If the Bible's True, Then I'm Fucked.

Each day I stray further from Christ, and I must say: ten out of ten. Highly recommend.

This is not the testimony anyone hoped to hear. Somewhere, somebody’s auntie is clutching her pearls. A prayer circle has acquired a new agenda item. Someone is preparing to tell me the devil is using me. And if you tell my grandma about this essay, I promise I’ll deny it.

I should probably explain that I used to be extremely religious. I was the only person in my household who went to church voluntarily. I sang in the choir. I arranged rides with church members because nobody at home was going. I fought to attend Catholic high school because I wanted to learn more about Christianity. Theology was my favorite subject. I even helped start a club called Go Extreme 4 Jesus. Yes, the number four. I was doing extracurricular Jesus. So believe me, I get it.

What I don’t get is how we’ve reached a point where questioning Christianity, particularly in the Black community, can feel like questioning your entire identity. I don’t remember signing anything that said being Black required me to believe in Jesus, but apparently there was some paperwork I missed.

I have a complicated relationship with Black Christianity. Not because I think Black Christians are stupid or brainwashed or incapable of thinking for themselves. I know too many wonderful Christians to believe that. My problem is that sometimes we treat Christianity like an inheritance we’re obligated to keep rather than a belief system we’re allowed to question. And I have questions.

For starters, why would a slave master give me the instructions for getting into heaven?

I’m serious. You don’t believe I deserve freedom on Earth, but you’ve taken it upon yourself to explain how I can have eternal freedom? You don’t want me sitting at your dinner table, but I’m supposed to trust that you want me sitting beside you in heaven?

Sir. Be fucking serious.

Now, I know Christianity existed in Africa long before the transatlantic slave trade. I’m not suggesting that Jesus arrived in Africa on a slave ship. And I’m familiar with the role the Black church played in our history. Black churches helped educate people, organize communities, fight segregation, and advance the civil rights movement. They were places where Black people could exercise leadership when much of the country was determined to deny them that opportunity. I respect that history.

But I also know that enslavers used Christianity to justify slavery. They selected the parts of the Bible that encouraged obedience, preached submission, and assured enslaved people that their suffering would be rewarded in the next life. Convenient, isn’t it? The person benefiting from your suffering is also the person telling you to be patient.

And before somebody starts typing, yes, I know enslaved Black people also used Christianity to resist oppression. They found hope in the story of Exodus. They built their own churches and developed their own understanding of scripture. The Black church was not simply something handed down by white slaveholders. Black people made it their own. I can acknowledge all of that and still wonder why we’re so reluctant to examine the parts of our religious inheritance that may not serve us.

Because what concerns me about Christianity, or at least the Christianity I grew up with, is how easily it can take you out of the driver’s seat of your own life.

Everything is God’s plan. Everything happens for a reason. Give it to God.

I understand why people find comfort in those ideas. Sometimes life is awful, and believing there’s a greater purpose behind your suffering might be the only thing helping you get through the day. But sometimes I wonder whether we’re using God’s plan to avoid making one of our own.

You got promoted? God did it. You didn’t get promoted? God has something better for you. You got fired because you didn’t set your alarm and showed up late for the third time? God is redirecting your path.

Baby, set your fucking alarm.

I don’t believe every Christian thinks this way. Plenty of Christians pray and then get up and do the work. My friend Christian, who is, with admirable commitment to the bit, very Christian, is one of the most responsible people I know.

We’ve been friends since we were fourteen. He goes to church, he prays for me, and sometimes I even ask him to pray for me, despite not being entirely sure who’s listening. I figure it can’t hurt. He knows pretty much everything about me. The good, the bad, and the things that probably should’ve stayed between me and whoever else was involved. And he doesn’t judge me. He just wants what’s best for me.

Funny enough, I’m much more likely to ask myself, “What would Christian think?” than “What would Jesus do?” Sometimes that question keeps me from making a questionable decision. Sometimes I know exactly what Christian would think, and I make the decision anyway. At least I know who to call when it goes wrong.

But there’s something interesting about the fact that this man named Christian has done more to keep me on the straight and narrow than Christianity itself. Not because I’m afraid of disappointing him, but because I respect his character. His opinion matters to me. And I think that’s what people sometimes miss when they assume you need religion to have morals.

I don’t hurt people on purpose. That’s my definition of being a good person. Of course, I’ve hurt people unintentionally. I’ve been careless, selfish, and wrong. But I believe that when you hurt somebody, you should acknowledge it, apologize, and try not to do it again. I don’t need the threat of eternal damnation to understand that.

I also don’t think following religious rules automatically makes someone good. Someone can attend church every Sunday and be a terrible person Monday through Saturday. Someone else can never set foot inside a church and spend their entire life treating people with kindness. Which one is God more impressed with?

I first started asking myself that question because of my friend Chelsea, who was an atheist. Before meeting her, I didn’t even know not believing was an option. I thought atheists were walking around with horns and tails, actively campaigning against Jesus. Chelsea was one of the kindest people I knew. She went out of her way to be a good person, sometimes more than I did. And I couldn’t understand how somebody like her could deserve to burn in hell forever simply because she didn’t believe in God.

I know Christians have different beliefs about salvation. But according to what I understood at the time, Chelsea’s goodness wasn’t enough. That didn’t make sense to me.

Neither did an answer I got from my theology teacher senior year. I asked her to consider two scenarios. In the first, I’d been with someone for five years. We loved each other, respected each other, and didn’t want to get married. If we had sex, would that be a sin?

Yes.

Okay. What if I went to Vegas, met a stranger at a casino, got drunk, married him at a wedding chapel, and had sex afterward? According to my teacher, the first couple was committing the sin.

Now, I know Catholic marriage is more complicated than getting married by Elvis after four margaritas. But I was seventeen, still a virgin, and genuinely trying to understand why the loving, committed couple was considered morally wrong. What exactly made the second situation better? The paperwork?

That was around the time I started realizing that what religion considered sinful and what I considered harmful weren’t always the same thing. And thank God (or the universe, see, I use them interchangeably) I figured that out, because my adult life would’ve been considerably less enjoyable otherwise.

I identify as a whore, at least by society’s definition of whorism. (Is that a word? I don’t know. It is now.) And frankly, I think I’m excelling in my field.

Some women aspire to have one sexual partner in their entire lifetime. I respect that. I hope they find someone wonderful and spend fifty beautiful years having sex with the same person.

Personally, I’m trying to get to forty by forty.

And I need everyone to understand that forty is not some cute little number I pulled out of nowhere. Forty is the minimum. That’s the goal I’m holding myself accountable to. Fifty would be even better. I have always been an overachiever, and I don’t see why that should stop at whorism. I might put it on LinkedIn under professional development.

But here’s the thing. I don’t believe having one sexual partner makes somebody a better person than having fifty. And I don’t believe having fifty makes somebody more liberated or enlightened than having one. I just think women should be allowed to decide what they want to do with their bodies without turning it into a discussion about their worth.

Christianity has a complicated history with that concept, particularly when it comes to women. The Bible contains stories of men with multiple wives and concubines, yet women have spent generations being told that purity, modesty, marriage, and motherhood are what make us respectable. And I understand that biblical stories aren’t necessarily instructions for how we should live. But I still find it interesting how often women are expected to sacrifice their desires in the name of being good.

Good according to whom?

That’s a question I keep coming back to, especially when I think about Black women and the expectations placed on us. We’re praised for being strong, patient, forgiving, and willing to sacrifice. We hear about praying through difficult circumstances, trusting God’s timing, and turning the other cheek. But sometimes I wonder whether all that emphasis on endurance keeps us accepting things we should be changing.

There’s a difference between being strong and being expected to suffer quietly. And I don’t think every situation calls for another prayer. Sometimes it calls for a decision. That doesn’t mean prayer is useless. If it gives you comfort, clarity, or the strength to act, wonderful. But I don’t believe we should confuse praying about a problem with doing something about it.

I believe in the law of attraction. I believe the universe is rigged in my favor. I’m an “I’ll see it when I believe it” kind of person, rather than an “I’ll believe it when I see it” person. I know. I’m criticizing religion while holding on to beliefs I can’t prove myself. I’m aware.

But I don’t believe manifesting something means I get to sit around waiting for it. I want to be an author. I believe I can be a successful author. I can visualize my books in stores and imagine people actually paying money to read what I have to say. But if I never sit down and write the fucking book, what exactly am I expecting the universe to do?

And while we’re giving God credit for things, there’s another question that has always bothered me. Why does God get credit for everything good, but not everything bad?

Someone passes a test and thanks God. Someone finds a parking spot and praises Jesus. Someone gets a job offer, and it’s a blessing. Meanwhile, children are being abused, people are starving, and innocent people are suffering.

If God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and capable of intervening in our lives, why is He helping somebody pass Algebra instead of helping a child who’s being hurt? I know Christians have spent centuries wrestling with this question. I know there are explanations involving free will, suffering, and God’s plan. I just haven’t heard one that makes sense to me.

And that’s okay. I don’t need to have the answer. In fact, I think one of the greatest freedoms I’ve found in stepping away from organized religion is being comfortable saying, “I don’t know.”

I don’t know what happens after we die. I don’t know whether there’s a God. I don’t know whether the universe is listening when I talk to it. I just like believing there’s something bigger than me, and I don’t feel the need to give it a name.

My son, on the other hand, is very much a Christian. He doesn’t eat without praying first. He takes his faith seriously and genuinely tries to follow what he’s been taught. Sometimes I look at him and wonder where he gets it from, which is ridiculous considering I was doing extracurricular Jesus at his age.

And I support him. I’ll encourage his faith, listen to his questions, and help him learn more about Christianity if that’s what he wants. I respect his right to believe differently from me. I just hope that in his desire to be a good Christian, he never becomes afraid to ask questions.

I want him to be a free thinker, even if all that thinking leads him right back to Jesus.

Because ultimately, that’s what I want for everybody. I don’t want Christians to stop being Christian. I don’t want people to abandon beliefs that bring them joy, comfort, community, or purpose. I don’t think I’m smarter than religious people, and I certainly don’t think I’m morally superior. I just want us to be willing to examine what we believe, especially when those beliefs influence how we treat other people.

And maybe I’m wrong about all of this. Maybe the Bible is true, judgment day is real, and I will eventually stand before God while He reviews my file with the exhausted expression of a supervisor who has received several complaints.

There will be questions about my theology, my language, and my decision to classify forty sexual partners as a minimum performance requirement. Christian may be called as a character witness. My son will probably pray quietly in the hallway. Chelsea, assuming heaven corrected its admissions policy, will be seated nearby looking kinder than everybody involved.

God may ask whether I have anything to say in my defense.

I do.

I have questions about slavery, suffering, obedience, and why He gave me critical-thinking skills if the expectation was that I leave them unopened.

After that, we can discuss the premarital sex.

I hope He’s blocked off His afternoon.