You know, I found this thread with a whole bunch of anonymous people that were telling their story on why they lost their faith in God. They don't believe in God anymore. And I want to share some with you guys.
Let's read one today. I haven't told anyone this in real life. Not my friends, not my pastor, not even my wife, but I think I lost my faith in God two years ago when my mom passed away.
She was my best friend. I know a lot of people that say that, but she really was. She prayed for me every night, called me every Sunday morning to remind me to go to church.
Sent me devotionals even when I didn't want to read them. She was the glue of our family. The kind of woman who fed neighbors just because.
Who paid for people's groceries without them knowing. Her love for God was deep. Not performative, but real.
In 2023, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, stage two. It wasn't great, but doctors were very optimistic. And man, did we pray.
I fasted. My church prayed. My mom kept her Bible next to her hospital bed like armor.
Even when she lost her hair and could barely talk, she was still singing worship songs. But it didn't matter. The cancer spread fast, like a wildfire.
The doctors could do everything, but they couldn't keep up. And one day, she was joking with me about being bald. And three weeks later, I was holding her hand while machines beeped slower and slower.
She was 58. And the worst part, the night before she passed, she looked at me and said, "I don't understand. I thought he was going to heal me.
" That broke me in half. After the funeral, I kept going to church. I played the part.
I nodded through the sermons. People said she's in a better place. And I smiled and said thank you.
But inside I was furious at God, at life, at the whole idea of prayer. What's the point of worshiping someone who lets the kindest person I've ever known die in pain, confused, and wondering if he forgot her. I stopped praying after that.
I stopped reading the Bible. I still go to church because my wife believes and I don't want to shake her faith. But when people close their eyes to pray, mine stay open.
I haven't told anyone because I don't want to be a burden or worse, a disappointment. But the truth is is I feel like I'm just going through the motions now. I want to believe again.
I do, but I don't know how to come back from the silence I got when I needed God most. You know what I would tell this person? You are not crazy for feeling the way you do.
You're not broken. You're just grieving. And that grief doesn't just come from the people we lost.
Sometimes it comes from the versions of oursel we used to be. The one who used to believe. The one who used to trust.
The one who used to pray and expect to be heard. See, I've been there. I know what it's like to stare up at the ceiling and ask God questions you don't even really want to know the answer to because deep down you feel all you might get is silence.
I've wrestled with faith in a dark room, too. Crying, numb, angry. Not because I didn't want to believe, but because I did, and it didn't seem to matter.
But I want you to hear me when I say this. You don't have to have it all figured out right now. God is not looking for you to perform.
He's not waiting for you to snap out of it or quote a scripture or or act strong. He knows. He saw the moment your mom said, "I thought he was going to heal me.
" He saw your heart crack in ways no one else did. And he didn't turn away from you because of it. You are allowed to feel what you feel.
You're allowed to be mad, confused, distant. That doesn't disqualify you from love. It doesn't make you faithless.
It actually makes you human. You lost someone who shaped you. And now you're trying to walk through life feeling half of what you missing.
That kind of pain doesn't go away with at first. It doesn't go away with just a sermon. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is just breathe right now.
Maybe that's all you need to do right now is breathe. Wake up. Drnk water.
Go get some sunlight. Talk to someone. Or don't.
Cry if it comes. Sit in silence if it doesn't. But give yourself space to heal.
Not fix, not fake, but actually heal. Because here's the thing. Even if you feel like you walked away from God, I promise you, he's still sitting with you in that silence.
He's not offended by your questions. He's not shocked by your anger. He's not disappointed in your distance.
Sometimes faith doesn't look like shouting in church and ruas. Sometimes it's just a whisper. Hey God, I don't know if you're there, but I'm still here.
Sometimes faith is simply just not giving up. And I know it's hard to imagine ever believing again. I won't lie to you and say that it's going to get easy.
But I will tell you, the day will come when you talk about your mom and smile before you cry. The day will come when you remember what she taught you. Not just about God, but about life, about love, about quiet strength.
And maybe, just maybe, on that day, you'll feel her and him both a little bit closer than you did before. But until then, just breathe. Take your time and know this.
You are not alone in this valley. And you know what? I'll tell you something else personal before I go.
I remember feeling that same exact way. See, my dad passed in 2020 on Christmas day. That day wrecked me.
He was my biggest supporter, the person I can call for anything. He had this this quiet strength that made me feel safe even when life felt like it was spinning out of control. And when he was gone, it felt like God went silent, too.
I questioned everything. I didn't want to pray. I didn't want to pretend I was okay.
I felt I felt betrayed. And I hated how everybody expected me to just have faith when my heart felt like it had been shattered into pieces that no scripture can fix. But guess what?
Here I am today. Not fully healed, but standing. Not full of answers, but full of grace for myself.
And now I have more grace for the situation and more grace for God. And if you're watching this right now and starting to feel like your faith is slipping through your fingers, like the God you once trusted feels like a stranger now, like everything you believed in is standing on shaky ground. I want to tell you something.
I want to tell you something that I wish someone had told me when I was in that space. You are not cursed. You are not forgotten.
And this season that you're in, this this dry, heavy, hollow place, this is not the end of your story. See, we're taught how to praise, but we're not always taught how to bleed. We're not taught how to grieve and still be spiritual.
We're not told that it's okay to not clap your hands when your soul is tired. But here's what I know now. Sometimes the most sacred thing you can do is to feel it all.
To sit in the ache. to be honest about the fact that you don't feel God right now. To admit you're angry, to admit you're confused, to admit that your faith feels bruised, maybe even shattered.
Because real faith isn't shiny, it's gritty. It's crawling when you can't walk. It's whispering when you can't shout.
It's standing in the rain with empty hands, saying, "I don't get it, but I'm still here. " And if that's you, here's my advice. Don't run from the darkness.
Learn to sit with it. Not forever, not as home, but as a place you pass through. There's wisdom in that space.
There's growth in that stillness. And eventually, not on your timeline, but when it's time, light does break through. The faith you had before may not come back the same.
I'm not going to lie about that. But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe this pain is burning off everything shallow, everything performative, everything you inherited that didn't belong to you.
Maybe what's being built now is real. It's personal. It's quiet.
It's silent. The kind of belief that doesn't need a stage or approval. Just breathe.
So no, this isn't where it ends. This is just the part of the story where everything gets real. That's what we can say.
It's the real season. And real faith, the kind that survive, doesn't always look like worship. Sometimes it just looks like not walking away.
And if that's you today, that's enough. You are enough. And I promise you, God's love is not intimidated by your pain.
Not now, not ever. You got this, my friend. I love you guys.
Until next time. Peace.
