for one to find out he had been misled too late. I have read your papers and, of course, they present a good case. I wouldn’t expect anything else from someone as brilliant as you. I think the contradictions in the bible show the beauty of God speaking through frail humanity, and yet keeping the main message of the bible intact.”
I sent Dave an exhaustive response, telling him that I had indeed prayed exactly as he suggested, and congratulating him for the surprising and honest acknowledgment that there are truly contradictions in the bible. He replied by sending me a box of 14 cassette tapes from a theologian.
I had penned a note at the bottom of my letter to Gospel Light Publications, telling everyone there that I would understand if they decided not to continue working with me. We were in the middle of another VBS Mini-Musicale project. Wes Haystead wrote: “Thanks for honestly sharing your journey with me. I promise not to start bombarding you with tracts and Josh McDowell books. As to our continuing to work together, I vote aye. Provided of course that you can get me three songs for Sunrise Island real quick. Sort of sounds like schedule takes precedence over principles, eh? Actually, I value highly your talent, your sensitivity, your flexibility and your friendship. Therefore, I hope we can continue working together until one of us converts the other or you feel the goals of our projects are incompatible with your directions.”
I reluctantly agreed to finish the project, feeling it would have been unprofessional to back out of a business agreement, but asked if I could use a pseudonym to save us both the embarrassment. So, if you ever see the
Sunrise Island
Vacation Bible School musical written by “Edwin Daniels,” you will know that an atheist composed it. Writing those songs, I confess, was a strange experience. I felt like a total hypocrite. To the defense of Gospel Light, Wes did tell me that they thought I was merely going through a stage, a spiritual crisis, and that he was certain I would come back to Christ. We cannot accuse Gospel Light of knowingly hiring a nonbeliever because everyone there thought I was a Christian when we started the project. Regardless, I can testify that the creation of such music, which the religious publisher accepted and was performed by believers in churches and Christian schools around the country, was purely artistic craftsmanship and not “inspired” by faith. (Stephen Foster did a similar thing when he composed Sunday school hymns while not a believer.)