Category: Christianity

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Christianity

A Christian Without a Creed

There was a time when I could recite the Nicene Creed without flinching, its rhythm etched into me like muscle memory. I could tell you exactly what I believed about God, salvation, sin, and eternity. I knew where I stood. And more importantly, I knew where everyone else stood too—saved or lost, right or wrong.

But I no longer speak in creeds.

The shift didn’t happen overnight. It was gradual, sometimes imperceptible, like tidewater slowly altering the coastline. I didn’t wake up one morning and reject my faith. What happened was subtler, and, in a way, far more complicated: I changed the kind of Christian I am.

Now, I consider myself a Christian without a creed. Still drawn to the stories, the language, the ethos of the tradition—but without the rigid declarations that once defined belonging. To some, that sounds like betrayal. To others, it sounds like freedom. To me, it just sounds honest.

This is not the story of deconversion. It’s the story of reconfiguration. And of discovering that Christianity, stripped of dogma, still holds something worth keeping.

Inherited Belief

Like many who were raised in the church, I learned early that belief came with boundaries. You didn’t just believe in God—you believed in the God described by your denomination, in the exact terms laid out by your pastors and parents. It wasn’t enough to follow Jesus; you had to affirm the right doctrines about Him, repeat the correct words, and, above all, avoid heresy.

We said the creeds. We sang the hymns. We learned the theology.

There was comfort in it—clarity, even a kind of safety. Life was a clean map, and the path was clearly marked.

But belief, at least for me, never stayed still.

Over time, the questions grew louder: Why does salvation hinge on mental assent to specific claims? Why are ancient creeds treated as untouchable when even Scripture shows variation, evolution, complexity? Why is doubt seen as a threat rather than a companion to faith?

I began to sense that the version of Christianity I had inherited was more concerned with correct answers than with lived integrity.

So, slowly, I stopped mouthing the words I didn’t mean. Not out of rebellion, but out of reverence for truth.

Faith Beyond Formulas

If you’ve ever stepped outside the bounds of orthodoxy—even slightly—you’ll know how quickly the questions come:

“Do you still believe?”
“Are you still a Christian?”
“What do you actually mean by faith, then?”

These questions often carry the unspoken assumption that Christianity must be all-or-nothing. Either you believe in every tenet of the creeds, or you’ve walked away entirely.

But faith, at least as I’ve come to understand it, doesn’t work that way. It’s not binary. It’s not a checklist. And it’s not immune to complexity.

The more I studied church history, the more I saw that Christianity has never been as unified as some would like to believe. The early church wrestled with competing gospels, theological tensions, and cultural disagreements. The very creeds we call “ancient” were born of debate and division—votes taken in candlelit councils, often under imperial pressure.

The idea that Christianity has one fixed essence, one timeless set of truths, is more of a myth than a reality.

So what, then, remains?

For me, faith is no longer about intellectual certainty. It’s about orientation—toward grace, toward mystery, toward the kind of love that transforms. It’s about living in the shadow of a story that still shapes how I see the world, even if I don’t sign off on every doctrinal detail.

It’s not a system anymore. It’s a posture.

The Stories That Still Speak

When I let go of creeds, I didn’t let go of the Gospels.

I still find myself returning to the words of Jesus—not because I need them to be infallible, but because they ring true in a way that few other texts do. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Love your enemies. The last shall be first.

There’s something in those teachings that cuts through cynicism. Something defiant in the way Jesus elevates the outcast, interrogates power, and insists that love is the measure of a life well lived.

I don’t need to believe in a literal virgin birth to find meaning in the Christmas story. I don’t need to resolve the mechanics of resurrection to be moved by the idea that death is not the final word.

These stories have layers—mythic, moral, emotional. They offer not just answers, but frameworks for wrestling with the hardest questions: How do we respond to suffering? What does justice look like in a broken world? How do we live with integrity when certainty is gone?

Christianity, in this form, becomes less about salvation from another world, and more about how we love in this one.

Living Without the Labels

One of the hardest things about no longer affirming creeds is this: language becomes slippery.

Do I call myself a Christian? Many would say no—especially those who see Christianity as defined by creedal assent. If you don’t believe in the Trinity, in substitutionary atonement, in the bodily resurrection, how can you wear the name?

But “Christian” isn’t a trademark. It’s a tradition—a living, breathing, evolving tradition shaped by generations of people trying to follow the teachings of Jesus in wildly different ways.

Some believe in miracles. Others don’t. Some believe in biblical inerrancy. Others see Scripture as a sacred but human document. Some anchor their faith in mystical experience. Others in ethics, history, or community.

And yes, some of us no longer believe in God as a supernatural being, yet still find meaning in the Christian story, still show up to the table, still find ourselves moved to tears by a simple prayer said in sincerity.

We don’t all speak the same creeds. But maybe we’re still speaking the same language—just with different dialects.

What Remains

If I no longer believe in a personal God who intervenes, why do I still pray?

If I don’t take the creeds literally, why do I still read them?

If I question the metaphysics of the resurrection, why do I still celebrate Easter?

It’s because, for me, faith is not about metaphysical claims. It’s about moral imagination. About ritual and rhythm and reverence. It’s about aligning my life with values that transcend self-interest—compassion, humility, justice, grace.

I still light candles in Advent because waiting, longing, and hope still matter. I still confess my failings not because I think they separate me from God, but because honesty is a spiritual discipline. I still gather at the table, even if I no longer frame communion as a miracle.

These things are not empty. They are practices that form me, even without supernatural conviction.

I don’t need to hold a creed to live a faithful life.

The Courage to Stay

Leaving creeds behind often feels like exile. You become a stranger in spaces that once felt like home. You lose theological language, spiritual community, even your own sense of belonging.

But in another way, it’s a homecoming.

Because Christianity has always been bigger than its creeds. It has always included doubters, mystics, reformers, heretics, saints. The tradition is deep and wide—and those of us who stay on the margins are not necessarily leaving. Sometimes we’re just clearing space for a different kind of fidelity.

A faith without creeds may not look like much from the outside. It may not fit neatly into any box. But it is, in its way, a commitment—to integrity, to wonder, to walking the path even when it’s overgrown with doubt.

So no, I can’t recite the creed with full conviction anymore. But I can still say this, with quiet certainty:

I am trying to follow the way of Jesus.
I am trying to live with compassion.
I am trying to face the mystery of existence with honesty and grace.

That, for me, is enough.

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Faith in the Fire

One of the most common critiques I’ve heard from traditional believers goes something like this: “That kind of faith sounds fine until life really falls apart. Then what? Where’s your foundation?”

It’s a fair question—and one I’ve wrestled with in moments of crisis.

When I lost someone I loved far too soon, I didn’t have the comforting framework of a divine plan or a guaranteed afterlife to cling to. I couldn’t tell myself it was “God’s will” or that “everything happens for a reason.” Those phrases, which once rolled easily off my tongue, now felt hollow—well-intentioned but unhelpful.

So what did I have?

I had silence. Grief. Honest anger. But I also had community. Friends who showed up. Hands that held mine. Meals delivered without a word. I had the Psalms—raw, anguished, unfiltered. I had the story of Jesus weeping, not preaching, at the tomb of Lazarus.

I had the conviction that presence, not platitudes, is what heals.

I don’t think traditional belief is inherently more stable in hard times. Sometimes, it offers comfort; other times, it fractures under the weight of loss. A creed may give you words—but those words don’t always carry you through. What does carry us, I believe, is relationship. Compassion. A willingness to be with one another in the dark.

That, to me, is sacred.

And no creed is required.

Offering Something Different

It would be easy to view “Christianity without a creed” as a private detour—a personal theology made comfortable to suit my own sensibilities. But I don’t think that’s what it is.

If anything, this kind of Christianity asks something harder: to live without certainty. To wrestle with Scripture without shortcuts. To accept that truth may be complex, even contradictory. To make peace with mystery.

More than that, I believe it offers something valuable to the broader Christian conversation.

It offers humility in a tradition that often leans towards dogmatism.
It offers empathy in a world quick to divide.
It offers a model of faith that doesn’t demand conformity, but invites curiosity.

There are many who feel they no longer belong in the churches they grew up in—not because they hate Christianity, but because they can no longer pretend to believe things they don’t. They miss the songs, the seasons, the language—but they can’t stomach the exclusions, the power plays, the insistence on rigid belief.

To them, I say: there is still a way to be Christian. It just might not look like what you were told it had to.

You may never find a neat theological box to live in again. But you may find something deeper—an honest, evolving, courageous faith that grows with you, rather than against you.

The Long View

I often wonder how this version of faith will age.

Will I drift further from Christianity until only its echo remains? Will I find new language altogether? Or will I keep circling back to this well, drawing what I need—not always belief, but beauty, metaphor, moral clarity?

I don’t know. And I’ve made peace with not knowing.

For now, I keep returning—not out of obligation, but because something in the story still calls to me. Something in the rhythm of the liturgical year, in the radical teachings of Jesus, in the quiet dignity of an old hymn sung slowly.

Sometimes I feel like I’m stitching a quilt from torn bits of tradition—frayed, mismatched, and incomplete. But it’s mine. It keeps me warm. And it reminds me of who I am and where I’ve come from.

I may never again stand in a church and recite the Nicene Creed with full confidence. But I can still stand. I can still sing. I can still serve.

And maybe that’s what it means, now, to believe.

A Faith Made by Walking

There’s a phrase often attributed to early Christians: “We do not think ourselves into a new way of living; we live ourselves into a new way of thinking.”

That, I think, sums up what it means to be a Christian without a creed.

It’s not about mental assent. It’s about lived allegiance. Not to a system of thought, but to a way of being in the world—a way marked by compassion, truthfulness, and courage. A way that prioritises love above all.

I’m still walking that way, even if I no longer carry all the theological baggage I once did. The path is less clear now. But it’s also more real.

For me, Christianity is no longer the fortress it once was. It’s a trail through the woods—winding, unmarked in places, but rich with the scent of pine and the sound of birdsong. I may get lost from time to time. But I keep walking.

And that, perhaps, is my creed now—not words I recite, but a life I try to live.

Closing Reflection:
If your beliefs no longer fit the box they once did, take heart. You are not alone. There are many walking this path beside you—quietly, thoughtfully, faithfully.

You don’t have to abandon everything. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t need a creed to live a meaningful, Christ-shaped life.

You just have to keep walking.

Categories
Christianity

From Evangelical to Secular Christian: My Journey

We never expect to question the foundation we were raised on—until, somehow, we do.

For most of my early life, I was certain of one thing: I knew who God was, what He wanted, and where I stood in relation to Him. I was brought up in the heart of American Evangelical Christianity—Sunday school, Bible camp, mission trips, purity rings, the works. My world was framed by a theology that gave me identity, purpose, and community. But over time, cracks began to form. At first, they were small—nagging questions, a passing discomfort. Then, the questions grew louder, and the faith I once held with white-knuckled certainty evolved into something far more complicated, and in some ways, more honest.

This is the story of how I went from being an Evangelical to identifying as a Secular Christian—a term that, to many, sounds like an oxymoron. But for me, it’s the most accurate description of where I’ve landed: someone who still sees value in the Christian tradition but no longer holds to its supernatural claims in the same way. I haven’t abandoned the faith completely. Rather, I’ve reframed it.

Let me take you through the journey—one that has been anything but linear.

The Certainty of Youth

I grew up in a house where faith was not just part of life—it was the structure around which everything revolved. We prayed before meals and bed, had devotionals every morning, and volunteered at church events like they were community holidays. I memorised Bible verses like other kids learned multiplication tables. Jesus wasn’t just my Saviour—He was a daily presence, a friend, a moral compass, and, yes, an ever-watchful judge.

What made Evangelicalism so gripping in those years was its clarity. There were no grey areas. People were saved or lost. The Bible was either true or false. Morality was objective, and we were on the right side of it. That certainty was comforting. It gave me a sense of superiority, but also belonging. I had a tribe.

But even then, there were murmurs of doubt. I remember being eleven, sitting in Sunday school, when our teacher told us that all non-Christians—no matter how kind or good—were going to hell unless they accepted Jesus. I looked around and thought of my Hindu neighbour, who always brought us cookies on Diwali. I wondered, silently, how that could be just.

I filed that thought away, as one does when the alternative is to upend your entire worldview.

College: The Cracks Widen

For Evangelicals, college can be a danger zone. So many parents fear it: the liberal professors, the worldly culture, the philosophical landmines. My parents were no exception. I was warned about the dangers of secular education and encouraged to find a “good Christian community” as soon as I arrived.

To be fair, I did try. I joined a campus ministry and attended a local Evangelical church. But college also gave me access to ideas and people I’d never encountered before—atheists who weren’t angry or immoral, Muslims who knew their faith better than I knew mine, queer students whose stories didn’t align with the condemnations I’d absorbed.

Philosophy classes introduced me to thinkers like Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, who treated doubt not as a failure, but as an integral part of human experience. Theology courses exposed me to biblical criticism, textual variants, and the messy history of how the Bible came to be. I remember being stunned to learn there were two creation stories in Genesis, not one—and that the Gospels didn’t always agree.

For a while, I lived in a kind of spiritual split-screen: still praying, still believing, but also deeply troubled by the inconsistencies I could no longer ignore. I started to ask myself, was my faith built on truth—or just inherited certainty?

The Slow Exit

Contrary to what some might assume, my shift away from Evangelicalism wasn’t caused by anger or rebellion. It wasn’t a dramatic deconversion, but a slow drifting.

First, I let go of the inerrancy of Scripture. Then, the exclusivity of salvation. The more I studied early Christianity, the more I saw how doctrines evolved—how councils voted on creeds, how politics shaped theology. It was both fascinating and disillusioning.

Next went my belief in eternal damnation. It simply made no moral sense to me that a loving God would condemn people eternally for finite misdeeds—or worse, for being born into the wrong faith tradition. My ethical intuition began to conflict with the theology I was handed.

I still called myself a Christian. But the label was starting to feel stretched, strained. I believed in the teachings of Jesus—love your neighbour, forgive endlessly, care for the least among you—but not necessarily in His literal resurrection. My faith became more metaphorical, more mythic, more ethical than supernatural.

Some friends accused me of cherry-picking. Maybe I was. But isn’t that what everyone does, to some extent?

What Is a Secular Christian, Anyway?

It’s a fair question, and one I’ve asked myself repeatedly. To some, it sounds like a contradiction: how can you be both secular and Christian?

For me, it means this: I no longer claim supernatural certainty. I don’t know what happens after we die. I don’t believe in a literal heaven or hell. I don’t pray expecting intervention. But I still find deep value in the Christian tradition—its stories, its moral framework, its rituals.

I still attend church, sometimes. I light candles during Advent. I find comfort in the rhythm of the liturgical calendar. When I hear the Beatitudes, something stirs in me. There is still, undeniably, a spiritual pulse there.

I am not “spiritual but not religious”—that phrase always struck me as too vague. Instead, I think of myself as religious but not doctrinal. I engage with Christianity not as an absolute system of metaphysical truth, but as a cultural, ethical, and spiritual inheritance worth preserving, even if I no longer believe every word literally.

This makes me a minority in both worlds. Evangelicals often see me as having abandoned the faith. Secular folks sometimes view my continued engagement with Christianity as inconsistent. But I’ve made peace with that ambiguity.

Truth, I’ve come to believe, is not always found in certainty. Sometimes it’s in the tension.

The Cost—and the Gain

There are losses, of course, when you leave a tightly held belief system. Some friendships faded. Conversations with family became harder. When you’ve always spoken a shared language of faith, it’s jarring to suddenly not understand each other.

There’s also the loss of certainty. Evangelicalism offers answers. Secular Christianity often raises more questions than it answers. There’s a vulnerability in saying, I don’t know.

But what I’ve gained is authenticity. I no longer have to perform belief. I don’t have to defend doctrines I find indefensible. My faith—or what remains of it—is now marked by humility rather than dogma.

I’ve also gained a deeper empathy. When you’ve wrestled with your own beliefs, you become slower to judge others for theirs. You realise that people believe—or stop believing—for complex, often deeply personal reasons.

And paradoxically, I now read the Bible more than I did when I believed it was inerrant. I read it as literature, as wisdom, as a mirror to the human condition. Some parts disturb me. Others move me to tears.

Is that belief? Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Where I Am Now

Faith used to be a fortress. Now it feels more like a path—sometimes winding, sometimes overgrown, but still worth walking.

I’m not trying to reconstruct Evangelicalism into something more palatable. I’ve left that world. But I haven’t left Christianity entirely. I’ve simply found a way to inhabit it that reflects where I truly am.

Some days, I miss the simplicity of my old faith. Other days, I’m grateful to have emerged from it with my curiosity intact.

To those who find themselves in a similar place—on the edge of faith, wondering if there’s room for doubt, for nuance, for honesty—let me say this: you’re not alone. You don’t have to choose between blind belief and total rejection. There’s a third way, even if it’s less defined.

Secular Christianity might not be for everyone. But for me, it’s where the sacred and the honest meet. And that, I think, is a kind of grace.

Faith Without the Framework

When people hear I no longer believe in many of the core supernatural tenets of Evangelicalism, the next question often comes quietly, almost hesitantly: Then why bother at all?

It’s a fair question—and one I’ve asked myself many times. If you no longer believe in divine intervention, literal resurrection, or a heavenly afterlife, why still show up for a tradition built on exactly those things?

The answer lies in how I’ve come to understand the word faith. Once, it meant intellectual assent—believing the right things about God. Now, I see it as an orientation. A posture. A way of engaging the world with intention, humility, and reverence. You could call it existential faith—faith in the possibility of meaning, in the value of compassion, in the mystery of being.

This kind of faith doesn’t require me to suspend disbelief or force myself to affirm doctrines I find incoherent. It allows room for metaphor, for symbolism, for awe without certainty. It’s the kind of faith that resonates when I light a candle in a quiet cathedral, when I hear a hymn that pulls tears from somewhere deep, when I read the words of Jesus and think, Yes, this still matters.

I don’t need every story to be literally true for it to have truth in it.

I no longer believe that a serpent talked in Eden, or that Noah squeezed two of every species onto a boat. But I do believe the Genesis story captures something profoundly human about temptation, shame, and estrangement. I no longer read the Bible for rules—I read it for resonance.

And that’s not nothing.

Community After Deconstruction

Leaving Evangelicalism is not just an intellectual shift—it’s a communal one. For many of us, our churches are not just places of worship; they are social networks, emotional lifelines, extended family.

So when belief begins to falter, the ground shifts beneath your feet.

Some communities make room for doubt. Others, not so much. In my case, there was a sense of quiet distance after I started asking more pointed questions. I wasn’t shunned, exactly. But there were raised eyebrows. Fewer invitations. Subtle exclusions.

At first, I thought maybe I could stay in the same church and quietly evolve. But over time, the cognitive dissonance became too loud. I couldn’t keep singing lyrics I no longer believed or sitting through sermons that framed doubt as failure.

So I stepped away—not in anger, but in grief.

For a while, I tried the “none” route. No church, no community, just solo spiritual exploration. It worked—for a time. But I missed something deeper than doctrine: I missed shared ritual. I missed the rhythm of gathering, the collective stillness, the strange beauty of ancient words spoken together.

Eventually, I found a progressive mainline church that was open to ambiguity. The sermons were quieter, more reflective. There were fewer answers, more questions. No one asked me to sign a statement of belief. And that, oddly, made me feel freer to show up as I was.

It’s not perfect. I still sometimes feel like a theological outsider. But I’ve learned that spiritual community doesn’t have to be built on uniform belief. It can be built on shared intention, mutual respect, and a willingness to wrestle with mystery together.

Redefining Sacredness

Another shift that came with this journey was my understanding of what it means for something to be sacred.

In Evangelicalism, the sacred was neatly categorised: church buildings, Bibles, communion, Christian music, marriage between a man and a woman—these were sacred. Everything else was “of the world.”

Now, I see sacredness as less about objects and rules, more about awareness and attention.

A sunrise can be sacred. A hard conversation can be sacred. The moment you hold someone’s hand in silence as they cry—that’s sacred. Sacredness is not something bestowed by doctrine; it’s something we recognise in our deepest moments of presence and care.

Even language has shifted for me. I don’t talk about being “blessed” in the same way I used to, as if every good thing were a divine transaction. Now I see grace less as a handout from above and more as the quiet beauty that shows up in unexpected places: forgiveness after a fight, laughter in the midst of grief, a stranger’s small kindness.

These things don’t need supernatural explanation to be meaningful. They just need to be noticed.

The Language of Belief

If you’ve ever been through a religious transition, you’ll know the hardest part isn’t always the belief itself—it’s how to talk about it. Especially to those who are still where you used to be.

For a while, I tried to explain. I’d launch into complex theological ideas, referencing biblical scholarship or pointing to church history. But I quickly learned that few people are deconstructing their faith because of footnotes and historical criticism.

Most are asking, quietly, Does this still make sense? or Why doesn’t this feel true anymore?

And on the other side, many devout believers hear our shift as betrayal, not evolution. They think we’ve “fallen away” or let the culture corrupt our convictions. They assume we’re bitter, lost, or looking for excuses to sin.

But here’s what I wish they understood: this isn’t about trying to get out of hard truths. It’s about trying to live honestly. To align our inner lives with what we can say out loud without pretending.

For those of us who still identify as Christians—albeit in a secular sense—it’s not about watering down the Gospel. It’s about reclaiming its core ethic: love, compassion, humility, justice. That was never supposed to be the fringe. That was supposed to be the point.

A Quiet Belonging

So where does that leave me?

Somewhere in between. I’m not quite a believer in the traditional sense, but I’m also not fully outside the Christian story. I still draw on it for language, meaning, and moral direction. I still celebrate Christmas and Lent. I still find myself whispering old prayers when the world feels too heavy.

I no longer feel the need to prove anything—to others, or to myself. I’ve stopped trying to fit into old containers that no longer hold the shape of my experience. I’ve learned to live with questions.

Do I believe in God? Depends what you mean by “believe.” Or by “God.”

Do I think Jesus was divine? In some ways, yes. In others, no. I think he was deeply human—and perhaps, that’s even more powerful.

Do I think Christianity has something unique to offer? Yes, absolutely. But it’s not in its certainty—it’s in its struggle. Its tension. Its long arc toward justice and grace.

I don’t know what happens after this life. I used to be terrified of hell, certain of heaven. Now, I’m more interested in what we do with this life—how we treat each other, how we make meaning in the face of suffering, how we show up for one another with courage and care.

If there’s a judgment day, I hope it’s less about belief and more about love.

And if there’s nothing beyond this life, then loving well still matters.

Final Thoughts: A Different Kind of Faithfulness

In the end, I didn’t leave Christianity. I left a version of it.

What remains is something less shiny, less certain, but more lived-in. Like an old jumper, stretched and faded, but still warm.

Being a secular Christian means I get to stay in conversation with my roots without being bound by them. It means I can critique what needs to be critiqued and still find beauty in the liturgy, the stories, the songs.

I don’t have all the answers. But I’m no longer pretending to.

And that, I’ve come to believe, is its own kind of faithfulness.