A Reluctant Agnostic

By Loren Bauman

A Reluctant Agnostic is a story about sincere, humble, joyous Christianity confronted by contradictory natural evidence—a tale of religious conviction at odds with science. The author grew up in the very unique Old German Baptist Brethren Church, where he was immersed in wholehearted fundamental faith, and he shares details of the Brethren experience with an insider’s affection. Yet for all their distinctiveness, these plain-living people nevertheless embrace the same biblical precepts and theology as multimillions of other Christians, so the broader questions and issues raised in this book address a wide audience from their familiar Christian point of view. Furthermore, the author speaks movingly of the Gospel and savior he loved in a way even non-Christians will appreciate. But why did this reluctant agnostic lose his beloved faith? And how do these same questions relate to you? This is an important discussion which is relevant to everyone who values truth and contemplates mortality. Join him as he explores the distinctions between science and faith, and wrestles with how we can know for sure what’s really real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640278356

Book preview

cover.jpg

A

Reluctant

Agnostic

Loren Bauman

Copyright © 2017 Loren Bauman

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-64027-834-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64027-835-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

Introduction

Ah, California, this marvelous, truly incomparable state!

Among countless other treasures, California boasts majestic stands of massive sequoia and coastal redwood trees tucked deeply away in pockets of the Sierra Nevada mountains and nestled serenely among its foggy Pacific highlands.

Strolling through the shaded hush of their immense, soaring forms, inhaling their damp earthiness, brushing their soft, fibrous bark, and craning to glimpse their lofty crowns, I’m invariably gripped with reverence. To me, these groves have always been wondrous, sacred places, temples of the earth, no less.

Yosemite National Park is another one-of-a-kind treasure, stunning, magnificent, extraordinary in every sense of the word. Its towering granite walls and plunging waterfalls frame perhaps the most sublime valley on earth. Whether trekking its wild, lofty backcountry, toiling to the top of Half Dome, or simply wandering about the valley floor, Yosemite embraces my soaring heart. To me, it’s a grand cathedral of nature.

Over and over, the most stirring contemplations have transfixed me from within these outdoor sanctuaries. Here I’ve witnessed creation’s artistry, and absorbed the passions of God’s imagination.

Yet for all their consolation and inspiration, these sacred places also now represent for me a startling dichotomy.

You see, I was once deeply religious—conservatively, fundamentally and enthusiastically religious—but now, now I’m agnostic. I’m reluctantly, even heartbrokenly, yet sincerely agnostic. I knew well the majesty of the Christian faith. I once believed with joyous conviction in the Lord God Almighty of the Old and New Testament. But now I simply do not.

Now both Yosemite and the Redwoods, though they still grip my heart, speak to me not of heaven’s inspiration as they once did, but of natural evolution. I visit them just as eagerly, but now hear amid their grandeur the voice of Mother Nature rather than of Father God. They remain profoundly inspirational to me, yet in a very different way.

And this book is the story of that transition.

My people—my family and the saints with whom I long fellowshipped—are among the most fundamental of believers, the Old German Baptist Brethren. Occupying a corner of the Christian denominations who call themselves ‘plain people’, distantly akin to the Amish (though not German-speaking nor technology-shunning), they are fervently sincere Bible-based believers, kind, self-effacing people for whom faith and church is a seven-day-per-week proposition.

The Brethren emerged in early eighteenth-century Germany as part of the Radical Reformation of Anabaptists and Pietists, groups of awakened believers who rejected Martin Luther’s Reformation as being too tepid and incomplete. They soon emigrated to Pennsylvania, where they flourished and quickly expanded.

In 1881, because of developing doctrinal issues, the Old German Baptist Brethren separated from the larger Brethren group (which is now known as the Church of the Brethren, and is almost unrecognizably more progressive). As a result, the denomination I grew up with numbered only about 4,500 to 5,000 in total, spread across two handfuls of states. Here in central California, perhaps 800 of us resided, enough for me to feel both very unique and very supported.

Old German Baptist Brethren¹ are Conscientious Objectors to the military (Jesus said to turn the other cheek), non-litiginous (Why do ye not rather suffer wrong? asked the apostle Paul), and non-conformist (My kingdom is not of this world). They ignore popular fashion, instead wearing a distinctive uniform to solidify their separatist identity, and they avoid popular entertainment (I was raised without a TV or radio). The entire culture is focused on living faithful until death, while studiously avoiding the sinful pleasures of this world.

Yet despite occasional unfounded accusations of cultism stemming from such a radical approach, German Baptists revere the New Testament and have an overall understanding of theology and salvation compatible with that of Billy Graham and millions of other American Protestants. They’re differentiated mostly by the uncommon degree to which they strive to live the Gospel as they believe God intended.

As a young member, I too wore a broad-brimmed black hat, broadfall pants, and a full beard without mustache—wholeheartedly embracing the doctrine and culture. I remember marveling at my fortunate birth into such a remarkable minority. Of all the multimillions of other religious homes, I thought, what an incomprehensible blessing to be born a German Baptist!

My maternal grandparents were especially instrumental in my upbringing, almost a second set of parents. Dad’s folks passed away before my birth, so to me, Grandpa and Grandma identified only two specific people, and I spent a lot of time with them.

It was they who taught me to love Yosemite, and we must have journeyed there together a dozen or two times. I vividly remember driving with them through the Highway 140 canyon alongside the crashing Merced River during the peak of snowmelt, standing in the soaking mist at the bases of Bridalveil and Yosemite Falls, hiking the invigorating trail to the bridge below Vernal Falls, and driving the long, winding road up to Glacier Point for its breathtaking views of the valley, thousands of feet below.

But my most cherished Yosemite memory with Grandpa and Grandma is of the drive home one specific evening. It was just the three of us, them in the front seat, me in the back. After a full day of sightseeing, we were driving downhill away from the park toward the Central Valley sunset, and they were singing:

We are going down the valley one by one,

with our faces toward the setting of the sun.

Grandpa with his vibrant tenor voice, Grandma in her fearless soprano, they earnestly and joyfully belted out this old Christian hymn, comfortable with even its metaphor of aging and death, embracing the moment.

And in the back seat, I felt entirely embraced as well, basking happily in the intimacy of their singing, sharing their wholehearted faith—in love with the downhill highway and the sunset and the day, so content in our shared assurance that God had created it all. In all those years, and well into my adulthood, Yosemite’s massive granite was for me emphatic proof of the mighty power of God, and the sweeping vistas proof of his creativity. The whole world was God’s handiwork, and Yosemite displayed it best!

As for the Redwoods, my favorite, most enduring memories are of vacations at Mount Hermon, a Christian conference center hidden in the coastal highlands near Santa Cruz, California. Scattered tastefully among the hills of a large redwood forest, Mount Hermon combines public facilities with scores of privately owned cabins, one of which was owned by German Baptist friends.

The cabin was rustic for sure, a little ramshackle even, but that didn’t seem to matter in those simpler times. Approaching Mount Hermon as the access road wound deeply into the shaded forest, and then turning steeply down to the private little neighborhood, the place felt almost mystical. We’d pull into the small parking lot, step out on the spongy soil, and raise our anticipative faces to the towering treetops, warm, powerful memories that linger with me yet.

Perhaps the very best of those visits was an extended weekend with three other young married GB couples, eight of us in the most optimistic time of life. The weekend was filled with long, earnest conversations and friendly banter, with invigorating hikes and visits to the conference grounds—including the Christian bookstore there. In those days of conviction and joy, the store was like a candy shop to us, packed with books that explored the Faith and gifts that celebrated it.

One evening we brought in pizza; on another we cracked open a bucket of crab legs, crowding around the kitchen table. Our spirits were high, our ideals pure, our joy uncorrupted, such a magnificent time!

Conversations swept the spectrum from trivia to our confident insights about raising families (amazing how straightforward it seemed then), but most often, with heartfelt fascination, we discussed the scriptures. In our young twenties, we had the newfound maturity to really address the subject, to really explore its depths and broad implications. And what setting could be more inspirational than this incredible redwood forest, this intimate garden of God?

After supper one evening we hiked to the public area, restlessly exploring. In one of the buildings a meeting was in progress, and the participants within were singing. I’ll never forget pausing on the dark street below an open window as the people inside sang one of faith’s great anthems:

Because He lives I can face tomorrow,

because He lives all fear is gone,

because I know-oh-oh He holds the future,

and life is worth the living just because He lives!

(Lyrics by Bill and Gloria Gaither)

Joy gripped us as these familiar words of power and assurance resonated through the air. How overwhelming to feel so viscerally the living reality of our Lord Jesus!

Nearly three decades later, drawn again by the majestic Redwoods, I paid a much different visit to Mount Hermon. This trip was a gift to myself on my fiftieth birthday, another extended weekend in a rented cabin, planned too spontaneously for my family to clear their schedules. So excepting one day when two of my grown children visited, I spent the time alone in exploration and contented contemplation.

The preceding ten years of my life had witnessed a tectonic shift—a massive spiritual earthquake. I didn’t plan for it, didn’t wish for it to happen. (In fact, I was sitting happily in church and enjoying the sermon at the revolutionary moment when I lost my faith.)

As I suppose everyone does, I’d occasionally considered the possibility that our Christian convictions were untrue, briefly pondered that improbable possibility. But then suddenly, with breathtaking certainty, I realized the critical evidence had been right in front of me the entire time—and just like that, the entire universe felt different. Christians talk about the born-again experience, but losing faith in this way is like being born yet again.

Now once again at Mount Hermon, the redwoods enchanted me—the familiar shapes and light patterns, the aromas, the soft soil underfoot. I paused for a long while in one particular clearing, in a place where I could see both the interconnected forest and the individual trees stretching far up into the sky. Pacing, gazing, meditating, I felt as if the ancient earth itself was speaking to me, noting how each individual species had nudged its opportunistic way into the landscape, feeling the influence of centuries and millennia.

With captivated mind and uplifted heart, I lingered there, my eyes misty at rediscovering such a temple. I now realized evolution had created this forest, a process of happenstance, of fitful but relentless progress.

I comprehended too that our human mind evolved within the context of this natural world, learned here to love nature’s pattern, color and contrast; in such places as this we learned to define beauty. And so we humans feel connections beyond biology, and so I felt at home in these stunning redwoods.

Yosemite, in contrast to my only sporadic redwoods visits, has remained a frequent destination through the years. And though I don’t recall a singular first visit following my agnostic conversion, the change has been equally profound.

Every visit to the extraordinary park is now an enlightening journey of education and art. I see Yosemite as a grand illustration of the natural forces which shaped our planet, as a window back in time. The towering walls, the sculpted landmarks, and the exfoliating domes all testify to massive forces and great age. The tall valley grass, the evergreens, and the dogwood each testify to growth and adaptation, as do the golden trout, coyotes, and mule deer. I delight in each fresh discovery, and marvel at the symphonic whole.

And so, I’m an agnostic now.

I view the world as if through a new lens (and many Christian friends believe it’s really just that—a foggy, defective lens). Sometimes as I go about daily routines, I pause in amazement at how far the journey has taken me. I wasn’t a casual or unfocused Christian, nor one who choked on the weeds of worldliness and then simply backslid. Rather, the voyage from Old German Baptism to agnosticism was altogether contemplative.

Much, too much is at stake for it to ever be otherwise.

I still think about religion every day, irrepressibly pondering its implications and rationality. Believing was such a solid, comfortable, all-encompassing thing. The Christian Faith I knew and experienced is marvelous, the story of Grace truly amazing, and I genuinely miss believing it.

My Christian friends also remain close in heart, although our paths don’t as often cross and we have less to talk about when they do. Still, some of these relationships span decades, and feel like we could pick them up again at any time, without skipping a beat. These were friendships set in concrete during our formative years, and I mourn the separations still.

As an agnostic, I live a deeply fascinated life, observing, learning, engaging, striving to live this life to its fullest. I value my career, relish my friends, and love my family. Life is very good.

Nevertheless, I candidly acknowledge that my eventual future is inevitably rather melancholy, a future most likely of progressive aging, and then unavoidably, of death—with nothing certain to anticipate beyond. I sadly cannot share the assurance of my beloved grandparents in their buoyant song about going down the valley, one by one.

But I firmly believe imaginary comforts are not comforting at all. Sweet hopes of glory cannot guarantee a future, no matter how fervently one may wish or believe.

Instead I face a sober and possibly critical question…though it’s not a question for me alone, it’s a subject everyone alive should ponder: What is true, really, ultimately true? How can any of us, as we all eventually face the end of mortal life, know for sure? How can we be relatively, entirely certain we’re ready to face whatever may wait on the other side of death?

It’s an enormous, imperative question.

And so this book is also a discussion of the many debates and deliberations behind my departure from faith. The story may be autobiographical in its framework, but the underlying drama features all of us equally. We’re all completely and utterly invested in the subject, like it or not.

I urge you therefore to participate actively as you read, to sincerely address these topics with me, to exercise inquisitiveness, peek around unfamiliar corners, push aside your apprehensions, and contemplate what really is. I promise it will be thought-provoking. I guarantee it will be worthwhile.

---

¹ Also called German Baptists, Brethren, Dunkards, or even GBs for short.

Chapter 2

My Dedicated Life

Growing up as a German Baptist is a remarkable experience, to be sure, yet perfectly comfortable for a young child—whose entire perception of normalcy, after all, has been molded by his or her family. My early life memories, beginning about age three, include an awareness that my family was unique—though at the time, it raised no second thoughts.

But older GB children, with a larger sense of the world around them, more often find the differences awkward. The distinctive clothing pattern, including women’s prayer coverings and men’s black hats and beards, immediately stand out everywhere they go. And of course, when people stare at parents, their children draw scrutiny too.

In my case, beginning at about the fourth grade, I became painfully embarrassed to be seen in public with my relatives, acutely sensitive to what other kids thought. Back-to-school nights in particular were excruciating, when my parents—in all their Dunkard oddity—followed me down the school corridors straight into my classrooms. I recall wishing I could just shrink away.

In those fragile years, mortified by the Old Order² distinctives, I resolved I would never join the GB Church. Instead, inspired by the Danny Orlis series of fictional Christian stories, I began to envision for myself a normal religious life someday. And although this whole humiliation phase turned out to be relatively short-lived, it was undeniably part of my childhood.

Unlike the Amish, who famously dress their children just like the grown-ups (which would’ve been even more embarrassing), my people reserve the uniform attire for teens or adults who’ve chosen for themselves to become members. Children typically wear off-the-shelf clothing—though to what stylish degree remains the parents’ choice. Most hold to consistently plain standards, although some could be suspected of using their children as fashion surrogates. My folks apparently just dressed me a decade or so behind current trends (as forever chronicled in my class photos).

For anyone who eventually chooses church membership, uniqueness then becomes a daily reality—the constant underlying awareness that you’re different, you don’t really fit in, and that most people see you as odd. It’s a curious self-perception (a life experience no doubt shared with Hasidic Jews, traditional Sikhs, and fundamental Muslims—groups with whom the Brethren have very little else in common).

Among the family at home, or within the larger church group at social or religious functions, it’s quite the other way of course—because when you’re an insider, nothing’s as comfortable as being inside. Even the term which German Baptists use for each other, simply, member, is illustrative. As in, How long has she been a member? or I met some members at the airport.

As you may suspect though, few who become members do so casually. Instead, as a rule, they’ve thoroughly pondered these implications before making their determined choice. Therefore the day-by-day experience of being distinct is usually somewhat relaxed. In fact, I’ve known German Baptists who are so self-certain when they walk alone in public that they look in sincere pity at everyone else around them.

Beyond the obvious features, Brethren life is also unique in many less noticeable ways, for instance, in the traditional church seating pattern. In Brethren churches, men and women are historically relegated to opposite sides of the room. Depending on