Hal Spencer, president of Manna Music, wrote: “My immediate response is that this can’t be true and that you are only going through a doubting time of your life. However, knowing you, I’m afraid that there is more to it than that. I will be asking the Lord to guide me also if there is something that I can say which might influence your feelings.”
Hal and I met for lunch a couple of months later and I got to hear what “the Lord” guided him to say. Although he is quite knowledgeable about the music industry, he had not given much thought to theology or philosophy. He kept pointing to a leaf in a flower arrangement next to our table, saying, “How did that leaf get here?” After I pointed out the problems with the traditional design and first-cause arguments, he turned back to the leaf and said, “But I just can’t imagine how that leaf got here without a Creator.” (Richard Dawkins calls this the Argument from Incredulity.) We later bumped into each other in Nashville, when I was there for my first public debate and Hal was attending a country/gospel music awards ceremony. The chance meeting was so surprising that he quipped, “See, this proves there is a God!” Manna kept selling my musicals for many years, and Hal continued to treat me professionally.
Eli Peralta was my ninth-grade Spanish teacher and a member of the Peralta Brothers Quartet, with whom I had ministered during high school. He wrote: “Thank you for letting us know the status of your life change. Rest assured that the pureness and clarity of your communication is being accepted in a spirit of love and consideration. It is significant that in the days prior to your letter arriving, I was reminiscing about our fellowship and friendship of years gone by and wishing that we could visit sometime. My brothers and I still think of you with many fond memories and (think of the) fun times we had together. I have informed them regarding your journey from faith to reason, and even though it has made a significant emotional impact on us, I for one feel a deep sense of calm and still consider ourselves friends!” Eli never had an unkind cell in his body. This is true friendship.
Jill Johnson, wife of the music minister at the Auburn, California, church where I did my final Christian concert and preaching, sent me a surprisingly tolerant letter: “I totally support your sincere desire to seek out the truth in love. I feel for you because in a certain sense the decision you’ve made has got to be a cataclysmic event not only for you and those you love (I keep thinking of your dad for some reason), but also to so many outside your home sphere. But I believe in honesty and since you believe with all of your being in what you espouse, I’m sure it’s a necessity for you to continue following this path. When you ‘break the rules’ there are always those who will have a desire or a need to punish or judge or condemn…and I just hope and pray most people will be gentle with you even though you and they are not in agreement. I am so happy that I was able to hear you in concert and I have no doubt that you will continue to create beauty in spheres other than the Christian one.” I guess I was a good showman: Jill had heard that final performance and suspected nothing. But neither did I suspect she would be so understanding, which may be a signal that not all fundamentalists are as intolerant as their God.
Loren McBain, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Ontario, California, which my family was attending and where I had briefly served as interim Music Director, wrote: “I’d really like to stay in touch with you if only for lunch once in a while. I’d especially be happy to play chess when you want, the odds now clearly in my favor since God will be on my side!” Perhaps with patience running thin, the same man wrote a less friendly letter 10 months later: “You and I both know Dan that you have heard, and you fully understand ‘God’s rules for living,’ and that you are now living by your own rules. I understand them as simple disobedience.” I later heard that he felt bad about that second letter, which effectively shut the door on our friendship.
A co-worker in Christian music and children’s books, Scoti Domeij, wrote: “Does this mean that we won’t be seeing each other at MusiCalifornia [a Christian conference] (Ha! Ha!). I am not offended or the least bit surprised by your journey from faith to reason. Your questioning has surfaced in many different ways when we have been together. I do feel some sadness and wonder what hurt and deep disappointments have precipitated your journey from faith to reason.”
That is another theme I heard a lot: “How were you hurt?” Although my deconversion to atheism was intellectual, not emotional, I suppose it is true that I suffered some “deep disappointments.” I was initially saddened, for example, to learn that the bible is not as reliable as I had been taught to believe it was. So, yes, it hurt to know that I had been deceived, deliberately or innocently, by people whom I had trusted. But my problem was not with those people: it was with the truth of the claims of Christianity.
Shirley and Verlin Cox had regularly helped me arrange meetings in Indiana. “I must admit to a bit of a shock,” Shirley wrote. “At first I wanted to write a ‘preachy’ letter to you but after much reflection and prayer I realize you know more ‘bible’ than I and Verlin will ever know. We haven’t been through college the way you have… Yes, we are broken hearted that you’ve rejected our Lord but we have hope and our prayers will continue. While in Florida last year we were delighted to see your ‘
Mary Had a Little Lamb
,’ and churches in Indiana in our area still present it. Oh yes, ‘
Mary Had
’ was a puppet show on TV.”
I received a letter from Sister Tammy Schinhofen, of whom I had no memory: “About eight years ago you were instrumental in my accepting Jesus as my
personal Savior
. I thank God that I am a jewel placed in your crown. Don’t let the enemy take away or tarnish your crown.” She was referring to the belief that Christians will someday rule the universe alongside God; hence, we will all be wearing a kingly (or queenly) crown. But doesn’t this make it a status symbol? “My crown has more jewels than yours!”
One of my best friends was a man who was largely responsible for the promotional success of my musicals, a strong Christian who had little need for organized religion. It was not easy for him, being gay in a fundamentalist community. He wrote: “I don’t know if I can say I ‘enjoyed’ your letter—there must be a better word. I know how you feel. I’ve surely been there myself (may still be there). What struck me so forcefully was the realization that ‘the Christians’ react to your questioning as they do,
not
because you have lost
your
faith, but because you have lost
theirs
!” That’s a great line! It would have been just as bad if I had converted to Islam or Mormonism. But he was wrong. I
had
actually lost faith, not just someone else’s faith, but the very concept of faith as a valid tool of knowledge. Well, no, I had not lost faith: I had discarded it, thrown it away, rejected its value. I wouldn’t say, “I lost my cancer,” or that an illness is something to be missed. However, I am certain that to this friend, my commitment to rationality was a kind of “faith,” or substitute for faith, and in that context his remarks were meaningful.
I heard from many people to whom I had not mailed my letter, so the gossip must have been flying. Many of the letters were sincere, but without content. “I don’t have any answers,” wrote one friend. “It’s not a matter of logic or intelligence,” wrote another. “Human intellectual ability and capacities, no matter how great, are not sufficient,” wrote a woman faith healer.
Many of the letters contained
ad hominem
arguments. One coworker told me that I had “given in to the desires of self life” (What other kind of life is there?), and a neighbor wrote that I must be “hurt and bitter.” Another tried to get me to admit my “deep wounds.” A woman preacher announced that “sometime along the way you became angry with God.” (If true, why is that
my
problem?) A former co-pastor told me that “you are on a selfish journey at the expense of your own integrity.” How does he define integrity?
Roxanne Olson, the high school-aged daughter of one of my close Christian friends, living in a missionary compound, wrote: “I can’t say I pray for you every day because I don’t. Right now in school we are learning biology from a teacher who only knows about philosophy, medieval history and English literature. How do you think we got on this planet?” I wrote to her and her mother, who were living in a community operated by the charismatic evangelistic organization Youth With A Mission in Kona, Hawaii, and I challenged the school to a debate on the issues. I never heard a thing from them about that.
A few weeks after my letter was sent out, I received a call from the vice president and dean of academic instruction at Azusa Pacific University, Dr. Don Grant. He and the director of alumni affairs met with me for lunch one afternoon to see what had gone wrong with one of their emissaries. Don had been the director of the Dynamics Chorale, for which I played piano and sang on scholarship during my years at Azusa Pacific. It was an amicable lunch, but they nevertheless were fishing for some way to get me back in the fold. The conversation was at a more articulate level than most, but when I offered rebuttals that they had never heard, they fell back on the same old
ad hominem
responses, psychological guesswork, and so on. As we were walking back to our cars I thanked them for their time and willingness to discuss the issues, and I made them a challenge. I told them that I would be willing to participate in a debate at Azusa Pacific against any one of their professors on the question of the existence of God. I never heard from them again.
A few months earlier, before he received my letter, Manuel Bonilla had told me that he just “knew” the spirit of God was in my life, especially since I had recorded an unusually “inspired” arrangement on one of his albums that year, playing the piano with conviction and “spirit” behind his singing. We talked on the phone after he received my letter and I asked Manuel if he would be surprised to know that while I was performing that song I was a secret atheist and that my inspiration was musical, not spiritual. He didn’t say a word. When I talked with Manuel again in 1985, he was friendly, but told me that he would be willing to offer me some counseling to help me get through my struggles. The only thing I could think of was to say that I was happy, and to thank him for his friendship.
Manuel and I met again in Tucson in 2003 and talked about the possibility of my producing a secular children’s album for him that could be sold in schools, but it never happened. The thought of it becoming known that he was working with an atheist must have been too much. I do receive a nice seasonal greeting card from Manuel and Anita every year, and I still consider them to be gentle friends.
Shortly after my letter was sent out I met for lunch with Bob and Myrna Wright, two very close friends at the time. Bob was the pastor who conducted my ordination ceremony. They told me that they wanted to apologize to me. They were sorry they had not sensed my inner struggles leading up to my rejection of Christianity. If they had known, they said, perhaps they could have helped me avoid the discouragement and disappointment that led to my change of views. This was a difficult meeting because I loved and respected these people and I knew that they were sincere. I told them that my deconversion had nothing to do with any personal problems, that it had to do with the nature and content of the Christian message itself. I told them that “inner struggles” are good, and I tried to explain that
ad hominem
counseling was beside the point. They didn’t get it.
“What would happen to me,” I asked, “if I were to die right now?” They were silent. “Bob, you’re an ordained minister. You know your bible. What happens to unbelievers?”
“Well, the bible says they go to hell,” he responded.
“You know me,” I continued. “I’m not a bad person. I’m honest. If I walk out of this restaurant and get killed by a truck, will I go straight to hell?” They didn’t want to answer that question, squirming in their seats. “Well, do you believe the bible?” I pressed.
“Of course,” Myrna said.
“Then will I go to hell?”
“Yes,” they finally answered, but not without a great deal of discomfort. Perhaps it was not the best lunch topic or the most diplomatic way to treat friends, but I wanted to make the brutality of Christianity real to them. I knew it would be hard for them to imagine their God punishing someone like me. I later heard that they were perturbed with me for having coerced them to say I was going to hell. It forced them to acknowledge that, as much as we wanted to be friends, their religion considers me the enemy.
The letters I received and the conversations that followed my “coming out” displayed love, hatred, and everything in between. Many friendships were lost, others transformed, and still others strengthened. Of all of the attempts to get me back in the fold, not a single one had any intellectual impact. Although I was saddened at having discontinued some relationships, I found I did not miss them. I didn’t think I was smarter than these people were; we just chose different priorities and grew apart. I suppose it was somewhat like a divorce—even though there were good times and happy memories, once it’s over, it’s over.