Alexander Collas

I’m often asked why an atheist writes about religion. Easy: because too many of the faithful have stopped reading their own propaganda. Somebody needs to remind them of what it says.

I didn’t lose faith out of rebellion. I read myself out of it. I studied the Bible, the Gospels, the Quran—front to back, without a priest or preacher in the margins telling me what to think. I found poetry and rage, wisdom and nonsense. A magnificent mess written by people trying to make sense of thunder. The problem is that the book is also a collection of fairy tales that favor ignorance over science.

Faith once meant humility. Now it’s theater. Crosses are costumes, belief is merch, and the loudest Christians don’t pray—they perform.

If faith has become performance, then the script matters. Every atheist should know scripture better than the people swinging it like a club. When they quote Leviticus to condemn love, I remind them that the same chapter bans mixed fabrics and shrimp.

Ignorance builds churches; knowledge burns them down. That’s why I prefer heresy. Most believers don’t actually believe—they’re just afraid not to. Their “faith” is a costume they can’t take off without losing the audience. They are little more than atheists without the courage of conviction.

Their fear shows itself as a question masquerading as an answer: “What if you’re wrong?” It’s not clever; it’s cowardice. Belief as insurance. Faith as a hedge fund.

Let’s be honest: many don’t believe—they hope. And that won’t work; you can’t con your way into heaven. If there is a hell, I can assure you it’s full of people who thought pretending counted. Even the Bible calls them out: “Because you are lukewarm, I will spit you out.” America runs on that lukewarm Christianity—boiling with judgment, cold with compassion. Hot enough to burn others, never hot enough to purify itself.

From fear, the next step is predictable: weaponize God. In America, religion is less about salvation than about domination—politics in a Jesus mask. “Family values” becomes applause for cruelty. They quote Christ while skipping everything he actually said.

The central command isn’t judgment; it’s compassion: “When a stranger lives among you, love him as yourself.” But love doesn’t poll well. So the cross gives way to the gun, the sermon to the slogan, and Christ to a child rapist in a golden office. They don’t worship God—they worship power, and they’ve painted His face on their idol.

Now enter Trump—not as a corrupter of Christianity but as its mirror. He is the golden calf with Wi-Fi: greed, vanity, deceit, all wrapped in patriotism. Evangelicals crowd around him because he hates the same people they do, twisting scripture to bless a man who brags about sexual assault and mocks the weak.

If the Antichrist ever needed a marketing team, American pastors already built it.

Strip away the branding and the heartbeat of the Bible is simple: love. Not hate. Not nationalism. Love—unconditional, inconvenient, unprofitable. “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” But love doesn’t trend, compassion doesn’t fundraise, and forgiveness doesn’t own the libs. So they buried love and called the corpse “righteousness.”

Here’s the irony: I, the atheist, still believe in the virtues they abandoned. You don’t need an imaginary sky-warden to choose empathy over cruelty. You need a spine.

So why do I write? I write because silence is surrender, and hypocrisy thrives on polite lies. I write because morality belongs to no church. If heaven demands obedience to cruelty, I’ll take hell with integrity.

Yes, I’m angry. Righteous anger isn’t a sin; it’s the immune system of the soul. Even Jesus flipped tables when the sacred was sold.

So why does an atheist write about religion? To remind the faithful what faith is meant to be. To say love shouldn’t need divine permission. To insist its time they choose between good and evil, not left or right.

Because truth—whether spoken from disbelief or devotion—is still the closest thing we have to the divine.

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