Losing My Religion: How I Lost My Faith Reporting on Religion in America - And Found Unexpected Peace by William Lobdell

From the Publisher

William Lobdell's journey of faith—and doubt—may be the most compelling spiritual memoir of our time. Lobdell became a born-again Christian in his late 20s when personal problems—including a failed marriage—drove him to his knees in prayer. As a newly minted evangelical, Lobdell—a veteran journalist—noticed that religion wasn't covered well in the mainstream media, and he prayed for the Lord to put him on the religion beat at a major newspaper. In 1998, his prayers were answered when the Los Angeles Times asked him to write about faith.

Yet what happened over the next eight years was a roller-coaster of inspiration, confusion, doubt, and soul-searching as his reporting and experiences slowly chipped away at his faith. While reporting on hundreds of stories, he witnessed a disturbing gap between the tenets of various religions and the behaviors of the faithful and their leaders. He investigated religious institutions that acted less ethically than corrupt Wall St. firms. He found few differences between the morals of Christians and atheists. As this evidence piled up, he started to fear that God didn't exist. He explored every doubt, every question—until, finally, his faith collapsed. After the paper agreed to reassign him, he wrote a personal essay in the summer of 2007 that became an international sensation for its honest exploration of doubt.

Losing My Religion is a book about life's deepest questions that speaks to everyone: Lobdell understands the longings and satisfactions of the faithful, as well as the unrelenting power of doubt. How he faced that power, and wrestled with it, is must reading forpeople of faith and nonbelievers alike.

The New York Times - Mark Oppenheimer

There are many great books about finding God. But there are far fewer books, great or otherwise, about finding and then losing God. So Losing My Religion,…feels powerfully fresh. It is the tale of being born again in his adulthood, then almost 20 years later deciding that Christianity is untrue. Today Lobdell prefers the God of Jefferson or Einstein, "a deity that can be seen in the miracles of nature." While Lobdell never entirely rejects belief in the supernatural, his humane, even-tempered book does more to advance the cause of irreligion than the bilious atheist tracts by Christopher Hitchens and others that have become so common. And Lobdell's self-deprecating memoir is far more fun to read.

Publishers Weekly

A former religion reporter for the Los Angeles Times, Lobdell recounts in this plainly written memoir how he became a Protestant evangelical, nearly accepted Catholicism and, in the end, rejected faith altogether. Central to the arc of this memoir is the unfolding sexual abuse scandal in the Roman Catholic Church, which Lobdell covered in depth during his time as a religion reporter, beginning in 2000. Despairing of the role of priests and bishops in that scandal, he refashions his identity as a crusading reporter out to cleanse the church of corrupt leaders. But after finding that his investigative stories about faith healer Benny Hinn and televangelists Jan and Paul Crouch appear to make no difference on the reach of these ministries or the lives of their followers, he gives up on the beat and on religion generally. Lobdell subjects his faith to the rigors of rationalism. If Christians are no more ethical than atheists, why belong to a church? It's a curious utilitarian argument that sounds more like a rearview explanation than a revealing account of loss of faith. Still, the memoir's strength lies in the wrenching emotional toll exacted by the Catholic abuse scandal. If nothing else, it suggests reporters may have been victimized by the scandal, too. (Mar.)

David Keymer - Library Journal

In his twenties, Lobdell's life fell apart. Searching for a lifeline, he attended church services and on the final day of a retreat, "invit[ed] Jesus into [his] heart." He felt whole again. He eventually became the full-time religion reporter for the prestigious Los Angeles Times. By then, he had left evangelicalism behind and was preparing to convert to Catholicism. He was reporting on sexual abuse scandals in the local diocese when he changed his mind about converting: joining the church seemed a betrayal of the victims who'd been sexually abused by priests and had their cases shoved under the rug by the priests' superiors. The more he looked, the darker his view of religion became: priests abused parishioners, and nothing happened; believers didn't behave better than nonbelievers; prayers weren't answered, and God didn't seem as good a father as Lobdell himself wanted to be to his own sons. Eventually, as he describes, he left his post as religion reporter. It is interesting to compare this account with Julian Barnes's recent and eloquent Nothing To Be Afraid Of. Barnes is an intellectual: he never believed in anything at all but still must come to grips with his fear of death. Lobdell's heartfelt account is probably closer to the experience of many Americans whose doubts overwhelmed them, leading them-reluctantly and after much soul-searching-to disbelief. Recommended for most public collections.

Kirkus Reviews

Veteran journalist Lobdell provides a compelling account of his personal journey toward and then away from faith in God. As a troubled young man, the author turned to religion as a way of finding meaning and order. His faith grew through involvement in a Protestant mega-church and eventually began to mature while attending a more traditional congregation. He spent years in personal turmoil as he attempted to find his spiritual place in the world. This quest led him to pursue, and in the fall of 2000 to attain, a job as religion reporter for the Los Angeles Times. Soon after, he received the first of many assignments connected to child molestation scandals within the Catholic Church. This was personally as well as professionally shocking, since Lobdell's wife was a Catholic and he was in the process of becoming one. His reporting exposed a grim pattern: "Hypocrisy at all levels of the church, innocent people put in harm's way by the church's ‘shepherds,' self-interest triumphing over Christian values, lies big and small and a general lack of courage among followers of Christ, especially those in power, would be recurrent subjects of my reporting." Lobdell soon concluded that this pattern extended beyond Catholicism. He attended a conference of ex-Mormons who told of the harsh, unforgiving treatment they received in their Mormon-dominated communities. He investigated the evangelical Trinity Broadcasting Network, finding evidence of extensive financial and sexual misconduct. These discoveries drove the author away from his faith and toward the bottle. He struggled to blame human imperfection and organizational flaws for the evils he was investigating, but he could not escape the question ofwhy God would permit such things to happen. Pursuing a particularly horrendous story about an Alaskan island on which virtually all the boys were sodomized by Catholic clergy, he finally reached an uncompromising answer: "What had happened to helpless boys at the edge of the world made a lot more sense if there were no God." It's not a cheerful conclusion, but Lobdell's honesty and self-effacement make it persuasive. An important wake-up call to people of faith. Author events in Los Angeles. Agent: Tricia Davey/Sanford J. Greenburger Associates

Product Details

• Table of Contents
• Read an Excerpt

Table of Contents

Read an Excerpt

Losing My Religion
How I Lost My Faith Reporting on Religion in America-and Found Unexpected Peace

Chapter One

"You Need God"

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
—Jeremiah 29:11

By age 27, I had screwed up my life. I had married my volatile high school sweetheart five years earlier, mostly because it seemed easier than breaking up. When I left her, I didn't follow through with the divorce. Dealing with her in court would be messy, so I just bailed. In the meantime, I happily jumped into an adolescence delayed by my fidelity to the first girl I'd ever loved. Before long, I managed to get a girlfriend pregnant. I loved my newfound bachelorhood, and I was petrified by the prospect of another marriage and my first child (leaving aside the fact that my divorce to my first wife couldn't be finalized for at least six months).

I ran away as fast as I could, concluding that I had only a few months left in the wild before the baby arrived and a lifetime of responsibility would kick in. I needed to pack in as much living as I could. I drank away many nights. I caroused with friends. And I'm forever shamed to admit that I cheated on my pregnant girlfriend.

Other parts of my life weren't much better. My journalism career had stalled at a local minor-league magazine, where I worked long hours for low pay covering "business lifestyles" about which I couldn't have cared less. My digestive system waged daily war on me. I developed acne that I had been spared as a teenager. When I combed my hair each morning at thebathroom mirror, I couldn't look myself in the eye. When I turned 28, I could barely admit it was my birthday. I couldn't stand the person I had become. I found no reason to celebrate my life.

But then our son, Taylor, was born. I found myself staying up deep into most nights, holding my child tightly, staring at his innocent face, letting his chubby fingers wrap around mine and knowing it was time for me to grow up if this kid was going to have a fair chance at life.

A month after Taylor arrived, I married Greer in a Las Vegas wedding at a small chapel on the Strip presided over by a drunken pastor and his dutiful wife. They were our only witnesses. We spent the first part of our wedding night watching a comeback concert by Tony Orlando and Dawn. I gave our marriage about as much chance as the over-the-hill singing trio performing in that half-empty casino concert hall. Though she would not say it, I knew Greer had grave doubts about me, too, but she wanted her son to have an in-the-home father—something missing from her childhood—and was generous or desperate enough to give me a chance.

Soon after the wedding, on an especially low day, I had lunch with a good friend named Will Swaim. A fellow journalist of my vintage, Will is rail-thin, with a handsome face whose broad features seem to be made from stone. He has a kinetic energy that brings to mind someone who drinks way too much coffee. He is also one of the smartest and most searching people I know. Not yet 30, his career ambitions had swung wildly from Roman Catholic priest (he decided not to go into the seminary) to punk rock star (he was the lead singer for a group named the Barking Spiders) to aspiring guerrilla fighter (an unexpectedly pregnant wife caused him to give up his one-way plane ticket to Mexico City, the first leg of a journey that would have taken him to Nicaragua to fight with the Sandinistas) to peace activist (he worked for three years to ban nuclear weapons). He finally settled into journalism, where he's made a national reputation for himself as an alternative weekly editor and publisher.

Seated at a booth in an upscale coffee shop under the flight path of the John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California, he started a conversation in the usual way.

"How's it going, Billy?"

I hadn't told anyone the extent of my troubles. From the outside, my life didn't look that bad. I was married to an intelligent and gorgeous woman, had a healthy baby boy and was president of a local media company. But I was dying inside. And Will was too good of a friend. I couldn't lie to him by saying I was fine. Taking a deep breath, I decided, for once, to tell the truth. I described, with deep shame, every last humiliating detail of my life. It wasn't cathartic for me—it just filled me with more self-loathing.

Will's reaction was unexpected. He didn't seem fazed by any of it. I couldn't detect any judgment or disapproval. His response was matter-of-fact. He first asked if I was suicidal. I wasn't, though I conceded that I did believe everyone in my life would be better off if I were dead. Then, with the certainty of someone describing the law of gravity, he concluded, "You need God. That's what's missing in your life."

God? I hadn't given Him much thought since I stopped going to church the first chance I could, at age 17.

"Everyone has a God-shaped hole in their soul," he continued. "We all try to fill it with something—drugs, alcohol, work, sex—until we stumble upon God. He's the only thing that fills that hole. I was a lot like you until I surrendered my life to God. Why not try it? It can't hurt. Look at where you are with you in control. Get yourself to church, Billy."

It sounded right. More importantly, it felt like a way out. If Will had said in the same confident tone, "You need crack cocaine. That's what missing in your life," it probably would have sounded good, too. I was desperate enough to try anything that would get rid of the pain that had enveloped me like quicksand.

"I'll go to church this Sunday," I said numbly. "Just tell me where."