How The Devil Introduced Me To God: My Journey From Atheism To Monotheism - Part One

Introduction

This will be the most personal story I ever share on Steemit, or on the internet as a whole. I know that a lot of people--much like I not too long ago-- have no time for talk of religion or God in today's world, so I expect that not many people will bother to read this. Nonetheless, I want to share my story with those who are willing to hear it.

I felt alone in my struggles for the longest time but, the recent years have shown me that I was mistaken in that belief. More of us are lost than care to admit it, trapped in a psychological labyrinth desperately searching for a purpose that can replace the one forced upon us by society.

Deep down, we all know there is a meaning to life that is more significant than eat, work, shit, buy and die. This should really be the most important discussion, yet scarcely do we hear it on our own lips or anyone else's. Should we really believe that our ancestors created complex languages so that we may one day be able to use those communicative powers to idolize celebrities and ridicule our fellow man?

It seems more likely to me, that we developed these means of communication so that we might be able to share our stories, our histories, our dreams and our aspirations. So that each interaction with another human being could serve as both a lesson shared and a lesson learned, building and refining the knowledge and wisdom of man to a point where we could finally understand our true purpose on this Earth-- be it one of divinity or otherwise.

Today, the most encouraged topics of discussion amount to little more than gossip and complaining. How, one must wonder, can we ever discover the true meaning of life, when we seem to have forgotten even the purpose of conversation? I no longer want to take my short time in this world for granted. I plan to share my life lessons with any and all that are willing to hear them, just as I shall seek to learn from others who have walked a dissimilar path from my own.

I write this with the hope that it may reach someone who is fighting the same battles as I have, searching for answers to the same questions I am, and doing so under the false belief that they are alone. To that person-- or persons, I say unto you that you are not alone, and this battle is not one that you need fight without allies. I am here for you, and I hope that you will be there for me when I find myself in need of you.

It was not my intent for this introduction to be quite so lengthy, yet in comparison to what will follow, it is merely a drop in the ocean. Before I begin, I feel it necessary to clarify what this is, and what it is not. This way, you will have the opportunity to decide whether to invest your time in reading it.

This is not;

• An attempt to convince anyone to take up religion- I myself, though I do believe in a Creator, do not ascribe to any particular doctrine, so I don't expect you to.
• An informative article with citations/links to resources off-Steemit- I will touch on too much that I have researched in my lifetime for me to provide sources for every single thing I mention. Should you be unfamiliar with anything I speak of, I ask that you conduct your own research into the matter.
• An aesthetically pleasing post- Other than the thumbnail, I do not intend to post any images for this piece as I feel they would only serve to alter the perception of my words and distort the purity of the message I am attempting to convey. If you require images to maintain your attention span then this may not be for you.

This is;

• A truthful accounting of my life- Though I won't be sharing my entire life story, only that which relates to my loss and rediscovery of faith, all that I share with you will be the truth as my mind recalls it, with no fiction or embellished delineations.
• An open invitation for discussion- If you read this and decide that you want to share a story of your own, or comment on a specific part of mine, then please do. As I stated beforehand, I am always looking to learn what I can from others and understanding different perspectives can often be a way to inadvertently achieve that.
• A multi-post piece- I know not of how long this is going to be as I am writing this directly into Steemit. I do not want to overwhelm any readers, so should it start to become extremely lengthy, I will publish the post and start a new one with the continuation tomorrow or when I have the time do so.
• An informal piece of writing- I will be expressing myself as honestly as possible, which means there will likely be some profanity here and there.

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If you have read through this introduction and decided you are going to stick with me, then I thank you and I shall delay you no longer.

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The Battle With Belief

This story begins in the city of London. It was here that I had my first introduction to God and religion through the various Roman Catholic schools which I attended from ages 5 to 13. My memory is far from perfect--potentially because of the high volume of A-class drugs I took in my mid-to-late teens, but we will touch on that later--so I can't guarantee that the memories I share with you from that period of my life will necessarily be in chronological order. Rather than thinking of it as a step-by-step series of events which influenced me to gradually turn away from the idea of God, it would be better to consider this as a collective group of instances and observations that, when combined, forced me into a reality where there was simply no room for the divine.

Unbeknownst to them, my family probably paved the way for my inability to accept the existence of a God. I do not harbour any regrets or ill-will for that--it is much the opposite if anything-- as I fear for the man I may have become should I have walked a different path in life. Nevertheless, it was my parent's and my older sibling's lack of enthusiasm and apathetic nature towards the church that likely swayed me towards an early adoption of scepticism. It wasn't a common practice for us to attend mass at church unless there was some sort of ceremony pertaining to my or a siblings progression at school. Already, I had developed a perception that church was not of much importance.

What didn't help the situation, was that whenever I did find myself attending mass, it was always exceedingly tedious. Now, to any that are reading this that have never seen nor attended a mass at a Catholic church, you need to know that it is nothing like the typical black churches you see on the television. Those halls are filled with positive energy, enthusiasm, and so much joy that the people tend to just burst into song and dance. A Catholic church on the other hand, is seemingly filled with unwilling participants and an air of depression--or at least that was my perception of it.

The ceremonies seemed to last for days. No one was permitted to speak. We had but to sit there and listen while the priest read--what I considered to be--boring stories in a monotone voice. I could have probably bared it, or at least gone to sleep as I often did in class, but alas we were forced to kneel and stand innumerable times throughout the mass, negating that possibility. Even the hymns were lacking in zest in comparison to the ceremonies that I was seeing on TV, so I had to wonder if God was going out of his way to make these experiences as boring as he possible could.

A few yeas into school, I had realised that I found church to be boring and less important than other aspects of my life, yet I remember that I still clung to the belief that priests, nuns and those connected to the church were of high nobility and deserved my respect. A lot of these people had taken sacred vows, for life, and would devote the entirety of it to serving God. This was worth something, I thought. However, my growing distaste for religion was soon strengthened when a scandal involving a priest emerged at the church my school was associated with.

Now, I know what you're thinking, hearing the word scandal when talking about the Catholic church. That's an association that I shall also touch on later. This however, was not as some may have presumed. It was not a case of the abusing of alter boys, thankfully. In this instance, a priest had been utilising the church's telephone to make frequent calls to a sex-line.
I remember at the time finding it funny more than anything else, yet it did destroy that sense of nobility that I had for members of the church. They were no longer men of great honour and immeasurable discipline. They were just people, like you and me.

Having discussed this with my sister, she asserted that this was a victimless crime, but in hindsight, I would have to disagree. It is my understanding that sex lines are not cheap, so where was the church accumulating the necessary funding to support this man's unsavoury--given his position--proclivities? From donations, of course. Every mass a collection tin would be passed around, and the congregation would generously dispense their hard-earned wages to the church under the false pretense that their money would go towards feeding the homeless, helping the orphans or some other charitable cause. In reality, they were relinquishing their funds so that some priest could wank it all away over the phone. I struggle not to consider the homeless people that could have benefited from that money to be victims.

I left primary school (age 11), as you can imagine, with little faith in the church. Still, it wasn't enough for me to abandon God completely. I still saw the world and how complex it was. I couldn't believe that it just appeared from nowhere. There had to be a Creator of some kind, I thought. Of course, I was still very young. My parents had done an excellent job at keeping me sheltered from the horrors of the world, and I was comfortable in my little bubble where everything was safe and there wasn't too much suffering in the world.

All through primary school, my mother had been walking me to and from school where I would then play out in an enclosed park which was shared with the other houses on the block. I hadn't been out in the big bad world just yet, but now that I was going to secondary school and I had to get two buses each way, I could no longer expect to be escorted by my mother who had five other children to deal with. It was time for me to --for the first time--step out into the world free of supervision.

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The Big Bad World

Excitement. That was the predominant sentiment I had when heading into secondary school. I was a 12 year old boy that was just developing a taste for the fairer sex, off to begin a term at an all-boys Roman Catholic school, yet somehow, I was excited. I would get the opportunity to meet new friends and visit new places without my annoying mother(no offence intended, @thetruthfairy) watching over me constantly. This was going to be great, I was sure.

My enthusiasm was only surpassed by my naivety. I believed then, as I do now, that humans are inherently good. What I was yet to discover however, was that not everyone who is brought up amidst this repugnant system is able to retain that goodness for very long. I would soon lose mine for a time, but again, you will hear about that later.

Where I had expected the world to welcome me with open arms, I was instead met with the brutality of reality. Within a few weeks at school, in spite of making many friends, I had also somehow managed to make myself a number of enemies that I would essentially have to fight on sight. I did not know why I was fighting. I did not want to. But, when someone is attempting to physically assault you, the option to defend yourself and fight back seems like the only one available. These enemies were forged through such insignificance that I'm able to remember my inability to remember why we had become foes.

Playground fighting is a typical past time for many of us. I could have dealt with that and still hung on to my faith in humanity, and perhaps even in God. Unfortunately for me, this was by far the least shocking revelation that my passage to adolescence had to offer me.

Now old enough to travel to school alone, I found myself permitted to go other places without my parents. It seemed that no matter where I went, people were angry for no reason, and actively seeking reasons to express violence or abuse. On a simple trip to Woolworth's to buy our dad a Father's Day gift, me and my brother--whom is older than me by 2 years--found ourselves the recipients of yet another two lad's hostility. Though neither of us had any desire to fight, the boys followed us around the store continuing to act aggressive. When we made our way to the checkout to pay for the gift, they left and waited outside and it was evident that we would not be able to avoid violence.

I hadn't the need to do anything in this case. My brother managed to get the better of both of them while I held the gift and looked on, but for me it was yet another example of how people seemed so eager to bring trouble to those who are just trying to mind their business and get on with life. I had begun to lose faith in everything at this point. I had painted for myself, a much more optimistic perspective of the world, and the realisation that I could not have been further off was hitting me like a ton of bricks. Still, this was nothing compared to what life had been waiting to show me about humanity.

London is a dangerous place-- in my case it was at least. With school terms beginning in September, and my birthday falling in August, I was already one of the youngest in my year at school. Couple this with a slightly delayed arrival to puberty, and I was considerably smaller than most children in my year at the time. Though I managed to hold my own in schoolyard tumbles, the true disadvantage of my size would become more relevant during the journeys to and from school.

Back in those days, they had not yet begun to install CCTV on public transport, and sitting on the top half of the bus--out of direct sight from the driver--was akin to playing chicken with an eighteen-wheeler. Gangs armed with knives would frequently jump on and off buses for no reason other than to forcefully extract any cash, jewelry or phones from those who dared to sit on the top of the bus.

The first time I fell victim to one of these gangs, I shit myself. Not literally of course, but I was terrified. In truth, they were only kids themselves, 16-18, perhaps. Next to me though, a tiny little 12 year old, I was more than willing to cough up the little I had to avoid a beating and potential stabbing.

The second time was very different. If I remember correctly, I had neglected to even tell my mother of the first time. I hadn't wanted to worry her, she was good enough at doing that for herself. I couldn't really get away with hiding the issue this time around. My parents had just bought for me a brand new mobile phone. There were not much of them out at this point, as they were new on the scene. My parents had been generous enough to buy me an expensive flip phone, the first of its kind.

When the bus pulled into a stop and I seen a group of hooded lads jump on, I knew already that I had fucked up by sitting on the top of the bus. When one of the boys put a blade to my face and demanded that I hand my phone over, my heart sunk to the ground. I think it was more the prospect of losing the phone than losing my life at this point. I had been playing with it all week and was slowly falling in love with it. I decided to be brave and say no--at first. I wasn't giving in that easy this time.

A knife to my throat and a gentle urging to submit from a friend is all it took to shatter my courage. With the mugger's hand extended in anticipation, I handed over to him my phone, my dignity and what little faith I had left in humanity. When I got home, I had no choice but to tell my mum where the £400 phone had disappeared to. She was furious. Partially at me, partially at the muggers, but I think ultimately at herself for not being there to protect me.

She thought it was just a phone I had lost, but it had been so much more than that. I had lost my desire to connect with my fellow man. I no longer wanted to go out and explore and make new friends. My friends, my family, and the semblance of a belief that God may exist were all I had now. That belief would be crushed over the coming months.

My attitude had changed now. I no longer exhibited the same energy and invited discussion from others. I stayed with my friends. and locked myself in a social cell, where I could no longer be disappointed by the people of the world. This proved ineffective, because we were growing up now. Topics of discussion were no longer wrestling, Pokemon and Dragon Ball Z. Somewhere along the way we had graduated to conversations of sex, murder and mayhem on the streets of London.

Sex I didn't mind. I was a teenage lad who went to an all-boys school. I would happily indulge in crude conversation about our stunning music teacher who seemed to bend over a little more frequently than necessary, or our slutty looking R.E teacher that wore her leggings inappropriately tight. That's what boys do after all.

It was the talk of murder that I wasn't always willing to entertain. There was an awful lot of it happening in my area at that time. It seemed every few weeks there was a new victim and far too often I was abhorred by the manner in which my friends chose to deliver the news to me.

You would think it ought to be a sad thing, speaking of one who lost their life. Yet, the news was mostly broken amidst an heir of excitement. I felt amiss in this world. My friends were becoming strangers, or I was. I don't know. But, I knew I no longer fit in.

Around this time the knife-gangs were upgrading their hardware. My friends and I were strolling through the park on the way to the bus stop when an attractive, slightly older female approached us and asked to borrow one of our phones. I was wise to the world at this point and warned that we had better move quicker.

My friends of course, were too distracted by tits to listen, and had only themselves to blame when a group of hooded youths came running up to circle around us. The girl naturally stepped back behind her friends, allowing one of them to show us what he had in his hand.

It was a gun, a small one, but a firearm nonetheless. I had never seen one before, and wasn't even sure if it was real. He spoke softly, instructing us to take out our phones. I think it must have been the first attempt they had made to enact a robbery with this new toy of theirs, because they did not anticipate the reaction at all.

Rather than relinquishing their phones, every one of my friends darted at full speed across the park and into the distance.
I had no phone. My second one had been stolen already. I had no money. I had spent it at school. I had no patience for these thugs, nor the situation I was in, but I had begun to rebuild my dignity and I cared not to sacrifice it once again. I told them I don't have anything, and turned and walked away.

I tried to remain calm when I was walking, but in truth I was shivering somewhat, expecting to be clumped over the head with the gun or some other weapon. When I had made it a few feet, I turned my head to see if I was being followed to find that they had left the other way.

When I got to the bus stop, my friends were all there already. They were bouncing around excitedly, their adrenaline still pumping. While one of my friends, perhaps the closest of mine at the time, was offering me praise for not running away, all I could think was how disgusted I was with the smiles on their faces.

We could have potentially got killed, and this was a good thing? One friend was even boasting that he could get hold of a gun from one of his cousins should we decide to get them back. I am sure it was utter bullshit but, this is what we had become. Only a year ago, the coolest one of us was determined by who had the rarest Pokemon card. Now, it was who could get hold of a gun or be willing to use it? I needed new friends, but my recently developed inability to reach out to others would likely play a problem in that.

My complete loss of faith would come soon after, on the day of yet another murder. I had been on the bus with the victim on my way home only moments before his death. I don't recall where I had been, or what I had been doing. but I believe it was my 13th birthday.

The bus was packed, as they usually are in London, so I was standing at the front of the bus near to where the driver was. I could hear two voices asking for someone to give them a kick of their ball. After the voices continued for a while and became increasingly more antagonistic, I turned my head inconspicuously to see what was going on.

There were so many bodies on the bus that I couldn't see who was asking for the football, only an arm waving around. I could see the boy, though. A young boy, 12 I later found out. Though I struggle to picture the faces of my friends from that time, I can see his face in my mind crystal clear as I write this.

He was terrified, that was obvious. He was not giving in, though. I recall thinking perhaps he had a very strict father who would punish him if he lost the ball, otherwise why didn't he just give them it? Shamefully, I was as afraid as him. Luckily it was my stop next, and I jumped off at haste. I didn't hear the boy get off, but I heard the same two voices pressuring for the football, so I knew that they had also gotten off and followed the young boy.

In what I consider to be the most cowardly act of my entire life, I did not even turn my head. I paced away as quick as I could and by the time I arrived back at my home, I had forgotten about the incident. This sort of thing had become so normal that it was easy to move on once the situation had passed.

Soon after that, there were a number of helicopters flying above my estate. Soon after that, the news was on. They had cut him open from his chest to his waist, and he had died while being airlifted to the hospital. If my actions were not shameful enough, my first thought was worse.

I'm lucky I walked away quickly was what instinctively went through my mind. Not, I should have helped him, or I should have got someone else to help him, it was a self-serving thought. This boy, this child, had lost his life at the hands of another human because he wouldn't hand over a fucking ball, and I had been too cowardly to even look back in his direction so that I may have witnessed who did it.

Gone that day, was my faith in a God. I had seen too much at this point. I didn't want to believe in a God that could allow his people to treat one another this way. Ironically, what I know now of suffering, true suffering, outweighs all of that, but in the moment it was enough for me to give up on Him, and to give up on myself. I had become someone I no longer respected, and it would be a long road ahead of me before I was able to forgive myself.

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I am going to wrap this up here for tonight as I didn't expect to get quite so emotional when thinking about that. It was very long ago, yet writing seems to force one to relive their feelings all over again.

There is plenty more to come, so if you would like to read the rest then look out for the next piece over the next couple of days. To any that decide to upvote or resteem this post to help share it with more people-- you have my gratitude in advance. Thanks for reading.