William Lobdell - Losing My Religion: How I Lost My Faith Reporting on Religion in America and Found Unexpected Peace

You Need God

Born Again

A God Thing

Answered Prayers

Shot Out of a Cannon

My Ten Commandments

Father Hollywood

A Spiritual Body Blow

The Golden Rule

Millstones Around Their Necks

A Gentle Whisper Silenced

Rebuild My Church

Heal Thyself

The Dark Night of the Soul

At the Edge of the Earth

Letting Go of God

One Story Too Many

Welcome to the Edge

B Y AGE 27, I had screwed up my life. I had married my volatile high school sweetheart five years earlier, mostly because it seemed easier than breaking up. When I left her, I didnt follow through with the divorce. Dealing with her in court would be messy, so I just bailed. In the meantime, I happily jumped into an adolescence delayed by my fidelity to the first girl Id ever loved. Before long, I managed to get a girlfriend pregnant. I loved my newfound bachelorhood, and I was petrified by the prospect of another marriage and my first child (leaving aside the fact that my divorce to my first wife couldnt be finalized for at least six months).

I ran away as fast as I could, concluding that I had only a few months left in the wild before the baby arrived and a lifetime of responsibility would kick in. I needed to pack in as much living as I could. I drank away many nights. I caroused with friends. And Im forever shamed to admit that I cheated on my pregnant girlfriend.

Other parts of my life werent much better. My journalism career had stalled at a local minor-league magazine, where I worked long hours for low pay covering business lifestyles about which I couldnt have cared less. My digestive system waged daily war on me. I developed acne that I had been spared as a teenager. When I combed my hair each morning at the bathroom mirror, I couldnt look myself in the eye. When I turned 28, I could barely admit it was my birthday. I couldnt stand the person I had become. I found no reason to celebrate my life.

But then our son, Taylor, was born. I found myself staying up deep into most nights, holding my child tightly, staring at his innocent face, letting his chubby fingers wrap around mine and knowing it was time for me to grow up if this kid was going to have a fair chance at life.

A month after Taylor arrived, I married Greer in a Las Vegas wedding at a small chapel on the Strip presided over by a drunken pastor and his dutiful wife. They were our only witnesses. We spent the first part of our wedding night watching a comeback concert by Tony Orlando and Dawn. I gave our marriage about as much chance as the over-the-hill singing trio performing in that half-empty casino concert hall. Though she would not say it, I knew Greer had grave doubts about me, too, but she wanted her son to have an in-the-home fathersomething missing from her childhoodand was generous or desperate enough to give me a chance.

Soon after the wedding, on an especially low day, I had lunch with a good friend named Will Swaim. A fellow journalist of my vintage, Will is rail-thin, with a handsome face whose broad features seem to be made from stone. He has a kinetic energy that brings to mind someone who drinks way too much coffee. He is also one of the smartest and most searching people I know. Not yet 30, his career ambitions had swung wildly from Roman Catholic priest (he decided not to go into the seminary) to punk rock star (he was the lead singer for a group named the Barking Spiders) to aspiring guerrilla fighter (an unexpectedly pregnant wife caused him to give up his one-way plane ticket to Mexico City, the first leg of a journey that would have taken him to Nicaragua to fight with the Sandinistas) to peace activist (he worked for three years to ban nuclear weapons). He finally settled into journalism, where hes made a national reputation for himself as an alternative weekly editor and publisher.

Seated at a booth in an upscale coffee shop under the flight path of the John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California, he started a conversation in the usual way.

Hows it going, Billy?

I hadnt told anyone the extent of my troubles. From the outside, my life didnt look that bad. I was married to an intelligent and gorgeous woman, had a healthy baby boy and was president of a local media company. But I was dying inside. And Will was too good of a friend. I couldnt lie to him by saying I was fine. Taking a deep breath, I decided, for once, to tell the truth. I described, with deep shame, every last humiliating detail of my life. It wasnt cathartic for meit just filled me with more self-loathing.

Wills reaction was unexpected. He didnt seem fazed by any of it. I couldnt detect any judgment or disapproval. His response was matter-of-fact. He first asked if I was suicidal. I wasnt, though I conceded that I did believe everyone in my life would be better off if I were dead. Then, with the certainty of someone describing the law of gravity, he concluded, You need God. Thats whats missing in your life.

God? I hadnt given Him much thought since I stopped going to church the first chance I could, at age 17.

Everyone has a God-shaped hole in their soul, he continued. We all try to fill it with somethingdrugs, alcohol, work, sexuntil we stumble upon God. Hes the only thing that fills that hole. I was a lot like you until I surrendered my life to God. Why not try it? It cant hurt. Look at where you are with you in control. Get yourself to church, Billy.

It sounded right. More importantly, it felt like a way out. If Will had said in the same confident tone, You need crack cocaine. Thats what missing in your life, it probably would have sounded good, too. I was desperate enough to try anything that would get rid of the pain that had enveloped me like quicksand.

Ill go to church this Sunday, I said numbly. Just tell me where.

A S A KID , our familymy mom, dad, sister, two brothers and myselfpiled in the station wagon and drove to downtown Long Beach, California, to attend services at St. Lukes Episcopal Church. For my parents, going to church was like brushing their teeth. It was something they just did. For me, it felt more like pulling teeth. The servicewhich could stretch to nearly an hour-and-a-halfseemed more like a test of patience and endurance than anything else. It certainly wasnt a sacred moment of contact with the creator of the universe. We sat through ancient hymns with stilted lyrics (Lamp of our feet, whereby we trace our path), a long list of prayers and readings and a liturgy that changed only slightly throughout the year. The rector, Roy Young, was a sensitive soul with a gift for storytelling, so I often enjoyed his sermons. But that was it.