My father always encouraged me and my brother to ask questions: from dinosaurs to aliens, he answered our questions to the extent of his knowledge. Maddeningly for a child, he would sometimes say, “Well, so-and-so believes this but so-and-so says this.” But what did my dad think, I wanted to know. My brother would ask him questions about tanks and war, I would ask questions about animals. We filled long car rides to our grandparents with talks that leaped from Napoleon to the steel industry to how dogs thought.

We were brought up Christian — Bible stories and children’s choirs. During the summers, I went to Pine Springs, a summer camp with bible studies in the woods and campfire sing-a-longs. Somewhere in the back of my head, I still remember the Veggie Tales songs.

you're all

You're welcome.

I played a sheep dog in one Christmas pageant, because sheep were too boring and I wanted to be a dog. (This isn’t a metaphor or some snide parallel, I really really, really liked dogs as a kid. Okay. I still really, really, really like dogs.)

The first time I felt a distance from my Christian upbringing was during a child’s sermon on the steps of the Presbyterian church we were members of at the time. The pastor was telling us about the creation, the order in which the animals were made. He mentioned the creatures of the sky and sea, and then the mammals. “What about the dinosaurs?” I asked. As an elementary school student, dinosaurs were very important. The pastor brushed me off entirely. I complained to my dad about it. A bit.

The older I got, the more alienated I felt. What if it was all made up? The thought occupied me during church services, when I tried to pray, in the daily grace around the dinner table. I couldn’t get it out of my head. We were often told of the day-to-day relationship with God, and nothing I prayed had ever felt like anything beyond asking the clouds for advice. I don’t say this dismissively. I wondered what was wrong with me. If I was going to hell, absurdly enough. At 10, I was taken to a Heaven’s Gates/Hell’s Flames play, a play that vividly depicts the horrors of hell if you aren’t a Christian. I had nightmares about dying and going to hell for weeks.

My parents’ decision to change churches didn’t help. I had found a sense of calm in the stained glass, high ceilings and overwhelming organ that crawled behind the pulpit. When we moved to the less ornate Methodist church, the magic was lost. There was no sense of … something within the walls. Nothing felt grand or peaceful. It felt like an office building.

Church events became surreal. There were times in which the leaders would ask the holy spirit to come down and talk to us, if anyone was feeling the spirit within them. Other kids would start crying, raising their hands, swaying with the music. They would go up to the stage, sharing their experiences. I felt nothing but discomfort. In 2007, I was dragged to Creation, a Christian music festival. Speakers would chastise the young girls in short shorts and tank tops, saying it didn’t look Christian and that boys would get the wrong idea about them. I, in my jeans and multiple hoodies, was vaguely amused, if slightly indignant of the behalf of people who didn’t require several layers of clothing to keep warm. (Looking back, I am horrified. The vendors sold T-shirts “I’M SAVING MYSELF FOR MY FUTURE HUSBAND,” or just, “I’M STILL A VIRGIN” in bright neon pink.)

The catalyst that I declared myself an agnostic was during church, of all things. The Methodist pastor was preaching on real Christians and fake Christians, that some people just went through the motions of Christianity, but did not truly believe. The light bulb went off. How could I call myself a Christian, when I didn’t actually believe in anything? I was a liar as I was; a passive one but I was not telling the truth.

I told my dad. He wasn’t pleased, but he was grateful for my honesty. (Unfortunately, I was still stuck going to church most weeks.) The honesty was not appreciated by everyone; some wished I would keep my lack of faith a secret entirely. I have been told illnesses would clear up, if I just believed in God. That if I found the right man, I would convert for his sake.

To what effect did growing up as a Christian affect me? I can sniff out a Christian-Rock song a mile away. I can quote Bible verses at odd moments. Renaissance art history comes easier to me than say, someone with no background whatsoever. Was it for the best? I don't know, probably not. I still feel awkward wearing shorts and a tank top, as if someone were to look at me and see "available and wanting" rather than "90 degrees out."There is a great deal of the usual bitterness: hypocrisy, elitism, blatant misuse of bible verses for personal biases, etc. I won't bore you with that. But believe me, it's there.

You'd be bitter too if your childhood consisted of this.

I suppose I am lucky: I was encouraged to seek out answers rather than to accept them. In the end, I eventually got out of going to youth group. I am down to Christmas Eve services and the yearly reread of a C.S. Lewis book. Maybe it was worth it, if only for the additional context into essays about Tolkien and Lewis's friendship. And that's all anyone can truly ask for.