Previously: Being raised in a conservative Lutheran (LCMS) church-going family was an experience that was largely anxious and stressful thanks to my autistic brain. As part of a Theory of Knowledge class in high school, I read two books by Daniel Quinn: Ishmael and The Story of B.

When I got to the end of The Story of B, my Lutheran faith was just…gone. Daniel Quinn's books made a strong argument that religions focused around salvation were created by people to deal with the unprecedented levels of human suffering in their world. And that it would be immoral for me to hold a belief system that separated and elevated humans from the rest of life on our planet.

Lost: A large set of beliefs about God, life, death, salvation, and sin. These were painstakingly collected from hundreds of LCMS church services, Sunday School classes, and family gatherings.

How the hell had all of that suddenly disappeared? My new lack of beliefs made perfect sense to me, but why my entire worldview could change that fast remained a mystery.

It wasn't until the fall of 2025, twenty-five-plus years later, when I realized that I'm autistic, that I learned the answer: My neurodivergent brain can't hold onto a belief when that belief has been proven to be false, illogical, and/or harmful. As soon as I'm exposed to an idea that's more coherent, more logical, or better supported by evidence, my brain automatically adjusts my beliefs accordingly. Sometimes that means gaining a more nuanced understanding of an issue, and sometimes it means throwing away my old perspective entirely.

My next reaction? I needed to tell my parents. I couldn't stand the thought of being in church and having to say, out loud, that I believed a bunch of things that 1) I didn't actually believe anymore and 2) I thought were actively harmful. It felt dishonest and wrong. (It turns out that this intense devotion to honesty is also pretty common for autistic folks.)

Within a couple of days of losing my faith, I walked into my parents' bedroom as they were getting ready for bed and informed them that I was no longer Christian; that I was agnostic; and that I didn't want to attend church anymore.

I don't know how I expected them to respond. (They didn't tend to yell at me or my sister, so that didn't seem very likely.) But I knew I would be telling them the worst thing I possibly could have told them.

If I had told them that I had done something really horrible, they might be surprised or angry or disappointed in the moment, but they could adapt. As long as I sincerely asked for forgiveness from God, accepted my punishment, and worked to make amends, eventually everything would be all right.

But denying the very existence of Almighty God the Creator and rejecting His Son Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior? That's a ticket to eternal damnation and torment with no guarantee that everything would eventually be all right.

Needless to say, my parents were shocked. Which makes sense! There were no warning signs. They had no reason to believe that their smart, well-behaved kid, who went to church and Sunday School and Youth Group and who babysat at church events and sang in the youth choir, was anything other than a faithful Lutheran child. (Sure, I grumbled about having to get up early and dress up for church, but you kind of expect that from a teenager.)

From what I remember, their initial response was basically, "We'll have to think about it."

Once they'd had time to process the situation, the first thing they told me was: As long as you live under our roof, you will go to church with us and keep attending church activities.

Needless to say, that was not the response I wanted to hear.

Next time: The fallout continues!