Handbook of Leaving Religion

Brill Handbooks on
Contemporary Religion

Series Editors

Carole M. Cusack (University of Sydney)

Benjamin E. Zeller (Lake Forest College, USA)

Editorial Board

Olav Hammer (University of Southern Denmark)

Charlotte Hardman (University of Durham)
Titus Hjelm (University College London)
Adam Possamai (University of Western Sydney)
Inken Prohl (University of Heidelberg)

volume 18

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bhcr

Handbook of Leaving Religion

Edited by

Daniel Enstedt
Göran Larsson
Teemu T. Mantsinen

leiden | boston
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Contents

Notes on Contributors  VIII

1 Leaving Religion: Introducing the Field  1

Daniel Enstedt, Göran Larsson and Teemu T. Mantsinen

Part 1
Historical and Major Debates

2 Leaving Hinduism  13
Clemens Cavallin

3 Leaving Buddhism  28
Monica Lindberg Falk

4 Leaving Religion in Antiquity  43

Jörgen Magnusson

5 Leaving Judaism  55
Lena Roos

6 Leaving Christianity  67
Teemu T. Mantsinen and Kati Tervo-Niemelä

7 Leaving Islam  81
Christine Schirrmacher

Part 2
Case Studies

8 Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation  99

Michael Stausberg

9 Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar  116

Niklas Foxeus
vi Contents

10 Leaving Vipassana Meditation  130

Masoumeh Rahmani

11 Leaving Orthodox Judaism  142

David Belfon

12 Leaving the Amish  154

David L. McConnell

13 Leaving Evangelicalism  164
Philip Salim Francis

14 Leaving Pentecostalism  175
Teemu T. Mantsinen

15 Leaving Roman Catholicism  186

Hugh Turpin

16 Leaving Mormonism  200
Amorette Hinderaker

17 Leaving Islam for Christianity: Asylum Seeker Converts  210

Nora Stene

18 Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective  220

Erica Li Lundqvist

19 Leaving New Religions  231

Carole M. Cusack

20 Non-Religion and Atheism  242

Caleb Schaffner and Ryan T. Cragun

Part 3
Theoretical and Methodological Approaches

21 Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion  255

Ryan Szpiech
Contents vii

22 Geographical and Demographic Approaches to Leaving

Religion  267
Lily Kong and Orlando Woods

23 Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion  278

Isabella Kasselstrand

24 Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion  292

Daniel Enstedt

25 Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion  307

Kyle Messick and Miguel Farias

26 Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches to Leaving Religion  323

Peter G. Stromberg

27 Media and Communication Approaches to Leaving Religion  335

Teemu Taira

Index  349
Notes on Contributors

David Belfon
is a PhD candidate at the University of Toronto’s Department for the Study of
Religion and the Anne Tanenbaum Centre for Jewish Studies. His main area of
scholarly interest is leavetaking from conservative religious groups, especially
how narratives relate to identity change. His dissertation explores the mechan-
ics of leavetaking among formerly-Orthodox Jews in Toronto, investigating
how social and religious boundaries and the institutionalisation of religious
identity facilitate individualised disaffiliation.

Clemens Cavallin
is Associate Professor in religious studies at the University of Gothenburg,
Sweden, and has done research within Vedic religion, Ritual theory and Catho-
lic studies. His latest book is a biography of the Canadian novelist and painter
Michael O’Brien.

Ryan T. Cragun
is a professor of sociology at The University of Tampa. His research focuses on
Mormonism and the nonreligious and has been published in various scholarly
journals. He is also the author of several books.

Carole M. Cusack
is Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Sydney. She trained as a
medievalist and her doctorate was published as Conversion Among the Ger-
manic Peoples (Cassell, 1998). She now researches primarily in contemporary
religious trends and Western esotericism. Her books include (with Katharine
Buljan) Anime, Religion and Spirituality: Profane and Sacred Worlds in Contem-
porary Japan (Equinox, 2015), Invented Religions: Imagination, Fiction and Faith
(Ashgate, 2010), and The Sacred Tree: Ancient and Medieval Manifestations
(Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2011). She has published widely in scholarly
journals and edited volumes.

Daniel Enstedt
is an Associate Professor in Religious Studies at the University of Gothenburg,
Sweden. His current areas of research are contemporary religion in West-
ern Europe, the sociology and psychology of religion, and he has examined
questions about sexuality and Christianity through fieldwork and interviews
with Christian LGBTQ-people, and priests that take a critical stance towards
same-sex unions, as well as questions concerning leaving Islam in present-day
Notes on Contributors ix

Sweden. Enstedt has co-edited the ARSR volume Religion and Internet (Brill
2015), and a volume about lived religion (in Swedish), Levd religion. Det heliga
i vardagen (2018).

Miguel Farias
has been a Research Fellow and Lecturer in Experimental Psychology at the
University of Oxford and is the founding director of the Brain, Belief, & Be-
haviour Lab at Coventry University. He works on the psychobiology of beliefs
and rituals, including pilgrimage and meditation practices. In 2017 he won the
William Bier award, given by the American Psychological Association, Division
36, for his work on the psychology of religion and spirituality. His most recent
book project is the Oxford Handbook of Meditation.

Niklas Foxeus
is a research fellow at the Department of History of Religions, ERG, Stockholm
University. He received his PhD from that department, with a dissertation en-
titled “The Buddhist World Emperor’s Mission: Millenarian Buddhism in Post-
colonial Burma” (2011). He is currently a Royal Swedish Academy of Letters,
History and Antiquities Research Fellow. His research examines varieties of
Burmese Buddhism, including esoteric congregations, meditation, prosperity
Buddhism, possession rituals, and Buddhist nationalism.

Amorette Hinderaker
(Ph.D., North Dakota State University) is an Associate Professor and the
Convener of Debates at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, Texas.
Her research focuses on religious organisations and has been published in
the Western Journal of Communication, Journal of Communication and
Religion, Communication Studies, and Southern Journal of Communica-
tion. She also directs and coaches the competitive TCU Speech and Debate
Team.

Philip Salim Francis

PhD is Assistant Professor of Philosophy and Religion at the University of
Maine Farmington and Director of Seguinland Institute. His recent book is
called  When Art Disrupts Religion: Aesthetic Experience and the Evangelical
Mind (Oxford University Press).

Isabella Kasselstrand
is Associate Professor of Sociology at California State University, Bakersfield,
where she teaches courses in quantitative analysis, sociology of religion, and
secularity and nonreligion. She holds a PhD in Sociology from the University of
x Notes on Contributors

Edinburgh (2014). Using mixed methods, her research explores secularisation

in Northern Europe and the United States.

Lily Kong
Professor Lily Kong's research focuses on social and cultural change in Asian
cities, and has studied topics ranging from religion to cultural policy, creative
economy, urban heritage and conservation, and smart cities. She has won re-
search and book awards, including from the Association of American Geogra-
phers and the Singapore National Book Development Council. Her latest book
on religion, co-authored with Orlando Woods, is Religion and Space: Competi-
tion, Conflict and Violence in the Contemporary World (2016).

Göran Larsson
is a Professor of Religious Studies/History of Religions at the University of
Gothenburg. His research focuses on Islam and Muslims in Europe in both past
and present periods. Besides the study of Islam and Muslims, Larsson has also
published on religion and media, migration, global conflicts and theoretical
and methodological issues.

Monica Lindberg Falk

is associate professor of social anthropology and affiliated with the Centre for
East and South-East Asian Studies, Lund University, Sweden. Her research in-
terests include Buddhism, gender, anthropology of disaster and social change
in South-East Asia. Her scholarship includes extensive fieldwork in Thailand.
She is the author of the monographs Making Fields of Merit: Buddhist Female
Ascetics and Gendered orders in Thailand and Post-Tsunami Recovery in Thai-
land: Socio-cultural responses. She has published on themes related to gender
and Buddhism, socially engaged Buddhism, Buddhism and disasters, educa-
tion, and student mobility.

Erica Li Lundqvist
is an assistant Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Malmö. She
has a PhD in Islamic studies and her doctoral thesis Gayted Communities: Mar-
ginalized Sexualities in Lebanon focused on the strategies Muslim gay men in
Lebanon develop to manage and create a positive correlation between their re-
ligious identity and their sexual orientation combined with an examination on
how a gay identity is acquired, verified and played out in Lebanon. Her profila-
tion has since then been on the intersection of sexuality and religion attempt-
ing to put queer theory in dialogue with the study of religion, specifically in
relation to Islamic studies.
Notes on Contributors xi

Jörgen Magnusson
is associate professor of the study of religions at Mid Sweden university where he
currently is employed, and of the history of religions at Uppsala university where
he obtained his doctoral degree. His f­ ocus is on early Christianity, especially in
its Gnostic expressions, see for instance Rethinking the Gospel of Truth: a study of
its Eastern valentinian setting, Uppsala: Uppsala university press, 2006. Another
interest of Magnusson’s is early Judaism, see for instance Judasevangeliet: text,
budskap och historisk bakgrund, Lund: Arcus förlag, 2008. He has published on
myth theoretical themes in, for instance, “Beyond righteousness and transgres-
sion: reading the Gospel of Truth and the Gospel of Judas from an acosmic per-
spective”, in Sjödin & Jackson (eds), Philosophy and the End of Sacrifice: disen-
gaging ritual in ancient India, Greece and beyond, Sheffield: Equinox Publishing
LTD, 2016. Recently, he has expanded is studies to include Manichaeism, “Mat
och Manikeism” in Religion och Bibel, Uppsala: Nathan Söderblomsällskapet,
2018.

Teemu T. Mantsinen
(Ph.D., University of Turku) is an anthropologist of religion, and a researcher
in Study of Religions at the University of Turku. His research interests include
Pentecostal religion, social class, social change, leaving Pentecostalism, reli-
gion and language, and Orthodox Christian pilgrimage.​

David L. McConnell
is Professor of Anthropology and Chair of the Sociology and Anthropology De-
partment at The College of Wooster in Wooster, Ohio. He has published nu-
merous articles and books on Amish society, including (with Charles Hurst) An
Amish Paradox: Diversity and Change in the World’s Largest Amish Settlement.
His most recent book (with Marilyn Loveless) is Nature and the Environment in
Amish Life (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2018).

Kyle Messick
maintains the websites for the International Association for the Psychology of
Religion and for The Religious Studies Project. He has been a prominent mem-
ber of the Brain, Belief, & Behaviour Lab out of Coventry University and the
Social Psychology of Religion Lab out of Indiana University South Bend. His
areas of research specialisation include unbelief, prayer, the sacred, and heavy
metal music culture. He is an advocate for open science practices and for re-
ducing the gap between science and the general public's interpretation and
consumption of science.
xii Notes on Contributors

Masoumeh Rahmani
Ph.D. (2017), University of Otago (New Zealand) is a Research Associate in the
Brain, Belief, and Behaviour research group at Coventry University (United
Kingdom).

Lena Roos
is Professor of the Study of Religions, Södertörn University, Stockholm.
Her main research areas include Judaism, religion and sexuality, religion
and gardening, and Religious Education. She has published extensively on
topics­of Jewish history and culture, from the Middle Ages to contemporary
times.

Caleb Schaffner
currently serves as a Visiting Assistant Professor of Sociology at North Central
College. He primarily researches non-theists, with an emphasis on the process
of exiting from organised religion. He also researches opinion of race- and
gender-targeted public policies.

Christine Schirrmacher
Professor Christine Schirrmacher, PhD, is a scholar of Islamic Studies, currently
teaching as Professor of Islamic Studies at the Institute of Asian and Orien-
tal Studies at the Department of Islamic Studies and Near Eastern Languages
of the University of Bonn, Germany and the Protestant Theological Faculty at
Leuven, Belgium (ETF). In 2013 she had a temporary professorship at the chair
of Islamic Studies at the university of Erfurt, Germany, and in 2014, she was
teaching as a guest professor at the university of Tuebingen, Germany. Schir-
rmacher had studied Islamic Studies, comparative religions, medieval and
modern history and German literature and holds an M. A. and a PhD in Islamic
Studies. Her doctoral dissertation dealt with the Muslim-Christian controversy
in the 19th and 20th century, her dissertation for her postdoctoral lecture quali-
fication (“Habilitation“) focused on contemporary Muslim theological voices
on apostasy, human rights and religious freedom.

Michael Stausberg
is a professor of the study of religion/s at the University of Bergen (Norway).
His publications revolve around matters of theory (including theories of reli-
gion, ritual, magic, and the sacred), research methods (including comparison),
religion and tourism, early modern European intellectual history, and Zoroas-
trianism. A list of publications (including downloads) can be found at www.
michaelstausberg.net.
Notes on Contributors xiii

Nora Stene
is Associate Professor of Studies of Religions (religionsvitenskap) at the Insti-
tute of Cultural Studies and Oriental Languages (IKOS), University of Oslo. Her
PhD work builds on fieldwork in the Coptic Orthodox minority in Egypt, and
among Coptic migrants from Egypt/Sudan now settled in Great Britain. She
continues doing research on different minority-groups in Norway. Recent pub-
lications appear in Belonging to the Church Community (Un. of South Carolina
Press, 2017); Nordic Journal of Human Rights (2016); and De kristne i Midtøsten
(Cappelen Damm 2015).

Peter G. Stromberg
is a cultural anthropologist who teaches at the University of Tulsa in Tulsa,
Oklahoma. He is the author of Language and Self-Transformation: A study of
the Christian conversion narrative (Cambridge, 1993).

Ryan Szpiech
is Associate Professor in the Department of Romance Languages and Litera-
tures and the Department of Judaic Studies at the University of Michigan. He
has published numerous articles on medieval polemics, translation, and reli-
gious conversion in the Western Mediterranean, and is the author of Conver-
sion and Narrative: Reading and Religious Authority in Medieval Polemic (Penn,
2013), which won the "La Corónica International Book Award for Best Book in
Medieval Hispanic Languages, Literatures, and Cultures" in 2015. He is also the
editor of Medieval Exegesis and Religious Difference: Commentary, Conflict, and
Community in the Premodern Mediterranean (Fordham, 2015), co-editor (with
Charles Burnett, Josefina Rodríguez-Arribas, and Silke Ackermann) of Astro-
labes in Medieval Culture (Brill, 2019), co-editor (with Mercedes García-Arenal
and Gerard Wiegers) of  Interreligious Encounters in Polemics between Chris-
tians, Jews, and Muslims in Iberia and Beyond (Brill 2019), and Editor-in-Chief
of the journal Medieval Encounters.

Teemu Taira
is Senior Lecturer in Study of Religion, University of Helsinki and Docent in
Study of Religion, University of Turku. He is co-author of Media Portrayals of
Religion and the Secular Sacred (2013, with Kim Knott and Elizabeth Poole),
author of four monographs (in Finnish) and he has published several arti-
cles about religion, media, atheism and methodology of religious studies in
edited volumes and journals, such as Method and Theory in the Study of Re-
ligion, Journal of Contemporary Religion and Religion. http://teemutaira.word
press.com.
xiv Notes on Contributors

Kati Tervo-Niemelä
ThD, MEd, is a professor in Practical Theology at the University of Eastern Fin-
land in Joensuu.

Hugh Turpin
is a cognitive anthropologist whose research examines the moral rejection of
religion. In particular, his work focusses on the rejection of Catholicism in the
Republic of Ireland and the complex nature of this phenomenon's relation-
ships to Church scandals. He holds a joint PhD from Queen's University Belfast
and Aarhus University, and masters degrees in anthropology (Oxford) and cog-
nitive science (University College Dublin). His research interests include the
decline of religious systems and beliefs, secularisation theory, the anthropolo-
gies of Christianity and Catholicism, and the anthropology and psychology of
morality. He is currently a postdoctoral researcher at Coventry University and
the University of Oxford.

Orlando Woods
is an Assistant Professor of Humanities at Singapore Management University.
His research interests span religion, urban environments and space in/and Asia.
He is the co-author of Religion and Space: Competition, Conflict and Violence
in the Contemporary World (2016, with Lily Kong), and the author of various
journal articles and book chapters on the politics of religious praxis in Asia. He
holds BA (First Class Honours) and PhD degrees in Geography from University
College London and the National University of Singapore respectively.
 Chapter 1

Leaving Religion: Introducing the Field

Daniel Enstedt, Göran Larsson and Teemu T. Mantsinen

In 1968, the New York Times published the sociologist Peter Berger’s now fa-
mous prediction about the coming decline of religion worldwide. In this
context, Berger stated that the remains of religion in the twenty-first centu-
ry would consist of religious believers “likely to be found only in small sects,
huddled together to resist a worldwide secular culture” (Berger 1968: 3). People
around the world were, in short, expected to leave religion altogether as their
societies became modern. It was not a question about if the change would oc-
cur, only a matter of time. More than 30 years later, in 1999, Berger revised
his earlier claim and instead declared the world as desecularised (Berger 1999).
He is, however, far from alone in criticising, or even dismissing, the century
old secularisation thesis, where modernisation of a society goes hand in hand
with secularisation.1 Even though leaving religion – that is the focus in this
handbook – has, from time to time, been associated with irreligiosity, agnos-
ticism, and atheism, and, in particular, modernised Western predominantly
Christian countries, it can very well also be about leaving one religion from
another, or even changing position within the same religious tradition, for ex-
ample when orthodox Chassidic Jews becoming reformed, liberal Jews (see, for
instance, Davidman 2015).
In 2015, pew Research Center published the report The Future of World Reli-
gions, where the overall global tendencies, at least until 2050, are about growth
of religion. Around the world, religious population is increasing according to
the prediction – the Muslim population will grow significantly, and in 2070
Islam will be at the same size as Christianity, that is around one third of the
world population – and only a small percentage of the world’s population are
expected to be disaffiliated or non-religious. Leaving out a critical discussion
about the accuracy of this study and its methodological problems, one of the
factors analysed in the statistically based projection was “religious switching,”

1 See for instance Toft, Philpott and Shah, God’s Century. Resurgent Religion and Global Politics
(2011). Before Berger’s 1999 article many scholars in religious studies has contested the secu-
larisation thesis, even though the secularisation thesis was generally accepted in the social
sciences and in the public debate, not the least in Western Europe.

© Daniel Enstedt et al., 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_002

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
2 Enstedt, Larsson and Mantsinen

that is religious change on an individual level. Even though religious switching

has “a relatively small impact on the projected size of major religious groups in
2050” (pew Research Center 2015: 45), it may have an effect on different regions
around the globe. Mobility between religions and non-religion is also related
to various regions and global processes, such as, for example migration flows.
That means that even though many people will be switching in, out and be-
tween religions up until 2050, the total number of religious adherents around
the world will not be affected in a significant way. Switching out of a religion
in favour of a non-religious position also seems to be more prevalent in the
US and Europe than other parts of the world (see also the prognosis made by
Stolz et al. 2016).2 The decrease of Christian population in the Western coun-
tries is also, in part, related to a question of declining role of family in cultural
transmission of religion (Need and De Graaf 1996). Social factors are important
in both staying in and leaving religion. However, this and other factors, such
as, for example, pedophilia scandals in the Catholic church, can also result in
leaving religious institutions or declining attendance rather than religiosity in
general (Bottan and Perez-Truglia 2015).
However, in more recent times, new theoretical and methodological ap-
proaches have emerged and there is a growing interest in deconversion and
various forms of leaving religion studies, but still we think that it is difficult to
get a comprehensive introduction and overview to these studies. For example,
in so-called cult studies, the main definition of leaving religion has been apos-
tasy (Bromley 1998). Other definitions of exits, or people exiting, concentrate
usually on describing the exit process or deconversion (Richardson, van der
Lans and Derks 1986; Streib et al. 2009). Whilst the term apostasy (Greek: apo
stenai – to stand away of something) can be viewed negatively, at least as an
invective used by a religious groups or individuals to define a defector (Lars-
son 2018a), it has also been used in research to characterise people who leave
religion and then become a part of the critique directed towards the same re-
ligion, or simply be understood as any position outside the religious group of
origin. There are, according to John D. Barbour, four basic characteristics of de-
conversion autobiographies. “Deconversion encompasses,” Barbour writes, “in-
tellectual doubt, moral criticism, emotional suffering, and disaffiliation from a
community” (Barbour 1994: 2). Not all of these aspects are expressed in every
deconversion narrative, and the emphasis can also be put in various ways. On
the basis of previous research, Phil Zuckerman ­stipulate three dimensions of

2 See also pew’s report about so called “Nones,” the religious disaffiliated part of the popula-
tion: http://assets.pewresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/11/2012/10/NonesOnTheRise-
full.pdf. Accessed 28/5/2018.
Leaving Religion: Introducing the Field 3

apostasy, that is “early/late, shallow/deep, mild/transformative [that] manifest

themselves in various combinations” (Zuckerman 2012: 8).3 In addition, stud-
ies on leaving religion have also been examining the motifs and reasons, the
processes and consequences of leaving religion.
Although one could argue that the study of leaving religion is a neglected
topic in the academic study of religions it is hard to define what “leaving”
entails. While the study of conversion is a relatively well researched topic
(from James 1902 to various handbooks, such as, for example, Rambo’s and
­Farhadian’s The Oxford Handbook of Religious Conversion, 2014), surprisingly
few studies have put focus on the fact that conversion implies that the indi-
vidual moves from or leaves one ­position – say a Christian identification to an-
other religion – but what the process of leaving entails is often hard to isolate
or reduce to one factor. For example, even after a formal divorce a person still
holds (good, bad, painful, happy or indifferent) memories of his or her former
spouse. It is likely that this observation also holds true for many individuals
who have decided to leave a religious belonging or other social formations (for
example political parties, gangs, an addictive lifestyle, etcetera). Behaviours
rooted in moral codes and religious teachings (especially if they have been ad-
opted at a young age) tend to colour the life of the individual even though he or
she has taken a new path. Sometimes the former belonging can be a source of
anger and it can provoke a strong need to demonstrate that the earlier life was
wrong (see, for example, Larsson 2016). For example, the change to something
new can be expressed by the help of a novel vocabulary, but also by putting on
“different” clothes (for example the veil, or by growing a beard, or by shaving),
adopting new behaviours and to take up another sexual identity. Food, cloth-
ing and sexual orientations seems to be strong markers of identity and they are
often used for expressing one’s attitude towards the society and one’s religious
belonging. In a sense we are all coloured by our former belongings, identities
and experiences, if we are to believe Helen Ebaugh’s analysis in Becoming an
Ex: The Process of Role Exit (1988).
Since the World War ii and the adoption of the Declaration of Human
Rights by the United Nations, individuals in most parts of the world have been
given the possibility and freedom to change and abandon a religious life. This
is stipulated in Article 18:

Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion;

this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom,

3 There are several different definitions of apostasy in the research literature. See Zuckerman
(2012: 4–13) for a brief overview.
4 Enstedt, Larsson and Mantsinen

either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to man-

ifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.4

This right is, however, not always respected and to leave a religious life can
often be associated with social costs (exclusion), personal grief (the loss of
friends and relatives) or even personal risk and threats (see, for example, Lars-
son 2018a). That so-called apostates – that is those who have actively left a
religious tradition by embracing a new religion, or lifestyle, or those who have
been accused of apostasy because of their lifestyle, or interpretations of a spe-
cific religious tradition – can put themselves in a dangerous position in many
countries outside of Europe, North America and Australia is evident (see, for
example, International Freedom of Religion Report 2017). That individuals who
leave Islam are more likely to suffer from persecutions and threats than indi-
viduals who leave many other religious traditions today is well-document and
many countries dominated by Muslim traditions are also prone to execute so-
called apostates (for example Iran, Sudan and Saudi Arabia) (Larsson 2018a).
However, it is inaccurate to argue that the question of leaving religion is only a
matter that concerns Islamic traditions and Muslims theologians, on the con-
trary. As this handbook sets out to explore, the question of leaving a religious
tradition is a common question and a potential problem within all religious
traditions in both past and present. To draw up a line between insiders and out-
siders and to argue that one’s interpretation of the religious tradition is right
and that one’s opponents are wrong (for example by calling the other group
heretics, or apostates) is therefore a general pattern that is found in all social
formations that make use of a religious vocabulary. This is, for example, the
case in the bloody wars in present day Syria and Iraq. Whilst the Islamic State
(isis) argues that their opponents – may they be Shia Muslims, non-Muslims,
atheists or just Sunni Muslims who do not follow or accept the claims made
by the Islamic State – are labelled as apostates, the critics argue that it is the
followers of the Islamic State who are the evildoers and by their thoughts and
actions they “prove” that they are not proper or “true” Muslims (Larsson 2017).
The proclivity to make up real or imagined boundaries between insiders and
outsiders, or so-called heretics and orthodox, is well-documented in the his-
tory of religions. However, in earlier studies these processes and tendencies are
rarely studied as part and parcel of conversion, deconversion, leaving religion,
and apostasy. The change of a religious orientation is also closely related to the
question of who has the power and authority over religious interpretations,

4 Retrieved from http://www.un.org/en/universal-declaration-human-rights/. Accessed 30/

5/2018.
Leaving Religion: Introducing the Field 5

and the possibility for the individual to break free from established norms and
values.
Whereas the right to change one’s attitude towards a specific religious tradi-
tion and switch to a new belonging or a novel lifestyle is an individual freedom
and legal right in Europe, this is not always the case in non-western countries.
Because of political and economic structures (that is weak states that do not
provide equal opportunities for all citizens), the possibility of changing one’s
religious belonging is often closely related to matters such as family, class,
gender and tribe. To change religion or to abandon a religious lifestyle could
therefore be linked to material and legal aspects and not only philosophical or
dogmatic questions. However, over the last decades, the question of freedom
of religion has also been put under much pressure in Northern and Western
Europe and the right to change religion is often met with critique and strong
reactions. This reality is often experienced by individuals who convert to Islam
(see, for example, Inge 2017), but also by individuals who leave Islam after they
have migrated to Europe and gained a new citizenship. Both those who leave
and those who enter a religious tradition are therefore likely to be in a vulner-
able position and indications of hate crimes and discrimination are sometimes
reported in relation to conversion processes (Främlingsfientliga handlingar
2014; Larsson 2018b). However, the data for these types of crimes are difficult to
estimate, and it is likely that these types of crimes are underreported, and that
hate and discrimination is more common than we think. This is a topic for fu-
ture research. While the large majority of individuals who attain a new attitude
and lose interest in their former religious tradition, it is also likely that some in-
dividuals can join or be used by those who are interested in criticising a specific
religious group. Thus, it is not unusual to find former ex-Muslims among those
who are strong critiques of Islam (Larsson 2016; Enstedt and Larsson 2013), but
former members in so-called religious sects or new religious movements are
often recruited by the so-called anti-cult movement (see, for example, Foster
1984; Wright 2014; Wright and Ebaugh 1993). While an individual could have
suffered from and experienced physical or psychological violence when they
belonged to a specific religious group, it is not hard to understand that an in-
dividual also could have good reasons to criticise one’s former belonging. For
example, in order to make a rational explanation for earlier behaviours and
belongings it is also necessary to distance oneself from the ex-position and one
way to do so is to publicly frown upon one’s former religion. A new identity is
constructed also by how a person relates to their past.
As fieldwork and interviews with, for example, ex-Muslims have shown
(­Enstedt 2018) it is common to seek other ways out from a religious tradition.
Losing and gaining new interests and to fade out from a religious life seems to
6 Enstedt, Larsson and Mantsinen

be a common way out. Compared to the public critiques this group of ex-­
members seldom feel that they have a need for criticising their former belong-
ing. For example, as shown by Enstedt (2018), it is clear that many ex-Muslims
are still coloured by their former religious identity, not the least when it comes
to difficult questions such as drinking alcohol or eating pork. Even after they
have distanced themselves from their Islamic identity, they can feel uneasy
when they eat pork or drink alcohol after they have embraced a non-Muslim
identity. The endurance of some cultural habits is strong especially if they
have a positive effect in coping difficult situations, such as joining new groups
or ­facing stress, bringing safe structure in transition. For example, an ex-­
Pentecostal might start speaking in tongues even when they do not believe in
such ritual anymore, when confronted with a stressful situation (Mantsinen
2015).
As this handbook tries to demonstrate it is important to address the obvi-
ous fact that theologians (no matter of religious tradition) have never had one
single and unanimous understanding of how to define apostasy, orthodoxy or
heresy, and this is also often true when it comes to the question of leaving. To
put it differently, what does it entail to leave a religion? Should the “heretic” or
apostate be defined by his actions or his thoughts, is it necessary to publicly
denounce a religious tradition to be looked upon as a defector, or is it enough
that a theologian defines an individual as an apostate to make him or her an
outsider? Furthermore, how should an apostate, or an individual who leaves a
religious tradition, be looked upon by his or her co-religionists and even more
importantly, how should he or she be treated? Should such an individual be
punished by the believers, or is the punishment up to God? Should the punish-
ment be earthly or is it expected to happen in the next life? Does a change of
religion have an impact on the individual’s social status and legal rights? For
example, what happens if the apostate is married and has children? These and
other questions are often related to religious dogmas, but also to practical and
legal matters as illustrated in several chapters included in this handbook.

1 Disposition

The following handbook on leaving religion consists of three parts covering:

(1)  Major debates about leaving religion; (2) Case studies and empirical in-
sights; and, finally, (3) Theoretical and methodological approaches. Part 1 in
the handbook deals mainly with the so-called World Religions and the aim is
to provide the reader with an introduction to key terms, historical develop-
ments, major controversies and significant cases within Judaism, Christianity,
Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism. Part 2 includes case studies that illustrates
Leaving Religion: Introducing the Field 7

various processes of leaving religion from different perspectives, and the ambi-
tion is that each chapter should provide new empirical insights. The chapters
in this part contains a background, an overview to previous research, a descrip-
tion of the available material and the goal is to present new results within this
field of study. Contrary to the first part of the handbook, the case studies in
Part 2 are contemporary and the large majority are based on original fieldwork.
Compared to this part, Part 3 discuss, present and encourage new approaches
to the study of leaving religion by bringing in theoretical and methodologi-
cal viewpoints. Thus, each chapter introduces theoretical and methodological
perspectives as well as new findings, and objectives are to suggest how leaving
religion can be studied in the future.
To make the handbook as user-friendly as possible we have used the same
subheadings for all chapters included in Parts 1 and 3. However, in Part 2 the
structure is less fixed and because of this there are some variations in the or-
ganisation of the chapters in this part of the handbook. The length of the chap-
ters has been restricted in order to make the book a user-friendly and easy
reference tool to use when reading upon the subject of leaving religion or for
planning research on this or related topics.
As the readers of the handbook will notice there is a fair amount of research
on the questions of apostasy and heresy in Islamic and Christian traditions
as well as on leaving various new religious traditions in contemporary times,
but similar data for Hinduism and Buddhism and ancient times are gener-
ally much more meagre. This should not be read as an indication that these
traditions or time periods had no individuals who left or stepped outside of
their religious traditions. On the contrary, it rather suggests that researchers
have not paid enough interest to traditions like Hinduism and Buddhism or
ancient times. A related issue is that scholars of religion often approach their
subject through their (Western) cultural lenses, when determining who is
religious and affiliated with a religious tradition. This can lead to challenges
of detecting and understanding leaving Religion when there is no resigna-
tion or clear distinction between social belongings. One overarching goal of
the handbook on leaving religion is to remedy this problem of limited scope
and as editors we hope that our compilation of texts will stimulate future re-
search, not the least when it comes to other traditions than Christianity and
Islam.

References

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Ebaugh, H.R.F. 1988. Becoming an Ex: The Process of Role Exit. Chicago: University of
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Enstedt, D. 2018. “Understanding Religious Apostasy, Disaffiliation and Islam in Con-
temporary Sweden.” In K. van Nieuwkerk, ed., Moving in and Out of Islam, Austin:
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Larsson, G. 2017. “Apostasy and Counter-narratives – Two Sides of the Same Coin: The
Example of the Islamic State.” The Review of Faith & International Affairs, 15:2, 45–54.
Larsson, G. 2018a. “Disputed, Sensitive and Indispensable Topics: The Study of Islam
and Apostasy.” Method and Theory for the Study of Religions. 30:3, 1–26.
Larsson, G. 2018b. “Let’s talk about apostasy! Swedish Imams, Apostasy Debates, and
Police Reports on Hate Crimes and (De)conversion.” In K. van Nieuwkerk, ed., Mov-
ing in and Out of Islam, Austin: University of Texas Press, 385–404.
Mantsinen, T.T. 2015. ”Vastustavat uskonnolliset ja ymmärtävät ateistit: Uskonnosta
luopujien eri tyypit helluntailaisesta uskonnosta luopuneilla.” Uskonnontutkija.
6:1–2.
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PEW Research Center. 2012. “Nones” on the Rise: One-in-Five Adults Have No Religious
Affiliation At: http://assets.pewresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/11/2012/10/
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Richardson, J.T., and van der Lans, J., and Franz Derks, F., 1986. “Leaving and Labeling:
Voluntary and Coerced Disaffiliation from Religious Social Movements.” Research in
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Stolz, J. et al. 2016. (Un)believing in Modern Society: Religion, Spirituality, and Religious-­
secular Competition. Abingdon: Routledge.
Streib, H., Hood, R.W., Keller, B., Csöff R-M., and Silver, C.F. 2009. Deconversion: Qualita-
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Wright, S.A. 2014. “Disengagement and Apostasy in New Religious Movements.” In
L.R. Rambo and C.E. Farhadian, eds, The Oxford Handbook of Religious Conversion.
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Wright, S.A. and Ebaugh, H.R. 1993. “Leaving New Religions.” In D.G. Bromley and J.K.
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 Part 1
Historical and Major Debates

∵
 Chapter 2

Leaving Hinduism
Clemens Cavallin

1 Introduction

To know whether you have left a country or not, it is essential to know where
the border is. Such a demarcation of territory is contingent in the sense that
the demarcation could have been drawn elsewhere; and probably has been.
Sometimes, the borders are first drawn on a map to create the country in ques-
tion and then are implemented later. Sometimes, however, the boundaries
grow organically through centuries of warfare and cultural negotiations and
follow the natural terrain of rivers and mountains.
The notion of Hinduism as a world religion has both this artificial, neat
character and the fuzzy boundaries resulting from the accumulation of reli-
gious ideas, practices, and cultural traits over millennia. As Knut Jacobsen re-
marks in his introduction to Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, Hinduism “does
not refer to a homogeneous religious tradition but a conglomerate of rituals,
religious narratives, art, music, institutions, traditions, theologies, artefacts,
and activities” (Jacobsen 2013). Therefore, leaving “Hinduism” is both easy and
exceedingly challenging.
Adding to the difficulty of locating the borders of Hinduism—of know-
ing when one has actually left it behind—the modern notion of Hinduism
is closely bound up with British India, from its inception in the seventeenth
century up to its 1948 division into the dominions of Pakistan and India (Gott-
schalk 2012: Ch. 5). The partition of British India in accordance with the so-
called two nation theory—which held that Indian Muslims constituted a
separate nation—led to massive amounts of people crossing the border to
be on the “right” side of the religious divide and to clashes in which eighteen
million people were displaced and several hundred thousand, if not a mil-
lion, died (Talbot 2008: 420). That is, religious identity became connected to
a physical border, which, when drawn, forced those on the ground to align
themselves accordingly. With over ninety percent of all Hindus living in ­India
(in 2010, 94%, Hackett 2015), this territorialisation of Hindu identity is a cru-
cial point in discussions of contemporary Hinduism. As Leela Fernandes
remarks,

© Clemens Cavallin, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_003

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
14 Cavallin

…both the secular state and the Hindu nationalist movement attempt to
enforce a model of religion that takes the form of a fixed territory where
changes in religious membership that would involve a movement be-
tween religions is restricted or severely curtailed.
fernandes 2011: 111

According to such an integral connection between religion and territory, leav-

ing Hinduism for religions such as Islam or Christianity undermines one’s
­Indian citizenship, while Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism are Hindu; that is,
they have their origin within the Indian subcontinent.
This understanding of being Hindu is even enshrined in article 25 of the
Indian Constitution:

The reference to Hindus shall be construed as including a reference to

persons professing the Sikh, Jaina or Buddhist religion, and the reference
to Hindu religious institutions shall be construed accordingly.1

It is, therefore, in the interest of the state to make it as hard as possible to leave
the religious identity that is connected to nationhood. For this purpose, many
Indian states have introduced special laws, the so-called Freedom of Religion
Bills, criminalising conversions that are induced through force or fraudulent
means (Richards 2017: 156–277). However, this is not only a recent phenom-
enon, as such laws were already in place in some princely states before inde-
pendence (Jenkins 2008: 113).
Such an ethno-nationalist understanding of religious identity sees religion
as part of an integrated whole and considers religious conversion as a form
of ethno-apostasy (Phillips and Kelner 2006) or de-nationalisation (­Jaffrelot
2011b: 155), affecting culture and social belonging. It is thus important to keep
in mind that “Hinduism is not a voluntary association like Christian church-
es are, with members and non-members. Rather, people are born Hindu;
leaving Hinduism is quite difficult” (Spinner-Halev 2005: 36; see also Barua
2015).
In the following discussion, I will focus on the modern period, as the anxiety
of people leaving Hinduism has, naturally, grown in tandem with the emer-
gence and consolidation of the notion Hinduism itself during the nineteenth
century and with the introduction of a nationwide census (Jaffrelot 2011b: 146);

1 Part iii. Fundamental Rights. Art. 25. Explanation ii. At India.gov.in, National Portal of India,
“Constitution of India,” https://www.india.gov.in/sites/upload_files/npi/files/coi_part_full
.pdf. Accessed 10/10/2017.
Leaving Hinduism 15

for example, a discussion of leaving Vedic religion in the middle of the first mil-
lennium bce would require quite a different set of parameters.

2 Key Terms

Obviously, in a discussion of leaving Hinduism, there are many important no-

tions that can be highlighted, some of which are highly contested, but here
we can only cursorily treat those of extra interest for this chapter. In addition,
the most crucial of these notions is, of course, the word Hindu, which is of
Persian origin. The word first denoted the people living in the area of the ­Indus
River, which flows from north to south through present-day Pakistan. With
the ­increasing presence of Islam in the Indian subcontinent from the eighth
­century ce, it also came to refer to the religious beliefs and practices of the
non-Muslim peoples living to the east of the Indus. However, the derivative,
Hinduism or Hindooism, was coined only towards the end of the eighteenth
century to refer to the religion of the Hindus. It was, for example, prominently
used by Hindu reformer Rammohan Roy in 1816 (Lorenzen 2006: 3).
Towards the end of the same century, the fear of Hindus decreasing in their
own homeland due to Christian missions and higher Muslim birth-rates led
to the creation of the Śuddhi (shuddhi) ritual. Śuddhi literally means “puri-
fication” and was used by the organisation Arya Samaj for (re)converting—
mainly—Muslims and Christians to Hinduism. Recently, reconversion rituals
have been organised as part of Ghar Wapsis—literally “homecoming”—that
is, campaigns by Hindu nationalist organisations in which Muslims and Chris-
tians (re)convert to Hinduism. A central anxiety in the discussion of leaving
Hinduism and conversion centres around the question of caste (jāti)—that is,
the many thousands of endogamous groups that make up Hindu society. Jāti
needs to be differentiated from the varṇas, the four social classes already men-
tioned in the Vedic scriptures: priests, warriors and rulers, merchants and agri-
culturists, and, finally, servants. Those belonging to castes outside of the varṇa
system were previously called untouchables, as they were considered ritually
unclean and hence untouchable by those belonging to higher castes. The word
preferred at present is Dalit (oppressed), who make up at least sixteen percent
of the Indian population (approximately two hundred million people). The
legal term is scheduled castes, and individuals belonging to such castes are
eligible for specific positive discrimination that is provided by the government.
The concept of an apostate within Hinduism is, in one sense, not clearly
connected to orthodoxy, or right faith, as the range of accepted viewpoints on
any question, even that of the ultimate makeup of the universe or the nature
16 Cavallin

of the godhead, is broad indeed. However, the conceptual pair of āstika and
nāstika—that is, those who affirm and those who deny—separates the Hindu
orthodox from the heterodox, mainly in their respective affirmation or denial
of the Vedic scriptures. Therefore, Buddhism is nāstika—not based on its de-
nial of an ultimate creator God but due to its rejection of the Vedas and, with
it, the priestly class in charge of its safekeeping, the Brahmins (Aklujkar 2014).
However, for many modern Hindu nationalists, the notion of Hindu also em-
braces Buddhists, as the focus is not on religious doctrine and revelation but
on national identity.

3 Historical Developments

To apply the notion of Hinduism to the religious beliefs and practices of the
Vedic period (roughly 1500 to 500 bce) is misleading. It was only during the
beginning of the first millennium ce that the classical form of Hinduism (or
Brahmanism, Bronkhorst 2017) emerged. In the early Vedic period, for example,
the later central beliefs of reincarnation and liberation had not yet been for-
mulated. These developed in the later Vedic period within so-called śramaṇa
movements—that is, individuals and bands of ascetics and meditation prac-
titioners seeking liberation from the bondage of the material world (Olivelle
2005). Of these movements, two proved vital enough to become long-lived
religions of their own—namely, Buddhism and Jainism. When the Mauryan
emperor, Ashoka (who ruled over most of the territory now belonging to mod-
ern India and Pakistan), converted to Buddhism in 263–260 bce, Buddhism
received support from the first “Indian” state (Bhandarkar 1957: 24).
The śramaṇa challenge to the Vedic religion concerned the rejection of
­Vedic scriptures, animal sacrifices, the caste ideology, and the pre-eminence of
the Brahmins, who responded by incorporating the ideology of the renouncers
within a society-affirming framework that had a focus on social duty—that
is, dharma. Second, they emphasised the notion of a supreme God, towards
which devotion (bhakti) in the form of a temple cult was the proper attitude
(though such devotion was also due to minor gods). Eventually, Buddhism was
reabsorbed into its Hindu matrix, while Jainism continued to exist as a minor
religious tradition.
The next major trial of the Hindu religious traditions began when Muslim
armies arrived in the Indian subcontinent in the eighth century, and when,
from the twelfth century on, they established their rule over northern—and
later southern—India. A radical and sometimes profitable way of leaving the
Hindu dharma (that is, religion and social duties) became available in this way
Leaving Hinduism 17

(Robinson 2007b). Even when in power, Buddhists had shared basic religious
and social assumptions with Hindus. Islam, on the other hand, was a clearly
different and, occasionally, more intolerant religious and political alternative.
One exception was the Moghul emperor, Akbar (1542–1605), who abolished
the special poll tax for non-Muslims and even constructed a new syncretistic
faith for his Indian empire (Kulke and Rothermund 1998: 147).
During the Moghul Empire (1526–1857), another potential avenue for
leaving Hinduism grew in strength: Christianity. The religion began in India
in ­earnest after the arrival of the Portuguese (1498) and the introduction of
Catholic Christianity in Goa and other coastal areas from the sixteenth cen-
tury on (Robinson 2007b). Though Syrian Christians had already arrived in the
first century ce, they never achieved political control, and their converts were
well integrated into the social and cultural conditions of southern India (Rob-
inson 2003: 39–41). The Portuguese, on the other hand, used their power for
active missions in their territories. These were never very large, and the more
substantial Christian challenge came with the growth of British India in the
nineteenth century, which brought with it a combination of protestant Chris-
tianity and modernity, prompting a Hindu reaction and, finally, a struggle for
independence.
Christians, however, never managed to convert Hindus in the numbers that
Muslims did. At present, only two to three percent of the population in the
Republic of India is Christian (approximately 24 million persons).2
With the growth of a Hindu diaspora, beginning in the nineteenth century,
another concern about leaving Hinduism emerged; namely, that of maintain-
ing the culture, religion and ethnic identity of one’s home country or region
while living far from South Asia (Vertovec 2000: 102f). The crucial question is,
once again, the relation of Hindu religious traditions to territory, though not all
Hindus come from India; for example, in Norway and Germany, the majority of
Hindus are from Sri Lanka (Jacobsen 2004: 159; Luchesi 2004).
With Western converts to and subsequent reverts from Hinduism, the basic
issues are obviously different. Such acts of leaving Hinduism have mostly been
treated as part of the controversies surrounding new religious movements; for
example, iskcon (the International Society of Krishna Consciousness move-
ment) founded in New York in 1966. Converts entered into small alternative
religious groups in which contact with surrounding societies was minimised.
To then leave, to revert or move on to another spiritual path, could be a ­painful,

2 In the census of 2001, the percentage was 2.3, http://censusindia.gov.in/Census_And_You/

religion.aspx, accessed 11/10/2017.
18 Cavallin

even traumatic experience, as seen, for example, in the following personal ac-
count of a witness:

It’s hard to imagine an experience more wrenching, more potentially dis-

orienting, than leaving a spiritual community or tradition to which one
has devoted years of one’s life. To lose faith in a comprehensive system of
ideas that have shaped one’s consciousness and guided one’s actions, to
leave a community that has constituted one’s social world and defined
one’s social identity, to renounce a way of life that is an entire mode of
being, is an experience of momentous implications.
gelberg 1998

Interestingly, however, in the United States, iskcon has changed since the
1990s due to the increasing presence and membership of diaspora Hindus. The
movement’s major task is now, therefore, to gain conversions to Krishna Con-
sciousness from, “educated professional Indians rather than white countercul-
ture ‘seekers’” (Berg and Kniss 2008).

4 Major Controversies

Even more problematic, from a Hindu standpoint, than individual conversions

is proselytisation—that is, the active seeking of converts, which, in India, is
mostly done by Christian and Muslim groups (see, for example, Bauman 2014).
Hindu nationalists consider proselytisation not only an attack on the Hindu
religion but also an attack on the Indian nation (Misra 2011: 372f; Sarkar 2007;
Richards 2004: 90).
Traditionally, one could not convert to Hinduism, but in the nineteenth cen-
tury, śuddhi—a ritual for returning to Hinduism—was crafted by the revivalist
organisation, Arya Samaj (Jaffrelot 2011b; Sikand 2007). The ritual is, however,
controversial in the case of some tribal groups, who, before becoming Chris-
tians, were animists with no Brahmin priests, castes or worship of the main
Hindu gods (Jaffrelot 2011a: 205f). The Arya Samaj version of Hinduism was
that of a modern reform movement denouncing mainstream Hinduism, with
its worship of idols in temples, pilgrimages and traditional understanding of
castes.
In recent years, Hindu nationalist organisations, such as the Hindutva or-
ganisations rss (Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh) and vhp (Vishwa Hindu
Parishad), have staged such (re)conversions as part of larger programmes,
so-called Ghar Wapsi (homecomings), in which thousands of Christians and
Leaving Hinduism 19

Muslims return to Hinduism (Vandevelde 2011). These are the source of in-
tense controversy and sometimes scandal, as in 2014, when a Ghar Wapsi cam-
paign claimed that it had converted over fifty Muslim families to Hinduism
even though a commission later concluded that the Hindu nationalist group
had tricked the families with promises of houses and ration cards and that the
families remained Muslim (Mishral 2015).
Underlying the controversies of conversion in India is the tension between
religion as a social belonging and the principle of individual choice and free-
dom, which influenced the Indian constitution and its secular profile, in con-
trast to Pakistan, which was founded on the idea of religion as the basic criteria
of nationhood (Verma 2017).
In India, the traditional system of social classification is that of caste, and
it is therefore natural for a caste group to change religion as a community, or
at least as families. A freely choosing individual is not the principal unit. In its
struggles with the pernicious aspects of the caste system, such as untouchabil-
ity and discrimination, India has instituted large-scale programmes of affirma-
tive action towards castes classified as Scheduled Castes and Other Backward
Classes (Jodhka 2012: 130f). However, the state only recognises castes within
Hinduism, Buddhism, and Sikhism, which means that if someone—or a whole
caste group—leaves Hinduism for either Islam or Christianity, he or she loses
the right to be included in programmes of affirmative action such as quotas
of government jobs or access to higher education and, at the same time, their
social situation does not improve (Stephens 2007). However, there is also dis-
crimination based on caste in Christian churches and among Indian Muslims
(Waughray 2010: 347). The Indian state acknowledges caste identity among
Buddhists, although Buddhism does not recognise caste (Samarendra 2016).
The recognition of caste is a sensitive topic, as being a Dalit is, of course, a
strong incentive to leave Hinduism because in doing so, one thereby escapes
one’s oppressed position in the caste hierarchy. As a result, Hindu organisa-
tions and movements have considered a reform of the caste system to be a
vital issue for over a hundred years now (Dwivedi 2012: 118f). Nevertheless, it
has proven difficult to change the basic structure of caste ideology; the most
favoured approach has, therefore, been not to abandon caste altogether but
to introduce meritocratic principles. This approach constitutes a fundamental
challenge to caste as a category based on endogamy and to the rules restrict-
ing contact across caste boundaries. To move caste towards the notion of oc-
cupation and to encourage intermarriage is, in a sense, to abolish caste itself
(Ahuja 2015).
Another factor complicating the issue of leaving Hinduism is that there
is not a uniform civil law code in India but rather a division of personal law
20 Cavallin

along religious lines (Hindu, Muslim and Christian). From a legal point of view,
the notion “Hindu” covers Jains, Sikhs and Buddhists; leaving Hinduism and
ceasing to be Hindu is thus not the same thing. On the other hand, becoming
Muslim, for example, means that one enters a new legal framework regarding
issues such as inheritance and divorce (Ghosh 2009).

5 Major Controversies and Significant Case Studies

Interestingly, ecumenically oriented figures such as Mahatma Mohandas Gan-

dhi (1869–1948) saw conversion in a bad light. To him, all religions were fun-
damentally equal and true but were interpreted by imperfect human beings
(Sharma 2014). Hindus should, therefore, remain in their native religion and
try to become better Hindus, not leave for another religion, which he consid-
ered socially destructive (Fernandes 2011: 117):

After long study and experience, I have come to the conclusion that (i)
all religions are true; (ii) all religions have some error in them; (iii) all
religions are almost as dear to me as my own Hinduism, in as much as all
human beings should be as dear to one as one’s close relatives. My own
veneration for other faiths is the same as that for my own faith; therefore
no thought of conversion is possible.
Quoted in dabholkar 1992: 23

However, this stance was complicated by the question of caste and the limits
of reform. To what degree was the caste system an integral part of the Hindu
religion? How much could it be reformed? And why not leave for another more
egalitarian religion if reform should prove unfeasible?
Gandhi did not want to abolish the principles of caste but preferred the
­Vedic model of four basic social classes, the varṇas. He wrote:

Hinduism does not believe in caste. I would obliterate it at once. But I be-
lieve in varnadharma, which is the law of life. I believe that some people
are born to teach and some to defend and some to engage in trade and
agriculture and some to do manual labour, so much so that these occupa-
tions become hereditary.
Quoted in fernandes 2011: 116

Dalits, or harijans (children of God), as Gandhi called them, were outside the
four varṇas and considered ritually unclean and thus untouchable. Gandhi
Leaving Hinduism 21

wanted to end all discrimination of the Dalits, but he did not want to abol-
ish the system that tied specific occupations to certain groups. In the case of
the Dalits, these were the most unclean and despised of professions. He also
thought, according to Leela Fernandes, that “lower-caste Indians did not have
the capacity to make autonomous religious decisions and were in effect being
duped by missionaries into converting” (Fernandez 2010: 118).
Another leader of the struggle for Indian independence, Bhimrao Ambed-
kar (1891–1956), held the opposite view (Coward 2003). Being himself a Dalit
but having studied abroad and completed one Ph.D. at Columbia University
and another one at the London School of Economics, he argued for the total
abolishment of castes, including varṇas, and their connection with specific
occupations. In a speech that he never had the opportunity to give, he main-
tained that Gandhi’s cultivation of goodwill towards Dalits was of no value; to
strike at the root of the system, intermarriage must be practised, though it was
unlikely to succeed (Ambedkar 1936). At that time, his critique of the social
injustices of Hinduism had become so radical that the same year he decided to
leave his native religion. Twenty years later, in 1956, and two months before his
death, Ambedkar made real his decision and converted to Buddhism at a mass
rally with several hundred thousand Dalits joining him (Tartakov 2007: 192). In
this way, he founded a new form of Buddhism called Navayana, which counts
several millions of adherents today (Zelliot 2015).

6 Major Texts

In 1923, while imprisoned on the Andaman Islands, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar

wrote Hindutva: Who is a Hindu? For him, the essence of Hindu-ness was inti-
mately connected to the territory of India; Hindus were those who thought of
(and loved) India as the land of their ancestors and the place where their reli-
gion was born. This meant that all religions having their origin on the Indian
subcontinent were Hindu. Together, they were part of a Hindu civilisation (“a
common culture”). However, to be Hindu, Indian ancestry was also essential;
that is, “having common blood,” in this way forming a Hindu race (regulated by
the caste system, Savarkar 1969 [1923]: 85) and a nation requiring a Hindu state.
According to Savarkar, to leave Hinduism for a “foreign” religion (for example,
Islam or Christianity) would thus be to reject one’s nation. Indian Muslims
may have Indian ancestry and love India as their fatherland, but

…they cannot be called Hindus in the sense in which that term is ac-
tually understood, because, we Hindus are bound together not only by
22 Cavallin

the tie of the love we bear to a common fatherland and by the common
blood […] but also by the tie of the common homage we pay to our great
­civilization—our Hindu culture, which could not be better rendered
than by the word Sanskriti…
savarkar 1969 [1923]: 91f. See also savarkar 1969 [1923]:100f

On the other hand, Western converts to Hinduism also failed to become Hin-
dus even if they loved India and embraced its Sanskrit culture because, accord-
ing to Savarkar’s understanding, they lacked the common blood.
The “Annihilation of Caste” was a speech by Ambedkar, which he never
­delivered because of its strong criticism of Hinduism; it was instead published
in 1936. In it, Ambedkar claimed that conversion to Hinduism was impos-
sible because of the organisation of Hindu society into castes and that the
only way to end caste discrimination was to destroy such a religion of law and
oppression.

And I say there is nothing irreligious in working for the destruction of

such a religion. Indeed I hold that it is your bounden duty to tear off the
mask, to remove the misrepresentation that is caused by misnaming this
law as religion. This is an essential step for you. Once you clear the minds
of the people of this misconception and enable them to realise that what
they are told is religion is not religion, but that it is really law, you will be
in a position to urge its amendment or abolition.
ambedkar 2014 [1936]: 307

Instead, he put forward a modern ideal in which nothing was stable except the
values of liberty, equality and fraternity, which he later made part of his new
form of Buddhism (to which he converted shortly before his death in 1956).

7 Key Figures

Dayananda Sarasvati (1824–1883) was a nineteenth century reformer of Hin-

duism who wanted to go back to a form of Vedic monotheism and therefore
rejected medieval Hindu beliefs and practices such as temple worship, the
mythologies of the great Hindu gods and pilgrimages. In 1875, he established
the organisation Arya Samaj for this purpose. He also introduced the idea of
śuddhi—that is, (re)conversion of people to Hinduism, and he was active in
creating a unified Hindu identity through, for example, cow-protection cam-
paigns and arguing for the use of Hindi as an official language (Datta 2012).
Leaving Hinduism 23

Mahatma Mohandas Gandhi (1869–1948) was an Indian lawyer, trained in

Britain, who took up work in South Africa before coming to India and becom-
ing one of the central figures in the fight for independence. He was assassi-
nated in 1948 by Nathuram Godse, a Hindu nationalist, because of his work
towards reconciliation between Hindus and Muslims. For Gandhi, conversion
was unnecessary because religions were equal roads to the same goal. Hindus
should, therefore, work to uplift of those on the lowest rungs of the caste hier-
archy, not leave their religion.
Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar (1891–1956) came from an untouchable caste
and fought throughout his whole life for the civil rights of Dalits. In 1947, he
became the first law minister of the independent India and chairman for the
drafting of the Indian constitution. In 1956, shortly before his death, he con-
verted to Buddhism, together with several hundred thousand followers, as he
saw no hope of abolishing caste discrimination within Hinduism. In contrast
to Gandhi, conversion was thus, for him, a strategic move to improve the situ-
ation of Dalits.

8 Conclusion

To leave Hinduism is a complicated affair in several respects. The first diffi-

culty is the fuzziness of the notion of “Hinduism,” which means that one can,
in principle, worship any divine being, hold widely divergent beliefs regard-
ing the makeup of the universe, and even practise radically different rituals
but still remain under the generous canopy of Hinduism. Both in the Indian
constitution and within some forms of Hindu nationalism, Hindu has an even
broader meaning than Hinduism, encompassing all major religions originat-
ing in the Indian subcontinent. Nevertheless, this notion excludes Christianity
and Islam, two religious traditions that have a long history and deep roots in
the Indian subcontinent. This is of importance, as Indian personal law is di-
vided along Hindu, Christian and Muslim lines.
A further complication is that Hinduism entails not only a religious identity
in the sense of membership in a religious organisation but also strong forms
of traditional social belonging connected to caste. To leave just the “religion”
and not one’s social role and identity is therefore difficult. The underlying idea
common both to Mahatma Gandhi and to Hindu nationalists was that conver-
sions are unnatural and mostly the result of material inducements or fraud.
Religion is something into which one is born, not something one chooses.
This ethno-nationalist understanding of Hinduism is operative in the deci-
sion of many Indian states to introduce religious freedom bills that control
24 Cavallin

and restrict conversions. In this way, the territorially, ethnically, and culturally
bounded nature of Hinduism is marked. This question is different for Hindus
who live in a diaspora in which the original social and cultural environments
of Hindu traditions are weaker and laws against conversion are mostly absent.
Hindu individuals and communities continuously face the choice of trying,
as much as possible, to uphold what is perceived as the original cultural and
ethnic character of the religion through only marrying within the group, keep-
ing up the Indian language in question, keeping traditional choices of food
and other cultural practices; in this way, they affirm the view of Hinduism as a
religion that one cannot leave without leaving one’s “natural” social belonging.
Alternatively, one can try to develop a form of Hinduism that is separate from
Hinduism’s original Indian cultural matrix, thus moving towards a universal
religion that is not dependent on “common blood” or the sacred nature of the
territory and culture of the Indian subcontinent.
A third option is that suggested by Ambedkar; he denounced Hinduism for
its entangled nature of social, cultural and religious aspects (its integral char-
acter). Ambedkar decided that it was almost impossible to reform Hinduism
and that the only way, at least for the marginalised, to achieve social equality
and spiritual liberation, was to leave. Therefore, the issue of leaving Hindu-
ism warrants closer inspection that is composed of several parts: leaving being
Hindu, leaving India, and leaving Hinduism. The difficult question is what Hin-
duism would be after having ceased to be Hindu and having left India behind.

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 Chapter 3

Leaving Buddhism
Monica Lindberg Falk

1 Introduction

Leaving Buddhism is a theme seldom addressed in Buddhist studies. Buddhism

is generally perceived as a tolerant religion and followers are encouraged to
scrutinise the Buddhist teachings and are free to leave the Buddhist faith. Bud-
dhism does not sanction violence against apostates, there is no formal religious
pretext for apostasy and Buddhism has not developed a concept of apostasy.
However, for people who do apostasies from Buddhism, the worst consequenc-
es they suffer tend to be negative reactions from the family, including the risk
of being ignored and shut out from family and community activities.
The Buddha’s (c. 480 bce–c. 400 bce)1 attitude to apostasy is represented
by an account of a meeting with one of the Buddha’s attendants Sunakkhatta.
He was a disciple of the Buddha, but after a while he became dissatisfied with
the Buddha’s practice and decided to renounce the teacher and his teaching.
Sunakkhatta came to the Buddha and said: “Lord, I am leaving you, I am no
longer living by your teachings.” The Buddha responded to this declaration by
asking Sunakkhatta following questions: “Did I ever say to you; come, live
by my teachings?” Sunakkhatta: “No Lord.” The Buddha: “Then did you ever say
to me that you wished to live by my teachings?” Sunakkhatta: “No Lord.” The
Buddha: “That being the case, who are you and what are you giving up, you
foolish man?” (Digha Nikaya, iii 2–3). Sunakkhatta’s defection occurred when
the Buddha was eighty years old and that was his last year in life (Batchelor
2015: 172). Neither in this case nor others did the Buddha suggest that apostates
should be punished.
The Buddhist traditions are so wide, diverse and multiplex that it of-
ten makes sense to refer to Buddhism in the plural form (see Strong 2015).
Buddhism(s) is broadly divided into Theravada, Mahayana and Vajrayana tra-
ditions and these traditions are historically evolved and culturally embodied.
Because of the great diversity within the Buddhist traditions, this chapter on

1 The exact dates of Siddhartha Gotama Buddha’s birth and death are uncertain. Heinz Bechert
and Richard Gombrich (1991) dating is c. 480 bce–400 c. bce, but the traditional dating is
often eighty years earlier.

© Monica Lindberg Falk, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_004

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Buddhism 29

apostasy in Buddhism focuses mainly on the oldest tradition, Theravada Bud-

dhism. It deals with Buddhist monks and nuns who have left or been expelled
from the Buddhist congregation, sangha. It gives examples of lay people who
left Buddhism and converted to Christianity and deals with what could be
called forced or ascribed apostasy.

2 Key Terms

Buddhism has no specific word for conversion. However, in the Buddhist col-
lection of Middle-length Discourses of the Buddha, Majjhima Nikaya, a new
convert to Buddhism describes himself as having “gone over to the disciple-
ship,” savakattam upagato, of the Buddha (Nanamoli 2015: 486).2
From the time of the Buddha right up till today people both express their
intention to become Buddhists and mark their entry into the Buddhist faith
by taking the three refuges, tisarana: I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge
in the Dhamma (the teachings of the Buddha). I take refuge in the Sangha.
This statement is said three times as a reaffirmation that the person is sin-
cere and committed. Lay people receive the five Buddhist precepts from the
ordained community: To refrain from killing, stealing, lying, using intoxicants
and improper sexual conduct (Harvey 2000: 66–79). For lay people there are
no formalities to leave Buddhism and they simply cease receiving the Buddhist
precepts and taking refuge in the triple gem: Buddha, Dhamma, Sangha.
The sangha was originally a fourfold congregation of; Buddhist monks,
bhikkhu, nuns bhikkhuni, laymen, upasaka, and laywomen, upasika. Today the
sangha consists of the ordained community and in Thailand the sangha re-
fers to the congregation of monks. Many Pali and Sanskrit terms have been
incorporated into the local languages for example the bhikkhu, bhikkhuni and
Buddhist terms used in this chapter are Pali terms and used in Theravada Bud-
dhist countries. Women have never been included in the Thai Buddhist sang-
ha. The sangha is male and has a hierarchical structure and includes every
village and monastery in Thailand. Lay people and monastics have commonly
had close bonds (Samuels 2010). Lay people give donations, dana, and support
the ordained community on a daily basis with food and other necessities. The
sangha cares about the lay community and provides teaching and guidance for
the laity, and it is significant that the renouncers are a “field of merit” for lay
people (Harvey 2013: 314).

2 Most Buddhist terms are given in their Pali spellings.

30 Falk

In Buddhism, a person generates kammic fruitfulness by his or her own

deeds. The monastic life is acknowledged as a generally higher level of virtue
than lay life. The monastics has the best environment and support to develop
under the guidance of the Buddhist teachings and disciplinary rules (Harvey
2000: 89). Being excluded from the sangha is a punishment and forced apos-
tasy. It means leaving the monastic life and that includes access to ordination.
The ordination ceremony marks a person’s entry into the sangha. Buddhist
ordination has two steps: first pabbajja, going forth, and second upasampa-
da, higher ordination as fully ordained monk or nun, bhikkhu or bhikkhuni.
The monks’ ordination ceremony is led by a monk appointed by the sangha
as qualified to be in charge of ordinations, upajjhayo. An ordination for nuns,
bhikkhuni, is led by a long-standing and qualified nun, pavattini (Horner 1990:
138–139). A so-called dual ordination is required for the ordination of bhikkhu-
ni and that means that a bhikkhuni aspirant must ask both the female and the
male sanghas for ordination (Holt 1999: 140–142). Ordaining monks and nuns
without the right to do so has severe consequences (Gethin 1998: 87).
Newly ordained monks and nuns should spend at least the next five years
in “dependence,” nissaya, on their teacher who will train them and introduce
them to the norms of monastic life. According to the vinaya (monastic rules),
if a monk or a nun wishes to return to the lay state, he or she only has to inform
his/her fellow monks or nuns of that decision, formally disrobe before them
and leave the monastery. In practice, in all Buddhist countries, monks who dis-
robe (other than those who are temporarily ordained) are looked upon with
considerable disapproval (Thanissaro 1994).
A person’s fortune and misfortune in life, including leaving Buddhism, are
explained by kamma. The Pali word kamma means action and in the Buddhist
doctrine refers to a person’s intentional mental, verbal or bodily acts. The in-
tentional actions are believed to result in a person’s state of being. Also in the
Thai usage, the consequences of morally relevant actions of the past, including
past lives, explain a person’s contemporary life. The Thai concept of religious
merit, bun, is used as a motivation for living according to the Buddhist precepts
and a lack of bun is the reason, for example, for leaving Buddhism.

3 Historical Developments

Buddhism comes from an Indian renunciation tradition and the most im-
portant carriers of the Buddhist ways and practice are the sangha with its
monks and nuns who transmit the teaching (Gethin 1998: 85). Approximately
a hundred years after the death of The Buddha, Siddhartha Gotama, certain
Leaving Buddhism 31

d­ ifferences arose in the sangha, which gradually led to the development of a

number of monastic groups (Harvey 2013: 2). However, all Buddhist traditions
trace their ordination-line back to the early Buddhist groups. Theravada means
the teachings of the elders and this tradition is particular about keeping the
early Buddhist teaching and the focus is on attaining enlightenment, nibbana,
by using dhamma as the guide for living. Theravada is practised by the major-
ity of the population in Sri Lanka, Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar and Thailand.
Theravada is characterised by a psychological understanding of human nature,
and emphases a meditative approach. The three trainings of ethical conduct,
meditation and insight-wisdom are central.
Around the beginning of the Christian era Mahayana Buddhism developed.
In contrast to Theravada Buddhism, Mahayana Buddhism is more of an um-
brella body for a great variety of schools found in China, Korea and Japan. Ma-
hayana followers made alterations in the Buddhist texts and interpretation of
the suttas, discourses, and the vinaya, discipline rules. They rejected certain
portions of the Buddhist canon which had been accepted in the Buddhist First
Council held in 400 bce, just after the Buddha’s death. The third tradition,
­Vajrayanam, is a form of Buddhism that is predominant in the Himalayan na-
tions of Tibet, Nepal, Bhutan, and also Mongolia. Buddhism first appeared in
Tibet in the seventh century but it did not take root and it was not until the
eleventh century the Vajrayana Buddhism was established and developed into
lineages. The names of the four major Tibetan Buddhist lineages are Nyingma-
pa, Sakya-pa, Kagyu-pa and Gelug-pa.
Buddhism is believed to have come to what is now Thailand as early as 250
bce (Harvey 2013: 199). Since then, Theravada Buddhism has played a signifi-
cant role both culturally and socially. Buddhism has been widely adopted as a
state sponsored religion and an organised way of social life by the majority of
people living in Thailand. Thai Buddhism is formally divided into the Mahani-
kai and Thammayut Orders.
The Buddha established an ordination lineage for women but when the
Theravada bhikkhuni ordination lineage was considered broken it was no lon-
ger possible for women to be ordained in the Theravada tradition. However,
women had access to ordination in the Mahayana tradition. A global bhikkhuni
movement was founded in the 1980s and since the late 1990s the bhikkhuni
ordination has been revived and it is possible for women to receive ordination
in the Theravada tradition. Bhikkhunis are not recognized by the Thai sangha
and monks who have ordained women in Thailand have been forced to leave
the Thai sangha (Kabilsingh 1991: 45–46). Women are excluded from the Thai
sangha but local Buddhist nuns, mae chis, have existed in Thailand for centu-
ries. Mae chis have a subordinated position at Thai temples and have during
32 Falk

recent decades begun to take advantage of their position outside the sangha
and established their own nunneries and created better circumstances for
themselves (Falk 2007).
One example of the strength of the Thai Buddhist sangha became evident
in the aftermath of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami where religion became im-
portant for the survivors’ recovery (Falk 2015). Communities in the tsunami-hit
areas in Asia were predominantly Muslim, Buddhist or Hindu, and religious
organisation of all kinds raised enormous amounts of money and went to the
affected areas to distribute aid. Among them, there were some evangelical
Christian groups who tried to exploit the disaster for their own gains, through
proselytising, which exacerbated existing religious conflicts or created new
ones (Falk 2015: 144–145).

4 Major Controversies and Significant Case Studies

In Thailand some of the major controversies have resulted in cases where Bud-
dhist monks have been forced to leave the sangha. The controversies have
been over issues that violate the Thai Buddhist legislation and that have con-
cerned the Theravada Buddhist teaching, political actions involving monastics,
unlawful financial issues, ordination without having been appointed preceptor
by the sangha, and giving women novice and higher ordination.
During the Cold War, monks were accused of collaboration with Communist
rebels which was a threat to national security and Phra Phimontham (1901–
1992), the abbot of Wat Mahadhatu, was defrocked and imprisoned (Jackson
1989: 100). Buddhadasa Bhikkhu (1906–1993) was also subject to similar alle-
gations from the Thai government (Ito 2012: 180, 185). Phra Bodhiraksa (born
1934) the founder of the Buddhist group Santi Asoke left the sangha and that
led to serious controversies and punishment from the sangha (Heikkilä-Horn
1996: 60–67). They were perceived as apostates. Another longstanding contro-
versy is between the Buddhist movement Wat Phra Dhammakaya temple and
the Thai sangha. The temple is accused of money laundry, illegal land trans-
actions, corruption and for introducing elements from Mahayana Buddhism,
which is against the Thai Buddhist legislation (Scott 2009: 129–156).
One major controversy that the Thai sangha has had to handle over the
last decades is about ordaining women. In 2001 the first Thai woman received
bhikkhuni ordination from Theravada monks and nuns in an Asian country.
The bhikkhuni movement is a global movement and has been successful in
re-establishing the bhikkhuni ordination. In recent decades increasing num-
bers of women have received bhikkhuni ordination especially in Sri Lanka but
Leaving Buddhism 33

also in Thailand. Thai monks who give women bhikkhuni ordination risk be-
ing expelled from the sangha. Before the revival of bhikkhuni ordination some
Thai women went abroad and received bhiksuni ordination in the Mahayana
tradition. Returning to Thailand as bhiksunis they were perceived as having
apostasised from Theravada Buddhism and were considered belonging to the
Mahayana tradition.
One of the most important and venerated religious reformers was the monk
Buddhadasa Bhikkhu (1906–1993). Buddhadasa did not leave Buddhism but he
left “mainstream” Buddhism, the way Buddhism was understood and practised
in central Thailand. He reconceptualised fundamental Buddhist concepts and
developed a role quite independent of the sangha. Buddhadasa was critical of
what he saw as mainstream Buddhism and in the 1960s and 1970s, he was ac-
cused of being a communist, as were many of the wandering monks, thudong
monks. Buddhadasa lived in the south of Thailand, and was probably saved by
living and teaching far from the centre of power in Bangkok and by his increas-
ingly broad, non-politicised popularity (Swearer 1999: 216–217). He had also a
great network of people from other religions and he was engaged in interfaith
dialogues.
The temple Wat Phra Dhammakaya, in Thailand and abroad, has raised
enormous sums of money over the years, and is one example of phuttha phanit,
a term that has been used since the late 1980s to define commercialising Bud-
dhism (see Kitiarsa 2008). Wat Phra Dhammakaya has succeeded in attract-
ing well-off followers from all over Thailand, but they have not accomplished
creating peace in their own neighbouring area. There have been d­ isputes over
land-tenure and compensation between Wat Phra Dhammakaya and nearby
land-renting farmers in 1985–1989. The Wat Phra Dhammakaya movement is
today still highly controversial. The temple has been under investigation for
having misused the temple funds and the Abbot was suspended because of
criminal charges against him and the temple. The Dhammakaya is also ac-
cused of violating the Theravada Buddhist teachings and claims that nibbana
is a permanent heaven is contrary to the understanding of Theravada Bud-
dhism, although that idea is found in some Mahahayanist groups (Scott 2009:
135–136, 146–149).
The Dhammakaya temple has been embroiled in a money laundering scan-
dal and its founder has refused to meet the police for questioning. Former ab-
bot Phra Dhammachayo (born 1944) faces charges of conspiracy to launder
money and receive stolen goods, as well as taking over land unlawfully to build
meditation centres. The Thai police have raided the main temple complex on
several occasions but without result. The leading monk Dhammajayo has not
been found in his quarters. The monk is on the run from more than 300 c­ harges,
34 Falk

including a multibillion accusation of money laundering. He was stripped of

monastic rank by the Thai King in March 2017 and he risks being imprisoned
(Bangkok Post, 6 March 2017).
The Buddhist group Santi Asoke’s members have left the sangha. They dis-
tinguish themselves from “mainstream” Thai Buddhists by living in communi-
ties of dhamma families that include monks, nuns and male and female lay
people, very much like the original ideal sangha. Santi Asoke was set up as an
independent Buddhist temple and had serious disagreements with the Thai
sangha authorities, Maha Thera Samakhom. They led to the prosecution of
the founder and leader Phra Bodhiraksa. In June 1989, he was brought to court
and sentenced to leave the monkhood. It was the regional monastic leaders
who called for Phra Bodhiraksa to be defrocked, and the Thai sangha initiated
legal proceedings against him for violating the vinaya and distorting Buddhist
principles. He was even incarcerated for a period. He escaped formal defrock-
ing after voluntarily changing the colour of his robe from brown to white
(Heikkilä-Horn 1996). Santi Asoke is also controversial for ordaining women as
ten-precept nuns known as sikkhamats, similar to novice bhikkhunis (Heikkilä-
Horn 2015).
Giving women bhikkhuni ordination has been a major controversy not only
in Thailand but also in other Asian countries. Charsumarn Kabilsingh, later
Dhammananda Bhikkhuni, was the first Thai woman who received Theravada
bhikkhuni ordination in Sri Lanka. She was well known before her ordination
for advocating women’s rights to full ordination. Her ordination created a com-
motion and there were attempts to make her life as a bhikkhuni impossible
(Falk 2007). Currently there are about one hundred seventy-five Thai bhikkhu-
nis and bhikkhuni ordinations have also taken place in Thailand. Since 1928 it
is forbidden for Thai monks to ordain women as bhikkhunis and Thai monks
who are involved in bhikkhuni ordination risk being defrocked and expelled
from the sangha. The rule was established after two young sisters had received
novice bhikkhuni ordination from a Thai monk (Kabilsingh 1991: 45–48). That
incident inspired the sangha’s supreme council to pass an order forbidding
any monks from giving women novice or full ordination as bhikkhuni, and that
rule is still valid.
Voramai Kabilsingh also called Ta Tao Fa Tzu (1908–2003) was a journalist
and become a mae chi in 1954 when her daughter Chatsumarn (mentioned
above) was 10 years old. She established Songdhammakalyani Monastery in
Thailand and in 1970 Voramai Kabilsingh went to Taiwan and received bhiksuni
ordination in the Mahayana Dharmaguptaka lineage. Chatsumarn Kabilsingh
grew up with her mother at the nunnery. She went abroad for higher educa-
tion, later she married, had children and became a professor at a top university
Leaving Buddhism 35

in Bangkok. Throughout her professional life she worked for Buddhist wom-
en’s right to bhikkhuni ordination. She had long planned to live an ordained
life after retirement and before she was ordained she carefully considered in
which tradition she should ask for ordination. She wanted to be accepted as a
bhikkhuni in Thailand and therefore she wanted to be ordained in the Thera-
vada lineage. Her mother was a Mahayana bhiksuni and she saw that she had
many supporters but no followers as a result of being ordained in the Mahay-
ana tradition. In the end of 1990s it was open for women to receive bhikkhuni
ordination in Sri Lanka and Chatsumarn Kabilsingh decided to seek novice
ordination there (Achakulwisut 2001). However, the Thai sangha still persists
in not recognising her ordination and her status as a Theravada bhikkhuni. For
Chatsumarn Kabilsingh, now Dhammananda Bhikkhuni, the debate about the
continuation of the bhikkhuni/bhikksuni lineage is academic. She said: “What
I’m trying to prove is that during the Buddha’s time there was no Mahayana or
Theravada, and ordination was given to women, period (Janssen 2001).”
This part ends with a case study about Thai lay people who left Buddhism in
the wake of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. All kinds of Christian missionaries
operated in the affected areas after the tsunami. Some Christian groups came
to provide aid, whereas some came to convert. Survivors from the hardest-hit
area told about their experiences of being approached by Christian missionar-
ies. They had been offered money and material aid if they left Buddhism and
converted to Christianity. Some survivors agreed to convert, others said they
did not want to “sell their Buddhist faith” which is very much the base of their
identity. Those Buddhist survivors who had converted and thereby received
money and material goods in return were looked upon as corrupt and their
neighbours were disappointed and said they had lost their respect for them.
The Buddhist temples were still open to the converts but the converts were
forbidden by the Christian priests to listen to the Buddhist monks and partake
in Buddhist ceremonies. That was something that the Thai Buddhists found
strange. The conversion created divisions within those small villages and a lack
of trust between the converts and lay people occurred (Falk 2013: 41–42).
Both monks and lay people explained the conversion as the converts’ lack
of bun, religious merit. To be Buddhist is considered as signifying being meri-
torious, and converting or leaving the ordained state was seen as that person’s
“good merit” had come to an end. The majority of the Thai Buddhist monks in
the tsunami hit areas also used kamma to explain the situation and they kept
a low profile in relation to the great influx of Christian missionaries. They did
not express any resentment against Christian priests or those Buddhist follow-
ers who converted. The majority of Buddhist monks interviewed by me in the
tsunami hit area had a relaxed attitude towards conversion. One monk from
36 Falk

the Asoke group who had come to assist the survivors explained that Bud-
dhism does not prohibit anyone who comes to do good deeds. Accordingly, the
conversion to another faith is not a problem if laypeople find that it is benefi-
cial (see Falk 2013; 2015).
However, Christian missionaries traded aid for faith and the conversion of
Buddhists to Christianity made not only divisions at the village level but it also
created rifts within families. A study on Thai Buddhist women in the north-east
of Thailand who converted to Islam reports difficulties in relation with their
families. The convert survivors from the tsunami in the south of ­Thailand and
women who had converted to Islam in the north-east experienced the same
difficulties of not having the permission from their new religions to attend
Buddhist ceremonies. Thai cultural values prescribe that daughters and sons
should be at their parents’ funerals, to show that they respect their parents.
Children are severely judged by others if they do not do so. But Muslims cannot
attend Buddhist services, and the converts are caught in a bind between two
value systems (Charoenwong et al. 2017: 125).
Lay people leave Buddhism for different reasons and in the post-tsunami
situation forced conversion of Buddhists to Christianity has resulted in the ex-
clusion of converts from their community-based, as well as family-cantered,
Buddhist ceremonies and activities that would have probably helped them as
their culturally accepted coping methods.

5 Major Texts

Buddhist texts are commonly divided into canonical and non-canonical texts.
The canonical texts are believed to be the actual teachings of the Buddha. The
Tipitaka, the Pali canon, is considered the earliest Buddhist teachings and
recognized as canonical in the Theravada tradition. The Tipitaka is divided in
three groups of teachings, sometimes called the three baskets and it was trans-
ferred orally, being and written down about 300 bce. The Tipitaka, includes
the Vinaya pitaka, that deals with the discipline rules for monks, nuns, and
guidelines for the interaction between the sanga and laity. The Sutta Pitaka,
contains the Buddha’s teachings on doctrine and behaviour, with a focus on
meditation techniques. Abhidhamma pitaka is about advanced teachings and
higher knowledge of Buddhist philosophy and psychology.
The Buddha’s view on apostasy mentioned above is from the Sutta Pitaka,
found in the Digha Nikaya that is one of the five collections (nikayas) and an
assembly of long discourses. The text is in the Patika Sutta: About Patikaputta
the Charlatan (Walshe 1995: 371–378).
Leaving Buddhism 37

There are two translations to English: Dialogues of the Buddha translated

by T.W. and C.A.F. Rhys Davids (1899–1921), in three volumes. Published by the
Pali Text Society and Thus Have I Heard: The Long Discourses of the Buddha
translated by Maurice Walshe (1987, 1995).
Buddhadasa Bhikkhu’s work was based on extensive research of the Pali text
Canon and commentary, especially of the Buddha’s Discourses (Sutta Pitaka),
followed by personal experiment and practice with these teachings. His pub-
lications are huge and some of his most well-known books are: Handbook of
Mankind, Heart-wood from the Bo Tree, Keys to Natural Truth, Mindfulness with
Breathing, and Paticcasamuppada: Practical Dependent Origination.
Some major work for analysing the position of women in Buddhism, that
give a background to why women have “left” their Buddhist tradition and
sought other ways to access ordination are: Women Under Primitive Buddhism
by Isaline Blew Horner (1930) which is a major historical work on ­laywomen and
monastics based on canonical literature including the Vinaya Pitaka (­Basket
of Discipline). Buddhism After Patriarchy, A Feminist History, ­Analysis and
­Reconstruction of Buddhism by Rita Gross (1993) is another important book that
­surveys the part women have played in Buddhism historically and completes
the Buddhist historical record by bringing in women who usually are absent
from histories of Buddhism. Women in Buddhism: Images of the Feminine in the
Mahayana Tradition, by Diana Y. Paul (1979) offers a number of highly interest-
ing Buddhist texts concerned with Mahayana Buddhism. First Buddhist Wom-
en, Poems and Stories of Awakening by Susan Murcott (1991) traces the journey
of the first Buddhist women from the Therigatha, the earliest known collection
of women’s religious poetry. Bhikkhuni Patimokkha of the Six Schools by Chat-
sumarn Kabilsingh is a key work that contains translations of one of the oldest
texts of the Buddhist canon and compares the different Buddhist schools.

6 Key Figures

Buddhadasa Bhikkhu, lay name Nguam Phanit, (1906–1993) is regarded as one

of the most influential modernisers of Thai Buddhism (Jackson 2003; Ito 2012).
He was born, in Chaiya District, Surat Thani province in southern Thailand.
His father was of second-generation Thai Chinese (Hokkien) ancestry and his
mother was Thai. Buddhadasa renounced lay life when he was twenty years
old. He studied the Buddhist doctrine in Bangkok but was disappointed with
the urban temples and how the temples were managed. He returned to Surat
Thani and established Suan Mokkhabalarama (The Grove of the Power of Lib-
eration) in 1932. He left what the Thai sangha represented, and abandoned
38 Falk

ritualism and the internal sangha politics. Buddhadasa developed a role inde-
pendent of the religious hierarchy and reformed basic beliefs, values, and prac-
tices (King 1996: 402). His new interpretations of central Buddhist concepts
such as kamma and nibbana were not in line with the orthodox Thai teachings
and challenged the sangha (Ito 2012: 16). He integrated modern views and a
distinctive forest tradition and his interpretation of canonical texts attracted
an educated following among lay people. Buddhadasa’s Buddhist interpreta-
tion has constituted a contrast to supernatural formulations of Buddhism that
legitimate wealth and power with reference to kammic explanations. He re-
conceptualised fundamental Buddhist concepts and he described central Bud-
dhist concepts differently from the traditional Thai understanding.
Bodhiraksa, lay name Mongkol “Rak” Rakpong, was born in 1934 in Ubon
Ratchathani province in Northeastern Thailand to a Sino-Thai family. Before he
was ordained, at the age of thirty-six years, he had been a composer of popular
music and a television celebrity. In 1970 he received ordination in the Tham-
mayutnikai, one of the two Thai Buddhist “sects” (nikai). He resigned from the
Thammayutnikai and three years later he was re-ordained in the other “sect”
Mahanikai. Phra Bodhiraksa openly criticised the Mahanikai monks for eating
meat, magic practices and consumerism. The group distinguished themselves
from other Thai Buddhist groups and provoked criticism from the sangha. In
1975 Phra Bodhiraksa and his group left the state sangha organisation and es-
tablished Santi Asoke as an independent group. The group has subsequently
seen regarded as “outlawed.” He reinterpreted the Pali canon and the estab-
lished Buddhist scholars blamed him for misunderstanding and misinterpret-
ing the Buddhist scriptures. In 1988 the members of Santi Asoke were accused
of being heretics. In 1989 a trial started that the Asoke group was not Buddhist
and there was an ongoing court case against Bodhiraksa and his group for sev-
en years (Heikkilä-Horn 1996). Most threatening to the sangha was probably
Bodhiraksa’s action of ordaining monks and novices without being officially
designated as having this right. Those activities together with his claim to have
attained enlightenment are offences for which a monk can be expelled from
the order (See Taylor 1989: 117–118; Keyes 1999: 24). Many saw the trial as a con-
flict between a corrupt sangha seeking to uphold its entrenched power and an
ethically strict Buddhist renunciate aiming to purify and revitalise the religious
order (Jackson 1997: 78). Bodhiraksa points to the possibility of a modern Bud-
dhism without the sangha.
Bhikkhuni Dhammananda, lay name Chatsumarn Kabilsingh was born in
1944 and was brought up in Nakhon Pathom in Thailand. Her father was a poli-
tician and member of parliament and ordained later as a Theravada monk. Her
mother was a bhiksuni and since Chatsumarn was ten years old she had lived
Leaving Buddhism 39

in the temple. Chatsumarn Kabilsingh received her Master of Arts in religion

from McMaster University in Canada and received her doctoral grade in Bud-
dhism from Magadh University in India. She married, had three sons and six
grandchildren. Chatsumarn taught for twenty-seven years at Thammasat Uni-
versity in Bangkok, Thailand, at the Department of Philosophy and Religion.
She has published widely on gender and Buddhism. She sought early retire-
ment from the university in 2000 and she also resigned from the Thai televi-
sion where she had been working with Buddhist programmes for many years
(Achakulwisut 2001; Yasodhara 2001: 17). In 2001, she received samaneri (female
novice) ordination and in 2003 she received higher bhikkhuni ordination, upas-
ampada, in Sri Lanka. She is the abbess of Songdhammakalyani Monastery in
Nakhon Pathom, Thailand.

7 Conclusion

This chapter has explored apostasy from Buddhism and addressed circum-
stances that have caused monastics and lay people to apostasies. The story
about Sunakkhatta, related in the Digha Nikaya, displays that apostasy was
not disciplined during the Buddha’s time and Buddhism does not sanction
violence against apostates. Leaving Buddhism is still straightforward, and the
difficulties lay people face when leaving Buddhism are related to their private
lives and their relationships with family and friends. That was something that
became evident among those who left Buddhism and converted to Christianity
in the aftermath of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami.
In spite of the fact that sanctions against apostasy are absent in the Buddhist
canonical texts, apostasy has developed in the Buddhist traditions. In Thailand
for instance, apostasy is considered as being expressed in acts of not follow-
ing what is judged as Theravada Buddhism, and the Thai sangha excludes mo-
nastics who deviate from the Theravada teaching. The Thai sangha has strict
rules about ordination into the Buddhist monkhood and Buddhist monks who
give ordination without having the stipulated credentials, face being defrocked
from monkhood. It is even more severe for monks to give women bhikkhuni
ordination, and it is illegal under all circumstances and leads to punishment
from the sangha.
The group Santi Asoke is an example of a Buddhist group that have been
excommunicated for violating the sangha’s legislation. Another example is
Wat Phra Dhammakaya, a group that is much larger than Santi Asoke, whose
members are accused of not conforming to Theravada Buddhism. Moreover,
the leadership is under suspicion of criminal offences and the abbot has been
40 Falk

considered as apostasising and formally been stripped of his ranks and con-
demned to exile.
It is not always clear for Buddhists themselves that they are considered to
have left Buddhism. That was something that Buddhist women experienced
when they have gone abroad and received bhiksuni ordination in the Ma-
hayana tradition, since it was not possible for women to be ordained in the
Theravada tradition. They still identified themselves as Theravada Buddhists
but when they returned to Thailand they were considered by others as having
apostasised from Theravada Buddhism.

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 Chapter 4

Leaving Religion in Antiquity

Jörgen Magnusson

1 Introduction

“A time there was when disorder ruled human lives, which were then, like
lives of beasts, enslaved to force; nor was there then reward for the good,
nor for the wicked punishment. Next, it seems to me, humans established
laws for punishment, that justice might rule over the tribe of mortals, and
wanton injury be subdued; and whosoever did wrong was penalized. Next,
as the laws held [mortals] back from deeds of open violence, but still such
deeds were done in secret—then, I think, some shrewd man first, a man in
judgment wise, found for mortals the fear of gods, thereby to frighten the
wicked should they even act or speak or scheme in secret. Hence, it was
that he introduced the divine telling how the divinity enjoys endless life,
hears and sees, and takes thought and attends to things, and his nature is
divine so that everything which mortals say is heard and everything done
is visible. Even if you plan in silence some evil deed, it will not be hidden
from the gods: for discernment lies in them. So, speaking words like these,
the sweetest teaching did he introduce, concealing truth under untrue
speech. The place he spoke of as the gods’ abode was that by which he
might awe humans most—the place from which, he knew, terrors came
to mortals and things advantageous in their wearisome life—the revolv-
ing heaven above, in which dwell the lightnings, and awesome claps of
thunder, and the starry face of heaven, beautiful and intricate by that wise
craftsman time—from which, too, the meteor’s glowing mass speeds and
wet thunderstorm pours forth upon the earth. Such were the fears with
which he surrounded mortals, and to the divinity he gave a fitting home,
by this his speech, and in a fitting place, and [thus] extinguished lawless-
ness by laws” (Sextus Empiricus. Against the Professors 9.54.1

We have set out to explore the leaving religion in Classical Greece by quoting
the so-called Sisyphus or Critias fragment. According to this text, Gods were

1 With minor revisions, I have used the translation from Greek to English by J. Garrett which,
in turn, is a revision of R.G. Bury’s translation).

© Jörgen Magnusson, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_005

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
44 Magnusson

invented by an intelligent person in order to stop criminal deeds. It is a telling

fact that the quotation is from Sextus Empiricus who lived in the third cen-
tury ce, and the fragment has thus often been attributed to Critias, the uncle
of Plato, at least six centuries earlier than the Sextus report. Other sources,
however, claim that Euripides was the author of the text, but I side with Sedley
who interprets the split in evidence as an indication of the authorship being
simply unknown and a matter of conjecture (Sedley 2013: 142). Nevertheless,
the fragment is an example of a way of speculating the emergence of religion
that dates back to the second half of the fifth century bce. In this chapter, we
will frequently come across source critical problems that resemble those above
that have been briefly touched upon. Usually, the reports of the people who
have criticised the public cult or even given up religiosity all together are un-
certain and from many centuries later than the occurrences described in them.
However, in comparison to the sources outside the Greek speaking world, the
situation is favorable although challenging indeed. Thus, with so many gaps in
the information, our interpretations depend on our expectations regarding an-
cient religiosity in general and in many cases, in particular, on how we relate to
the discourse of classical Athens as the imagined cradle of the enlightenment.
Moreover, if we dare say something about the vast majority of people who did
not belong to the Greek speaking élite of males, which could actually express
their views on religion, even when their views were critical to the public cult,
we better get to grips with how religions often function and, from that base,
build up as well-founded hypotheses as possible. This prelude is my apology
to why I will devote some of the very limited scope of the present chapter to
topics that might be a bit surprising to be found when discussing the leaving
religion in Classical Greece. To me, however, such discussions seem valuable
had they been included in many of the specialised studies I have dealt with
in the preparation of this chapter. The scope only allows us to discuss one of
the intellectuals who might have discarded religion, and I have chosen Eurip-
ides as our example. However, I will touch upon matters that make it easier for
the reader to consider whether discarding the religion was extremely rare or
whether there were a larger number of people than the previously assumed
who were atheists but did not dare to raise their voices.

2 Key Terms

If we discuss religions more generally, rather than focusing on theologians of

creedal religions, it is increasingly recognized that there is a huge gap between
the “official” beliefs that one should uphold as a believer and the different
Leaving Religion in Antiquity 45

o­ pinions and practices that people actually express and perform (Sorensen
2005). Harrison (2015: 24–27) suggests that one should follow trends in cogni-
tive sciences according to which, a distinction between intuitive beliefs and
reflective beliefs is made (Sperber 1996, 1997). Intuitive beliefs are beliefs that
one holds without having to reflect upon them. Reflective beliefs are beliefs
that you are taught or have derived by conscious reasoning (Harrison 2015: 25);
for instance, divine retribution is an idea one might reach at when seeing a
person suffering a misfortune very well matched to the crime they are guilty
of (Harrison 2000, Chapter 3). Reflective belief might then be something one
reaches by inference on the basis of one or many intuitive beliefs. Such in-
tuitive beliefs may be transmitted to somebody by the meaning of rituals or
stories. It is not that uncommon that the beliefs one has reached by inference
may contradict each other, as they are actualised in different contexts and may
have different functions (Harrison 2015: 26–27). Even if the above discussion
to a large extent has been focused on the propositional side of religious belief,
the emotional aspects should not be neglected. Too often, I assert, ancient reli-
gions have been under-intellectualised whereas, for instance, Christianity has
been over-intellectualised. In order to know what we in the following discus-
sion will mean by “leaving religion,” we have to determine how the category
religion would relate to mystery cults and magic.
According to the paradigm that until recently has dominated the study of
ancient Greek religion, the communal rituals that took place in the city con-
stituted religion for the ancient Greeks (Kindt 2012: 1–35). Although this view
has brought many valuable insights of socio-economical character, it has con-
cealed many other important aspects of religiosity that have adhered to the
private sphere and locations other than the ancient Greek city (polis). Investi-
gations as that of Kindt (2012) have put the polis-centred paradigm into ques-
tion. Moreover, a part of the critique consists of analyses showing that magic
and religion were far more intertwined than what has been earlier recognized
(Kindt 2012: 90–122). I am inclined to go one step further and propose that
one rather than continuing to use the categories of religion, mystery cults and,
magic should expand the category of religion in order to include the other two
categories in it. On this basis, I will use the term religion in a more inclusive
way than normally.
It is clear that the ancient Greeks did not use a term equivalent to religion
(Needham 1972). However, our lack of an emic equivalent to religion does
not make it useless to apply an etic term for analytical purpose (Versnel 2011:
548–551). The Greek phrase that has caught most attention in the discussion is
nomizein tous theous, carrying many meanings and can be translated “acknowl-
edging the existence of the gods,” “to worship the gods according to the cultic
46 Magnusson

tradition,” or just “to accept the gods in the normal way” (Parker 2011: 36; Ver-
snel 2011: 552–558; Sedley 2013: 139–140). Harrison remarks (2015: 23) that the
above suggested interpretations of nomizein tous theous are tightly related to
the particular context in which it is used. In the Apology of Plato 26c, however,
we have the first obvious example in which the verb nomizein clearly carries
the meaning of “believing in the existence of gods,” but the other meanings
seem to be represented in that context as well.

“…these very gods about whom our speech now is speak still more clearly
both to me and to these gentlemen; for I am unable to understand wheth-
er you say that I teach that there are some gods, and myself then believe
that there are some gods and am not altogether godless and am not a
wrongdoer in that way; that these, however, are not the gods whom the
state believes in, but others, and this is what you accuse me for; that I
believe in others or you say that I do not myself believe in gods at all and
that I teach this unbelief to other people”(Plato’s Apology 26c, translated
by Harold North Fowler).

In what follows the quoted passage, the accuser of Socrates states that it is to
believe that there are no gods that is on stake. Hence, the use of atheos in that
passage means “atheist” in the modern sense rather than, at that time, com-
mon meaning of “godless” (Sedley 2013: 139).
Another important concept is the Greek asebeia. The meaning covers the
significance of the English “impiety” but seems to have a broader range. Good
relations to the gods, the family, and the society in general was crucial to most
Greeks. When somebody in speech or act risked the harmony in those rela-
tions, such dangerous behaviour and/or speech was labelled asebeia (Bowden
2015: 325–336). To sum up, the ancient Greeks used the term nomizein to refer
to the propositions of the beliefs as well as for proper conduct in regard to di-
vinities. Moreover, the term asebeia refers to unacceptable cultic conduct and
asocial behaviour in general. We thus need to ask ourselves to what extent did
the ancient Greek religion differ from a religion as for instance, Christianity,
that often has been seen as dogmatically centred?

3 Historical Developments

If we exclude conversions, the leaving religion in antiquity is a non-existing

field of research. However, I argue that there are reasons to alter this situation.
Admittedly, however, there are many obstacles for the scholar who embarks on
the journey of exploring the leaving religion in ancient times. To begin with,
Leaving Religion in Antiquity 47

the sources are scant. Therefore, we will focus on Athens in the fifth century
bc, since that is a time with relatively abundant material to investigate. From
that era, there are reports of persons who have later been considered as athe-
ists. Nevertheless, there is not a single example of a person whom the majority
of scholars have held to be an atheist. It is telling that the one who reads the
chapter of atheism from the Pre-Socratics to the Hellenistic Age in The Oxford
Handbook of Atheism (Sedley 2013) learns that atheism was a “recognizable if
rare stance” (Sedley 2013: 150). Although many persons have been reported as
atheists, there is no scholarly consensus according to which a certain person is
held an atheist. This can be explained by how risky it would be to openly ques-
tion the religious cult (Sedley 2013: 142, 144, and 147).
A resembling position is taken by Bremmer (2007) in The Cambridge Com-
panion to Atheism. Atheism was never practiced, and theoretical atheism
adhered to a small intellectual élite (Bremmer 2007: 11 and 19). According to
Bremmer, the vast majority of people were embedded in an extremely reli-
gious society and never even thought of the possibility that gods may not ex-
ist (Bremmer 2007: 11). I side with Bremmer, Sedley, and the vast majority of
scholars who stress that there is no evidence of practiced atheism in the sense
of not taking part in religious cults. This is natural in a society in which the
majority of people believed that cultic conduct was necessary for the society
to sustain and thus would have seen as abstaining from taking part in the cult
as a serious danger to all. But I claim that theoretical atheism means that one
might mentally leave religion without practicing abstaining from taking part
in the cult—this was far more common than hitherto has been thought. I also
argue that somebody who was widely recognized as a theoretical atheist could
nevertheless enjoy public high esteem.

4 Major Controversies and Significant Case Studies

Initially, we need to discuss to what degree beliefs in the ancient Greek religion
can be accepted or rejected. Since enlightenment, the notion that people of
old days did not critically question their own religion has been very influen-
tial. According to this master-narrative, the sceptical and scientifically-based
reflection of religion generally only adhered to the modern human of the en-
lightenment and to those who followed that tradition (Stark 2015: 1–5). People
who held that religions had ceased because of the scientific project that start-
ed with the enlightenment have used this discourse. This line of thought has
been very strong and influenced the secularisation debate in the sociology of
religion. Many of the founders of different theoretical perspectives in this field
embraced an evolutionistic worldview according to which, religion would be
48 Magnusson

replaced by science and ethics. Representatives of such a view were August

Comte (1798–1857), Karl Marx (1818–1883), Émile Durkheim (1858–1917), and
Max Weber (1864–1920) (McKenzie 2017: 3–10).
In the 1930’s, the thoughts of classical sociologists of religions were sup-
ported by studies of how Europe was more and more de-Christianised. Here,
Gabriel LeBras can be mentioned (McKenzie 2017: 10). Thus, secularisation not
only meant that religion had diminished in the public sphere of society but
also described how religion in general gradually lost its significance in the pri-
vate sphere. Proponents of this view from the 1960’s were Brian Wilson, Peter
Berger and Karel Dobbelaere (McKenzie 2017: 10; Stark 2015: 4–5). Modern pro-
ponents of this view, such as Steve Bruce, have refined and defended this view,
well aware of the different challenges this theory has faced (Bruce 2011).
From the 1980’s, however, this position was questioned by scholars such as
Rodney Stark, William Sims Bainbridge, and Roger Finke (Stark and Bainbridge
1985; Stark and Finke 1992, 2000). According to these scholars, the old churches
of Western Europe have lost their importance. This observation, according to
them, does not mean that religion is about to disappear but is rather undergo-
ing transformation and revitalisation. Nowadays, however, many sociologists
of religion take up intermediate positions and avoid predicting the future of
religiosity. It would be impossible to summarise the views of different theorists
in the scope of this chapter, but McKenzie 2017, especially 11–28, provides an
overview of the discussion.
I assert that the secularisation debate has influenced the view of ancient
religions as well. According to the classical paradigm of sociology of religion,
antiquity was characterised by a very high degree of uncritically accepted and
foremost ritualistically orientated religiosities. I hold this as an important
factor if we want to understand why theories on ancient Greek religion de-
veloped, according to which ritual played a predominant role, almost to the
extinction of the study of ancient Greek myth in the history of ancient Greek
religion (Bremmer 2014: 537–538). Ancient Greek myths were indeed studied
but just at the fringes of history of ancient Greek religion. This state of affairs
prevailed until the 1960’s (Bremmer 2014: 538).
In the case of Robertson Smith (1846–1894), for example, the theoretical
point of departure seemed very sound. He stressed that in order to understand
ancient religions, one should do away with the concept of one’s own—in his
case, not forcing ancient religions into patterns of the Christianity of his time
and place. Consequently, Robertson Smith, very much in line with the evo-
lutionistic way of thinking at the end of the nineteenth century, contrasted
ancient people to the preconceived more intellectually minded Christians of
his day (Bell 1997: 161–162; Harrison 2015: 21).
Leaving Religion in Antiquity 49

But seeing Classical Athens as a place with a low degree of intellectual de-
bate regarding religion is of course untenable. For instance, in book ten of The
Laws, Plato criticises views asserting they are widespread in Athens, probably
in the latter half of the fifth or of the former half of the fourth century bce.
He mentions three views that the Athenian speaker in The Laws claims were
widespread in his city. According to the first view, there is no god (886d2–3);
the ­second assertion is that gods are uninterested in what people do (899d8–
900b3); and, according to the third claim, gods can be bribed by sacrifices
(905d4).
Of course, the pioneers of the study of religions, who to a degree far higher
than the average scholar of today, were well versed in the Classical Greek lit-
erature and well acquainted with book ten of The Laws and other relevant ex-
amples. Both being aware of the lively debates in Classical Athens and, at the
same time, asserting that ancient Greek religion was ritualistic and without
intellectual dimensions must have caused problems. A way out of this intel-
lectual dilemma of the nineteenth century scholars, and for surprisingly many
contemporary scholars as well, has been, and to some extent still is, to iden-
tify themselves with the intellectual giants of Classical Athens and construct
a huge gap between the intellectual élite and the masses who are often held
responsible for not reflecting on religious matters. According to Lloyd-Jones
(1971: 148), the imagined enlightenment of Classical Greece was a product of
an unconscious identification of scholars of the last quarter of the nineteenth
century. To the present day, such an identification has led scholars and artists
astray when interpreting ancient Greek religion and drama (Lefkowitz 2016;
Harrison 2015: 21–23). According to that line of thought, intellectual reflection
on religion of ancient Greeks would be atypical and constitute a threat to the
normative and supposedly ritualistically centred religion of Classical Greece.
With this background in mind, it is easier to understand how leading scholars
have both succeeded in bringing much new knowledge about rituals of the
ancient Greek religion and, at the same time, misunderstood the importance
of belief for the ancient Greeks. For a scholarly giant as Walter Burkert, for
instance, Greek religion consisted in communally authorised practices. Al-
though Burkert was a leading expert on mystery cults, these cults together with
magic were seen as marginal phenomena, if at all included in the category of
Ancient Greek religion (Burkert 1985).
In what follows, I side with a recent trend in the study of ancient Greek
religion in which, the stereotype consisting of strictly regulated rituals con-
trasted to a virtually non-existent intellectual side is challenged. (Kindt 2012:
1–11; ­Osborne 2015; Kearns 2015; Harrison 2015; Eidinow et al. 2016). As Osborne
(2015) and Kearns (2015) remark, both ritual practice and belief-system were
50 Magnusson

far more flexible than usual. But how should we then conceptualise the an-
cient Greek religion?

5 Major Texts

The date of Euripides’s drama Heracles is not certain. According to the stylistic
analysis (Barlow 1996: 18), scholars often date it to the middle of his productive
time, 420–415 bce. For a well commented translation of the text, I recommend
Barlow (1996). The play opens as Heracles is away from home performing his
labors. Meanwhile, Lycus, the tyrant of Thebes, persecutes Heracles’s family. In
the eleventh-hour Heracles returns. As his family tells him that Lycus had sen-
tenced them to death, he kills Lycus. But in the moment of triumph, the tables
turn. On behalf of Hera, goddesses Lyssa and Iris arrive, telling that they have
come in order to drive Heracles mad so that he kills his own family (830–832).
In a hallucinatory stage of madness, Heracles kills his family, believing that it
is his enemy Eurystheus who he has defeated. Finally, Pallas Athene stops him
and puts him in a deep sleep (1002). The only surviving member of his family
who escaped is his earthly father, Amphitryon; after all, Zeus was Heracles’s bi-
ological father. Amphitryon ties Heracles with ropes so that he and Heracles’s
friend Theseus can talk to the despairing hero and persuades him to not com-
mit suicide (1351). At the end of the drama, Heracles decides to join Theseus on
his journey to Athens.
How then would we interpret the drama? A lot seems to depend on the
general view of the particular scholar on Classical Athens. As the literature on
Euripides’s drama Heracles is vast, I will delimit myself to follow the discus-
sions of two leading scholars. Barlow (1996) represents a tradition of interpret-
ing Euripides as a thinker who challenged the traditional religion of Archaic
and Classical Greece. Lefkowitz (2016), however, opposes such interpretations
and describes them as products of the modern scholar who has problems un-
derstanding ancient times. In her book, (1996) Barlow sees Classical Athens as
an environment in which traditional and more authoritarian values adhering
to earlier times are challenged.
“By classical times the art form was emancipated, and the authors free to
change traditional treatments, criticise even the divine figures and some-
times, as Euripides did, show radical…scepticism about the gods, their mor-
als and even their very existence. This is all the result of a…creative meeting
between two worlds – the archaic, traditional, aristocratic, heroic world of…
myth, and the newer contemporary values of the democratic, highly social city
state where the…ordinary citizen’s views counted in the general reckoning of
Leaving Religion in Antiquity 51

­ uman conduct and achievement, and where contemporary thinkers were

h
questioning moral and theological issues” (Barlow 1996: xvi).
For her part, Lefkowitz describes the Greeks of Classical Athens as people
who take it for granted that the gods do not care for or pity human beings.
This is something that mankind simply has to accept; she sees no indication of
people being opposed to such view (Lefkowitz 2016: 11–12). Let us now turn to
their respective interpretation of the drama in question.
Barlow (1996: 8) notes that goddess Lyssa is reluctant to inflict madness on
Heracles, as she sees him as pious and a benefactor to gods and the mankind
(849–854). This, according to Barlow, is aimed at under striking Hera’s destruc-
tive nature (1996: 8). It is in this light that Barlow reads Heracles’s question
as Hera triumphantly dances on Mount Olympus to celebrate her success in
making Heracles slaughter his own family, “Who could pray to such a goddess?
Out of jealousy for a woman loved by Zeus she destroyed the saviour of Greece
who was guiltless” (1307–1308). Thus, according to Barlow, Heracles does not
question the existence of gods but questions worshipping them (1341–1346).
It is not only Hera who is criticised in this drama. Zeus, the father of Hera-
cles is described as a fake father who cannot take care of his own son (339–347;
1087–1088; 1127). Instead, Heracles recognizes Amphitryon’s virtues by stating,
“I consider you as my father, not Zeus” (1265).
But relations between persons are not at all unproblematic according to our
drama. When Heracles comes home and understands that his family is in dan-
ger, he asks why his friends did not help his family. His wife Megara replies,
“Who is friendly to a man in trouble?” (558–560). At the end, however, it is Her-
acles’ friends Amphitryon and Theseus who rescue him and give him strength
in life despite him killing his family. Finally, Heracles declares, “Whoever wants
to acquire wealth or power rather than good friends is a fool!” (1425–14266).
Lefkowitz and Barlow agree that Heracles does not say that there are no
gods. The drama rather describes a harsh reality where gods have power over
mankind without moral obligations. But Lefkowitz does not agree with Bar-
low that our drama provokes the audience to think that the traditional wor-
ship is questionable: “There is no reason to suppose that anyone in the original
audience would have been persuaded by Heracles” outburst to abandon tra-
ditional religious beliefs or practices” (Lefkowitz 2016: 54). Additionally, she
stresses that there are many passages in Heracles in which the gods are praised:
735–739, 772–7780, and 811–814 (Lefkowitz 2016: 55). In that context, Lefkowitz
argues that Euripides could have used those passages to prove that he was a
pious person in the case of having been accused for impiety. I rather would
say that such passages equally well could be explained by seeing Euripides as
a clever theoretical atheist who did not want to be put on trial for impiety.
52 Magnusson

I assert that the drama expresses a sharp critique of the public cult as well as of
personal worship of gods. Although it is uncertain how many trials for impiety
that actually took place in the fifth century bce, I hold that there were reasons
for a person as Euripides to be cautious. Bauman (1990) goes through the very
problematic source-critical issues and argues that many trials actually took
place. After all, Socrates was sentenced to death for impiety.

6 Key Figures

As I have tried to show in the previous part, Euripides is one of the most fa-
mous tragedians of world history and, at the same time, a person that we know
very little about. He was probably born in the latter half of the 480’s bce and
died at approximately 406 bce. He seems to have spent most of his life in
Athens where he was a renowned composer of tragedies. In some of Aristo-
phanes’ comedies, Euripides is closely associated with Socrates. Both Socrates
and Euripides are described as crazy persons who by their lofty thoughts put
the traditional Gods into question (Lefkowitz 2016: 26–28). It seems, however,
that it is mostly Aristophanes’ depiction of Socrates and Euripides that has
coursed the views of later writers on Euripides (Lefkowitz 2016: 24–35). Of
course, Aristophanes’ Socrates and Euripides are persons intended for people
to laugh at, and we should not build biographies on such basis. Nevertheless,
Aristophanes’ probable exaggerations sit well together with the view of Athens
that Plato presents in the tenth book of The Laws. Athens was a city in which
traditional religion was questioned, and the existence of gods sometimes was
put in doubt.
However, opinions are divided regarding Euripides’s own views on religion
and even on how his dramas should be interpreted. Although there is no sign
that he upheld a public office in Athens, he must have been held in high es-
teem due to his dramas and broad knowledge in many intellectual fields. He
probably did not have a happy married life, but it is hard to say much about
what it really looked like on the basis of the many slanders about it (Scodel
2017: 31). There are reasons to assume that he was famous both in Athens and
worldwide (Scodel 2017: 27–29). Because of this, he was on one hand envied
and on the other served as the ambassador for his city (Scodel 2017: 33–35). My
assumption is that Euripides was known as a theoretical atheist; this may have
hindered him from taking on public positions in Athens but did not stop other
states from accepting him as their ambassador (Scodel 2017: 40) nor from being
rewarded for his drama in Athens.
Leaving Religion in Antiquity 53

7 Conclusion

The trend today is to stress that questioning religion and developing theology
in ancient Greece is far more widespread as opposed to previously. Eidinow
(2016) provides valuable discussions on how and why we actually can talk of
theology in archaic and Classical Greece. The views of religion in Classical
Athens, I would say, were much more diverse than what has been previously
recognized and that makes room for the occurrence of atheism as well as deep
personal devotion. I have not had the scope to discuss many thinkers other
than Euripides who may have discarded the ancient Greek religion. I have re-
ferred to overviews as Whitmarsh (2015) who presses far in his endeavour to
investigate whether there have been more atheists than assumed. It goes with-
out saying that Euripides and persons such as Prodicus, to mention a few, were
members of an intellectual élite (Mayhew 2011). However, in accordance with
the new paradigm in the study of ancient Greek religion, I would say that ques-
tioning and reflecting on religions adhered to more than a few intellectuals in
past times as well. In order to discard religion, however, one had to be willing
to take risks. I hope that the present overview and discussion can open new
perspectives and stimulate future research, not only of Classical Athens and
Greece but also of the leaving religion in antiquity in general.

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 Chapter 5

Leaving Judaism
Lena Roos

1 Introduction

According to halakhah, Jewish law, there are two ways of becoming a Jew: ei-
ther by being born of a Jewish mother or by converting. Hence, being Jewish
does not necessarily involve any particular beliefs or practices. From the point
of view of the halakhah there is no way for a Jew to leave Judaism, regardless
of s/he was born a Jew or converted. Although a person may formally and ritu-
ally convert to another religion, according to the halakhah s/he remains a Jew
(Ben-Sasson et al. 2007: 275). That said, it is clear that there is great variety
in how this seemingly clear-cut rule can be interpreted, as will be discussed
below. Some of those who have left Judaism and joined religions, identify as
adherents of their new faith and no longer see themselves as Jews. Others
maintain dual identities, for instance as Jewish Buddhists or Jewish Muslims.
Still others claim never to have left Judaism, but are not recognised as Jews by
mainstream Judaism, like the Jesus-believing Messianic Jews (Cohn-Sherbok
2000; Kollontai 2004).

2 Key Terms

In spite of the principle “always a Jew,” the many different terms referring to
those who have formally left Judaism, either by renouncing Judaism or by join-
ing another religion, show that such individuals have nevertheless been seen
as constituting a category of their own, separate from other Jews. The etymolo-
gies of these words also indicate various understandings of a person who has
left Judaism. Perhaps the most neutral term is mumar, which comes from a
root simply meaning “to change.” Another frequently used term is meshum-
mad. This is related to the Hebrew word shmad, meaning “forced conversion,”
“persecution” or even “utter destruction.” Hence, a meshummad is a person
who has converted under duress, not out of conviction, and could be expected
to return to Judaism if given the opportunity (Ben-Sasson et al. 2007: 275). This
term is often used, for instance, during the persecutions and forced conver-
sions of the Middle Ages. If a meshummad repents, s/he should be allowed

© Lena Roos, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_006

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
56 Roos

back into the Jewish community, although some halakhic authorities require
that certain symbolic acts of repentance be performed. These acts might be
for instance the confessing of one’s sin and repentance of it in the presence of
three rabbis, or immersion in a mikveh, a ritual bath, as in the case of converts
to Judaism (Ben-Sasson et al. 2007: 276; Endelman 2015: 26).
During the Hellenistic period the Greek term apikoros (“heretic”) appears. It
is first used in the Mishnah (Sanhedrin 10.1) as one of the groups of Jews who
have lost their share in the world to come. The word had two related mean-
ings: 1. One who no longer follows the commandments. 2. One who ridicules
the Torah and those who follow the Torah (Rabinowitz 2007: 255–256, for an
extensive discussion, see also BT Sanhedrin 99b–100a). Maimonides defines
an apikoros as someone who denies prophecy, or revelation, or that God has
knowledge of the actions of human beings (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Tes-
huvah 3:8).
Other terms include kofer (“denier”) and poshe’a Yisrael (“transgressor of Is-
rael”; “rebellious Jew”) (Ben-Sasson et al. 2007: 275). In the Talmud a kofer is
someone who points out contradictions between Biblical texts (BT Sanhedrin
39a–b). Maimonides defines a kofer as someone who denies the divine inspira-
tion of the Torah or the authority of the oral law, or who claims that the Torah
has been superseded (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Teshuvah 3:8).
Clearly, however, leaving a religion does not always imply conversion to an-
other. It can also mean ceasing to be religious altogether. Since Judaism is less
concerned with faith than practice, in most cases this would signify ceasing to
practice Judaism as outlined in the halakhah: keeping kosher, saying the daily
prayers, resting on the Sabbath, following the rules of sexual purity and so on.
Doing so would not make a person any less Jewish in the eyes of the halakhah,
merely sinful as s/he would be failing to follow the commandments. What
makes the situation even more complicated in the case of modern Judaism is
that the Hebrew adjective dati (“religious”) often means specifically O­ rthodox
or ultra-Orthodox. This means that terms commonly used to describe such
­individuals require a bit of explanation. For instance, the acronym datlash,
short for dati lesheavar (“formerly religious”) refers to a person who has left
(ultra)-Orthodoxy but not necessarily Judaism altogether, desiring rather to
practice it according to his/her own understanding. Another term for this is
ex-frum, using the Yiddish word frum (“pious,” “observant”), which usually re-
fers to (ultra)-Orthodox (Kissileff 2014).
Another expression that can denote those who leave Orthodoxy is yotzim le-
sheʾelah (“those leaving to question”), a term reminiscent of the classical term
for those who do the opposite, namely become Orthodox, chozrim bitshuvah
(“those returning in repentance”) (Shaffir 2000: 271).
Leaving Judaism 57

3 Historical Developments

Although both Islam and Christianity prohibit forced conversions, these have
occurred in periods of persecution, for instance as during the First Crusade
in 1096, or the Almohad invasion of the Iberian Peninsula in the twelfth cen-
tury. Many of these conversions were, however, temporary, and the forced
converts returned to Judaism as soon as possible (Roos 2003, 2006). Yet there
were also Jews who converted who remained in their new faith, some of these
even becoming famous for trying to convince their former co-religionists to
follow them. One famous example is the man known as Hermannus quondam
Judaeus (“Hermann, formerly a Jew,” a twelfth-century German Jew), an auto-
biography of whose conversion has been preserved. According to this work,
before his conversion Hermann used to have debates on the Hebrew Bible with
Christian theologians, but what, in his opinion, does make Jews want to con-
vert to Christianity are the prayers of pious Christian women, the love Chris-
tians show to Jews and the good example of righteous Christian living (Roos
2006: 53). Another well-known convert was the Dominican Paul Christian, who
delivered a number of forced sermons for Jews in Spain, and who was further-
more the Christian adversary of the Jewish scholar Nachmanides at the famous
Barcelona disputation of 1263 (Roos 2015). The thirteenth century was also the
period when the Christian church began systematic attempts at converting
Jews (Endelman 2015: 27). The sources do not allow of any attempt to quantify
the numbers of Jews that converted either to Islam or to Christianity, given
that Jewish sources tend to downplay the numbers, and non-Jewish ones to
exaggerate them. In addition to that, Jewish rabbinic sources like the Responsa
literature tend to deal with particular cases that did not follow standard pat-
terns, and hence called for special attention. It is therefore hard to know how
representative such cases are for conversions in general (Cohen 1987: 23).
It is clear that in some settings these “New Christians” remained a separate
group, one not considered entirely sincere by the “Old Christians.” The most
well-known case of this is of course in the Iberian Peninsula, where for gen-
erations Jewish converts to Christianity could be suspected of secretly prac-
ticing Judaism, and thus might face persecution by the Inquisition. Indeed,
in some cases this was true, and it is known that, in Spain and its colonies in
the Americas, a number of families who had been subjected to forced conver-
sion maintained Jewish practices, a group in scholarship usually referred to as
crypto-Jews (Kunin 2009).
During the Enlightenment, most Christian Enlightenment thinkers were
critical of Christian persecution of Jews throughout history. Although Enlight-
enment thinkers may have contributed to the emancipation of the Jews, this
58 Roos

did not mean that they had a favourable view of the Jewish religion, which they
considered to be equally full of superstition as Christianity, and argued had
no place in the life of enlightened persons (Heinemann et al. 2007: 214). Their
arguments do not, however, seem to have convinced many Jews to abandon Ju-
daism or religion altogether. In post-Enlightenment Europe, many Jews chose
to embrace Christianity as part of assimilating into majority society. Others
remained Jews but secularised and non-practicing ones. Some of the converts
were motivated by religious conviction, others by other factors. Even so, it is
clear that many of them were still regarded as Jews by Christians around them
even after converting (Endelman 2015: 12). During certain periods, including
the last decades of the nineteenth century, this attitude is related to increased
hostility towards Jewish emancipation and integration (Endelman 2015: 101).
During this period, the desire to convert could often be linked to age and career
choices. The relative rate of conversions differed from region to region, but in
general it was mainly the young and those wanting to enter new professions–
the academy, media, civil service, law, the arts–who converted. Those who
stayed in the traditional Jewish world of commerce at various levels had little
to gain from conversion to Christianity (Endelman 2015: 125). It is impossible to
generalise when it comes to gender and conversion. In contexts where women
were excluded from many aspects of Jewish life, for instance traditional stud-
ies, and were therefore more exposed to the non-Jewish surroundings, they
were often more likely to convert. But in middle-class Jewish settings, where
the women were less likely to work or socialise outside Jewish circles, they
were less likely to convert than men, since they too had less incentive to do so
(Endelman 2015: 133–137).
As well as those who converted for religious or pragmatic reasons were
those who were influenced by the growing nationalism of the late nineteenth
century. The same nationalism that nourished early Zionism also fostered a
feeling that in order to be able to embrace Deutschtum, for instance, or Magyar
nationalism, one had to become Christian (Endelman 1987: 15).
In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, there were plenty of
Christian missionary organisations devoted to converting Jews to Christianity.
After the Holocaust many of these have ceased to exist or changed their fo-
cus to Jewish-Christian dialogue. Today Christian missionary activity towards
Jews is mainly limited to various evangelical/fundamentalist Christian groups,
some Messianic Jewish, some not (Endelman 1987: 17–18. See for example Cha-
risma News on evangelizing Jews, McGuire 2015; Chosen People Ministries; The
Church’s Mission among Jewish People; Light of Zion and One for Israel).
An interesting development since the 1960s, especially in the US, is a stream
of Westerners that in one way or another have adopted Buddhism, especially
Leaving Judaism 59

in the forms of Zen Buddhism. People from Jewish backgrounds are overrep-
resented in this category and are often referred to as JuBus or JewBus (Jewish
Buddhists) (Gez 2011: 45, 52). One of the reasons suggested why Buddhism has
proved attractive to Jews dissatisfied with Judaism is that, unlike with Chris-
tianity and Islam, Judaism had no previous history of enmity or competing
claims with Buddhism (Gez 2011: 56). Another reason may have been that it
offered a form of spirituality and an understanding of the nature of the world
that was acceptable for post-Holocaust Jews who were asking difficult ques-
tions about why God had allowed the Holocaust to happen (Gez 2011: 58ff).
One of the problems in gauging the numbers of Jewish adherents of Bud-
dhism is that standard Western surveys presume that a person only belongs
to one religious tradition, whereas many of those who taught Buddhism to
Westerners in the second half of the twentieth century stressed that their
teachings were compatible with affiliation with other religions as well (Gez
2011: 52). In some cases, studying and practicing Buddhism seems to have led
to an increased practice of Judaism as well, sometimes at the instigation of
the teachers of Buddhism. This is especially interesting as many Jewish Bud-
dhists came from secular background (Gez 2011: 54). What could be perceived
as a way of leaving Judaism, can be understood from another perspective as a
way of returning to Judaism. Similar patterns can also be found among Jews
in the West who has embraced Islam through Sufi movements (Sorgenfrei
2013).
As stated above, however, leaving Judaism does not have to mean joining
another religion; it can also mean leaving Orthodoxy or becoming secular.
Recently there has been an increase in research into this phenomenon. This
movement is not an insignificant one, as is attested by the number of autobi-
ographies of individuals who have chosen this path, the ex-frum or datlashim
(Ross 2014; Halberstam 2011). Interestingly, rather than merging into other cat-
egories such as progressive or secular Jews, this group seems to maintain a dis-
tinct identity, (Blum, 2015). Yehuda Mirsky, a scholar who has studied the group
notes: “the difference between Datlashim and ordinary religious defectors is
that Datlashim want their children to be Datlashim, too.” (Mirsky 2012).
Leaving ultra-Orthodoxy, however, can be a complicated process (Davidman
2014). The men, especially, having concentrated on traditional Jewish subjects
in most of their schooling have few skills that would render them employable
in the outside world. In addition, these individuals are leaving a communi-
ty which is very supportive of its members, and may find it difficult to cope
on their own. Studies have shown that an added difficulty is that, since even
to contemplate leaving Orthodox practice is perceived as a grave sin, often a
person having such thoughts finds him/herself without anyone with whom
60 Roos

to ­discuss these matters (Shaffir 2000). Hence the support of other datlashim
and of organisations such as New York-based Footsteps can be vitally impor-
tant. Similar organisations include U-vaharta and Hillel in Israel, Mavar and
GesherEU in the UK and and Forward in Canada. These provide counselling,
peer support, education and career programs to facilitate the adjustment to
life outside the ultra-Orthodox community.

4 Major Controversies and Significant Case Studies

One major controversy in modern times has been how the halakhic authorities
should regard the group referred to as “Messianic Jews” or “Hebrew Christians,”
that is, Jews that believe that Jesus was the Jewish Messiah. This is a heteroge-
neous category, containing some groups that stand quite close to traditional
rabbinic practice, and others, mainly in the US, that are more charismatic and
closer to evangelical Christianity (Cohn-Sherbok 2000; Kollontai 2004).
Most Jewish authorities do not recognise Messianic Jews as Jews on vari-
ous grounds including that Jesus’s teachings were contrary to Jewish faith and
practices, or that for those who consider his teachings compatible with rabbin-
ic teachings, he was not the Messiah. Another reason is that the Messianic Jews
are seen as embracing beliefs that have been used to oppress Jews throughout
history, for instance the view that Christians are God’s chosen people. A fur-
ther reason is that Messianic Judaism implies that Judaism is not complete in
itself. This animosity towards Messianic Jews has resulted in Orthodox groups
putting pressure on authorities to deny Messianic Jews the Right of Return (the
right to emigrate to Israel), and in attacks on Messianic Jewish establishments
and homes in Israel (Kollontai 2004).
Another reason why the Messianic Jews are controversial is that at least
some of the groups actively proselytise among Jews, something that is still very
contentious in the Jewish world, because of the long history of the Christian
mission to the Jews. In Israel and elsewhere, there are a number of Jewish or-
ganisations that work to prevent and counteract missionary activities directed
towards Jews and also intermarriage. The oldest is Yad Lʾachim (“A hand to
brothers”) founded in 1950. More recently founded is Jews for Judaism. Its name
resembles that of Jews for Jesus, one of the most important evangelical Messi-
anic Jewish missionary organisations (Kollontai 2004). One final anti-mission
organisation is Outreach Judaism. The activities and resources provided by
these organisations testify to the continued effort of various missionary groups
to proselytise among Jews and to the perceived need of Jewish organisations
to counteract this.
Leaving Judaism 61

Another controversial issue in connection with this is intermarriage. In

Orthodox Judaism intermarriage is not permitted, and for a Jew to marry a non-
Jew would thus amount to him/her leaving Judaism. More progressive forms
of Judaism have taken a more positive stance on intermarriage. For example,
in 2015 the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College decided that it would admit
and graduate students who are in interreligious relationships, even r­ abbinical
candidates (“Reconstructionist Give Green Light to Intermarried Rabbinical
Students,” 2015).
One of the most controversial cases concerning Jewish identity and conver-
sion was the case of Oswald Rufeisen (1922–1998). Rufeisen was born a Jew,
but converted to Christianity and subsequently entered the Carmelite order in
1945. Before his conversion he had been a member of the Zionist youth move-
ment, and he clearly retained this connection to the State of Israel, because in
1962 he appealed to the Israel High Court to be granted Israeli citizenship un-
der the Law of Return which grants the right to citizenship to all Jews. Rufeisen
(or Brother Daniel, by then) claimed that right as he still considered himself
part of the Jewish people, despite having become a Catholic Christian. This
longing for the Holy Land was also, he states, the reason why he had chosen a
monastic order and a chapter in Israel. His request, however, was refused. The
reason given was that although he was still considered a Jew from the point
of view of the halakhah, the Law of Return was based not on halakhah but
on Jewish national/historical consciousness and the ordinary secular meaning
of the term “Jew” as understood by Jews. According to this understanding, a
person who had willingly converted to another religion was not a Jew. In addi-
tion, recognising Brother Daniel as a Jew would be tantamount to denying the
spiritual values that Jews of all ages had died for when they refused to give up
their religion (Ben-Sasson et al.: 2007, 273).
In its modern interpretation, the understanding of the Law of Return
­appears to be based upon the general notion of Jewish identity, rather than
halakhic definition of who is a Jew, since children and spouses of Jews, for ex-
ample, despite not fulfilling the requirements of the halakhah, have still been
granted the right of “return” (Lent 2010).

5 Major Texts

As stated above, according to the Talmud it is impossible for someone to cease

to be a Jew, even if s/he is completely non-practicing and even converts to an-
other religion (BT Sanhedrin 44a). The thirteenth-century sage Nachmanides
attributes this to Deuteronomy 29:14 which states that the covenant between
62 Roos

God and Israel was made “with him that stands here with us today before the
Lord our God and also with him that is not with us here today” (Nachman-
ides ad loc). This also means that a child born of a Jewish mother, even if she
has left Judaism, is considered a Jew (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Ishut 4:15).
A marriage between two apostates or between an apostate and another Jew,
if conducted according to the Jewish rite, is considered valid according to
halakhah (BT Yevamot 30b; Shulchan Aruch, Even Ha-ezer 44:9). Even so, the
texts suppose that the party who remains within Judaism will prefer to divorce
the apostate spouse (Isserles, Moses on Shulchan Aruch, Even Ha-Ezer 140:5;
154:1). All of this applies equally to converts to Judaism (BT Yevamot 48a).
Most of the classical commentaries agree with the position stated above,
that a Jewish apostate remains a Jew. This would not be Judaism, however, if
there were not dissenting voices. Maimonides, for one, claims that individuals
that have left Judaism voluntarily are no longer part of the Jewish people, re-
ferring to the verse: “None that go to her repent, nor will they regain the paths
of life” (Proverbs 2:19, Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Mamrim 3:2.). If,
however, an apostate is still considered a Jew, then in theory, should s/he at
some point choose to return to Judaism, no particular rite would be neces-
sary. Nonetheless, some authorities have required that an apostate confess his
sins, repent and promise to follow the halakhah henceforth (Ben-Sasson et al.
2007: 276). The sixteenth-century sage Moses Isserles claimed that returning
apostates should undergo a purifying bath in the mikveh, just like converts to
Judaism (Isserles on Shulchan Aruch, Yore Deah 268: 12)
Such reasoning even continues into twentieth century Reform Judaism, ac-
cording to a responsum that stresses that most Jews who convert to Christian-
ity mean no harm to Judaism, being rather concerned with their own interests,
such as marrying a Christian or furthering their position in a society with a
Christian majority. Although the Jewish community may not have any respect
for a person who leaves Judaism, the door should always be open for him or her
to return, and if the children of apostates return, no reconversion is required
(“Our Attitude to Apostates”).

6 Key Figures

When we review some of the key Jewish figures who have left Judaism it be-
comes clear that they fall into various categories. One such category is made
up of Jews who joined other religions and became avid proponents of those re-
ligions. A good example is the Dominican Paulus Christianus in the thirteenth
century, who made use of his Jewish background to argue for the supremacy of
Leaving Judaism 63

Christianity from Jewish sources. From the point of view of Orthodox Judaism,
some Messianic Jews would also fall into this category – organisations like Jews
for Jesus for example – because of their missionary activities towards other
Jews. Its founder Moishe Rosen came from an Orthodox Jewish background,
and first took an interest in Christianity in order to be able to refute the argu-
ments of his Jewish wife who had become interested in Christianity. Both of
them eventually converted and Rosen became a key figure in evangelical cir-
cles that evangelised Jews in the 1950s, -60s and -70s before founding his own
organisation in 1973. Throughout his life he kept many Jewish customs such as
fasting on Yom Kippur and hosting Passover seders (Fox 2010).
Another category contains those who simply left Judaism, embracing other
faiths and from then on considered adherents of those religions. Most of these
individuals have, quite naturally, gone unnoticed, especially in periods when
conversions were common. Others have achieved notoriety. Within this cat-
egory Shabbetai Zevi (1626–1676) stands out. Shabbetai Zevi was the leader,
and designated Messiah, of the largest messianic Jewish movement in the
modern era. The movement was deeply influenced by Kabbalah, especially in
its Lurianic variant, which originated among the Early Modern Jewish mystics
of the town of Safed. A central tenet of this movement was that all Jews were
able to contribute to the process of restoration and redemption and thereby of
hastening the coming of the Messiah. In 1666 Shabbetai Zevi travelled to Con-
stantinople, apparently with the aim of deposing the sultan. Once there he was
imprisoned by the authorities, and while in prison he was presented a choice
between death or conversion to Islam. He chose to convert. This was naturally
a disappointment to many of his followers, although some of them developed
a doctrine that explained how this had all been part of a greater messianic plan
(Scholem 2007).
A final category contains those that have formally converted to another re-
ligion, but where some disagreement exists as to whether or not they should
still be considered Jews. One example from this category is the Catholic monk
Oswald Rufeisen discussed above who wanted to claim the Right of Return as
a Jew, despite having converted to Christianity. Another case that received in-
ternational attention was that of the Carmelite nun St Teresa Benedicta of the
Cross (1891–1942). Teresa was born into an observant Jewish family and began
her life as Edith Stein. Stein pursued an academic career and received a PhD
in philosophy. It is said that it was reading of the autobiography of St Teresa of
Avila that moved her to convert. After holding various teaching positions, she
entered a Carmelite monastery in Cologne. She later transferred to a monas-
tery in Echt in the Netherlands, but even there she was not safe from Nazi anti-
semitism. In 1942, along with other converted Jews in the Netherlands, she was
64 Roos

arrested and transferred to a concentration camp. She was executed the same
year at the Auschwitz concentration camp. She was canonised by Pope John
Paul ii in 1998, and is one of the six patron saints of Europe. There was some
controversy surrounding this process with critics claiming that she had been
martyred because of her Jewish heritage, not because of her Christian faith. The
position of the church, however, was that she was executed as a result of the
stance taken by the Catholic Church in the Netherlands against Nazi antisemi-
tism, and therefore should be considered a martyr of the church (Popkin 2007).

7 Conclusion

Within Judaism there are many different terms that are used to designate what
in theory does not exist: a person who has left Judaism. As is often the case
when Judaism is compared to Christianity or Islam, for example, Judaism does
not fit our notion of what a “religion” should be like. In a society where reli-
gious identity ideally is something that is chosen by the individual, Judaism
stands out as difficult to enter and, in theory, impossible to leave, in much the
same way a person may change his/her nationality but not his/her ethnicity.
It is clear that, in comparison with other religions, the status of a person who
has “left” Judaism is a complicated issue, in comparison to other religions, due
to the fact that the definition of Jewishness is determined not by faith nor by
practice, but by a person’s lineage. Faith and practice can be abandoned, but
lineage remains.

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icles and its Jewish and Christian Background. Turhout: Brepols.
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 Chapter 6

Leaving Christianity
Teemu T. Mantsinen and Kati Tervo-Niemelä

1 Introduction

The body of research on leaving Christianity is expansive, ranging from the

historical and social scientific study of religion to practical theology and re-
ligious education. Just as the array of Christian churches and their nature is
wide, so too is the nature of leaving Christianity varied. This chapter presents
an overview of key aspects regarding leaving Christianity and its major trends
and debates in history. Leaving Christianity is closely entwined with defini-
tions of membership and being a Christian, changing social norms, and codes
of conduct of church officials, but also broad historical socio-cultural changes.

2 Key Terms

Leaving Christianity has many connotations. From the outset, it is important

to make a clear distinction between the terms heretic and apostate. Apostasy,
deriving from the Greek word ἀποστασία (apostasia, a “refection” or “revolt”), re-
fers to a formal disaffiliation or abandonment of religion. According to Chris-
tian faith “apostasy is a wilful falling away from, or rebellion against, Christian
truth… [and] the rejection of Christ by one who has once been a Christian”
(Muller 1985), and an apostate is thus a former Christian who rejects Christian
faith. According to the Dictionary of Biblical Imagery (Ryken et al. 1998: 39),
there are at least four different ways in which the word apostasy is used in the
Bible. It is used in reference to (1) rebellion against (for example Joshua 22:22;
2 Chronicles 29:19), (2) turning away (for example Jeremiah 17:5–6; Judges 2:19),
or (3) falling away from God and Christian faith, the latter being particularly
evident in the New Testament (for example Matthew 7:24–27), and (4) adultery,
which is one of the most common images of apostasy in the Old Testament
(for example Jeremiah 2:1–3). Heretics, however, refer to people holding a devi-
ant theological position or religious practice that is not accepted by the group
and the leaders of the group to which the accused belongs. The word “her-
esy” came into wide use within Christianity through Irenaeus (130–202) and
his ­second-century tract Contra Haereses (Against Heresies) in which he de-
scribed, for example, the Gnostics’ teachings as heretical (Frend 1984: 135–193).

© Teemu T. Mantsinen and Kati Tervo-Niemelä, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_007

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
68 Mantsinen and Tervo-Niemelä

Furthermore, the understandings and connotations of leaving Christianity

are strongly linked to belonging and membership of the church. According to
Catholic understanding, once individuals become Catholics through baptism,
they will remain Catholic unless they commit a sin grave enough to merit ex-
communication. They may become “lapsed” Roman Catholics if they do not
fulfil the obligation to attend mass, although there is no record kept of who
does and does not meet the terms of membership. Regarding the Church of
England, there are at least three ways in which individuals can be said to be-
long to, and also leave, the Church. Firstly, all inhabitants in England belong to
the Church of England unless they choose to belong to another denomination
or religion or otherwise reject membership. Secondly, individuals may be said
to forfeit Anglican Church membership if they do not receive communion at
least three times a year, although no record of this is kept. Thirdly, those listed
on the church’s Electoral Roll can be regarded as members. In this case, leaving
means letting one’s name drop off the Electoral Roll, for example, by not at-
tending mass or by missing the chance to fill out a certain form (Richter 2000:
21–22). The definition of membership is clearest in churches that have formal
registered membership. This is common in countries where certain churches
and religious groups have a right to levy taxes. In such cases, a member can be
simply defined as a person who is a registered member of a church who pays
church taxes. This is the case in many European countries (including Austria,
Denmark, Finland, Germany, Iceland, Italy, Sweden and some parts of Switzer-
land), although there are also problems linked to this definition.
As the above suggests, it can be difficult to arrive at a clear definition of
church leaving. For example, Richter and Francis (1998; Richter 2000: 24) used
church attendance rather than membership when comparing church leav-
ing in different denominations. They adopted Dean R. Hoge’s definition of a
church leaver as a person who has reduced his or her church attendance to
less than six times a year (excluding Christmas, Easter, weddings and funerals)
(Johnson et al. 1993; Richter and Francis 1998; Richter 2000: 34). However, in
some countries church attendance has always been low. Therefore, the vast
majority of registered church members would be categorised as church leavers
according to this definition. Therefore, leaving Christianity needs to be defined
separately in each case and in its historical context.

3 Historical Developments

Cases of leaving Christianity during the first century of Christianity are often
dismissed and poorly documented. However, two issues are noteworthy in
Leaving Christianity 69

early Christianity. Firstly, deviant religious groups (such as the Gnostic move-
ments, Marcionists and Montanists) were labelled heretics by the church au-
thorities. Local church laws and canonical laws were often formed to dictate
how to distinguish and manage those deemed as heretics (Van de Wiel 1991:
36–72). Secondly, the persecution of early Christians in the Roman Empire
prompted a debate on how to deal with those who denied Christ. Some church
leaders, such as Tertullian (155–240), considered fleeing persecution as aposta-
sy. This caused some to fear apostasy when facing torture (Moss 2012: 108, 155).
Later, Eusebius (275–339) favoured forgiving those who rejected Christ during
persecution, in contrast with “heretical” Novatian (200–258), who denied re-
entry of relapsed believers to the church (Oropeza 2000: 8).
In medieval Christian Europe, the distinction between a heretic and an
apostate was important also for legal reasons. However, the word apostate had
multiple meanings in the Canon Law of the Catholic Church. It could refer to
leaving the faith (apostasia a fide), or religious life, such as a monastic order
(apostasia a religione). Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) distinguished apostasy as
abandonment of the faith (a fide), abandonment of clerical state (ab ordine),
and abandonment of monastic life (a monachatus). Furthermore, the most
common referent of apostate was fugitive, not someone leaving Christianity
per se. Apostasy was often referred to as treason and rebellion, and punished
by excommunication from society and the Church, and loss of wills and pos-
sessions (Riesner 1942; Oropeza 2000: 10–12).
A heretic in medieval Europe was foremost a person whose practice of
Christianity was deviant; doctrinal issues were secondary or later construc-
tions. A heretic had a chance to repent and return to the accepted practices
of the Church. In the case of relapse, punishments were more severe. Apos-
tasy of faith was seen, beyond heresy, as a total rejection of religion, meaning
essentially the Church, or switching, for example, to Judaism. Witchcraft was
depicted, for example, by Johannes Nider (1380–1438) as a fundamentally he-
retical act of apostasy. In England, blasphemy, atheism and heresy were pun-
ishable by death between 1400–1677 (Kolpacoff Deane 2011: 219–220; Zagorin
2013; Välimäki 2016).
Following the Reformation, the term heretic was used to denote any kind of
apostasy or switching religion, that is anyone who had a belief different to the
dominant group (Hunter et al. 2005: 4). Moreover, what followed was a frag-
mentation of Western Christianity, enabling also internal movement, leaving
institutions, and switching churches.
The Reformation enabled territorial rulers to choose the official religion
of their domain in Western Europe. The Peace of Augsburg (1555) treaty
and its statement cuius regio, eius religio, essentially meant that the religion
70 Mantsinen and Tervo-Niemelä

of the ruler would be the religion of their subjects. In some areas, a coexis-
tence of competing religions was accepted. The Transylvanian Diet’s Edict of
Torda is considered the first legal guarantee of religious freedom in Christian
­Europe, although with restrictions. In 1558, the Edict declared free practice of
both Catholicism and Lutheranism, although Calvinism was prohibited until
1564. In 1568, the freedom was extended: four denominations (Catholicism,
­Lutheranism, Calvinism and Unitarianism) were named as accepted denomi-
nations, while other denominations (such as the Orthodox Churches, Sabba-
tarians and Anabaptists) were tolerated churches, which meant that they had
no legislative power, but they were not persecuted. In the Union of Utrecht
(1579), freedom of conscience and private devotion and worship alongside the
dominant religion was granted in the Netherlands. It allowed complete per-
sonal freedom of religion and is one of the first unlimited edicts of religious
toleration. These earliest laws guaranteed people the personal right to prac-
tice their religion of choice, and to practice or not to practice religion as they
wished.
Tolerance of atheism in Western Europe grew slowly through the enlighten-
ment and modernisation. Apart from the short period of the French R ­ evolution,
change was slow and Christianity remained strong. John Locke (1632–1704) was
one of the early developers of the thought of religious freedom, although he
considered Roman Catholics unloyal in an Anglican England, and atheists a
threat to national morale. National institutions slowly loosened their ties to
Christian churches. The British court of law permitted the testimony of an
atheist in 1869, and parliament accepted oaths without a Bible in 1886 (Zagorin
2013). In European colonies around the world, however, laws were not, or could
not be, necessarily similarly applied. However, missionaries were constantly
alerted by the possibility of natives relapsing into “uncivilised” lifestyles and
syncretism (Barry et al. 2008).
The acceptance of religious freedom for individuals has varied across dif-
ferent Christian groups. In the Roman Catholic Church, the Second Vatican
Council adopted the concept of religious freedom in its Dignitatis humanae
(1965), but continued to oppose complete privatisation of religion and moral
issues (Casanova 1994: 57). Many Protestant and Orthodox churches also have
commitments to religious freedom.
In the twentieth century, the case of state-run atheism in Eastern Europe led
to a massive decline in Christianity in those countries. For the study of leaving
religion this poses challenges. It falls short of voluntary leaving, but merely dis-
missing it as a state-forced apostasy would not be sufficient. Organised secu-
larisation was met with a counter-reaction after the fall of the Soviet Union,
as many returned to the Orthodox Church or other religions. The politics of
Leaving Christianity 71

identity and objectification of religion led to the ethnicisation of religion, not

national apostasy. For example, in Russia the Orthodox Church was a way to
return to the assumed traditional Russian culture (Pelkmans 2009). A similar
reaction was seen, for example, in Albania, which transformed from an atheist
society to a society where 88 percent said they believed in God in 2011 (Ender-
sen 2012).
However, state-run atheism or communist regimes did have a more long-
lasting effect in some countries and regions, such as former Czechoslovakia
and East Germany. The consequences are very visible when comparing reli-
gious belonging, for example, in former East Germany compared to former
West Germany. During the communist era the situation of Christianity was
characterised by an enduring persecution of religious believers by the Com-
munist government of East Germany. In 2010, while only 15% of West Germans
did not belong to a religious community, the figure among East Germans was
68% (Ilg et al. 2010: 51–52).

4 Major Controversies and Significant Case Studies

A controversial debate within Christianity has been the Muslim conquest of

large parts of the Mediterranean world and the degree of freedom of conver-
sion from Christianity to Islam. The story of forced mass conversions to Islam
has prevailed, providing an explanation for why so many left Christianity.
However, the conversion of entire populations was sometimes slow. For exam-
ple, Egypt maintained a Christian majority for six centuries after the change of
power, and Greece remained Orthodox under Ottoman rule (Hermansen 2014).
In other cases, such as nineteenth-century southern Russia, Muslim culture
and historical ethnicity were more appealing than colonial Christianity (Kefeli
2014). Arguably, preferential taxation in favour of Muslims and other practical
matters make voluntary conversion debatable in many cases. In M ­ uslim Spain
(Al-Andalus, 711–1492), large-scale conversion to Islam happened only after
major changes in government, legislation and culture. Umayyad emir Abd al-
Rahman ii (822–852) abandoned the egalitarian Arab style of governance in
favour of the cultural sophistication of the Abbasid court in Baghdad, estab-
lished new courts and state offices, and facilitated conditions for employment.
This cultural revolution and the new professions, opportunities for livelihood,
that it brought led to increasing assimilation into the new Islamic culture, and
eventually to conversion to Islam. The more indigenous Muslims there were,
the more indigenous Christians would convert (Coope 1993; Tieszen 2013,
21–44).
72 Mantsinen and Tervo-Niemelä

An important theological debate of the Reformation was the soteriologi-

cal question of being saved. The Calvinist-Arminian debate in the early seven-
teenth century was, among other issues, a dispute over whether, once saved,
a Christian can lose their salvation and become an apostate. The debate had
its precedent in a debate between Augustine of Hippo (354–430) and Pelagius
(360–420) over irresistible grace versus salvation through faith alone. John Cal-
vin (1509–1564) went further than Augustine, proposing that God has chosen,
that is predestined, people to either salvation or damnation by his sovereign-
ty. Following this logic, there are no apostates since a person leaving Chris-
tianity was not chosen to be a Christian in the first place. Jacobus Arminius
(1560–1609), however, excluded determinism from salvation. For him, salva-
tion is conditional upon living a Christian life, and can be lost. Most Pentecos-
tal and Evangelical groups follow Arminius’ approach, expecting people both
to choose and work for their salvation, although received by grace. Contrary
to the Reformed views, Martin Luther (1483–1546) laid the foundation for the
Protestant approach, which sees people as drawn to evil, and saveable only
by God. This implies that salvation is solely the work of God, and apostasy is
caused by the human nature to be drawn to evil (Demarest 1997; Calvin 2008;
Luther 2008.) However, in Eastern Orthodoxy salvation is considered a free
relationship, and therefore people have the capability to reject God (Carlton
2000).
Two important areas of controversy in Christianity in modern times have
been liberalism and secularisation. Both have been affected by the enlighten-
ment, and scientific, cultural and social developments in the Western world.
The enlightenment was not simply an anti-religious programme, but, among
other things, it was also a development towards a rational and intellectual
approach to religion. However, the age of reason resulted in both secular hu-
manism and religious liberalism. Many early philosophers of the enlighten-
ment were born Christians but became critics or apostates of Christianity. For
William Godwin (1756–1836), the key figure of modern anarchism and famous
atheist of his time, moral and intellectual autonomy defined human beings.
He was influenced by the rational Dissenters, who insisted that just as nature
could be rationally explained, so, too, God had to be explained through human
reasoning alone. The rational approach to religion and society was further-
more a criticism of the monopoly of power of the Church of England. G ­ odwin
further reasoned that man should not surrender to government or religion
(Weston 2013).
The secularisation debate is closely related to the issue of state–church sys-
tems and their dismantling in Europe. However, while the former state church-
es, in particular, have lost members in Europe, Christianity in other parts of
Leaving Christianity 73

the world remains relatively attractive. In 1910 a third of the world’s popula-
tion were Christians (34.8%), and in 2015 nearly a third (31.2%), and the share
is ­expected to remain largely unchanged until 2060 (31.8%) (Pew 2011; 2017).
However, the regional distribution of Christianity has changed and will change
further: whereas in 1910 two-third (66%) of the world’s Christians were Euro-
pean, in 2015 the share was only a quarter (24%) and is expected to decline to
14% by 2060 (Pew 2011; 2017). In contrast, the proportion of Christians in sub-
Saharan Africa is growing (from 9% in 1910 to 26% in 2015 and expected to rise
to 42% in 2060). However, it is important to point out that the major drivers
behind this development are age distribution and fertility, not church leaving
per se. In Europe, the Christian population is relatively old. (Pew 2011; 2017).
However, Christian churches are also the group that is expected to experience
most switching out worldwide: during a five-year period between 2015–2020 a
total of 13 million people are expected to leave Christianity, most of them end-
ing up religiously unaffiliated, particularly in Europe, North America, Australia
and New Zealand (Pew 2017). Following this development, rather than dis-
appearing, the former state churches (Europe) and mainline denominations
(US) are losing their positions of power, and becoming more equal advocates
in the religious, social, and political markets (Berger et al. 2008). These devel-
opments may be challenged by cases such as restoration of Church status in
Poland, and possible reinterpretations of nationalism and Christian roots, as
seen, for example, in Russia.
In Great Britain, the decline in Anglican attendance and membership rates
and the increase in the number of people identifying as non-religious in na-
tional census has prompted debate in Britain and beyond on the role of re-
ligion and religious categorisation. People tend to define their relationship
towards religion more independently than before, which poses the challenge
of defining who is a Christian, compared to popular traditional definitions.
Mainly in relation to the Christian (former) state churches, the current de-
bate strives to grasp how some people believe without belonging or belong
without believing, while others believe in belonging or neither believe nor
belong (Davie 1990; Day 2011; Niemelä 2015; Brown and Woodhead 2016).
Furthermore, religion and spirituality are also increasingly considered to be
“fuzzy,” something that does not fit into the categories of “religious” and “non-
religious” (Voas 2009) or “practicing” and “non-practicing” (Davie 2006). This
means that religion is also increasingly regarded as something that cannot
be interpreted merely by studying and analysing using traditional means and
measures.
Another perspective on why many people, in this case in Sweden, are no lon-
ger identifying as Christians was given by David Thurfjell. He concluded that
74 Mantsinen and Tervo-Niemelä

the case is not so much one of declining religiosity, but a process of ­narrowing
the definition and meaning of being a Christian. According to Thurfjell, the
previous broad definition has been replaced with a stricter definition, favoured
by revivalist groups and individuals. While the Lutheran Church tradition-
ally considers all baptised Christians, the revivalists (including Pentecostals)
expect a personal and active vocation of faith. This stricter understanding
has alienated many cultural Christians away from Christianity and from the
Church of Sweden (Thurfjell 2015).
Contemporary controversies often revolve around areas of sexuality and
gender. The ordination of women to the ministry and changing attitudes and
laws towards sexual minorities have caused a schism between liberals and con-
servatives, alienating people from both sides. These have been regarded among
the biggest transformations in Christianity in the twentieth century (adoption
of female ministry) and in the twenty-first century (increasing acceptance of
same-sex relationships), and have also resulted in disaffiliation from Christi-
anity. For example, in twentieth- and twenty-first-century Finland, the major-
ity of the biggest peaks in church leaving from the former state Church have
taken place alongside the debates regarding the ordination of women and the
registration or marriage of same-sex couples. The debates over abortion and
contraception have also contributed to church leaving (Byron and Zech 2012;
Niemelä 2007).

5 Major Texts

Apostasy and falling away from Christian faith are mentioned in the Bible
mainly in a few concentrated passages of the New Testament. Although
there are similar passages in the Old Testament, these are usually dismissed
by ­Christians as dated laws and social norms of ancient society dealing with
conquering enemies and condemning their “false” gods. According to this un-
derstanding, Christianity begins with Jesus Christ and the old scriptures are
applied in the light of the New Testament. According to the Bible, Jesus was
aware that some of his followers would not last, but fall away. He compared
his message and audience with seed and a farmer’s field: if one’s faith does not
have “roots,” the seed will not grow and will “fall away,” but “those with a noble
and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a
crop” (Luke 8: 4–15).
The Apostolic letters have been used as the foundation for organising
church life and social conduct. In the letters, leavers are depicted as being de-
ceived by sin, and warnings of falling away are constant. In the Letter to the
Leaving Christianity 75

Hebrews (3:7–19; 6:4–8; 10:25–31), the author warns of unbelief, which would
deny a person of their salvation. Furthermore, they claim that “It is impossible
for those who have once been enlightened […] and who have fallen away, to
be brought back to repentance.” One proverb likens the apostate as a dog who
returns to its vomit (2 Peter 2:17–22), illustrating how the Apostles viewed those
who convert and leave.
The Apostolic letters were the first official formulations of group member-
ship and norms of social conduct for a Christian community. One passage by
Paul (1 Corinthians 5:1–5) has been later used as an example of excommunica-
tion. In it, Paul guides the Corinthians to expel a person committed of sexual
immorality, for a limited time, so they could repent and possibly return: “So
when you are assembled and I am with you in spirit, and the power of our Lord
Jesus is present, hand this man over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh, so
that his spirit may be saved on the day of the Lord.”
The ultimate mark of apostasy in the Bible is the sin of blasphemy against
the Holy Spirit. According to Matthew (12:31–32), Jesus said: “Anyone who
speaks a word against the Son of Man [Jesus] will be forgiven, but anyone
who speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in
the age to come.” This passage is often linked with a story in Acts (5: 1–10) in
which a couple tried to lie to the apostles, only to fall dead: “Ananias, how is it
that Satan has so filled your heart that you have lied to the Holy Spirit [—] You
have not lied just to human beings but to God. When Ananias heard this, he
fell down and died.” These two Bible passages have been highly debated, but
also used for social control, mainly in fundamentalist and other conservative
groups outside mainline Christianity.
Another passage, often cited by Pentecostal and Evangelical groups, is “the
great apostasy.” Apostle Paul pleaded with the Thessalonians: “not to become
easily unsettled or alarmed by the teaching […] asserting that the day of the
Lord has already come. Don’t let anyone deceive you in any way, for that day
will not come until the rebellion occurs and the man of lawlessness is revealed”
(2 Thessalonians: 2). According to some Christians, this refers to a period in the
end times when a large number of people will leave Christianity. The great
apostasy has been identified, for instance, by various Pentecostals as, for ex-
ample, the enlightenment and liberalism, the Roman Catholic Church, Islam,
and the Soviet Union. Sometimes it is interpreted that the great apostasy will
be followed by a final revival before the second coming of Christ (Anderson
2013: 165–170).
As previously noted, the persecution of the early Christian Churches
prompted a debate on whether denying Christ under threat of death would
be apostasy. Of the Apostolic Fathers and early writings, Shepherd of Hermes
76 Mantsinen and Tervo-Niemelä

(Parables 26:6) says that it is impossible to be saved if a person intends to deny

Christ, although there is the possibility to obtain later repentance for past sins.
Tertullian saw apostasy as a form of mortal sin (De Poenitentia; De Idololatria;
De Puditicia), criticising the Shepherd. However, Irenaeus (Against Heresies),
while deeming apostates to be under God’s punishment, stated that the apos-
tasy was already judgement in itself, and God would not punish them ­directly –
at least immediately.

6 Key Figures

According to Augustinian theology, Christians cannot be certain of their salva-

tion, despite of free will. Through sin and unbelief, one could lose salvation
(Augustine 2010). Another major theologian, Thomas Aquinas, saw atheism as
a crime against society, since society and the Church were more important
than the individual. Along with many of his contemporaries, he equated apos-
tasy with treason, punishable if not repented of (Aquinas 2002). The contem-
porary Catechism of the Catholic Church (2003) sees apostasy as a full rejection
of Catholic doctrine, and as leaving the Church.
However, Karl Rahner (1904–1984), one of the most influential Roman Cath-
olic theologians of the twentieth century, questions the possibility of absolute
apostasy. According to him, apostasy would not only require denial of Chris-
tian propositions, but also a complete abandonment of any moral realities of
those propositions. In a cultural environment in which Christianity has been
an important source of influence, this is essentially impossible. Instead, Rahn-
er considers those who live in Christian-influenced culture but reject Chris-
tian propositions to be heretics, Christians who have fallen short (Rahner 1966:
486–487). Pope Francis’s (1936–) statement that God has redeemed everybody,
including atheists (Catholic Online 2013), underlines this Catholic understand-
ing of the perseverance of salvation.
The Protestant dispute on perseverance and assurance of salvation is high-
lighted in Lutheran theologian Francis Pieper’s account on perseverance and
apostasy:

What Scripture teaches on final perseverance may be summarized in

these two statements: 1. He that perseveres in faith does so only through
God’s gracious preservation; the believer’s perseverance is a work of
divine grace and omnipotence. 2. He that falls away from faith does so
through his own fault; the cause of apostasy in every case is rejection of
God’s Word and resistance to the operation of the Holy Spirit in the Word.
Leaving Christianity 77

This doctrine the Christian Church must maintain and defend on two
fronts: against Calvinism and against synergism.
pieper 1968: 89

Although the Calvinist view could render predestination and election both
ways, salvation and damnation, Karl Barth (1886–1968), a Reformed theolo-
gian, in his treatment of the question of predestination, reserved predestined
judgement only to Jesus (Barth 1957). Methodists, Pentecostals, and other re-
vivalist- and holiness-background Christians often follow in part the Armin-
ian view on salvation, proposing that the Christ died for all, not only for the
elected. However, Methodist leader Charles Wesley (1707–1788) preached that
it is possible for a person to apostatise in such manner that it is “impossible to
renew them again unto repentance” (Wesley 2001: 149–150). Wayne Grudem
(b. 1948), a Reformed theologian widely respected in the Pentecostal-­
Evangelical field, combines these traditions by considering it more difficult to
discern who is saved than who has become an apostate. In this he follows a com-
mon Revivalist Christian understanding that “faith” or religious conviction can
be evaluated by its outcomes, by its good or bad “fruit.” (Grudem 2000, 156–157.)

7 Conclusion

The history of Christianity is often seen in the light of expansion and pow-
er. However, when examined closely, stories of dissent and apostasy can be
found throughout its history. Early Christianity saw the expulsion of heretics
and ­deniers of Christ during Roman persecution. The Middle Ages witnessed
the expansion of Islam and the gradual apostasy of large geographical parts
of early Christendom. The Reformation and the Enlightenment brought ideas
of secularism and liberalism, which resulted in a decline in Christianity in
­Europe. Other cases and individual developments continue to bring strain and
dissent within Christianity, resulting in apostasy.

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 Chapter 7

Leaving Islam
Christine Schirrmacher

1 Introduction

Looked at from a global perspective, possibly more people than ever are chang-
ing or leaving their religion. At the same time, while it is legally impossible to
leave Islam in all Middle Eastern countries, it is considered to be a punishable
crime under Sharia law, and the death penalty can be applied in a handful of
countries like Saudi-Arabia or Iran. Interestingly enough, the Koran does not
seem to have a clear verdict on apostasy. Muslim theologians hold different
views as to whether Islam favors complete religious freedom or whether the
culprit is unpunishable as long as he does not rock the boat of the community.
Many Muslim theologians still hold to the death penalty.

2 Key Terms

The term for “unbelief” or “non-belief” (Arabic: kufr) is used 482 times in the
Koran. In at least 19 verses it is used in the sense of turning away or falling away
from Islam (Hallaq 2001: 119–122). There is no mention in the Koran of the Ara-
bic term for “apostasy,” which is ridda and irtidād in Arabic.
However, one finds neither in the Koran nor in tradition an unambiguous
definition for when apostasy from Islam (Arabic: al-ruǧūʿ ʿan dīn al-islām or qaṭʿ
al-islām) is unquestionably present, how it can be determined, and ­whether
saying the creed is sufficient in order to avert the charge of apostasy (Griffel
1998: 356). Indeed, there is widespread consensus that apostasy undoubtedly
exists where the truth of the Koran is denied, where blasphemy is committed
against God, Islam, or Muhammad, and where breaking away from the Islamic
faith in word or deed occurs. The lasting, willful non-observance of the five
pillars of Islam, in particular the duty to pray, clearly count as apostasy for
most theologians. Additional distinguishing features are a change of religion,
confessing atheism, nullifying the Sharia as well as judging what is allowed to
be forbidden and judging what is forbidden to be allowed. Fighting against
Muslims and Islam (Arabic: muḥāraba) also counts as unbelief or apostasy;

© Christine Schirrmacher, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_008

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
82 Schirrmacher

likewise, numerous theologians judge apostasy to be a form of battle against

Islam.

3 Historical Developments

Overall, our knowledge about how the topic of apostasy has been dealt with in
Islam in the close to 14 centuries of Islamic history is limited: Apart from few
sources relating to the time of the Middle Ages and the Ottoman Empire, we
primarily have sources at our disposal which are from the early days of Islam
as well as from the 19th and 20th centuries.
Already around the time of Muḥammad’s death in 632 A.D., there arose a
number of Arab voices against Islamic domination which saw themselves only
personally bound to Muḥammad. Fighting erupted under the first Caliph Abū
Bakr, which has gone down in history as the “Apostasy Wars” (Arabic: ḥurūb
ar-ridda). The reason for the outbreak of uprisings has been disputed within
research: For instance, the continued existence of pre-Islamic social structures
is supposed, such that a protective relationship was linked exclusively to an
influential leader (Hasemann 2002: 37). Or was the uprising determined by the
desire to avoid the collection of taxes and to cast off the rulers from Medina?
In such case one would only be able to speak conditionally about the term
apostasy (Hallaq 2001: 120–121).
There are only a few known individual cases of the use of the death penalty
for apostates dating from the 8th century. The reason for this could be that it
was first of all in the course of Abbasid rule from the end of the 8th century
onwards that prosecution and the imposition of the death penalty set in. In the
Umayyad and early Abbasid periods, the defensive measures against apostates
appear to have mostly remained limited to intellectual debates (Cook 2006:
256; 276–277).
From this time, there are only a few individual cases of the prosecution of
apostates which have been handed down: According thereto, Hišām Ibn ʿAbd
al-Malik was executed for spreading Muʿtazilite convictions in 742 or 743. In
784, the Iraqi writer Bašār Ibn Burd was killed on account of apostasy and in
922 al-Ḥusayn ibn Manṣūr al-Ḥallāǧ on account of blasphemy. A number of
additional individual cases have to do with prior Christians, who owing to their
conversion and their subsequent return to the Christian faith were reportedly
executed: Tradition includes the name Kyros and his execution by burning
in the year 769, the execution of “Holy Elias” in 795, the killing of “Holy Bac-
chus” in 806; two additional cases are known from the 10th and 14th centuries
(Khoury 1994: 101–192) as well as a number from Islamic Spain, for instance, in
the 11th century (Wasserstein 1993).
Leaving Islam 83

From the 9th century onwards, a time in which the execution of apostates
becomes historically tangible, complaints become vociferous that the charge
of apostasy set in as a weapon against undesired opponents. For example, Abū
Ḥāmid Muḥammad ibn Muḥammad al-Ġazālī (d. 1111) raged against the ex-
cessive practice of condemning others as “unbelievers” (Arabic: takfīr) among
theologians (Lewis 2002: 144). There are reports from this time about the re-
conversion of prior non-Muslim detainees after their release. The question of
whether it was a matter of heresy was decided by means of questioning those
involved, namely whether they spoke “words of unbelief” (Arabic: kalimāt al-
kufr). For these “words of unbelief,” there existed prior to the 12th century no
exact definition. Since one considered the inner convictions of a person to not
be justiciable, legal experts at that time appear to have generally been more
cautious to judge belief or unbelief (Olsson 2008: 95). For that reason, many
scholars appear to have concentrated more on the political aspect of the ques-
tion, namely whether the involved individual caused revolt and rebellion. It
was believed that such occurrences were able to be more clearly judged.
Tilman Nagel names the Maliki scholar al-Qāḍī ʿIjāḍ (d. 1149) as the first
individual who called for the death penalty for “disseminating improprieties
about Muḥammad or questioning his authority in all questions of faith and
profane life” and, with that, shook the foundation of Muslim community.
Later, the Hanbalite theologian Ibn Taimīya (d. 1328) and the Shafiite scholar
Taqī ad-Dīn as-Subkī (d.1355) followed this reasoning (Nagel 2001: 295). From
the 12th century, especially during the Mamlūk Period (Levanoni 2016), and
then in particular from the 14th century onwards, there are a number of cases
of executions of apostates which have come down in tradition (Cook 2006:
257; 275).
The Ottoman Empire offers a more easily researchable arena as to how apos-
tasy was dealt with. A number of reports are available from the 19th century on
the execution of apostates. This was a time when there was intensive struggle
between the representatives of Western powers and the Sublime Porte (High
Porte) about the justification of these executions. Indeed, the Hatt-i Sharif de-
cree by Sultan Abdülmecid i in 1839 provided all Ottoman subjects with protec-
tion of life, of honor, and of possessions independent of their religion. Strictly
speaking, however, converts were not included. For example, the British envoy
to the court of Sultan Abdülmecid i (1839–1861), Stratford Canning, intensively
campaigned with the support of diplomatic representatives from Austria, Rus-
sia, Prussia, and France at the Sublime Porte for a prohibition on the execution
of apostates. What followed was a long period marked by a diplomatic tug-of-
war: While the British envoy made determined attempts to move the Sublime
Porte to change its laws with respect to the criminal prosecution of apostates,
the Sublime Porte, for its part, sought to be as decided in not giving in to the
84 Schirrmacher

urging and straitjacketing by the envoys of Europe. In the end, Sultan Abdül-
mecid granted a decree to Stratford Canning in which the Sultan, over against
the High Porte, stated that he would support the High Porte’s preventing the
prosecution and execution of apostates (Deringil 2000: 556; 559).
Cases of the execution of apostates reported out of Egypt are also known
from the 19th century, such as, for instance, the killing of female apostates
from the years 1825 and 1835 (Peters and De Vries 1976: 13). After that, there
appear to have been very few cases of execution for apostasy from the next
150 years which are known about (exceptions are, for example, the stoning of
Ṣaḥibzādah ʿAbd al-Laṭīf [1903] and Maulawī Niʿmat Allāh after converting to
the Aḥmadīya movement in Afghanistan [1924]) (Ahmad 1989: 16).
It was not until the 20th century that the topic of apostasy developed a new
dynamic: Theologians increasingly drafted tracts and papers in which the use
of the death penalty for apostasy was called for while at the same time most
Muslim majority states in the 20th century, in the course of nation building,
formulated constitutions affirming religious freedom. Only in the fewest of
these constitutions is apostasy from Islam taken to be a criminal offense; it can,
for example, be punished in Saudi Arabia with the death penalty (although
the country has no constitution), in Yemen, Mauretania, and in Iran. However,
apostasy from Islam in the public sphere is now predominantly interpreted
as a political offense, and there are more than a few position statements con-
demning it as an action endangering the state which has to be immediately
halted.
Since Sharia law in the 20th century has been limited to family law for the
majority of the states in the mena region, a legal charge on account of apos-
tasy is only possible in those few states which have codified Sharia law into pe-
nal law. Resourceful protagonists, however, have occasionally taken the way of
efforts of a ḥisba legal action (as, for instance, in the case of the Koran scholar
Naṣr Ḥāmid Abū Zaid in Egypt in 1993) under the pretext of wanting to protect
the Islamic community from the political offense of revolt. It was not until 1996
that there was a law prohibiting individuals from bringing a ḥisba legal action
before a court due to alleged apostasy by a third party. The sole exception has
to do with the plaintiff’s being able to credibly demonstrate a personal and
direct interest in the legal action (Bälz 1997: 141).
Traditionally, apostasy counts as a capital offense (ḥudūd offense) accord-
ing to Sharia law. Nowadays, this classification is viewed critically by an in-
creasing number of theologians. Up to the present day, the legal imposition of
the death penalty for apostasy is possible where Sharia law has been codified
in penal law. However, in Muslim majority countries or states characterised
by Islam, public apostasy from Islam has social as well as legal consequences:
Leaving Islam 85

Apostasy is frequently viewed socially as a disgrace, treason, and a scandal. Be-

ing ostracised and cast out of the family are possible results, as are the loss of
one’s employment and in dramatic cases persecution and the use of force up to
the point of attempting to seek to kill the apostate, incarcerate the individual,
and to torture the individual (Marshall and Shea 2011: 61). Legal consequences
can be disinheritance (since according to Sharia law non-Muslims are not al-
lowed to inherit from Muslims), forced divorce (since according to Sharia law
a Muslim female may not be married to a non-Muslim man), or having one’s
own children and the custody of those children taken away (since according to
Sharia law Muslim children may not be raised by non-Muslims).

4 Major Controversies and Significant Incidents

There are essentially three main positions within Islamic theology today when
it comes to the question of religious freedom. There is a liberal or progressive
position, which advocates complete religious freedom, including the right of
being allowed to leave Islam. There is a restrictive position, which basically
rejects religious freedom for Muslims and which seeks to penalise criticism
of Islam or its progressive interpretation with the death penalty. Finally, there
is a centrist or moderate position, which a majority of theologians might be
considered to support today.
Supporters of the restrictive position cite texts from the early days of Islam
when justifying the death penalty, for instance Muḥammad’s call to kill apos-
tates as well as the tradition of the companions of the Prophet and caliphs who
report cases of beheading and crucifixion. Since over the course of the history
of theology the call for the death penalty for apostasy formulated in the early
days of Islam has not been declared to be invalid, and since the principle jus-
tification of punishment of renegades had essentially never been placed into
question by influential committees of scholars using a historical hermeneuti-
cal approach, recourse to texts from the early days of Islam have remained an
acknowledged instrument for abstracting guidelines for dealing with apostates
in the 20th century.
Nowadays, representatives of the liberal position likewise refer to texts from
the early days in order to justify complete religious freedom. They point to
texts within tradition which report on Muḥammad’s rejection of punishment
of apostates as well as Koran verses, such as Sura 2:256, which deny “compul-
sion in religion.” In the course of their defusing the guidelines for the execu-
tion of apostates, they differentiate between theological and political concerns
with respect to the topic of apostasy. Indeed, according to the opinion of the
86 Schirrmacher

majority of representatives of this position, it is also neither desirable nor is it

meaningless with respect to the assessment of the individual in the Last Judg-
ment. Nevertheless, it is not to be subject to punishment. Punishment, they
hold, would contradict what is for them the intrinsic principle of free will.
Since it is held that the Islamic community is not threatened by what is in total
a low number of apostates, the prosecution of individual apostates in the early
days of Islam cannot be taken as a guideline for dealing with those who change
religions in the present day.
In contrast, the centrist or moderate position advocates freedom of belief
for Muslims, which exclusively means internal thoughts. At the same time,
freedom to openly confess adherence to another religion or to no religion is re-
jected. On the one hand, there is a warning against premature allegations and
calls for execution of those whose apostasy is not unambiguously provable. On
the other hand, however, it advocates execution as an obligatory action accord-
ing to Sharia law in the case of proven apostates who make their turning away
from Islam public. In the same way as representatives of the restrictive posi-
tion, they condemn turning away from Islam as a political offense that brings
unrest into the state and society and causes revolt.
The following three contemporary examples illustrate that it is often dif-
ficult, if not dangerous, to leave Islam in Muslim majority societies around the
world. The first example of Yousef Nadarkhani demonstrates that in Iran the
charge of apostasy, punishment, and incarceration also applies while there is
no written law in the constitution which forbids converting to another religion.
The second case of Farag Foda from Egypt illustrates that the said apostasy has
been interpreted as a public crime by some members of society, holding that a
court case is not a necessary requirement for punishing an “unbeliever,” where-
as the third case of Mohammad Younus Sheikh from Pakistan shows that his
continuing confession that he has remained a Muslim believer has not been
seen as relevant with respect to his being charged with apostasy.
The pastor Yousef Nadarkhani, a convert to the Christian faith and the pas-
tor of an underground Protestant Iranian church, was initially imprisoned in
2006 and then again in 2009 and 2012 on account of apostasy. In a judgment by
the First Chamber of the Revolutionary Court on September 22, 2010, Nadark-
hani was sentenced to death by hanging for “the dissemination of non-Islamic
teaching” and “apostasy from the Islamic faith.” On June 28, 2011, the sentencing
was confirmed by the Third Chamber of the Supreme Court in Qom. Gholama-
li Rezvani, the Vice Governor of the Gilan province, labeled pastor Nadarkhani
a “zionist” who was “guilty of corruption and had committed high treason.”
Iranian media labeled him a “rapist,” “burglar,” and an “extortionist.” At the be-
ginning of July 2011, Nadarkhani’s prior lawyer Mohammad Ali D ­ adkhah had
Leaving Islam 87

been sentenced to receive lashes, 9 years of imprisonment, and a 10-year occu-

pational ban as a lecturer and lawyer as well as being sentenced to pay a fine.1
In September 2012, Yousef Nadarkhani was surprisingly set free, supposedly
not least because of numerous international press reports and political advo-
cacy in that same year. However, a short time later, he was again arrested, alleg-
edly on account of some sort of irregularity. After being released again, Yousef
Nadarkhani continued to work as a pastor but was permanently harassed by
the Iranian authorities and eventually incarcerated again. In July 2017, he was
sentenced to ten years of imprisonment and subsequently two years of exile
1,200 miles away from his hometown and family.
Nadarkhani was arguably the first convert in whose case the Iranian jus-
tice system openly named “apostasy from Islam” as the reason for its death
sentence in 2010. Earlier converts were officially charged with other offenses,
such as “spying” or “drug dealing.” In the case of Mehdi Dibaj in 1994, he was
detained for years, but was reportedly never given a reason for his arrest. He
was then abducted in the middle of the street and later found dead (Sana-
sarian 2000: 124f.). Since 1996, due to a change in the penal code, insulting
Muḥammad is indeed threatened with the death penalty but up to now the
Iranian penal code does not contain any paragraph explicitly calling for the
death penalty. On the contrary, Iran, by signing the International Covenant on
Civil and Political Rights, has taken on the obligation of guaranteeing freedom
of thought, freedom of conscience, and freedom of religion.
Another significant incident was the author and intellectual Farag Foda. He
was murdered by two members of the al-ǧamāʿa al-islāmīya group on June
8, 1992 in Cairo. This occurred after he had already been openly accused of
apostasy and unbelief for some time by various individuals. He had also been
challenged by renowned representatives of Islamism in rebuttal of his view-
points, which had a secular orientation (Soage 2007: 26). Among these were,
for instance, his assertion that the application of Sharia law and the imitation
of the habits and customs of the early days of Islam were an ineffective way of
improving the numerous social problems in Egypt (Fūda 2003: 31). The free-
dom of opinion, democracy, an improved legal position for the Coptic minor-
ity as well as the separation of religion and politics were some additional items
he called for.
Foda’s murder was preceded by a fatwā by the chairman of the al-Azhar
fatwā committee on February 1, 1990, which generally rejected the application

1 International Society for Human Rights (ishr): https://www.igfm.de/youcef-nadarkhani/;

https://www.igfm.de/news/article/irans-bekanntester-pastor-zu-zehn-jahren-haft-
verurteilt/ (November 17, 2017).
88 Schirrmacher

of ḥadd punishment for apostasy (Najjar 1996: 6). However, two years later, on
June 3, 1992, a second fatwā was issued which contained a personal vilifica-
tion of Foda, threats, and his condemnation as a blasphemer and apostate.
This had been instigated by a group of Azhar scholars. Foda was murdered
five days later in broad daylight. Due to the lack of criminal legislation for the
case of apostasy, the responsible members of the al-Azhar faculty would not
have been able to have themselves carried out the execution of this individual
whom they viewed to be guilty, and they would not have been able to move
the state to apply the death penalty on account of apostasy. However, owing to
their office and based on appealing to their religious authority, they personally
convinced the hired assassins, as one of them confessed in his later hearing,
that Foda’s murder had been a religious duty (Rubin 2006: 1).
In the subsequent trial of Foda’s murderer before the Supreme State Securi-
ty Court in Cairo, Muḥammad al-Ġazālī was asked for a statement. In his state-
ment, al-Ġazālī called for excluding every apostate from the community, his
condemnation to death by the ruler as well as the unconditional enforcement
of ḥadd punishment. He continued that an individual who prematurely kills
the apostate arguably commits an act of unauthorised “assumption of author-
ity,” but Islam does not stipulate a punishment for that. This assumption of
authority only repairs the “shame” that exists in the fact that state power does
not enforce the appropriate punishment.
al-Ġazālī used disparaging wording when he spoke about the apostate, say-
ing that Foda was “acting like a germ in society,” who “spits out his poison and
urges people to leave Islam” (Fähndrich 1994: 56) as Foda did not keep his fla-
grant unbelief for himself. Rather, he proclaimed it publicly and, with that said,
according to al-Ġazālī, undermined Islam, which in the final event promotes
Zionism and colonialism (O’Sullivan 2003: 107).
The Egyptian scholar Muḥammad Mazrūʿa expressed himself more aggres-
sively, indicating that the killing of Foda was necessary for maintaining the
Muslim community since the state apparently was not willing to act. For that
­reason, the defendants were not guilty (Mazrūʿa 1994). Indeed, what followed
was a court case against Foda’s attackers and their subsequent condemnation
and execution on account of murder, but there were also public demonstra-
tions which showed unconcealed delight and support for the offenders.
A third case is Dr. Muhammad Younus Shaikh, a physician educated in
Pakistan and Great Britain and a professor of anatomy at the Homeopathic
Medical College in Islamabad, a human rights activist. As the founder of the
­movement The Enlightenment, he expressed his rejection of Pakistani support
of “freedom fighters” in Kashmir (Hassan 2008: 29) on October 1, 2000 at a con-
ference of the South Asia Union. He declared himself in favor of recognising
Leaving Islam 89

the present line of demarcation between Pakistan and Kashmir as an inter-

national border, whereupon a high-ranking member of the Pakistani military
who was present is said to have made blatant threats against Shaikh.
Only a few days later, he was suspended from his position at the Homeo-
pathic Medical College, and on that same evening one of his students with a
close tie to the Pakistani government filed a complaint on account of blasphe-
my according to § 295-C. He supposedly made “blasphemous remarks” about
Muḥammad (International Humanist and Ethical Union 2004). According to
the complaint, he was arrested on October 4, 2000 despite testimony to his in-
nocence. The “Movement for the Finality of the Prophet” group led a mob onto
the street, which threatened to set the College and the police station on fire
(Marshall; Shea 2011: 98). Younus Shaikh initially remained in solitary confine-
ment until August 2001 (according to official information this was for his own
protection). However, after nearly 11 months of imprisonment, the Islamabad
Additional District and Sessions Court sentenced Shaikh on August 18, 2001 to
the payment of 1 million Rupees and to death. In the course of the appeal pro-
ceedings, the High Court in Rawalpindi rejected his request for release against
bail on January 1, 2002, supposedly in order to protect him from execution in
broad daylight.
In July 2002, after an additional 15 months of solitary confinement, new
hearings were conducted in connection with the case. There was no lawyer
who dared to come to Shaikh’s defense. On October 9, 2003, around three years
after the indictment, the court finally judged that the first instance court’s de-
termination was incorrect. However, Younus Shaikh was not released. Rather,
the case was referred back to the lower court. In November 2003 there were
three hearings appointed: On November 21, 2003, after more than three years
of imprisonment and the loss of his entire livelihood, the defendant was se-
cretly released on the grounds that his accusers had made false accusations. He
immediately received asylum in Switzerland since there was a fatwā calling for
his assassination (Schirrmacher 2016: 110–112).

5 Major Texts

A number of verses in the Koran appear to leave the freedom of choice to indi-
viduals in questions of faith, for example when Sura 2:256 formulates it as fol-
lows: “Let there be no compulsion in religion.” Additional verses call believers
to forgive those who solicit leaving the faith (for example, Sura 2:109), even if
departing from the faith is unambiguously referred to as “straying” (arab. ḍalla)
(Sura 2:108). These and quite a number of additional verses in the Koran warn
90 Schirrmacher

of the error of heresy but do not name a punishment the heretic has to face in
this world. However, the majority of them warn of the punishment of hell in
the next world (Sura 4:115), God’s anger, and his punishment or “the curse of
God, of His angels, and of mankind” (Arabic: laʿnat allāh wa-ʾl-malāʾika wa-ʾn-
nās) (Sura 3:87): God will not forgive the apostate (Sura 4:137). However, when
Sura 2:217, for instance, disapproves of misleading other people to apostasy as
more serious than killing a person, even here the consequence mentioned is
exclusively a punishment in the next life and not worldly judgment.
Sura 9:74 makes an exception insofar as the threat of a “grievous penalty in
this life and in the Hereafter” (Arabic: ʿaḏāban alīman fi ʾd-dunyā wa-ʾl-āḫira) is
found, but admittedly this “penalty” is not concretely defined. Also, Sura 4:88–
89 speaks of hypocrites (Arabic: al-munāfiqūn), who desire that everyone were
as unbelieving as they are. After that, there is the call to “seize” and “slay” those
who turn away (Arabic: fa-ḫuḏūhum wa-qtulūhum); Sura 9:11–12 also admon-
ishes believers to fight those who have come into the Muslim community and
then, however, “violate their oaths” (Arabic: nakaṯū aimānahum).
On the basis of this ambiguous textual finding, those who advocate religious
freedom as well as those who reject it call upon the Koran (and tradition).
Advocates of religious freedom argue using Sura 2:256 (“Let there be no com-
pulsion in religion”) as well as the Koran’s disapproval of turning away from
­belief and the certainty of God’s punishment of the apostate. They also use the
Koran’s lack of mention of a process for determining apostasy nor mention of
a punishment in this world. In addition, they say that according to reports of
tradition, Muḥammad himself pardoned apostates and did not execute them
(Friedmann 2003: 125; 131). To model his example would in their view mean to
likewise not condemn apostates nowadays.
Advocates of the death penalty for apostasy argue, in contrast, by using vers-
es such as Sura 4:89 (“… but if they turn renegades, seize them and slay them
…”) as well as by using texts found in tradition, which in the case of “apostasy”
(Arabic: ridda) depict the execution of apostates in the early Islamic commu-
nity and expressly call for the enforcement of the death penalty for apostasy.
The text, quoted exceedingly conspicuously, is traceable back to Muḥammad’s
dictum: “Whoever changes his religion, kill him” (Buḫārī) (Arabic: man bad-
dala dīnahu fa-ʾqtulūhu). However, this counts as only one text conveyed by
a single conveyor of tradition (ḥadīṯ al-aḥad) and thereby does not belong to
those texts with undisputed authority.
Other texts, which have been cited to justify the legitimacy of the death pen-
alty, are, for instance, an account traced back to Ibn ʿAbbās as well as to ʿĀʾiša,
according to which Muḥammad allowed the execution of an individual who
had separated himself from the community and had turned his back on Islam
Leaving Islam 91

(Buḫārī, Muslim). The ḥadīṯ text is traceable back to Buḫārī, in which the blood
of a Muslim is allowed to be shed in only three cases, namely due to apostasy
from Islam, adultery, and the killing of an individual which was not blood re-
venge. The text is often quoted in this connection. A number of the texts name
beheading by the sword, crucifixion, and banishment (Nasāʿī) as permissible
forms of execution and punishment, although the burning of non-believers
and heretics (Buḫārī) by Muḥammad’s cousin and son-in-law, ʿAlī, was disap-
proved of by Anās b. Mālik.

6 Key Figures

Abdullah Saeed (b. 1960), professor of Arabic and Islamic studies, was born
on the Maldives. His school education was completed in Pakistan, and the
first portion of his studies, up to the receipt of his B.A. in Arabic and Islamic
Studies, was completed in Saudi Arabia. In 2004, with his brother, the former
Attorney General of the Maldives, Hassan Saeed, he wrote Freedom of Reli-
gion, Apostasy and Islam (Saeed and Saeed 2004), in which he makes an em-
phatic call to revise the apostasy legislation found in classical Islamic law and
in which complete freedom of religion is justified from Islamic source texts.
Abdullah Saeed’s significance lies in his widespread activity in a number of
countries in Asia, to which his numerous invitations, conference addresses as
well as his publications on the three continents of Europe, Australia, and Asia
bear eloquent witness. Additionally, the fact that he consults the Australian
government with respect to questions of integration of the Muslim minority
and publishes domestic studies in cooperation with various governmental in-
stitutions means that his expositions have international reach.
On the basis of his numerous as well as influential offices held around the
globe, the large number of book publications of around 120 titles, his fatāwā,
articles, public addresses, sermons, and his broad teaching and consulting ac-
tivities for various banks and financial institutions, his enduring media pres-
ence with his own television program on Al Jazeera and his extensive use of
the internet with a number of his own websites, Yūsuf al-Qaraḍāwī (b. 1926)
counts as perhaps the most influential living Sunni theologian of all. He per-
manently promotes his method of interpretation of “centrism” and “mod-
eration” (wasaṭīya and iʿtidāl) and thus offers Muslim youth, in the Western
­diaspora in particular, a paradigm for behavior and identity which marks him
off not only as a theologian but also as a socio-political personality who en-
gages himself in a very targeted manner in current debates and markets his
positions on what is “forbidden” (ḥarām) and what is “allowed” (ḥalāl) with a
92 Schirrmacher

sense of significant authority and media impact. In his book ǧarīmat ar-ridda
wa-ʿuqūbat al-murtadd fī ḍauʾ al-qurʾān wa-ʾs-sunna (The Crime of Apostasy
and the Punishment of Apostates in the Light of Koran and Sunna) (al-Qaraḍāwī
1996), al-Qaraḍāwī takes a middle path. On the one hand, he does not distance
himself from instruction to apply the death penalty to apostates anchored in
Islamic law. On the contrary, he emphasises that administering capital pun-
ishment, as it is particularly formulated in tradition and as it was applied by
Muḥammad as well as by the companions of the Prophet, is not a negotiable
issue when it comes to the protection of society. On the other hand, however,
he links certain conditions to imposing capital punishment for apostasy and
emphasises that the execution of an apostate is not possible in every case and
not without careful investigation. His moderation in relation to the punish-
ment of apostasy thus lies in his conceding the possibility that in certain cases
an apostate is not to be executed if it is a matter of the forum internum, the
innermost, non-justiciable area of freedom of thought and of conscience of an
individual which is not visible to the outside.
Abū l-Aʿlā Maudūdī (1903–1979) was one of the most influential Islamic
intellectuals, ideologues, and theologians up to the present today. His work
on the topic of apostasy, murtadd ki sazā islāmī qānūn mēṉ (The Punishment
of the apostate according to Islamic Law) (Maudūdī 1942/43), is dedicated to
addressing the question of the maintenance and the secure continuation of
the Islamic state in which Islam is meant to be the sole identity and founda-
tion of the legal system and legislation. This Islamic state is, from Maudūdī’s
point of view, threatened from the outside – above all through the invasion of
Western powers. However, it is also threatened by the ideologies which ma-
terialism, and godlessness propagate. However, the community of the “pro-
tected persons” (Arabic: ḏimmī) does not present a danger if its members
remain within their own limited area where they are free to move. But the
case of dealing with apostates is essentially different: These individuals have
decided to rebel. For that reason, the topic of apostasy for Maudūdī is in the
first instance not a religious or a theological question but rather, above all, a
politically motivated, deliberate attack on the Islamic state. Given, Maudūdīs
thinking, the apostate is dangerous and a pathogenous bacillus that spreads
its “poison” thus ­inducing the destruction of society. Therefore, the apostate
is not to be tolerated; within a period of one year, the apostate either has
to be forced to migrate or be executed. The apostate, from Maudūdī’s point
of view, has given up his nationality and can claim no rights – also not the
right to life. Maudūdī made no difference between the quiet doubter and the
open propagandist with newly won views. He did not differentiate between
personal freedom of belief and publicly practicing religious freedom and re-
ligious adherence.
Leaving Islam 93

7 Conclusions

The large majority of Muslims do not hold the opinion that the Koran explic-
itly demands the application of the death penalty for apostasy, whereas at the
same time the sunna reports traditions of Muhammad where he is said to have
condemned apostates to death. Sharia law makes the death penalty obligatory
for those who voluntarily and willfully leave their religion, although capital
punishment seems to have been applied only in rare cases throughout history.
Today, there are three major positions among Muslim theologians: One minor-
ity consists of those who are openly advocating complete religious freedom,
while another minority consists of those who deem the death penalty nec-
essary under all circumstances. A majority are those who advocate religious
freedom of the inner heart but forbid open propagation of changing or leaving
Islam. In cases where converts or “liberals” are threatened with violence, the
power factor seems to overlap with the theological discussion.

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 Part 2
Case Studies

∵
 Chapter 8

Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation

Michael Stausberg

1 Introduction

Leaving one religion, and in its place committing to another one, tends to
appear as two sides of one coin, or as two steps in one process. Conversion
narratives typically emphasise dissatisfaction with and imperfections of the
former and the superiority of the new religion respectively. Another model of
conversion is the adoption of a religious self-assertion by previously religiously
uncommitted persons who discover religion and a religion; or, alternatively,
the dissolution of a religious identification and the adoption of a non-religious
one;. for example, former religious believers now profess new identities as
humanists or atheists. Leaving religion, however, is not the same as leaving a
religion.
In this chapter, we will consider the case of a public person who decided to
leave Hinduism, the religion he was thrown into by birth in colonial Western
India. The decision to leave this religion, however, did not emerge in the pro-
cess of converting to another religion, nor did he leave religion altogether – in
fact, he did not profess to be non- or anti-religious but he found religion use-
ful and necessary. Apparently, he was not tempted to create a religion of his
own making. Instead he proceeded to adopt some already extant religion, but
this protracted or retarded quest for the religion he would adopt went on over
several decades. The religion he and several hundred thousand of his followers
adopted eventually, Buddhism, was being remade in the process. The person is
question was Dr. Bhimrao Ambedkar (1891–1956), often hailed as the ‘father of
the Indian constitution’.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material (Biographical Outline)

The life and work of Ambedkar has previously been discussed, for example,
by Djananjay Keer (1971), Gauri Viswanathan (1998), Johannes Beltz (2005),
­Cristophe Jaffrelot (2005), and Pandey Gyanendra (2006), from historical, an-
thropological, sociological and political science perspectives (see also Jondhale
and Beltz 2005). This chapter presents a biographical sketch of Amdebkar

© Michael Stausberg, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_009

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
100 Stausberg

[based on Keer (1971); Jaffrelot (2005); Zelliot (2013)] and analyses the back-
ground and reasons for his decision to leave Hinduism, and his adoption of a
new religious identity. As primary sources, the chapter draws on his writings
and speeches.
Bhimrao Ambedkar was born into a Mahar family. The West Indian Mahars
were treated as what was then called “untouchables,” a word that many today
seek to avoid as it carries stigma. An alternative word for untouchables is dalit
(Marathi for “broken men”), a term introduced by Ambedkar and popularised
by his later followers. In the writings that concern us here, however, Ambedkar
spoke of untouchables, untouchability, or depressed classes – and this is the
terminology used here when speaking about Ambedkar, to capture the stigma
he sought to get rid of.
In later texts, Ambedkar recalls that growing up as an untouchable imposed
“certain indignities and discriminations” (Ambedkar 2002: 52). Here are some
of the examples he provides: in school he had to sit in a corner by himself,
where he sat on a piece of gunny cloth that the servant employed to cleanse
the room would not touch. When thirsty, he could not get out and tap water,
but the water had to be tapped for him by a specific worker, so that he would
go thirsty if that person was not around. No washer would wash the clothes
of an untouchable, nor would any barber shave or cut his hair. While this was
an unquestioned part of their everyday life-world, the exceptionality of these
rules dawned on him during a nightmarish trip to visit his father (who worked
in a different village), where he and his relatives was denied decent transporta-
tion, assistance, and water.
During British rule, relatively many Mahars were recruited into the army.
This opened opportunities for education. Ambedkar’s father was the instruc-
tor of a local military school. It seems that Ambedkar was a brilliant student,
so much so that his teacher let him adopt his own surname instead of his pre-
vious one (Ambadve, after his village of origin in Bombay Province) (Zelliot
2013: 67). In 1904, the family moved to Bombay (Mumbai), where Ambedkar
could advance his education. In 1912, he completed his B.A. from Elphinstone
College with Persian and English as his subjects. Even though this college was
a government school, given his background he was denied the opportunity to
study Sanskrit. Sayajirao Gaekwad III (born Shrimant Gopalrao Gaekwad), the
reform-minded Maharaja of Baroda State, awarded him a scholarship that al-
lowed him to go abroad and study at Columbia University. There he studied
with the philosopher John Dewey, the economist Edwin Seligman and the so-
cial anthropologist Alexander Goldenweiser, a student of Franz Boas. One of
his student papers – a critical investigation of caste – was subsequently pub-
lished in an Indian academic periodical. In line with Boasian theory, Ambed-
kar did not view caste as a result of race but theorised caste as a ­cultural
Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 101

­phenomenon (Cháirez-Garza 2018). At Columbia, he completed an M.A. de-

gree and was awarded a Ph.D. He continued his education in London for one
year. In 1917, however, having returned to India, it was impossible for him to
work in the administration in Baroda since his colleagues refused any form of
collaboration and intercourse with an untouchable. In Bombay, he became a
political activist and a journalist. In 1920 he returned to London to complete
his education, obtaining an M.Sc. (1922) and a D.Sc. (1923). He was one of the
best educated Indians of his time, and the best educated untouchable ever.
In 1922, Ambedkar was called to the Bar at Grey’s Inn, London. This opened
a professional mainstay for him after his return to India in 1923. Henceforth, he
practiceed law for a living, and for some periods of his life he taught law. The
knowledge of law was an important asset for him in his manifold campaigns
for the emancipation of the untouchables from their oppression. Among of his
strategies of emancipation were the introduction of new laws, the revision of
extant legislation, or opposition to proposed bills. After the war, Ambedkar’s
expertise as a lawyer qualified him to become, in 1947, India’s first law minister
and to draft the constitution of independent India that was adopted in 1949.
Paragraph 17 of this constitution formally abolished untouchability and turned
the practice of it into a crime:

“Untouchability” is abolished and its practice in any form is forbidden.

The enforcement of any disability arising out of “Untouchability” shall be
an offence punishable in accordance with law.1

Unfortunately, this legal stipulation, which does not define “untouchability,”

did not uproot the resilience of the concept and the practice.2 This was one
factor, it could seem, that led Ambedkar to take a dramatic religious step to-
wards the end of his life.
Over the decades Ambedkar unfolded various activities aiming to set the
untouchables free from the bonds of discrimination. Among other activities,
he acted as speaker, author, publisher, organiser, politician, educator. His ca-
reer as an activist went along with a concern for theory; Ambedkar was a major
sociologist and theoretician of caste and democracy – and as we shall see, a
theoretician of religion.

1 https://www.india.gov.in/sites/upload_files/npi/files/coi_part_full.pdf (accessed 03/07/2019).

2 Even in the present age, Dalits continue to be oppressed, killed, gang-raped, amputated, pa-
raded naked, forced to eat shit, boycotted; their land is seized and access to drinking water
is denied to them. The legal system systematically defines caste as a factor out of the picture
when dealing with cases of violence against Dalits (see Roy in Ambedkar 2014b).
102 Stausberg

In modern Indian history Ambedkar is often recalled as an antagonist of

Mohandas (Mahatma) Gandhi.3 Their relationship turned into open conflict
in 1931, at the Second Round Table Conference in London. These conferences
were a platform organised by the British government to discuss matters of
constitutional reforms in India. Gandhi had negotiated to be the sole rep-
resentative of the Indian National Congress, and Ambedkar was one of two
appointed representatives of the so-called Depressed Classes. Their dispute
escalated during the following year over the matter of a separate electorate
for the Depressed Classes. To Ambedkar, denying the untouchables a sepa-
rate electorate would place them under the dominion of the caste-Hindus,
while Gandhi feared a split within the Hindu electorate. The debate by im-
plication centered on whether the untouchables were a part of Hinduism or
Hindu society, or whether the segregation and discrimination imposed on the
untouchables by the caste-Hindus made them a separate entity; Gandhi held
the former view, Ambedkar the latter. This division would resurface in the is-
sue of deconversion. For the next fifteen years or so, Ambedkar and Gandhi
occasionally engaged in controversy. As late as in 1946, Ambedkar published a
book with the title What Congress and Gandhi have done to the Untouchables,
where he dismisses Gandhi’s economics and his view of society. One issue in
their dispute was the nature and function of Hinduism. While Gandhi was
a major apologist of Hinduism – or his interpretation thereof –, Ambedkar
came to reject Hinduism as “a veritable chamber of horrors,” as he put in it
this book.
The relationships of untouchables to Hinduism was at the same time one of
inclusion and one of exclusion. On this view, by imposing a social order based
on its ideological structure, Hinduism imprisons the untouchables within a
cage of rules and regulations. At the same time, these same rules and regula-
tions exclude them from basic rights and facilities, including religious ones.
For example, untouchables were not admitted to Hindu temples. Accordingly,
campaigns in which Ambedkar played a part dealt with one of the founda-
tional texts for Hindu law and the problem of temple entrance.
These two issues – the ideological basis and the practice of exclusion – were
targeted since around 1927. At a conference that Ambedkar opened in Decem-
ber 1927, a resolution was declared that affirmed the rights of the u
­ ntouchables
and that condemned Hindu scriptures, which authorise social inequality.
There, Ambedkar took the radical step of burning the Manusmriti publicly,
in full sight of the participants. In the month prior to this act he had studied

3 See Coward (2003) for their respective positions on untouchability.

Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 103

the Manusmriti with a pundit and a school-teacher. In an Indian context this

act is unprecedented and it came as a shock to many (including supporters
of his agenda). The idea for this had not originally been his. The conference
passed four resolutions: “a declaration of human rights, a repudiation of the
Manismriti, a demand that Hindu society be reduced to one class, and an advo-
cation that the priestly profession be open to all.” (Zelliot 2013: 81)
While this has been an isolated act, in November 1927 Ambedkar let himself
get involved in a movement that demanded entry to Hindu temples in different
locations in the Bombay Presidency. Not all of these campaigns were planned
properly, and they failed in their aim to change temple policies. Authorities
would rather close off temples to all worshippers than admitting untouch-
ables. Following a Gandhian terminology and pattern these campaigns were
called satyagraha. They used Gandhian symbolism (Rao 2009: 100), but they
were not instigated by Gandhi, and Gandhi initially neither endorsed nor sup-
ported them. At a mass gathering in 1930 in the campaign to enter the K ­ alaram
temple in Nasik, Ambedkar told the participants (in Marathi):

Today’s satyagraha is a challenge to the Hindu mind. Are the Hindus

ready to consider us men or not; we will discover this today … We know
that the god in the temple is of stone. Darshan and puja will not solve our
problems. But we will start out, and try to make a change in the minds of
the Hindus.
zelliot 2013: 88

This statement makes it clear that the campaign does not primarily focus on
religion; it does not aim at benefitting from the presumed religious efficacy of
the temple. Even though withholding this religious benefit was perceived as
unjust, Ambedkar expressed the conviction that religion will not resolve the
problems of the untouchables – the temple access was not meant to provide
supernatural intervention; he even went so far as to exclude this possibility
by proclaiming the temple as dead (“the god … is of stone”). For Ambedkar,
the temple campaign was not a matter of faith. The satyagraha was more a
matter of establishing his leadership, making moral claims and mobilising the
untouchables behind a common cause that was able to stir emotions. The un-
folding of the campaigns showed the reluctance of the government and the
Indian National Congress to change the practice of exclusion. The satyagraha
was a provocative social experiment. Its ultimate aim was to initiate a change
in the mindset of the Hindus; without such a change in collective psychology,
Ambedkar thought, there was no chance of the untouchables ever to become
accepted as equal.
104 Stausberg

In 1934, Ambedkar stated (in Marathi):

I would advise the Depressed Class to insist upon a complete overhauling

of Hindu society and Hindu theology before they consent to become an
integral part of Hindu Society. I started temple entry Satyagraha only be-
cause it was the best way of energising the Depressed Class and making
them conscious of their position.
zelliot 2013: 90

The temple entry campaign was an exercise in creating a class conscience.

Even if it would have achieved its apparent goal of allowing untouchables to
enter Hindu temples and there to worship Hindu deities, this would have only
been a first and modest step. For achieving recognition and respect, liberty,
equality and integration of the untouchables – namely the disintegration of
the social category and categorisation of untouchability – would require a
complete transformation of Hinduism in its ideological, social, political, and
economic dimensions.
Ambedkar’s support of the temple entry movement slackened since
1932/1933, when Gandhi started to support this cause and when it became a
more widely shared goal – bringing with it the threat that it was once again
caste-Hindus who would define Hinduism. For Ambedkar temple entrance
really was a side issue; education, employment and economic advance were
much more important. He also suspected that temple entrance gave undue
symbolic prestige to high-caste and orthodox Hinduism (Diks 2001: 324). Rath-
er than reforming Hinduism, Ambedkar came to reject it altogether – and con-
sequently he ceased to support the temple entrance movement.
In May 1935, Ambedkar’s first wife (Ramabai) passed away. In June he was
appointed Principal of the Government Law College in Bombay. In October
he spoke at the Bombay Presidency Depressed Classes Conference in Yeola,
a small town some 70 kilometers East of Nasik. In this speech, which lasted
for an hour and a half, in front of some ten thousand listeners he said (in
Marathi):

Because we have the misfortune of calling ourselves Hindus, we are treat-

ed thus. If we were members of another Faith, none would dare treat us
such. Choose any religion which gives you equality of status and treat-
ment. We shall repair our mistake now. I had the misfortune of being
born with the stigma of an Untouchable. However, it is not my fault; but
I will not die a Hindu, for that it is in my power.
zelliot 2013: 147
Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 105

There is an interesting shift from the plural to the singular in this passage.
Ambedkar first addresses a collective entity (“we”), which suffers injustice just
for being “called” Hindus and being treated according to this nominal classi-
fication. This collective entity is about to assume agency, and this implies the
acceptance of responsibility: that others treat the untouchables as they do is
a result of the untouchables’ own “mistake,” namely that they call themselves
Hindus. Before the untouchables collective assume responsibility and agency,
however, Ambedkar as an individual (“I”) takes this step of interrupting the
chain of events that leads from birth to death; while he could not help being
thrown into the world as an untouchable, he can achieve an exit from this un-
fortunate trajectory. By way of example, Ambedkar made it clear that leaving
Hinduism was an individual choice and decision. That he “will not die a Hindu”
announces his step of leaving Hinduism; this announcement is ambiguous: did
he declare an intention (that does not need to be executed) or did he execute
a performative act?
The announcement itself was scandalous – and Gandhi was scandalised.
He called Ambedkar’s speech “unbelievable” and denied the feasibility or pos-
sibility of deliberately changing one’s religion: “religion is not like a house or a
cloak which can be changed at will” (Zelliot 2013: 148). Ambedkar responded
by saying that his was “a deeply deliberated decision”. The only uncertainty
was: “What religion we shall belong to we have not yet decided”. Ambedkar
also made it clear that this was his individual decision and as such it was inde-
pendent on what his followers would do:

I have made up my mind to change my religion. I do not care if the masses

do not come. It is for them to decide …
zelliot 2013: 148

His Yeola speech did not remain an isolated incident. At the Poona Depressed
Classes Youth Conference in January 1936 Ambedkar once again confirmed his
resolve to leave Hinduism (Zelliot 2013: 150). In May 1936 this was followed by
further public pronouncements. At the All-Bombay District Mahar Conference
he composed a kind of litany in Marathi verse, which was printed under the
title Mukti Kon Pathe? (“What Path to Liberation?”) The first verses read as fol-
lows (in Eleanor Zelliot’s English translation [2013: 154]):

Religion is for man; man is not for religion.

If you want to gain humanity (manuski), change your religion.
If you want to create a cooperating society, change your religion.
If you want power, change religion.
106 Stausberg

If you want equality, change your religion.

If you want independence, change your religion.
If you want to make the world in which you live happy, change your
religion.

The first verse – a famous Ambedkar-quote – denaturalises and demataphy-

sises religion. If religion becomes a good for humanity and humanity becomes
the subject rather than the object of religion, changing religion becomes an
option. It even becomes a legitimate option if this serves positive aims, goals
and values, such as the ones listed in the following verses (humanity, sociality,
empowerment, equality, independence, happiness). The poem does not rec-
ommend any given alternative religion, but it presents a severe critique of Hin-
duism as a religion; even though Hinduism is not mentioned, everyone would
know that this was the religion addressed as “a religion” in the following verses
phrased as questions:

Why should you remain in a religion that does not let you enter its
temples?
Why should you remain in a religion that does not give you water to
drink?
Why should you remain in a religion that does not let you become
educated?
…

Ambedkar goes one step further by denying that such a religion – that is, Hin-
duism – is a religion at all:

That religion which forbids humanitarian behavior between man and

man is not a religion but a reckless penalty.
That religion which regards the recognition of man’s humanity a sin is
not a religion but a sickness.
That religion which allows one to touch a foul animal but not a man is
not a religion but a madness.
…

In May 1936 Ambedkar was invited to give a speech at a forum for social reforms
in Lahore. When this organisation asked Ambedkar to omit certain passages
of his speech that it deemed too radical, Ambedkar decided not to give the
speech. Instead, he had it printed as a booklet under the title The Annihilation
of Caste, which has become one of his most well-known and often r­ eprinted
Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 107

works (annotated and critical edition: Ambedkar 2014b). Ambedkar shows

that caste, which divides humanity in different groups and puts these into a
hierarchical order, is “a harmful institution” (Ambedkar 2002: 264; Ambedkar
2014b: 19) in economic terms, that it disrupts Hindu society because it pre-
vents cooperation across the different castes and that it goes against the triad
of liberty, equality and fraternity – guiding principles that he, together with
justice, later came to enshrine in the preamble of the Constitution of India.
Caste contributes to indifference and kills the public spirit. Ambedkar holds
that caste is “a notion, … a state of mind” (Ambedkar 2002: 289; Ambedkar
2014b: 51). Abolishing caste therefore requires a change of mindset. Ambedkar
argues that caste can also be found in other religions, but that caste has a dif-
ferent status in Hinduism: it alone has imbued caste with an aura of “sacred-
ness and divinity” (Ambedkar 2002: 291; Ambedkar 2014b: 53) and the status
and fate of the Brahmins are tied to caste. For Ambedkar, caste is a fundamen-
tal part of Hinduism; Hindus “observe caste because they are deeply religious.
In my view, what is wrong is their religion, which has inculcated the notion of
caste.” (Ambedkar 2002: 289; Ambedkar 2014b: 51) This religion needs to be de-
stroyed in order to abolish caste and its fateful consequences. Contrary to his
other pronouncements, however, in this speech Ambedkar does not advocate
leaving Hinduism, but of destroying parts of it: “The real remedy is to destroy
the belief in the sanctity of the Shastras.” Or: “You must destroy the religion
of the Shrutis and the Smirtis. Nothing else will avail.” (Ambedkar 2002: 290,
297f; Ambedkar 2014b: 51, 62) Consequently, in this speech, which was not di-
rected to the Mahars, he outlines a program of how to remedy Hinduism. This
version of Hinduism would be based on the Upanishads. This would not be
a superficial repair but a complete transformation of its outlook. This would
be to “kill Brahminism” and to “give a new doctrinal basis to your religion—a
basis that will be in consonance with Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, in short,
with Democracy.” (Ambedkar 2002: 301; Ambedkar 2014b: 66f) Note that he
here speaks of “your religion,” as if this were no longer his own religion – or
because he did not address his fellow Mahars. So, whereas he has already left
Hinduism behind, for those who do not wish to take such a step, he outlines
an alternative cure. Towards the end of the book, invoking John Dewey, he
states:

… the Hindus must consider whether the time has not come for them to
recognise that there is nothing fixed, nothing external, nothing sanatan;
that everything is changing, that change is the law of life for individuals
as well as for society.
ambedkar 2002: 304; ambedkar 2014b: 69
108 Stausberg

3 On the Necessity and Selection of (a) Religion

That Ambedkar announced his leaving Hinduism, did not mean that he
wished to turn his back on religion. In The Annihilation of Caste Ambedkar
distinguished between rules as prescriptions for doing things and principles
as intellectual methods of judging things – and between a religion of rules and
a religion of principles. For Ambedkar, Hinduism “is nothing but a multitude
of commands and prohibitions” (298), a “legalised class-ethics” or “code of or-
dinances” (299). It is a religion of rules. But a religion of rules is not really a
religion:

religion must mainly be a matter of principles only. It cannot be a matter

of rules. The moment it degenerates into rules it ceases to be Religion, as
it kills responsibility, which is the essence of a truly religious act.
ambedkar 2002: 298

A religion of rules is not a religion, but law. Therefore, “there is nothing irreli-
gious in working for the destruction of such a religion. Indeed I hold that it is
your bounden duty to tear the mask, to remove the misrepresentation that is
caused by misnaming this law as religion.” (Ambedkar 2002: 299) One differ-
ence between law and religion lies in the respective perception of changeabil-
ity: while it is accepted that laws can be abolished, changed or amended, “the
idea of religion is generally speaking not associated with the idea of change”;
so, treating rules as if they were religion makes them immune to change
(Ambedkar 2002: 299). As we have seen, this is precisely what Ambedkar wish-
es to challenge.
At the same time, he makes it clear: “While I condemn a Religion of Rules,
I must not be understood to hold the opinion that there is no necessity for a
religion.” (Ambedkar 2002: 300) He refers to a statement ascribed to Edmund
Burke that “true religion is the foundation of society” (Ambedkar 2002: 300).
In the aftermath of the events of 1936 Ambedkar wrote a text, published
in 1989 as “Away from the Hindus” in volume five of Ambedkar’s Writings and
Speeches compiled by Vasant Moon (Ambedkar 2014a: 403–421; Ambedkar
2002: 219–238). In this text, Ambedkar provides a critical examination of four
objections raised by opponents against deconversion such as Gandhi. (Ambed-
kar speaks of conversion, but deconversion seems more appropriate as it is the
leaving of Hinduism that is in the focus, not the adoption of another religion.)
These common objections are summarised as follows:
1. What can the Untouchables gain by conversion? Conversion can make
no change in the status of the Untouchables.
Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 109

2. All religions are true, all religions are good. To change religion is a futility.
3. The conversion of the Untouchables is political in its nature.
4. The conversion of the Untouchables is nit genuine as it is not based on
faith. (Ambedkar 2002: 219)
Ambedkar starts with the fourth objection and holds that, historically speak-
ing, conversions “without any religious motive” (2002: 220) are the rule rather
than the exception. Ambedkar here refers to mass conversions, not to indi-
vidual ones, it seems. Since the (de)conversion of the Untouchables “would
take place after full deliberation of the value of religion and the virtue of the
different religions,” it actually “would be the first case in history of genuine
conversion.” (221) The third objection is dismissed as he holds that (de)con-
version would not automatically bring about political rights (221). As to the
second objection Ambedkar concedes that all religions may in fact be alike
“in that they all teach that the meaning of life is to be found in the pursuit of
‘good,’” but asserts that “religions are not alike in their answers to this question
‘What is good?’ In this they certainly differ”. (222) In this context, he appreci-
ates and is critical of the comparative study of religion. On the one hand he
acknowledges the relativising effect of methodological egalitarianism in the
comparative study of religion:

The science of comparative religion has broken down the arrogant claims
of all revealed religions that they alone are true and all others which are
not the results of revelation are false. (222)

He acknowledges that by unmasking a distinction between true and false re-

ligion on the criteria of revelation as arbitrary and capricious “the science of
comparative religion” has rendered a “great service … to the cause of religion”
(223). For Ambedkar the methodological critique of claims of religious su-
periority or supremacy has had a liberating effect, not from religion, but for
religion.
On the other hand, Ambedkar voices the criticism that this attitude has had
a relativising aspect that disenables the comparative study of religion to mark
important differences:

But it must be said to the discredit of that science that it has created the
general impression that all religions are good and there is no use and pur-
pose in discriminating them. (223)

The critique of comparative religion as an academic discipline is twofold.

First, there is its presumed uncritical pro-religious attitude, which fails to
110 Stausberg

a­ cknowledge the negative aspects of religion – such as the disastrous effects

of the Hindu caste ideology on the untouchables. Second, he believed that the
methodological egalitarianism of comparative religion has blinded it to the
need to make distinctions between religion based on values or principles.
In addressing the second objection to conversion, Ambedkar already starts
addressing the nature of religion. Religion appears as an authority defining
what is good and a “motive force for the promotion and spread of the ‘good’”
(222). Hence, religion has an ambivalent power: if the aim (‘good’) in ques-
tion is destructive – as the caste system in Hinduism – religion advances its
spread, which in this case is a bad thing. If, however, religion would define a
positive, constructive value (‘good’) religion would contribute to its advance-
ment, which would be a good thing. To substantiate this ambivalence he refers
to Cornelis Tiele (222).
Ambedkar’s discussion of the first objection to conversion results in a dis-
cussion of the function and purposes of religion. Unlike a Marxian reading that
considers religion as an Überbau (superstructure) he finds it to be a kind of Un-
terbau (substructure or foundational structure) of society and societal life. In
his discussion he cites a range of Western theoreticians such as Dewey, ­William
Robertson Smith, Ernest Crawley, the sociologist Charles Ellwood and the psy-
chologist William McDougall. (No Indian thinkers are cited.) Drawing on this
body of theory, Ambedkar seeks to dismiss some common notions of religion:
it was mistaken, for Ambedkar, “to think of religion as though it was super-
natural” (223) – recall his refutation of the supernatural reality of deities in the
stone of Hindu temples. Moreover, he thinks one should not “look upon reli-
gion as a matter which is individual, private and personal” (225). Instead, “the
primary content of religion is social” (223), and “life and the preservation of life
constitute the essence of religion” (224). Like language, religion “is social for
the reason that either is essential for social life and the individual has to have it
because without it he cannot participate in the life of the society.” (225) As an
institution that centres on life and that allows participation in society – none
being the case with Hinduism for the untouchables – religion operates like a
kind of kinship community structure, which it enacts in shared ritual drinks
and meals (235), a thought that seems to be inspired by Robertson Smith.
In his posthumously published work The Buddha and his Dhamma (criti-
cal edition: Ambedkar 2011) he rephrases his theory of religion as a theory of
dhamma. As the states in the preface, Buddha’s dhamma is the best religion.
“No religion can be compared to it” – a statement, which, ironically, is the result
of his comparative studies. In a wording that can be read as a meta-paraphrase
of Marx’s eleventh thesis on Feuerbach (“Philosophers have hitherto only in-
terpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it”), he writes: “The
Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 111

purpose of Religion is to explain the origin of the world. The purpose of Dham-
ma is to reconstruct the world.“ (Ambedkar 2011: 171) Dhamma is religion mi-
nus its negative, supernatural and mythic aspects, plus its being “aboriginal”
(2011: 168); that is, he believed it to have been the original religion of India and
the untouchables. In his theory of dhamma he also drew on the notion of the
“sacred,” which alone could guarantee that a moral order would not be trans-
gressed (Durkheim 2011; see Omvedt 2003: 260).
As religion (or Dhamma) was, for Ambedkar, a precondition for the mean-
ing and preservation of life, the determination and promotion of the good, so-
cial life and bonding of the individuals in a community, leaving religion never
was an option. Leaving Hinduism was necessary in order to enable religion to
do its work for the untouchables. Untouchables would need to “embrace the
religion of the community whose kinship they seek.” (235) Which community,
or which religion would that be?
Ambedkar’s announcement of leaving Hinduism opened the marketplace
for religions. As much as he was determined to deconvert from Hinduism, he
was not in a hurry to convert to another religion. As his personal library shows,
he did read himself up on the comparative religion, investigating the differ-
ent pros and cons of the main religious options available in India. Representa-
tives of different religious communities got in touch with him, and he attended
conferences of different religious groups. The archbishop of Canterbury even
expressed concern about an auction of religions taking place in India (Jenkins
2007: 455).
Eventually, after World War II Ambedkar mainly concerned himself with
Buddhism, even though the Indian branch of Buddhist Mahabodi Society,
which was dominated by Bengali Brahmins, had in 1936 expressed shock at his
decision to leave Hinduism (Omvedt 2003: 258f). In 1950 Ambedkar undertook
tours to Sri Lanka, Burma, and Nepal to study lived Buddhism. Yet, it would
take another six years until he and his second wife Savita – a medical doctor –
in a mass ceremony in Nagpur presided over by a respected old Burmese Bud-
dhist monk publicly recited the Three Refuges and the Five Precepts, thereby
formally adopting Buddhism. He then led hundreds of thousands of his fol-
lowers to take the same step. The next day, on October fifteenth, 1956, he gave
a three-hour long speech in Marathi in which he recapitulated his religious
trajectory and to defend his decision. “I feel as if I have been liberated from
hell,” he said (Karunyakara 2002: 246). In one passage he reflects on the long
timespan from deconversion to conversion:

… there are some who wonder why I have taken so long to take a deci-
sion. In regard to the change of religion. “What have you been doing all
112 Stausberg

these years?” They ask. The only reply I can give is this that question of
religion is the most difficult and a very serious question. It is a matter of
enormous responsibility …
karunyakara 2002: 252

While Ambedkar does not mention this, we should not forget that he vowed
not to die a Hindu. Was it merely an accident that he died less than two months
after his conversion? Or did he feel death approaching? This remains a mat-
ter of speculation. In this speech, however, Ambedkar shares some results of
his research in comparative religion. Here is one main finding, which for him
speaks in favor of Buddhism:

The teachings of the Buddha are eternal but even then the Buddha did
not proclaim them to be infallible. The religion of Buddha has the ca-
pacity to change over time. A quality which no other religion can claim
to have.
karunyakara 2002: 253

Another comparative advantage that made Buddhism attractive to Ambedkar

was its basis in reason and an “element of flexibility in it, which is not to be
found in any other religion.” (Karunyakara 2002: 255)
Ambedkar developed a scheme for a new form of Buddhism in India – he
called it Navayana, as an alternative to Theravada and Hinayana. Ambedkar
was not the first learned untouchable to adopt Buddhism, and his view of
Buddhism shows continuities to earlier Buddhist revivalists such as the Tamil
Iyothee Thass (1845–1914) and Laxmi Nasaru, whose book The Essence of Bud-
dhism he republished with a preface in 1948 (Omvedt 2003: 2, 259; Jacobsen
2018: 69–71).4
For the present chapter, it is worth recalling that for the mass-conversion
event as performed in Nagpur in October 1956 Ambedkar composed a decla-
ration of faith comprising 22 articles that were to be recited by the new Bud-
dhists. The first six of these are actually declarations of deconversion. The first
four are statements of “I do not believe in,” followed by a series of Hindu deities
and avatars. The fifth article reads:

I believe that the idea that the Buddha is an avatara of Vishnu is false
propaganda.
beltz 2005: 57; see omvedt 2003: 262 for a different translation

4 See Beltz (2005) for the development of Ambedkar-inspired Buddhism.

Leaving Hinduism: Deconversion as Liberation 113

With this, Ambedkar apparently wanted to make sure that Hindu strategies
of inclusivism would not be applied to re-domesticate the new Buddhism as a
form of Hinduism. This is, after all, is a line of interpretation, which could seem
to be warranted by the Constitution of India. An explanation (II) to paragraph
25 (“Right to Freedom of Religion”) reads as follows:

The reference to Hindus shall be construed as including a reference to

persons professing the Sikh, Jaina or Buddhist religion, and the reference
to Hindu religious institutions shall be construed accordingly.5

While this could be read to mean that Hinduism encompasses Sikhism, Jain-
ism and Buddhism, an Ambedkarian reading would probably emphasise the
equality of rights for the adherents of these religions. Moreover, the article ac-
knowledges the religion-status for Sikhism, Jainism and Buddhism and does
not refer to them as Hindu sects or the like.

4 Conclusion

Obviously, Ambedkar was not the first Hindu to leave his native religion. There
is a long history of Hindu conversion to Islam, Sikhism and Christianity (see
the chapter by Clemens Cavallin in this volume). Apart from individual deci-
sions, these were often motivated and backed up by political circumstances.
Yet, the case of Ambedkar is special in different respects. He acted as an in-
dividual but also on behalf of the Mahars and other groups of untouchables
who he knew would follow him so that his step carried a great responsibility.
As an untouchable he had a remarkable career, and through his exceptional
international and interdisciplinary education he obtained a much broader ho-
rizon than any of his fellow untouchables. Ambedkar’s decision to leave Hin-
duism was based on his own life-experiences and on a penetrating theoretical
analysis. His is a case where leaving a religion (not to be confused with leaving
religion) was an existential step. It was preceded by unprecedented and pro-
vocative acts of burning a Hindu book. He conceived of leaving Hinduism as
an act of liberation, but an incomplete one as long as a new religion to convert
to had not been identified. This only happened shortly before his death, so that
he would remain truthful to his vow of not dying as a Hindu. His study and
quest, the time it took from public deconversion to public conversion, covered
a period of 21 years. His decision was not based on a revelation or some kind

5 https://www.india.gov.in/sites/upload_files/npi/files/coi_part_full.pdf (accessed 03/07/2019).

114 Stausberg

of t­ ransformative experience, but “almost as a scientific project” (Viswanathan

1998: 134) based on critical comparative analysis. His decision was grounded
in a post-supernaturalist social and functionalist theory of religion, in which
there was no place for belief in deities and the miraculous. He sought to imple-
ment his ideas on the nature and function of religion by forming a new blue-
print of religious praxis. Nowadays, this Buddhist religion is lived by over five
million people in the Indian state of Maharashtra.

References

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Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Ambedkar, B.R. 2014a [1989]. Writings and Speeches. Volume 5. Compiled by Vasant
Moon. New Delhi: Dr. Ambedkar Foundation, Ministry of Social Justice and Em-
powerment, Government of India.
Ambedkar, B.R. 2014b. Annihilation of Caste: The Annotated Critical Edition. Edited and
Annotated by S. Anand. Introduction by Arundathi Roy. London: Verso.
Beltz, J. 2005. Mahar, Buddhist, and Dalit: Religious Conversion and Socio-Political
Emancipation. New Delhi: Manohar.
Cháirez-Garza, J.F. 2018. “B.R. Ambedkar, Franz Boas and the Rejection of Racial Theo-
ries of Untouchability.” South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies. 41:2, 281–96.
Coward, Harold G. 2003. “Gandhi, Ambedkar and Untouchability.” In H. Coward ed.,
Indian critiques of Gandhi. Albany: State University of New York Press, 41–66.
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Jacobsen, K.A. 2018. “Revivals of Ancient Religious Traditions in Modern India.” Teme-
nos 54:1, 63–77.
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Omvedt, G. 2003. Buddhism in India: Challenging Brahmanism and Caste. New Delhi:
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 Chapter 9

Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar

Niklas Foxeus

1 Introduction

This chapter examines narratives of Burmese Buddhists who have left the “tra-
ditional” Theravāda Buddhism in Burma, into which they were born, for the
teachings – stamped “heretical” and illegal by the state – of a dissident Bud-
dhist monk, Ashin Nyāna.
Since 1980, the State and monastic authorities have sought to regulate or-
thodox Theravāda Buddhism by means of the law. Monastic courts backed
by the state have scrutinised cases charged with “heresy” (P. adhamma),1 that
is, teachings not considered to be in accordance with the Buddhist canon, a
contested issue. Heresies are declared illegal and the dissemination of such
teachings is punishable with imprisonment (see Tin Maung Maung Than 1993;
Janaka Ashin and Crosby 2017). Apostasy and heresy tend to blend into one
another, and the state may serve as an arbiter to decide the nature of the case
(see Larsson 2018: 7, 20). From the state’s point of view, Ashin Nyāna and his
followers represent a kind of disloyal Theravāda Buddhist apostates dissemi-
nating doctrines that deviate from orthodox Theravāda Buddhism and that
pose a threat to the maintenance of the latter in society. From the perspective
of Ashin Nyāna and his followers, Theravāda Buddhism represents a deviation
from the original teaching of the Buddha, and they have therefore abandoned
it and do no longer attribute authority to its monks. They do not regard their
teaching as a branch of Theravāda Buddhism and therefore it cannot, in their
view, be regarded as a “heresy.”2
The state-sanctioned form of Buddhism represents a collectivist and anti-
secularising tendency, and likewise an enchanted form of religion, with a “tra-
ditional” cosmology comprising 31 levels, with heaven and hell, inhabited by
gods, hell-beings, ghosts, and spirits.

1 In this chapter, “P.” is an abbreviation for Pāli. All foreign words are Burmese, unless oth-
erwise indicated. The word “karma” is used instead of kamma, since the former has been
adopted into English.
2 They tend to view Theravāda on a par with Mahāyāna Buddhism, both of which they regard
as later corruptions of the pristine teaching of the Buddha.

© Niklas Foxeus, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_010

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar 117

Many of the “heresies” represent novel reinterpretations of Buddhism that

have emerged in interplay with modernisation, Western science, and “Oriental-
ist” views on “original” Buddhism. The development of doctrinal lay Buddhism
began in the colonial period and continued in the post-independence period,
with Buddhist monks disseminating intellectualised forms of Buddhism to the
laypeople, especially simplified versions of insight meditation (P. vipassanā),
teachings that had previously been reserved for the monks (Braun 2013; Hout-
man 1990).3
Ashin Nyāna (1938–) was ordained a Buddhist monk but was defrocked in
1983, whereupon he set up his own group called mou-pyā-wāda, “The Doctrine
of the Sky-Blue [One].” At that time, he began wearing blue robes consisting
of a shirt and baggy pants. His adherents still regard him as a monk exercis-
ing corresponding authority. Thereby he not only left the monastic community
(P. sańgha) but also Theravāda Buddhism. Ashin Nyāna claimed to have re-
discovered the original teaching of the Buddha that preceded the emergence
of the allegedly corrupt Theravāda Buddhism. He has served three prison sen-
tences for having disseminated a “heretical” form of Buddhism. Last time was
in 2010 and he was released in January 2016. Today, this is an underground,
illegal new religious movement.
Ashin Nyāna’s teaching represents a secular form of Buddhism, acknowl-
edging only one life; and rejecting the rebirth, Buddhist cosmology, and the
metaphysical underpinnings of the teaching of karma. Moreover, it consti-
tutes an intellectualised form of Buddhism informed by Western rationality
and science. It is characterised by an individualist this-worldly orientation,
and psychologisation, anti-ritualism, and scripturalism, with an emphasis
on doctrines and ethics. In contrast to traditional Buddhism, it focuses on
The Four Noble Truths and The Eightfold Path. His teaching is also known
as pyissouppān-kamma-wāda, the “doctrine on present karma.” Rejecting the
existence of spirits, gods and other supernatural beings, he explained them
as “mind-creations” (seitta-zā). The cosmological levels of the Buddhist cos-
mology were, according to him, mere symbols for mental states. Most impor-
tantly, he reinterpreted Buddhist doctrines and simplified them so that they
could serve as a practical technology for resolving everyday problems for the
Buddhist laypeople, including marriage and business problems. In this teach-
ing, most of the traditional Theravāda Buddhist practices and rituals for the
laypeople are abandoned, including meditation, merit-making rituals, giving
alms to monks, and presenting offerings to Buddha statues.

3 For a broader depiction of Burmese Buddhism and its history, see Foxeus 2016.
118 Foxeus

Based on fieldwork in Myanmar, the aim of this chapter is to – using various

theoretical and analytical frameworks – investigate interlinked deconversion
and conversion narratives of my informants divided into three different groups,
based on their attitudes (secular, devotional or spiritual seekers) and the kind
of Buddhist practice in which they were mainly engaged before converting.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

As for previous research on deconversion and conversion in Myanmar, it has

mostly been concerned with cases between Buddhism, Christianity and Islam
(Tint Lwin 1997; Charney 2006; Ikeya 2012). To my knowledge, there are not yet
any case studies in any of these fields.
The words “apostasy” and “defection” may carry negative connotations,
implying a blaming the individual for break of loyalty (Streib et al. 2009: 17).
The term “deconversion,” which refers to a disaffiliation process, expresses,
Streib et al argue (2009, 17), less prejudice and it suggests that deconversion is
as legitimate as conversion. Earlier scholarship on conversion was shaped by
Protestant subjectivist notions of conversion as sudden and privileged interior
states. Today it is mainly understood as a gradual process taking place over an
extended time, and the subjective orientation is expanded by including other
themes, factors and contexts (see Rambo and Farhadian 2014; Streib et al. 2009,
chap. 1). According to J.D. Barbour, the rise of deconversion has grown out of
increasing individualism and religious pluralism in modernity (cited in Streib
et al. 2009: 21). Although these changes have mainly been examined with re-
gard to the West, that situation is, to some degree, comparable to Burma and
other countries in Southeast Asia since the post-war period.
In 2014–2017, I conducted about 65 semi-structured interviews with Ashin
Nyāna’s followers, mainly in Upper Burma but also in Lower Burma. Since Ash-
in Nyāna was arrested in 2010 and his teaching was declared to be “heretical”
in 2011, the movement is formally illegal and has gone underground. Today,
followers tend to keep their views to themselves and avoid discussing them in
public. The movement consists of several informal social networks, many of
which are unrelated to one another.

3 New Findings Focusing on “Leaving Religion”

Among Ashin Nyāna’s followers are found urban laypeople such as academ-
ics, teachers and other intellectuals; business people, some ex-communists,
Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar 119

student activists, military officers and politicians, but also some peasants and
poor people from the lower middle-classes. The majority are men. Most of
them had practiced “traditional” Burmese Theravāda Buddhism before they
converted to Ashin Nyāna’s brand of Buddhism. They view his teaching as the
“true” teaching of the Buddha.
The majority of my informants had undergone socialisation, in which
Theravāda Buddhist notions and values, including its cosmology, became an
integral part of their habitus and general taken for granted assumptions. One
man had to attend Ashin Nyāna’s courses three times because he was so per-
plexed by this teaching. Most of my informants described a gradual deconver-
sion process that developed over several years. Since Ashin Nyāna’s teaching
represents an intellectualised form of Buddhism, many of them described cog-
nitive discrepancy such as intellectual doubt (see Paloutzian 2005: 336–338)
as reason for leaving Theravāda Buddhism. They read books or listened to ser-
mons delivered by Ashin Nyāna, and doubts began to grow in some of them,
and others were already in doubt.
This motif was sometimes combined with an explicit or implicit moral
criticism of the monastic community. Some expressed resentment towards
the monks for having deceived them; one referred to them as “rubbish”
(ahmaik); a former student activist even said that Theravāda Buddhism had
“enslaved them” (kyun-pyu). Such critique resembled ideology criticism viewing
Theravāda Buddhism as representing a kind of Marxian “false consciousness”
(compare Snow Machalek 1983: 267) sustained by the monks. In contrast to
most Theravāda Buddhists, many followers do not give alms-food to the monks
but instead give food to poor and needy people. In other cases, the intellectual
doubt and moral criticism was combined with emotional suffering. Many said
that Theravāda Buddhism brings about “expectations” (ahmyaw), for instance,
for a better next rebirth, and “fear” (akyauk), for instance, to be reborn in hell.
Due to one or several of these circumstances, they decided to leave Theravāda
Buddhism.
These reasons for leaving Theravāda Buddhism correspond to several of the
motives for deconversion in the scholarly literature, for instance, intellectual
doubt, denial or disagreement with specific beliefs; moral criticism, and emo-
tional suffering (Streib et al. (2009, 21–22). In a general sense, a “key element
to any conversion or transformation process must be some element of doubt,
pressure, or motivation to change” (Paloutzian 2005: 336). However, the decon-
version or disaffiliation literature (Streib et al. 2009; Bromley 1998) does not
seem to emphasise one aspect that was important in my material. The majority
of my informants would not have left their religion if they had not have found a
viable alternative. In their narratives, the deconversion process was intimately
120 Foxeus

intertwined with the conversion process. For that reason, the one cannot be
separated from the other. This chapter is thus about leaving one religion for
another.
In Burma, there is a rhetorical dichotomy between Buddhists who prac-
tice in a passive and in an active mode, respectively, and that has informed
many of my informants. In the early post-independence period in Burma,
many Buddhists discarded what is sometimes rather pejoratively called
mi-you-hpalā-bouddha-bhāthā, a simple, ritualistic form of Buddhism inherited
from their parents focused on merit-making. It is implied that it represents a
passive mode, and that it is performed mechanically and without knowledge.4
Instead, they set out to find the “true” or “authentic” Buddhism that required
commitment, knowledge, and intense practice (see Houtman 1990). For many
Burmese at that time, it meant practicing a form of insight meditation that was
marketed mainly by many monks (see Houtman 1990). Others became adher-
ents of dissident monks, including Ashin Nyāna.
This dichotomy is reminiscent of the distinction between the active and
the passive convert in the West, with those affiliated with new religious move-
ments representing an “active, meaning-making subject” (Streib et al. 2009:
19–20). This is an individualistic trend in Burma emphasising agency and the
converts as active subjects (see also Staples and Mauss 1987; Streib et al. 2009;
Rambo and Farhadian 2014: 8). My informants can be divided into three groups
depending on their preconversion practice: 1) those with a more secular ori-
entation; 2) those practicing devotional Theravāda Buddhism; and 3) those
having embarked on a spiritual quest to discover “true” Buddhism. All my in-
formants represented the active mode, looking for alternatives to the passive
mode of religiosity, but for different reasons. Before conversion, they all (in the
present sample) self-identified as Theravāda Buddhists. In the following, I will
give some examples from these three groups.
The first group comprises people who had already acquired a secular world
view, such as communists and other sceptics. After the communist movements
died out in Burma by the end of the 1980s, some communists felt disoriented
and sought to restore their former Buddhist identity. Others, including farmers,
also had a secular world view, but still identified as Buddhists and seemed to
look for an alternative interpretation of Buddhism that was more congruent
with their worldview.

4 This kind of Buddhist practice is sometimes called “karma Buddhism” because it is a ritualis-
tic, devotional form of Buddhist practice that is oriented towards improving one’s karma by
performing merit-making activities, thereby hoping to achieve a better rebirth in the next life
(see Spiro 1982; he uses the label “kammatic Buddhism”).
Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar 121

One man was 68 years old, a former communist leader, political activist and
military officer. Today he is retired and runs a tea shop. “When I was 14 years
old, I became a communist [—], a “non-religious person” (bhāthā-me-thū), and
I abandoned Theravāda Buddhism.” This remained until 1988, at which time he
relinquished communist ideology, but he still retains communist sympathies.
While he was a military officer, he led military units in wars in the border re-
gions5 and witnessed hundreds of people die. After he left the army in 1988, he
felt traumatised by the wars and began drinking alcohol. He now returned to
Theravāda Buddhism for solace and started to practice insight meditation. At
this time, he also began believing in previous and future existences, and the
cosmology. But, it seems, he was not entirely convinced. Doubts gnawed in the
back of his mind.
In 2005, he heard about Ashin Nyāna for the first time, and he met him twice
that year. During this period, he read a book written by him about “desire”
(P. taṇhā) and began to doubt the Theravāda Buddhist doctrine on that matter.
According to the latter, he explained, all desire, even sexual desire for one’s wife
and desire for good food, is taṇhā and must be quenched. He did not find this
convincing anymore. Ashin Nyāna taught that taṇhā merely refers to wrongful
desire, not desire as such. He became convinced that this constituted the Bud-
dha’s true teaching. He also doubted the Theravāda teaching on previous and
future existences and the teaching on karma, and now he realised that these
were not taught by the Buddha. For this reason, he has stopped giving alms to
the monks, and has even tried to persuade others from doing so. Moreover, in
his view, communism is partly compatible with Ashin Nyāna’s teaching. He left
Theravāda Buddhism the same year and became a follower of Ashin Nyāna.
The second group consists of people who converted to Ashin Nyāna’s teach-
ing from devotional forms of Theravāda Buddhism. One woman was 47 years
old who runs a shop. Before she converted, she had problems with everything
in her life – her marriage and business. Her siblings were wealthy, but she was
poor. Her parents and the monks had explained that her misery was caused by
bad karma from previous existences. The monks discouraged her from mak-
ing effort to gain success in her business, and from cultivating greed (P. lobha)
because the latter would bring about bad karma. But, as a businesswoman,
she explained, she does have some greed as she wants to make profit. Success,
the monks explained, would come by itself. If she donated to the monks, she
would acquire karmic merit and a better rebirth. However, she did not want to
donate large sums of money. Because of her present misery, she thought she

5 This combination of loyalties was quite dangerous because the Burmese army fought against
the communists at the time.
122 Foxeus

would be reborn in hell. She gave up her hope in improving her situation by
her own effort. Due to her bad karma, she turned to Buddhist spirits with offer-
ings, wishing for success in business, which however, was still not forthcoming.
Through some neighbours she learned about Ashin Nyāna in 2009, and
read a couple of books during one year. Thereby, she came to realise that the
Theravāda teachings were wrong – the teaching on previous and future exis-
tences, the teaching about karma, the cosmology, and so forth. Later Ashin
Nyāna told her that she should make effort to be successful in business and
cultivate “right greed.” Today she is a devout follower and has, she claimed,
become a successful businesswoman. She gives far less donations nowadays.
Instead she uses her profit for her family and business.
Another woman was 47 years old, runs her own business and became a fol-
lower of Ashin Nyāna in 2006, but she had heard about him already in 1982. Her
business, she explained, is successful and she has become wealthy thanks to his
teaching. As a Theravāda Buddhist, she had donated large sums of money to
the monks. She gave more than she had and became poor. She also spent much
money in vain on offerings to Buddhist spirits, saying, “Until 2006 I followed
the traditional Theravāda Buddhism. My life wasn’t successful. Why not? [—]
Due to bad karma in my previous life I wasn’t successful in my present life. That
is what I believed.”
The monks had explained her poverty by her bad karma from previous ex-
istences, and the only way to improve her future condition was to give alms to
the monks. Through Ashin Nyāna’s teaching she realised that her poverty was
caused by her actions in this present life. She became interested in his expla-
nation of the Eightfold Path. Previously, she had often attended sermons de-
livered by Theravāda monks who recited texts in Pāli that the audience could
not understand, and they were not encouraged to practice that path. “But,” she
said, “one must practice to have real experiences.” By contrast, Ashin Nyāna
preached in Burmese and he emphasised the application of Buddhist teaching
in their everyday lives. After having left Theravāda Buddhism, she felt liberat-
ed: “Without having to restrain myself and holding back anymore, I nowadays
feel free and have found peace of mind.” Theravāda Buddhism had, in her ex-
perience, made her passive. Only after she became a follower of Ashin Nyāna,
she became an active agent that could raise herself from poverty:

My business also became successful because I managed to work in a

sound way. In the past, when I followed the teaching of the traditional
Theravāda Buddhist monks, my business was not successful, and I be-
came disappointed. They said that it was because of my bad karma from
Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar 123

previous existences. I wasted time and I was passive. Nowadays I always

make effort [to improve my situation] because I have come to know Ash-
in Nyāna’s teaching saying that one should make effort and be active. I’m
always active and in a good mood.

Both these women sometimes give donations, mostly to poor and needy peo-
ple, including some monks, but without expecting anything in return, such as
a better rebirth, since they have discarded such beliefs.
The third group consists of spiritual seekers looking for an alternative to tra-
ditional Theravāda Buddhism, but without leaving the latter before finding the
“true” teaching of the Buddha. One man was 41 years old and runs a workshop
for electronics. In his youth, he was ordained a Buddhist novice and later a
monk for a short period of time. Since then, he has been interested in religious
matters, and has practiced Theravāda Buddhist insight meditation. Before he
found Ashin Nyāna’s teaching, he had also paid interest in the doctrines of
other dissident monks. Being an avid reader of books about Buddhism, he was
looking for answers, for instance, to questions regarding previous and future
lives. He nourished some doubts.
In 2002, a follower of Ashin Nyāna left a cassette player at his workshop.
When he was going to repair it, he found a cassette in it with a sermon of Ashin
Nyāna about what will happen after death. Later the follower gave him books
written by Ashin Nyāna. He came every day, and they went to tea shops dis-
cussing Buddhism until dawn. In 2004 he met Ashin Nyāna for the first time
and listened to his sermons, but he did not immediately become a follower.
Now he learned from him that the Buddha never taught about previous and
future existences. Such questions were part of the ten questions that he left
unanswered. The Theravāda monks in Burma, the adherent said, never speak
about these unanswered questions. He came to realise that the teaching of
rebirth is derived from Hinduism and was not preached by the Buddha; and
that Theravāda Buddhism represents a false teaching, “The Buddhist teaching
I know now is quite different from that. [Formerly,] I performed a variety of
[Theravāda] Buddhist practices. But now I don’t perform them anymore. None
of them are concerned with the Buddha’s teaching. Now I know that I must
avoid them.” Around six months after his first meeting with the monk, he be-
came a devout follower.
Another man was 65 years old, runs a business, is a politician and became
a follower in 2000. He was critical to the traditional Burmese Theravāda Bud-
dhists who, he explained, tend to follow the instructions of the monks with-
out knowing why and how they should practice, and without asking critical
124 Foxeus

­questions.6 As a Buddhist, he wanted to learn more about doctrines and prac-

tices by reading and studying books about Buddhism, and listening to sermons
delivered by Theravāda monks. He learned from them that whatever he does is
dukkha, “suffering,” and that human existence is inherently suffering. He prac-
ticed insight mediation and breathing exercises (P. ānāpāna) at various insight
meditation centres for three years. Although he sat cross-legged meditating
for several hours a day, through which he achieved a temporary inner peace,
as soon as he began working with his business, the spiritual joy (P. sukha) dis-
appeared. A sense of disappointment aroused in him regarding Theravāda
meditation.
In this period, around 1999, he heard about Ashin Nyāna and his opposite
view that “the human existence is the noblest one.” He found this idea strange.
Later he met an adherent of him who explained that his problem of the tem-
porary inner peace, followed by worries and tensions (P. soka), was caused by
the fact that he accepted it. Initially, he became sceptic but borrowed a dvd
with a sermon delivered by Ashin Nyāna where he explained the technique of
being “mindful of the causes” to mental tensions. By that means, one should
search for these causes in present actions (karma), not in a previous life. Suf-
fering, he now realised, is not inherent in the human existence as such, which
the Theravāda monks had taught him, but is caused by one’s actions in the
here and now in one’s present life. In this way, he managed to achieve lasting
inner peace, not in a cross-legged position but in all everyday activities. At the
same time, he became critical to the Theravāda Buddhist doctrine on karma
and exemplified with farmers who wrongly believe that their misery is caused
by karma from previous existences when, in fact, the government is the real
cause. He became convinced by this teaching and abandoned Theravāda Bud-
dhism and became a follower of Ashin Nyāna.
In the following, I will provide some tentative analyses of the interlinked
deconversion and conversion narratives of my informants. To some extent,
I will highlight the dynamics that may take place in the interplay between de-
conversion and conversion in their narratives. My informants recounted their
deconversion from their position in the present, in which they had converted
to Ashin Nyāna’s teaching. Such narratives may have been informed by a “bio-
graphical reconstruction” (Snow and Machalek 1983: 266–269), that is, “the past
is reconstructed in light of the new meanings which emerge from one’s present
status as a convert” (Staples and Mauss 1987: 135). The preconversion past tend
to be depicted in negative light, as erratic and obscured by false views, and the

6 These were the passive Buddhists mentioned above.

Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar 125

present as an improvement and a discovery of the truth. This reconstruction

may involve exaggerations and even fabrications (Snow and Machalek 1983:
267–268). Such narratives thus tend to serve as tacit justifications and sup-
port of the present. Hereby, the passive and active modes mentioned above
constitute local, cultural “genres for self-construction” – the self as a cultural,
discursive product (Bruner 1997: 147). Thereby, this dichotomy served as a lens
through which some of my informants structured their narratives.
What changes in conversion is the “universe of discourse,” and is under-
stood as a “radical change” conceptualised as “the displacement of one uni-
verse of discourse by another and its attendant grammar or rules for putting
things together,” a kind of paradigm shift (Snow and Machalek 1983: 265–266).7
In this way, deconversion is biographical change moving out of a state of na-
ïveté and taken-for-grantedness (Streib et al. 2009: 23). Traditional Burmese
Theravāda Buddhism and Ashin Nyāna’s teaching represent diametrically op-
posite forms of Buddhism – enchanted and secular forms, respectively. The
shift from one to the other thus represents an epistemic shift of a “universe of
discourse.” However, such shift seems to have been most evident among those
who had practiced the (allegedly passive) devotional forms of Theravāda Bud-
dhism (the second group), as the difference was greater between these two
versions of Buddhism.
Religious doubt, Paloutzian explains, may emerge as a result of crises, for
instance, of efficacy. In that case, “life circumstances happen that are inconsis-
tent with deeply held beliefs, wants, expectations” (2005: 336; see also Higgins
1987: 322). That was an intrinsic part of the narratives in the second group.
Since the majority of the Buddhists in Burma are socialised into traditional
Theravāda Buddhism, it is part of their ingrained habitus. If their misery is ex-
plained by representatives from such an “allegiant” religious organisation to
which society attributes a high degree of legitimacy and moral authority, they
tend to blame themselves, rather than the religion in question, if discrepan-
cies occur between their efforts, expectations and results (see Bromley 1998:
147–148). However, as we saw in the narratives of the women, this discrepancy
that was explained with reference to bad karma from previous existences by
the monks brought about frustration and emotional suffering, which prepared
the ground for the emergence of doubt and later deconversion and its atten-
dant “spiritual transformation” (see Paloutzian 2005: 337).

7 It could be added that this cognitive approach should be supplemented by a consideration

of the impact of emotions and the body. Many of my informants emphasised a shift in their
behavior and emotional orientation.
126 Foxeus

In this way, these two women tended to depict their lives prior to conver-
sion in a negative manner, as being filled by suffering, and to stress how their
lives had improved after they had found the truth. They thus fit the pattern of
shifting from the passive mode to an active one characterised by agency and
empowerment seeking to embody the true teaching of the Buddha in their
lives, even in their business activities. Their past was thus contrasted with the
present in which they claimed to have found peace and become successful
in business through Ashin Nyāna’s teachings, thereby attributing success ex-
clusively to themselves.8 These cases could be interpreted as “biographical re-
construction,” in which “previously important events may be de-emphasised
and less significant ones elevated to greater prominence” (Staples and Mauss
1987: 135). In other words, there may have been a tendency of over-emphasising
preconversion hardships. As for the first woman, her shop, where I interviewed
her, did not seem to be as flourishing as she tended to depict it. In this man-
ner, a “crisis of purpose” can be followed by a “sense of purpose” after con-
version (Paloutzian: 2005: 342). That perceived improvement is an important
rhetoric strategy in conversion narratives. In these cases, loss of religious ex-
periences (especially the second woman), implied moral criticism of the Bud-
dhist monks and emotional suffering caused by their instructions, followed by
doubt, as well as purely pragmatic, instrumental reasons, especially economic
ones, were thus motives for leaving Theravāda Buddhism.
The epistemic shift was less radical for the secular people (the first group)
who found an interpretation of Buddhism that harmonised with their world-
view. Their deconversion process went faster, probably due to the fact that
meaning systems change slowly (Paloutzian 2005: 339). The cognitive discrep-
ancy between their secular worldview and Theravāda Buddhism caused some
strain and intellectual doubt. They seemed to already have been looking for an
alternative that would enable them to overcome that “cognitive dissonance”
or “belief incompatibility” that may bring about tensions (see Higgins 1987:
320–321). For instance, the former communist’s down-to-earth view on desire
was incompatible with the ascetic one prescribed by Theravāda Buddhism.
Less discrepancy also characterised the spiritual seekers (the third group).
They had already worked on various epistemes, such as insight meditation that,
in contrast to ritualistic Theravāda Buddhism, is (like Ashin Nyāna’s teaching)
characterised by a high degree of rationality and emphasis on d­ octrines (see

8 This is a modern, individualistic, secular concept of agency and of an autonomous subject/

self that contrasts with agency within Burmese Theravāda Buddhism (dependence on monks
and spirits).
Leaving Theravāda Buddhism in Myanmar 127

Houtman 1990).9 As Paloutzian (2005: 336–337) explains, doubt “set the pro-
cess of questing in motion,” and coping with such doubt likewise set the stage
for “spiritual transformation.” The two men were already in doubt regarding
some teachings in Theravāda Buddhism and had set out to find the truth by
critically examining various teachings. As one old follower said, those who
become interested in Ashin Nyāna’s teaching have not received satisfying an-
swers from Theravāda Buddhist monks. Those belonging to the first and third
groups were thus mainly motivated by intellectual doubt for leaving Theravāda
Buddhism. In contrast to the second group, their lives do not seem to have
changed dramatically after conversion and were therefore less inclined to de-
pict their preconversion past in a negative manner. The second man in the
third group experienced some frustration regarding meditation, but it did not
seem to develop into a crisis, although a loss of religious experience was an-
other motive for him to convert. Furthermore, he sought to distance himself
from those characterised by the passive mode, thereby drawing on the local
model for self-construction.
All informants in this sample, moreover, were motivated by moral criticism
to convert, at least from their present point of view. Directly or indirectly, they
claimed to previously have been exposed to false teachings and been deceived
by the Theravāda monks and others. They were now convinced that they had
found the truth and had achieved peace of mind. This is a common rhetorical
figure in biographical reconstruction and may serve to vindicate their decision
to leave and shift loyalties. Some adherents even resembled born-again Prot-
estants and were very eager to spread the “true” teaching of the Buddha. This
intense fervour could also be explained by the radical discrepancy between
Ashin Nyāna’s teachings and Burmese Theravāda Buddhism. It is less a differ-
ence in degree than in kind. The former communist even sought to persuade
others from giving alms to the monks. Some viewed the monks as an unpro-
ductive burden for society and even as “rubbish,” and one man had even felt
“enslaved” by Theravāda Buddhism.
Although some followers have ceased giving alms to the Theravāda monks,
others still do so for social reasons, presumably because they want to avoid
being treated as social outcasts or disloyal apostates (compare Larsson 2018).
That behaviour is similar to many Muslims living in Mandalay area who, for
similar reasons, also give alms to the monks. To some degree, these two ten-
dencies correspond to the exit roles in deconversion that Streib et al. (2009:
26–28) refer to as “oppositional exit” and “integrating exit”; therewith it is here

9 However, insight meditation still operates within Theravāda’s “universe of discourse.”

128 Foxeus

also implied a retaining of an oppositional and accommodating attitude,

respectively, after conversion.

4 Conclusion

In this chapter, I have investigated cases of interlinked deconversion and con-

version among Buddhists in Burma who had left the state-supported Theravāda
Buddhism for a version of Buddhism that almost represents its inversion. The
reasons my informants, divided into three groups, articulated for leaving in-
cluded loss of religious experiences, doubt; moral criticism; and emotional
suffering, as outlined by Streib et al. (2009), as well as more pragmatic, eco-
nomic reasons. They had become followers of a monk whose teaching they
regarded as the “true” teaching of the Buddha but that was declared illegal and
“heretical” by the state. The degree to which there was a radical change of the
adherents’ “universe of discourse,” as well as the applicability of the concept
of “biographical reconstruction,” varied between the three groups, and the
highest degree could be observed among those who had practiced devotional
Theravāda Buddhism. All three groups could retain a Buddhist identity, now
reconstituted on the basis of a systematic alternative universe of Buddhist dis-
course, one that was better adapted to their lives mainly in urban modernising
areas characterised by a growth of capitalism since the 1990s.

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Monk Ledi Sayadaw. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Bromley, D. 1998. “Linking Social Structure and the Exit Process in Religious Organiza-
tions: Defectors, Whistle-Blowers, and Apostates.” Journal for the Scientific Study of
Religion. 37:1, 145–160.
Bruner, J. 1997. “A Narrative Model of Self-Construction.” Annals of the New York Acad-
emy of Sciences. 818:1, 145–161.
Charney, M.W. 2006. Powerful Learning: Buddhist Literati and the Throne in Burma’s
Last Dynasty, 1752–1885. Ann Arbor: The Center for South and Southeast Asian
Studies.
Foxeus, N. 2016. “Contemporary Burmese Buddhist Traditions.” In M. Jerryson ed.,
Oxford Handbook of Contemporary Buddhism. New York: Oxford University Press,
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Higgins, E.T. 1987. “Self-Discrepancy: A Theory Relating Self and Affect.” Psychological
Review. 24:3, 319–340.
Houtman, G. 1990. “Traditions of Buddhist Practice in Burma.” PhD. London University,
United Kingdom.
Ikeya, C. 2012. Refiguring Women, Colonialism, and Modernity in Burma. Chiang Mai:
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Janaka Ashin, and Crosby. K. 2017. “Heresy and Monastic Malpractice in the Buddhist
Court Cases (Vinicchaya) of Modern Burma (Myanmar).” Contemporary Buddhism.
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Larsson, G. 2018. “Disputed, Sensitive and Indispensable Topics: The Study of Islam and
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Paloutzian, R F. 2005. “Religious Conversion and Spiritual Transformation: A Meaning-
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Religion and Spirituality. New York: The Guilford Press, 331–347.
Rambo. L.R. and Farhadian, C.E. 2014. “Introduction.” In L.R. Rambo and C.E. Farhad-
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Snow, D.A. and Machalek, R. 1983. “The Convert as a Social Type.” Sociological Theory.
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Staples, C.L. and Mauss, A.L. 1987. “Conversion or Commitment? A Reassessment
of the Snow and Machalek Approach to the Study of Conversion.” Journal for the
Scientific Study of Religion. 26:2, 133–147.
Streib, H., Hood, R.W. Jr., Keller, B., Csöff, R-M., and Silver, C.F. 2009. Deconversion:
Qualitative and Quantitative Results from Cross-Cultural Research in Germany and
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 Chapter 10

Leaving Vipassana Meditation

Masoumeh Rahmani

1 Introduction

This chapter explores the disaffiliation narratives of former members of one

of the most successful international Buddhist organisations – S.N. Goenka’s
(1924–2013) Vipassana meditation movement. To date, Goenka’s network is
the largest donor-funded Vipassana organisation with over 170 official, and
over 130 non-official centers worldwide. These centers offer courses of varying
durations (3–60 day), thought the standard ten-day retreats mark one’s entry
into this organisation, and hence they are the most frequently held and best
attended (Dhamma 2017). Around the globe, Goenka’s courses are conducted
more or less identically; they all follow the same guidelines and are taught via
pre-recorded audio and video footage of Goenka.
Goenka’s teachings are theoretically underpinned by the basic Buddhist
doctrines of the Four Noble Truths and his selective interpretation of the Bud-
dhist text, Satipaṭṭhana Sutta in light of the Theravada text, Abhidhamma and
“the Path of purification” (Rahmani and Pagis 2015). According to Goenka, hu-
man existence is characterised by suffering, resulting from attachment and
aversion to things that are impermanent. He therefore follows the Buddhist
premise that all phenomena are marked by suffering (dukkha), impermanence
(anicca), and not-self (anatta). Goenka asserts that insight into the true na-
ture of reality, can be gained through the observance of Buddha’s Noble Eight-
fold Path, which is divided into three sections: morality (sila), concentration
(samadhi), and wisdom (panna). A standard ten-day course is structured meticu­
l­ously in order to practice these three stages and to develop insight into the
true nature of reality, as it is understood within the Theravada tradition (Pagis,
2010).
However, Goenka (1997: 12) argues that a mere intellectual understanding of
these concepts and processes does not produce “real wisdom,” and therefore
cannot liberate one from suffering; rather one must understand the true at an
experiential and embodied level. Hence, students are advised to invest more
time in meditation than reading or engaging in “useless intellectual games.”
This epistemic strategy undergirds much of Goenka’s enterprise including his
continuous effort to abstract his movement and its teachings from the ­category

© Masoumeh Rahmani, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_011

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Vipassana Meditation 131

of religion so as to promote the practice as a “rational,” “non-sectarian,” self-

development “tool,” which is “universal” and “does not involve religious
conversion.”
Finally, even though Goenka adopts a world-affirming and scientific lan-
guage to transmit the “teachings of the Buddha” to his non-Buddhist audi-
ence, the ultimate goal of nibbana is never left behind in his discourses. In
fact, Goenka (1997: 1) constantly vacillates between emphasising the practical
benefits of Vipassana meditation (for example, clarity of mind) and promoting
this practice as a transformative tool for achieving enlightenment. While this
vacillation often led new students to question the purpose of the technique,
there was no such ambivalence in the mind of committed meditators who un-
deniably pursued enlightenment. This chapter is primarily concerned with re-
porting the narratives of the latter group; those who constructed a life around
this practice, indicated high levels of commitment during their involvement,
and had the experience of attending a minimum of three ten-day courses and
a maximum of twenty, ten-day courses.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

In comparison to the proliferation of books and doctoral dissertations theoris-

ing the transformative efficacy of meditation and the process of conversion
to Buddhism, the process of exit from the Buddhist world-view is extremely
underdeveloped and in dire of scholarly attention. Perhaps Tim Mapel’s (2007)
study, “The Adjustment of Ex-Buddhist Monks to Life after Monastery” is the
closest approximation to this topic. However, as the title suggest, Mapel’s work
is primarily focused on the process of adjustment post exit (such as employ-
ment, building new relationships, developing intimacy, etc.) and does not ex-
plore disaffiliation in itself.1 This gap in the literature is, in part, due to the
temporal “newness” of Buddhism/Buddhist meditation in western context; it
is also contingent to the positive sociopolitical discourse surrounding medita-
tion, which, in comparison to the “cult controversies” of the 1960s–1970s, has
not provoked a sense of (public) immediacy for this phenomenon to be inves-
tigated. Considering the diversity of Buddhist traditions/groups active in con-
temporary western societies and the rate at which disengagement occurs from
these groups (particularly short-lived engagements), a wealth of unknown is

1 As an ex-monk himself, Mapel does not make any reference as to whether he or any of the
five western ex-monks in his study had deconverted.
132 Rahmani

yet to be excavated and explored through interdisciplinary approaches (an-

thropology, gender studies, sociology, and psychology).
Following Wright and Ebaugh (1993: 120) I use the terms affiliation and disaf-
filiation to refer to the formal processes of joining and leaving an organisation;
both terms are neutral to the processes of personal transformations prompted
by one’s the acceptance or rejection of a system of meaning. Conversely, the
terms conversion and deconversion are used to delineate the gradual process
of migration to a new universe of discourse (Snow and Machalek, 1983) and the
creation of a new self-concept.2 As “a system of common or social meanings”
the universe of discourse provides the individual with necessary recourse for
self-construction, reorientation towards world, and the interpretation of expe-
riences, events, and the action of self and others.
This chapter prioritised a narrative analysis approach, and presents the
findings in light of the linguistic and institutional features of the movement.
The chapter is not concerned with speculating the cause of disengagement or
with the role of factors (social, gender, etc.) in the disengagement process.

3 New Findings Focusing on “Leaving Religion”

The findings presented here are based on my ethnographic fieldwork and in-
depth interviews with twenty-six current and former Vipassana meditators in
New Zealand (Rahmani 2017). Participant recruitment took place over a period
of two-years and involved theoretical and snowball sampling method. In what
follows, I depict the contours of Vipassana disaffiliation narratives, and, based
on the existing material, I suggest that deconversion is (relatively) a rare exit
pattern from this movement.
Many facets of Vipassana disaffiliation narratives correspond with previous
religious disengagement literature (Barbour 1994; Bromley 1998; Streib et al.
2011). Former Vipassana meditators commonly described the process of dis-
affiliation as a gradual, lengthy, and emotionally consuming. Their narrative
plots contained description of major (or series of minor) events that eventual-
ly disturbed the practitioners’ taken-for-granted assumptions, predominantly
about the institutional aspects of the movement and/or the movement’s lead-
ership and other authoritative figures (Wright 2007). As a result, disaffiliates

2 By using the term self and self-concept, I follow the largely unchanged footprints of Mead
(1934 cited in Gecas 1982: 3) who sees the former not as an organism, but as a “reflexive phe-
nomenon that develops in social interaction and is based on the social character of human
language,” and the latter as the “product” of this reflexive activity.
Leaving Vipassana Meditation 133

heavily relied on “moral criticism” (Barbour 1994: 51) as a rhetorical strategy to

vindicate their decision to depart. For instance, one participant anchored his
disaffiliation on the premise of feeling “deceived” into believing that the move-
ment offered an “open teaching” yet gradually discovered the “hidden struc-
tures” within it, such as the demand of complete observance of sila including
celibacy.
However, while “intellectual doubt” is often considered as one of the main
ingredients in the disengagement process and its narrative3 (Barbour 1994;
Fazzino 2014; Streib et al. 2011), former Vipassana meditators rarely harbored
doubts about the movement’s ideologies, or used intellectual doubt as a
rhetoric to plot their narratives. In fact, while some rendered the “discursive”
components of the teachings problematic, almost all (except one: Luke) par-
ticipants praised the “essence of the technique” as a “universal,” “indisputable,”
“and “incredibly on the ball” for “understanding reality.” Instead, Vipassana dis-
affiliation narratives were marked by a sense of ambivalence indicating the
ex-members’ (often ongoing) unequivocal trust in the transformative efficacy
of the technique, and a certain doubt about their own abilities to achieve the
desired/propagated goals.
The theme of “self-doubt” was therefore ubiquitous across the narratives of
all those consulted for this research. In most instances, self-doubt seemed to
be prompted by, and interlaced with, the movement’s ambiguous discourse
surrounding progress. On a Vipassana course, students are constantly discour-
aged from developing expectations, yet are repeatedly reassured that “results
are bound to come” and they will experience some sort of change if they prac-
tice the technique “properly” (Goenka 1997: 33). Students are told that prog-
ress cannot be measured by the types of sensations one experiences (subtle or
gross); rather by the sense of “equanimity” they develop in response to their
sensations (that is, how they handle their cravings and aversions) – which is
itself difficult to measure (Pagis 2008: 174). Despite these assertions, there are
various descriptions in Goenka’s instructions that are taken by practitioners as
yardsticks such as descriptions of bhanga, which is the experience of total dis-
solution of the apparent solidity of the body into waves of pleasant sensations:

Kevin:4 I spent a lot of time doubting whether I’d ever be able to um cor-
rectly perform the technique (…) you know, you’re bound to be seeing

3 This may be related partially to the theological features of the traditions in which these stud-
ies were commonly grounded.
4 Pseudonyms are used to ensure the anonymity of those who requested it. I have also re-
spected the decision of other participants who desired to be named.
134 Rahmani

some results, and really it’s quite, quite subtle (…) I’ve heard people talk-
ing about it you know, “oh I’ve experience the bhanga or dissolution.” Not
me! [hah] Plus, you know, I was never really going for that, I knew I was a
plonker (…) I kind of accepted it.

More profoundly, however, self-doubt reflected the ex-member’s ambivalence

about their progress towards enlightenment:

Damian: I had doubts about the teachings, not that it didn’t work, but
that there was a propaganda element within the teaching of retreats that
made you believe you were near to a break through (…) and you thought
(…) “I’m gonna get there, I’m gonna like um get enlightened” (…) and
then on the last day he [Goenka] says “well it is a long path (…) maybe a
lifetime path” (…) So I had doubt about my progress (…) I felt that in fact
I was going backwards.

A thematic exploration of these case studies highlights two common disaffili-

ation trajectories, indicating two distinct ways in which former members re-
solved their doubts, plotted their disaffiliation narratives, and articulated their
current self-concepts. These include (1) “drifters in samsara,” and (2) “pursuers
of the gateless gate.” While these two trajectories are presented in juxtaposi-
tion to one another, they should not be construed as watertight categories;
rather as a black and white reflection of the ex-members’ (re)orientations to-
wards enlightenment and the various positions they occupied along the tra-
ditional-modernist spectrum after exit. Note, however, that in addition to the
enduring trace of the Buddhist language, all narratives shared one underlying
similarity, which involved the giving up and letting go of an obsession with
enlightenment.
The narratives of “drifters in samsara” indicated a movement towards a
more traditional Theravada discourse with a conception of enlightenment as
a transcendental reality and an impossibly distant ideal. They metaphorically
perceived Vipassana meditation as a raft carrying them across the ocean of
samsara towards the distant shore of nibbana. For many of them, the path to
enlightenment was tied to the mastery of emotions and cravings (for example,
sexual passion). As such, their self-doubt seemed entangled with a perceived
inability to eliminate patterns of craving (eradicate sankharas). Take for in-
stance, the following passage:

Damian: In my current life, there’s an element of resignation… feeling

that not much can change for me in the rest of my life… what Vipassana
Leaving Vipassana Meditation 135

showed me was that the process of transformation is very, very slow… and
the karmic history of each consciousness in general is quite vast… so I feel
a bit resigned to the shit parts of me (…) which in a funny way was a logi-
cal outcome of Vipassana, because it’s all about acceptance (…) have you
heard of Ram Dass? (…) he’d been in India, where he went extensively
and he’d come back and he was on a bus and he saw some woman and he
though “hmm, she’s pretty attractive” and then he had this self-reflection
and he, he felt like “after all of this how come I haven’t managed to, why
haven’t I been able to get past this? I still got this sort of sexual interest”
(…) and it kind of echoes what I’m trying to say is that, you know you
can do realms and realms of spiritual practice but (…) wind up struggling
with the same old junk that you were struggling with when you were a
teenager.

As this passage demonstrates, the narratives of the drifters in samsara indi-

cated the participants’ commitment to certain theological concepts (for exam-
ple, reincarnation, karma, sankhara), which they directly used to rationalise
abandoning the much-desired goal of enlightenment in the present life. Yet,
while self-doubt or a perceived lack of self-mastery had evidently exhausted
these individuals’ enthusiasm, they nevertheless continued idealising enlight-
enment as a transcendental reality – it is just that the goal was postponed to
another life.
An outstanding component of these narratives was enigmatic reports and
side stories of “ghost visitations,” and/or “past-life experiences,” which the
drifters in samsara often voluntarily launched into. A linguistics and thematic
exploration of these narratives highlights the participants’ need for a new con-
ceptual framework to understand the self, and hence achieve a sense of self-
acceptance. For instance, Damian (40s, former member) noted, “often when
I felt negative, I realised that (…) some of my feelings are colored by visitations
by ghosts and other psychic entities.” These experiences led him to question
the idea that “everything you feel is absolutely your responsibility.” Yet, even
though these individuals engaged in practices that may be considered unorth-
odox from Goenka’s viewpoint (for example, looking for causal explanations,
or rejecting individual responsibility), in most instances, participants’ search
for alternative frameworks did not land them outside the Buddhist tradition.
In fact, participants who shared these narratives tended to draw from the Jata-
kas and argued that such perspectives are in perfect harmony with traditional
Theravada conventions.
Conversely, the narratives of the “pursuers of the gateless gate” indicated a
reorientation towards an understanding of enlightenment that affirmed the
136 Rahmani

ordinary life as a site for awakening. For these former Vipassana meditators,
enlightenment did no longer represent an unattainable transcendental real-
ity; rather something intrinsic and already existing. This point represented the
pinnacle of their stories, and was regarded as a “highly liberating” realisation.
In simple terms, these individuals resolved their uncertainties by replanting
enlightenment within an immanent framework and effectively bringing this
goal within reach. Such understandings correspond with modernist Zen –
interpretations of D.T. Suzuki’s (1870–1966) legacy – and West Coast American
interpretations of Vipassana pioneered by Jack Kornfield (1945–).
The pursuers of the gateless gate also stressed a new approach to medita-
tion. They rendered the act (sitting) meditation “counterproductive” and a
barrier to living life and having a “pulsate experience” of it. Instead, they took
the meditation “off the cushion,” and aimed for implementing the insights
gained from the practice into every aspect of the ordinary life. An outstanding
linguistic feature of these narratives was the positive context in which “life”
was spoken of. This characteristic should be interpreted in light of their bio-
graphical stories, which magnified an intense devotion to the practice (during
involvement), due to which most developed resentment towards mundane as-
pects of life such as earning a living. In the most extreme scenario, after leaving
Goenka’s movement, one participant (Kovido, 60s) ordained in the Thai Forest
tradition of Ajahn Chah in order to make the pursue of enlightenment his full-
time career:

Kovido: I spent years trying to get enlightened. You know and went
through various teachers (…) and then kind of actually then coming back
to this, the teaching of that, actually we’re ok as we are. You know. That
actually, what the Buddha realised was that it’s something that is already
here, it’s already existing (…) something to do with living fully you know,
I’m a human being (…) this incarnation or other incarnations, it kind of
makes sense (…) But it’s about living fully really and not suffer.

Contrary to the nuances of self-acceptance encountered in Damian’s narra-

tive, which was predicated under the hegemony of Theravada Buddhism, the
pursuers of the gateless gate rehearsed narratives reconstructed within what
Gleig (2010) refers to as a “feminine” approach to Buddhism. Such an approach,
according to Gleig (2010: 120), promotes a “feminine-associated appreciation of
self-acceptance, interdependence and healing.” These shifts are most notably
evident in Jack Kornfield’s (2000) innovations and reinterpretations of Vipas-
sana, which explicitly condemns western practitioners’ tendencies to misuse
Buddhist ideals to feed their harsh and unhealthy “inner-critic” (Kornfield
Leaving Vipassana Meditation 137

2000 cited in Gleig 2010: 119–121). Instead, Kornfield calls for a metaphorical
reading of Buddhist enlightenment which he frames as “mature spirituality”
or ­“embodied enlightenment,” which aims not to transcend the “pain of hu-
man life,” but to acknowledge and develop awareness, and to embody human
wholeness in everyday life (cited in Gleig 2010: 121). The following passage from
Karen’s (30s, former member) narrative encapsulates these points:

Karen: At that time of meditating four or five hours a day, I was think-
ing, that’s what gets you to nirvana (…) you sit on your bum until I don’t
know what happens I don’t know, someone pops a party cracker, it’s done
(…) from my experiences it’s [enlightenment] a total pile of bullshit sales
pitch that is (…) enticing people to sit their asses on the cushion and
donate their money to different corporations (…) once we step out of the
way and actually allow ourselves to let go of the things we hold dear (…)
once that’s gone, there only is, there’s only nirvana. Even the not seeing
nirvana is nirvana (…) it’s so sad because it makes people think “I’m not
good enough,” “I’m not there yet.”

The final prevalent characteristic of the narratives in this group is the theme
of Perennialism – the idea that there is a shared essence, a mystical core or an
ultimate reality behind the plurality of religious and philosophical traditions,
which is often conceived as a non-dual absolute consciousness (Sharf, 2015:
477). Pursuers of the gateless gate insisted on presenting selves that are open
and appreciative of religious diversity, knowing that they all teach and preach
of the same underlying “essence.” This feature stood in sharp contrast to the
language of the drifters in samsara who explicitly and implicitly demonstrated
their commitment to the Theravada Buddhist perspective (for example, some
expressed prejudice towards the Tibetan Mahayana traditions for its “circus-
like” rituals, or rendered meditational methods “wishy-washy”).
In sharp juxtaposition to the two categories described above, the language
of only one participant (Luke, 40s, former member) leaped outside of the
movement’s (and the Buddhist) universe of discourse, and landed within a
more secular, humanistic one. While a thorough exploration of this story mer-
its its own chapter, it is important to demonstrate why this narrative warrants
the “deconversion” label. As hinted above, even though some disaffiliates re-
configured the concept of enlightenment, they did not completely reject the
doctrine, or any other Buddhist concept of that matter. Against this backdrop,
Luke confidently repudiated the technique on grounds of theory and practice
using striking narrative asides such as stories about a fellow student who com-
mitted suicide, in parallel to his own experience and suffering: “I just became
138 Rahmani

suicidal within the first year of practice (…) and bizarrely I thought that going
deeper into the practice was my solution to the problem.” In essence, Luke con-
structed a narrative that centralised on crisis and trauma, which he perceived
to be the resultant of the meditational practice:

Luke: The goal [of the practice] is to fracture the psyche in some par-
ticular way and um uproot it. But there’s no particular place to put it (…)
Where am I in all this? (…) the notions of “you don’t exist,” “oh there’s no
I.” Well, practically speaking there is an “I” (…) practically speaking I do
exist, and um, really as well (…) So I won’t go along with this notion of, “oh
there’s no I.” Because, who’s suggesting there’s no I? It’s either Goenka or
me suggesting that there’s no I.

Luke’s narrative, as a whole, emphasised the trauma caused by the displace-

ment of self (self is detached from an embodied experience of the body), lead-
ing to alienation or a point where one does no longer identify with the body,
emotions, sensations, and the mind. While this detached perspective is essen-
tial for understanding the true nature of the self (not-self), Luke used it as an
anchoring point to position himself against the movement, legitimise his exit,
and construct/represent a “rational” sense of self. On a linguistic level, Luke re-
jected the concept of not-self by posing an epistemological question – “who’s
suggesting there is no I.” Luke sought to dismiss the concept of not-self – and
by extension, Goenka – by proving the ontological existence of the self. To
achieve this, Luke objectified the “self” (for example, “psyche”), subjected it to
rational inquiry (elsewhere he added, “there is an I, and what does it do?”), and
even sought to metaphorically ascribe locality to it (“no particular place to put
it”). On a more implicit level, Luke rejected not-self, and reinforced the reality
of self by performing the role of the Cartesian cogito.
This articulation is born out of two decades of retrospective meaning
making and in-depth critical engagement with both insider and outsider
­literature – a typical phase of disengagement process that has been previously
described as “paradigmatic work” (Fazzino 2014: 258). However, in this feature,
Luke was not alone. Other disaffiliates in this research indicated a sudden ap-
petite for intellectual knowledge, which commonly reflected their need for
an alternative resource to construct selves post exit, and/or a mere desire to
assess the movement’s claims and to locate it within the historical Buddhist
context.
The abovementioned trends in Vipassana disaffiliation narratives (theme
of self-doubt, the absence of serious intellectual disputes of the movement’s
Leaving Vipassana Meditation 139

beliefs and doctrine, and the infrequency of deconversion), support Bromley’s

(1998) tripartite model which links exit role types (i defectors, ii whistle-blowers,
and iii apostates) and organisational structures (i allegiant, ii contestant, and
iii subversive). In short, Bromley (1998) argues that the manner in which an
individual leaves a nrm is largely determined by the level of tension between
the organisation and the context of its host society.
Seen through the prism of Bromley’s typology, the typical exit pattern from
Goenka’s Vipassana organisation could be considered as defectors, who leave
allegiant organisations. According to Bromley (1998: 148), “The high level of le-
gitimacy and moral rectitude attributed to allegiant organisations allows them
to translate problems into organisational terms and categories that place pri-
mary responsibility for failure on the member.” As a result, the defector may
be left incapable of articulating grievances or validating claims without mean-
ingful alternative resources (Bromley 1998: 147) and they do not pose a major
threat to their former group; instead, they continue to respect, and reaffirm
the organisations values and goals after exit – as it has been the case of most
disaffiliates.
Regardless of the movement’s fast-and-loose associations with Buddhism,
which essentially allows it to relish the positive image of the tradition (peace-
fulness, direct link to the Buddha) and discard its other connotations, Vipas-
sana in New Zealand had arguably enjoyed a certain degree of legitimacy from
its early years of establishment (having been officially registered as an “educa-
tional institute” at the local council). More importantly, unlike other religious
organisations (such as the Mormon church and The Family), Goenka’s organ-
isation has not been the target of any noteworthy scandals or lawsuits, which
helps to preserve their respectable image globally. Furthermore, the movement
arguably benefits from a low-tension relation with other religious organisa-
tions by the virtue of its proselytisation tactics (word of mouth), which makes
the center accessible to specific demographics/subcultures, and covert to the
more culturally/religiously conservative sectors of the population.
Not surprisingly, Goenka’s organisation exerts control over disputes and
has various interpersonal guidelines and strategies to prevent the spread of
controversial ideas among members. According to a number of participants,
potential “claimmakers” are placed on deferral lists and any behavior that may
lead to the spread of disputes are said to cause “bad karma.” Moreover, the cen-
tre in New Zealand is said to have supplemented a position of a social worker
(presumably psychiatrist/psychologist) in order to control post-participation
psychosomatic episodes. As shown, the organisation administrates the exit
narrative, and enforces its emic categories that effectively places the failure on
140 Rahmani

the member – hence the significance of self-doubt. According to the Vipassana

Teacher i interviewed, “If they stop, it’s not the technique that’s the problem, it’s
the person.” Together, these structural features (linguistic and organisational)
could be said to constrain the process of exit and its interpretive narrative in
intricate ways.
Finally, while Bromley’s typology corresponds with the linguistic and insti-
tutional features of the movement, there does remain a point of departure. In
reference to the defector role, Bromley (1998: 148) posits, “The absence of pre-
existing oppositional groups significantly restricts the political and economi-
cal opportunity for a former member career.” I would argue that in the case
of international Buddhist organisations (and possibly Buddhism in general),
we are witnessing a diverging trend. That is, the positive discourse surround-
ing meditation – promoted by psychologists and channeled through various
outlets – has created a fertile field for former Buddhists to venture in, and
benefit from their ex-member identities. In addition to ex-monks’ apparent
career choice in various subfields of psychology, the development of medita-
tion apps and “Dhamma counseling” via Skype (for $150 US per 50 minute) by
­ex-Buddhist monks are a case in point.

4 Conclusion

This chapter explored the narratives of individuals who departed from Goen-
ka’s movement after years of intensive commitment. My analysis showed that
in the vast majority of instances, disaffiliation did not result in total rejection
of the movement’s doctrines; nor did it result in complete migration outside
of its universe of discourse. I posit that consequential to Vipassana’s ideologies
and linguistic strategies (including its epistemic ideology, claims of rational-
ity, universality, and instrumentality, rejection of religious labels and cat-
egories, emphasise on self-development and individual autonomy, and more
importantly, its propagation of meditation as a mean to end human suffering)
Goenka’s movement occupies a low-tension niche within the cultural context
of New Zealand, which itself supports these dispositions. As a result of this
harmony, not only does the movement enforce its emic categories on exit nar-
ratives, but it also continues to influence the world of many of its former mem-
bers. However, this chapter has primarily gazed at religious disengagement
through the keyhole of language and was insensitive to other factors influenc-
ing this process. Future studies should cast a wider net in order to gain a more
holistic understanding of exit from this tradition.
Leaving Vipassana Meditation 141

References

Barbour, J.D. 1994. Versions of Deconversion: Autobiography and the Loss of Faith. Char-
lottesville: University of Virginia Press.
Bromley, D.G. 1998. Linking Social Structure and the Exit Process in Religious Organi-
zations: Defectors, Whistle-Blowers, and Apostates. Journal for the Scientific Study
of Religion. 37:1, 145–160.
Dhamma. “Course schedule.” Vipassana Meditation Germany. At https://www.dham
ma.org/en/schedules/schdvara. Accessed 1/10/2017.
Gecas, V. 1982. The Self-Concept. Annual Review of Sociology. 8:1, 1–33.
Gleig, A.L. 2010. Enlightenment after the Enlightenment: American Transformations of
Asian Contemplative Traditions. Doctoral Thesis. Houston, TX: Rice University.
Goenka, S.N. 1997. Discourse Summaries. Onalaska WA: Vipassana Research Institute.
Fazzino, L.L. 2014. Leaving the Church Behind: Applying a Deconversion Perspective to
Evangelical Exit Narratives. Journal of Contemporary Religion. 29:2, 249–266.
Mapel, T. 2007. The Adjustment Process of Ex-Buddhist Monks to Life after the Monas-
tery. Journal of Religion and Health. 46:1, 19–34.
Pagis, M. 2008. Cultivating Selves: Vipassana Meditation and the Microsociology of Expe-
rience. Doctoral Thesis. Illinois: The University of Chicago.
Pagis, M. 2010. Producing Intersubjectivity in Silence: An Ethnographic Study of Medi-
tation Practice. Ethnography. 11:2, 309–328.
Rahmani, M. 2017. Drifting Through Samsara: Tacit Conversion and Disengagement in
Goenka’s Vipassana Movement in New Zealand. Doctoral Thesis. Dunedin: Univer-
sity of Otago.
Rahmani, M., and Pagis, M. 2015. “Vipassana Meditation.” WRSP. At http://www.wrl
drels.org/profiles/VipassanaMeditation.htm. Accessed 22/2/ 2017.
Sharf, R.H. 2015. Is mindfulness Buddhist? (And Why it Matters). Transcultural Psychia-
try. 52:4, 470–484.
Snow, D.A., and Machalek, R. 1983. The Convert as a Social Type. Sociological Theory.
1, 259–289.
Streib, H., Silver, C.F., Csöff, R-M., Keller, B., and Hood, R.W. 2011. Deconversion: Quali-
tative and Quantitative Results from Cross-Cultural Research in Germany and the
United States of America. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Wright, S.A. 2007. The Dynamics of Movement Membership: Joining and Leaving New
Religious Movements. In: D.G. Bromley, ed. Teaching New Religious Movements.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 187–210.
Wright, S.A., and Ebaugh, H.R.F. 1993. Leaving New Religions. In: D.G. Bromley &
J. Hadden, eds. Cults and Sects in America. Greenwich, CT: Associations for the Soci-
ology of Religion and JAI Press, 117–138.
 Chapter 11

Leaving Orthodox Judaism

David Belfon

1 Introduction

Leavetaking in Judaism is a deeply individual experience, very much informed

by personal choices, power dynamics, as well as complex mechanics of iden-
tity change. My ongoing research study investigates the ways in which this
­process occurs in a Canadian context through interviews with twenty leavetak-
ers from several varieties of Jewish observance in the Greater Toronto Area
(gta). Participants run the gamut of observant Judaism from the moderately-­
observant to highly-traditionalist former haredim (ultra-Orthodox). They
range in age from early twenties to late forties, relating their experiences in an
Orthodox community, the process of leaving, and their current lifestyle and
self-­identification. This chapter presents some preliminary findings of this
work, wherein I have endeavored to give careful attention to the numerous
identities that exist in-between and beyond the standard poles of observant
Judaism—experiential categories that add a new dimension to studying lea-
vetaking and disaffiliation.
There is no formal mechanism in place for leaving Judaism wholesale. Ac-
cording to longstanding Orthodox Jewish ethos (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin
44a; Yevamot 47b), if a person is born Jewish or has undergone an authorised
conversion into the tradition, they are considered Jewish in perpetuity. This
standing remains immutable, regardless of their intent to leave the religion or
if their community shuns them for divergent beliefs or activities. Renouncing
religious beliefs does not correlate to leaving Judaism either, unlike in some
Christian contexts (Roof and Hoge 1980), given that faith is not necessarily the
core criterion for Jewish membership. Furthermore, there are no records of
members “on the rolls” or officially “active,” aside from synagogue affiliations
(Lazerwitz and Harrison 1980). After all, “[m]embership in the Jewish faith is
conferred by birth, not belief” (Phillips 2010: 81). Arguing for the centrality of
“ethno-apostasy” in religious leaving and switching, Phillips and Kelner con-
tend that “in Jewish culture the boundaries between religion and other aspects
of life are blurred, and native discourse defines piety more in terms of practice
rather than belief” (2006: 509). As such, one can identify with Judaism’s cul-
tural or ethnic dimensions aside from its spiritual and ritual elements (Troen

© David Belfon, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_012

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Orthodox Judaism 143

2016), informally leave any Jewish denomination, community, or even self-

identify as a religious “none” (Pew Research Centre 2013)—while remaining
technically Jewish.
As the most theologically-conservative and ritually-observant Jewish de-
nominational stream, haredism has long been the subject of the majority of
scholarly discussion on leavetaking in Judaism. Key issues including rituals,
physical trappings, food and drink, gender relations, education, social interac-
tions, and other matters of the everyday are governed by complex rules in-
formed by religious authorities and the wider community within Orthodoxy.
These entities enact and defend norms more fervently than other Jewish de-
nominations that may be less intrinsically rigid and proscribed. The stakes,
therefore, are arguably highest in leaving this highly-traditionalist environ-
ment. Socialisation is an especially powerful tool for cultivating Orthodox
identities—especially among haredim—with schools training by instruction
and modelling how to live a “Jewish” lifestyle. In this context, “Jewish” is a short-
hand that treats strictly-­Orthodox observance as normative Judaism and the
vanguard for the only possibly legitimate practices and beliefs within the tra-
dition, while emphasising chosenness both over non-Jews and less-­observant
Jews.
Leavetakers from these “Orthodoxies” conduct themselves in a manner con-
tradicting the normative path of Torah observance and the religious lifestyle
consistent with community standards. Experiences vary widely between and
among the different denominational affiliations at issue, as well as concerning
the various nuances of time and place that work to dictate different standards
of orthodoxy and orthopraxy deemed as acceptable in a given community.
Challenging community norms—especially concerning issues of orthopraxy
and the legitimacy of community insularity—tend to be especially sensitive
issues. Since community boundary maintenance against outside influences is
considered imperative to continued Jewish endurance (Sarna 2004), a renun-
ciation of community standards of comportment is of serious consequence to
the entire community, and deviations can be quite public. When a religious
change entails a shifting self-identification as a Jew, a complex series of events
are set in motion that affect several crucial aspects of the leavetaker’s ethno-
socio-cultural lives in addition to their spiritual change or personal identifica-
tion as part of the religious group. Because reputation and familial standing are
so prevalent in maintaining an observant Jewish family’s status within a com-
munity, a member’s decreased observance may impact the immediate family
and even the wider religious community in an intricate system of corollaries.
Given that secular concerns deemed non-essential tend to be kept at a dis-
tance from strictly-Orthodox experience owing to a concern that much secular
144 Belfon

culture is licentious or otherwise unpious, much of a leavetaker’s experience in

the city has been with Jewish institutions within a roughly-delineated enclave.
The gta being a region home to myriad religions and ethnicities can result in a
leavetaker being thrust into an unfamiliar environment, with a limited practi-
cal and social toolkit with which to navigate their new experience. They may
undertake this journey alone since leavetakers sometimes find themselves cut
off from their families, friends and familiar strictly-Orthodox surroundings—
the only experience many have known up to that point. A discontented indi-
vidual may not express their concerns for fear of community reprisal—even
from close friends and family given the powerful taboos associated with less-
ened observance, and so may opt instead to live a double-life instead of openly
leaving (Fader 2017). For some individuals on the conservative side of Ortho-
doxy and especially leavetakers from haredism, it can be an all-or-nothing deci-
sion to stay or leave their community.
Leavetaking from observant Judaism is not, however, always as conspicu-
ous as typical notions of an insider-outsider dichotomy assumes it to be. Every
participant in my ongoing study of leavetakers from Judaism in the gta articu-
lated experiencing a gradual process of doubting and secretly transgressing
taboos. The various gradations of clandestine deviation or leavetaking often-
times involve a deeply complex struggle as the individual “tests the waters”
secretly while living a double-life of sorts before “coming out,” weighing their
inclination to leave often without an institutionalised support system to assist
them. Normative observance is, therefore, a tall order given the high standards
of personal piety that not everyone born into an observant family is willing or
able to realise.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

Social scientific work on leavetaking from Judaism is a burgeoning field of

study, but scholarship pertaining to this phenomenon in Canada is remark-
ably scarce, as are statistics of this invisible population. Only marginally-­
approximate data exists, such as Starting a Conversation: A Pioneering Survey
of Those Who Have Left the Orthodox Community (Trencher 2016), which offers
general figures for mainstream Orthodox leavetakers in the United States.
The vast majority of available research on leavetaking in Judaism is demo-
graphic and informed by etic sensibilities, focusing particularly on denomi-
national switching in Judaism (Sands et al. 2006; Hartman and Hartman 1999;
Lazerwitz 1995). By virtue of these researchers’ particular framework emphasis-
ing trends and quantitative analytics, these publications articulate hypotheses
Leaving Orthodox Judaism 145

concerning experiential aspects that, in my view, merit qualitative scholarly

consideration as well, especially since switching and decisive leavetaking are
only roughly correlative to the experiences related by participants in my study.
Since Shaffir and Rockaway’s 1987 work on haredi defection in Israel, sev-
eral qualitative studies of Jewish leavetaking have emerged (Weiskopf 2016;
Davidman 2014; Berger 2014; Topel 2012; Stadler 2009; Attia 2008; Davidman
and Greil 2007; Winston 2005; Frankenthaler 2004; Herzbrun 1999) focusing on
the diverse experiential aspects of this phenomenon. For example, Bar-Lev et
al. (1997) addressed the culture-specific aspects of leavetaking from haredism
in Israel, noting that the cultural, social, national, and ethnic dimensions of
Judaism tend to persist in certain respects after leavetaking from the specifi-
cally religious and ritual dimensions, a finding that raises questions on how
this might compare to leavetaking trajectories elsewhere. Other foci analyse
data informed via Psychology (Weiskopf 2016) or address persons within a sub-
culture different to the wider leavetaker community, as in Attia’s (2008) work
on adolescent ultra-Orthodox runaways.
An especially compelling manner of approaching leavetaking and disaf-
filiation has been considering how these phenomena parallel with increasing
Jewish observance. Berger (2014) and Davidman and Greil (2007) have noted that
studies dealing largely with “deconversion” from the Orthodoxy one joined and
subsequently left are markedly different to the disaffiliation process in Juda-
ism. Shaffir (1991) argues that in contrast to the socialisation process of be-
coming Orthodox—which for males occurs chiefly in and around the highly
structured yeshiva (seminary) and synagogue experiences—a leavetaker’s so-
cialisation proceeds in the absence of any formalised supports or sympathetic
and supportive subculture.
In my view, because there is no explicit conversion occurring in circum-
stances involving individuals who were born into an observant household,
“deconversion” does not satisfactorily articulate their leavetaking trajectory,
although some scholars of leavetaking in Judaism continue to favour “decon-
version” nevertheless (Frankenthaler 2015, 2004). Rethinking “deconversion”
compels researchers to study leavetaking as not simply an inversion of the oft-
studied processes of religious conversion, but rather as its own distinct phe-
nomenon. Davidman and Greil, following Beckford (1985), agree, adding that
“[e]xit narratives also differ from conversion narratives in that exiters are less
likely to be provided with readily available scripts with which they may tell
their stories” (2007: 201). The distinct lack of formalised structural support or
institutional guidance are products of the disaffiliation experience, as are a
lack of readily available narrative types at their disposal—a very different ex-
perience to becoming Orthodox, where there are various supports and models
146 Belfon

at one’s disposal. It is, therefore, crucial to analyse the fullness of a leavetak-

ing account to isolate issues concerning scripting, modelling, and creativity
as these people navigate the complexities of role and identity change from,
within, back to, and out of Orthodoxies without the limiting implications that
tend to be associated with “deconversion.”
Even with their distinctive ranges of inquiry, researchers contributing to the
burgeoning field of studying leavetakers in Judaism rarely make a meaningful
distinction between the leavetaking experiences of strictly haredi interlocutors
and observant-but-not-haredi leavetakers. Berger acknowledges this lacuna in
her study of haredi leavetakers in New York, suggesting that “[f]uture research
may help clarify the dynamics and correlates of diversity in the struggle with
the issue of identity among ‘exiters’” (2014: 93). My work embraces this largely
neglected issue via its broader inclusion criteria than those typically advanced
in scholarship on Jewish leavetaking. The study takes into account the wider
milieu of observant Judaisms that engage in leavetaking which includes strict-
ly ultra-Orthodox haredim in the gta, as well as other religiously-conservative
Jewish experiences. The resulting comparative data enables further insight
into identity, trajectory and community alternatives at issue.
Concurrently to the nascent scholarly interest into leavetaking from Juda-
ism, numerous memoirs from individual leavetakers from haredism have been
published (Deen 2015; Deitsch 2015; Feldman 2014, 2012; Lax 2015; Vincent, 2014;
Eichenstein 2013; Auslander 2007; Mann 2007). Although they lack scholarly
rigor and are necessarily anecdotal, these accounts remain valuable cultural
artifacts. They offer insight into the mechanics of leavetaking through a singu-
lar narrative, an essential window into post-hoc rationalisation and critical re-
flection of the leavetaking experience, expressed through the leavetaker’s own
words in an autobiographical sense while raising questions of how narrative
varieties can facilitate or otherwise affect perceptions and audiences.
Several study interlocutors described becoming aware during our interview
that they were only then working through their sense of identity vis-à-vis Juda-
ism, developing their responses and rationalising their expressions in real time.
False starts, slips of the tongue, code-switching, and vocalised idiosyncrasies
are all significant data that lend insight into how a discussion on leavetaking
can differ meaningfully from an edited, marketed, and published memoir. This
analytical method is evocative of Stromberg’s work on narratively constituted
identity change in Evangelical conversion narratives (1993), where every utter-
ance matters. For example, upon hearing about my familiarity with the gta’s
varied Jewish landscape, participant “Ariel”1 described his previous ­observance

1 All interviewees have been anonymised and have been assigned pseudonyms.
Leaving Orthodox Judaism 147

as being reflected through his institutional affiliations instead of claiming

membership in any distinct Jewish denomination, noting only that he was
“somewhere in the Orthodox camp” but that “lines were blurred.” He did so
by detailing at length which specific educational institutions and synagogues
he attended in the past and describing the types of Judaism these institutions
represent in the community’s perception of Jewish piety in the city, utilising
restricted code to articulate his former station without actually labeling it as a
distinct denomination. At no point did Ariel spell this out to me—it became
clear only when noticing that his expression omits traditional categories of de-
nomination altogether. There is a palpable sense of the opacity of membership
and observance here, largely governed by public opinion, personal resolve,
and, in Ariel’s individual arc, Jewish institutional affiliations.

3 New Findings Focusing on “leaving religion”

Because the “something else” leavetakers come to identify with in the market-
place of potential identities will likely be substantially different to the lifestyle
they had been accustomed to previously, these identity changes are especially
ripe for scholarly analysis. The more oblique, circuitous, and difficult to classify
identifications within the largely overlooked reaches of Orthodoxy make evi-
dent the vacillations that exist between the poles of ultra-Orthodoxy, Modern
Orthodoxy, and beyond.
This wider discourse on the permeability of boundaries in observant Juda-
ism reveals variable conceptions of changing religiosity from—and, somewhat
unpredictably, sometimes still within—observant Judaism, from decisive
leavetaking to break-taking and eventual circling back, along the spectrum
­encountering the different ways in which a leavetaker re-evaluates their po-
sitioning in the tradition while presenting as a leavetaker nevertheless. A key
question of this study pertains to the mechanisms through which leavetaking
and disaffiliation can occur while the individual remains a self-described Jew
living within some atypical conception of the Jewish milieu. As Taylor argues
(2007), notions of binary membership and identity largely miss the signifi-
cance of marginality. My data shows that boundaries are more malleable than
they are typically assumed to be in terms of the indistinct affiliations professed
through interviews—given that participants express how the jargon of typical
organisational categories preclude their lived experiences. Some time-tested
denominational affiliations, however, do appeal to some interlocutors, who
readily articulate their positioning within standard categories of belonging
such as “Modern Orthodox” or “Conservative.”
148 Belfon

If this population remains “officially” Jewish and several participants in-

deed identify themselves as still belonging somewhere along the Orthodox
spectrum, are they really leavetakers? They are not—strictly speaking—“exes,”
after all (Ebaugh, 1988). My preliminary findings show that the answer is a
resounding “yes.” All interlocutors still identify as “Jewish,” although specific
varieties of Jewish identification vary between them, with no one expressing
to me that their changes in affiliation or observance rendered them ineligible
from identifying as Jewish in some manner. Nevertheless, these accounts do
trend towards highlighting themes of leavetaking, departure, or at least a keen
sense of separation of some kind from their previous positioning within the
tradition, even if their articulation of that separation and new identification
remains undefined to them using existing metrics of religious belonging.
Interlocutors touched upon several common issues that led to their leavetak-
ing, although the degree to which these issues were emphasised to me varied
between them, sometimes significantly. Community hypocrisy, unmanageable
standards, encapsulation, inadequate general studies education, judgmental
attitudes towards outsiders, relentless community surveillance, overbearing
rules, and unbelief were particularly prevalent in participants’ narratives.
Leavetakers from haredism described having had largely similar experiences
to leavetakers from less-traditionalist groups insofar as they related a similar
trajectory of dissatisfaction, questioning, investigating alternatives, surrepti-
tious leavetaking, outing themselves or being outed, and new identification
as differently-Jewish. Mirroring Davidman’s findings among former haredim in
New York (2014), strictly-Orthodox participants’ reasons for leaving in my proj-
ect tended to correlate more closely with systematic mistreatment in the com-
munity than a personal journey towards being truer to one’s self elsewhere.
“Avi” related that he decided to leave haredism at a very young age: “It actu-
ally started because they were beating us constantly in school. It wasn’t just,
like, the school or I didn’t like learning about the Torah anymore or anything
like that. It had nothing to do with that. It had to do with the way we were
treated.” Conversely, interlocutors who described themselves as having been
Orthodox but not haredi expressed more varied reasons. Ariel recalls his youth
in Orthodoxy to be fairly innocuous, relating simply, “I don’t attribute negativ-
ity to it. It just wasn’t for me.” Correspondingly, some participants related how
their challenges in the community have traumatised them, while others report
that observant Judaism no longer appealed to them and so they stopped living
that way, moving to a different Jewish identity that they found more agreeable
rather effortlessly and without significant angst or interpersonal conflict.
Profound moods of guilt and shame often accompany leavetaking even from
the questioning phase, where leavetakers feel that they have betrayed their
Leaving Orthodox Judaism 149

lineage and declined their apparent chosenness. Most participants recalled

this being a significant impediment to leavetaking, and feelings of guilt and
shame can linger through vestiges down the line. For example, most interlocu-
tors recall that although they no longer observe Jewish dietary requirements,
certain food taboos remain powerful—a finding in common with Davidman’s
work with haredim (2014) and in studies of Muslim leavetakers (Cottee, 2015).
Some participants described an especially keenly-felt aversion to consuming
pork products and shellfish—goods traditionally perceived as being especially
verboten—for reasons they cannot easily articulate. When I asked participant
“Dov” why he still avoids these foods, he replied, “I want to stay a little bit part
of my parents’ community deep down, and that’s just—it’s a little way to do
that? To represent, like, I’m still ‘traditional’. For some reason I want to stay—
even if it’s a little bit—like, anchored to the tradition. It may not be a logical
thing, but it’s just, certain things just stay with you.”
Losing faith in God and the authority of the Torah was cited as significant in
a minority of leavetaker narratives, with the majority of respondents relating
instead that criticism towards and from the Jewish community were intrin-
sic to their leavetaking. Orthodoxy and orthopraxy remain significant issues
throughout, since participants recognise these aspects of religious life as en-
compassing normative Jewish observance while privileging one (usually or-
thopraxy) over the other—at least publically—raising crucial questions about
sincerity, performativity, and embodiment.
All interlocutors described having happier, more gratifying and more mean-
ingful relationships with Judaism upon leavetaking from their previous Ortho-
doxy. Although criticisms of the tradition and community were sometimes
fierce, many participants insisted that their experiences are not necessarily
typical. Indeed, several expressed how there can be tremendous joy, beauty,
and fulfilment in observant Judaism even if they did not find it personally
workable. This finding highlights that results may vary in Orthodox leavetak-
ing, and that one need not necessarily feel acrimony towards the tradition to
disaffiliate from it.
Divergences along gendered lines are evident in my data, with women
finding it more challenging to live up to community expectations of ascribed
piety than men did. Participant “Adina” discussed self-presentation inside and
out of the community’s purview: “I went out with friends shopping, and it
was on Shabbat. And I was nervous that I’d see anyone. I went out, I bought a
blonde wig, to wear. Like, I’m gonna run into twenty people I know. So, yeah.
I dressed up. That probably sounds crazy. I was like sixteen or seventeen.
I put it back on until I got safely [back] inside the house.” Dress was less
central in men’s accounts, given that gender roles in the community tend to
150 Belfon

­ nderscore female trappings and sexuality as being especially indicative of

u
observance and general status, yet wearing (or not wearing) the kippah (skull-
cap) was indeed described as being a powerful exterior mark of membership
for many men.
Several interlocutors expressed finding themselves at the margins of
or near to the tradition and existing in a blind spot that remains popularly
unclassified—an especially salient finding. Most participants described
­
Judaism as being a cafeteria tradition—without this term’s pejorative
connotations—­within which they feel authentic Judaism is most accessible
through choosing what elements are meaningful to them and disregarding to
various degrees those that are not, emphasising individualisation. As such,
nearly everyone dismissed a rigidly-defined category of “Orthodox” obser-
vance in favour of a far broader variety of observances that they can accept or
reject as appropriate. This picking-and-choosing is typically perceived as being
unworkable in the wider Orthodox ethos, where religious identifications and
resulting comportment must fit into largely inflexible categories wherein an
individual is either “observant” or not, determined by their willingness to sub-
mit to normative religious obligations.
Furthermore, religious leavetaking is not necessarily monodirectional, as
some participants related returning to observance later in life. For example,
Ariel articulated how he left observant Judaism but eventually returned, albeit
to an observance level different to the kind he rejected in his youth. “I think
that the official phrase is ‘took a break,’” Ariel shares, acknowledging that al-
though he usually keeps kosher nowadays, he will occasionally eat in a non-
kosher establishment when he is confident that no Orthodox Jews who might
see and recognise him are in the immediate vicinity. Ariel does not find his abil-
ity to operate effectively in both worlds to be phony or especially burdensome.

4 Conclusion

Leavetaking from observant Judaism is not necessarily deconversion or be-

coming an “ex”; this process can entail reaffirming certain aspects of Jewish
experiences alongside reshaping or suspending elements that a person finds
problematic. Regardless of their technically-indissoluble station as Jews,
leavetakers could very well say that they are finished with Jewish rituals and be-
lief, living outside of Judaism perhaps save for some deeply-encoded vestiges
and the tradition’s ethnic dimension. But not everyone chooses this path, as
per this study’s findings.
Leaving Orthodox Judaism 151

Some people resist qualifying their Judaism as they once did, arguing that rigid
denominational classifications constrain their oftentimes ongoing journey
to find an appealing, meaningful, socially-conscious, and sensible religious,
social, and ethnic identity within Judaism. Binary categories privileging iden-
tification with either “insiders” or “outsiders” in the tradition miss this cru-
cial element, and are therefore no longer sufficient on their own in a robust
examination of religious change. According to my data, Jewish “leavetakers”
can and sometimes do remain inside that same tradition while still taking
leave from certain aspects of it, and marginal leavetaker narratives endure as
pertinent fixtures of contemporary Jewish experience in Canada.

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 Chapter 12

Leaving the Amish

David L. McConnell

1 Introduction

Contrary to the persistent myth that they are dying out, the Amish population
in North America continues to grow at a rapid pace. Numbering over 330,000
in thirty-one states and four Canadian provinces, the Amish population dou-
bles every twenty years (Young Center 2018; Donnermeyer et al. 2013). While
over 60 percent of the Amish still reside in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana,
home to the four largest Amish settlements, population pressures are increas-
ingly resulting in out-migration to areas where land prices are more affordable.
Because the Amish do not actively seek converts, this population surge is a re-
sult of two major forces—large family sizes and a high retention rate. Though
family size differs by affiliation, Amish families still average approximately five
children. At the same time, the retention rate is at an all-time high. Fully 85
percent of Amish youth get down on their knees in front of their congregation
and pledge to uphold the Ordnung, or unwritten code of conduct, of their local
church district (Kraybill, Johnson-Weiner, and Nolt 2013).
Less visible in this overall picture are the approximately 15 percent of Amish
youth who leave the community. Like other Anabaptist groups, the Amish re-
quire youth to make a conscious decision to join the church at some point
after they reach “the age of accountability,” usually age sixteen, and enter the
period known as rumspringa, where parental supervision is relaxed. The focus
on adult baptism arose during the Radical Reformation in the early 1500s as a
sign that believers had made a “conscious decision to follow Christ and form
a church apart from the state” (Nolt 2003: 12). Because the state church used
infant baptism as a means of controlling the population, however, it saw adult
baptism as a grave threat to its legitimacy. The persecution of Anabaptists over
the next century—as many as 2500 were killed—was a key factor in their sub-
sequent migration to the U.S. in the 1700s (followed by another wave in the
1800s) at the invitation of the Quaker governor of Pennsylvania, William Penn
(Kraybill, Johnson-Weiner and Nolt 2013: 24). Because adult baptism remains
a cornerstone tenet of the Amish faith, the individuals who decide not to join
the church, or who join but later decide to leave, provide a useful mirror on the
rapidly changing relationship between the Amish and the outside world.

© David L. McConnell, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_013

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving the Amish 155

Two recent changes in the social fabric of Amish society are of particular
importance in understanding the experiences of leavers. The first involves
the unprecedented diversity now seen in the Amish world. Just a century
ago, there were only a few Amish groups, whereas now more than 40 non-
fellowshipping Amish affiliations exist in North America. These affiliations,
or “clusters of church districts linked by social and spiritual bonds,” lie on a
spectrum of accommodation with the world, which the Amish themselves re-
fer to as “high” and “low” (Kraybill, Johnson-Weiner, and Nolt 2013: 12). Low-
er affiliations, such as the Swartzentruber Amish, generally observe stricter
separation from the world, whereas the higher groups, such as the New
Order Amish, have made more compromises with technology and “emphasise
a more personal and reflective religious experience” (Hurst and McConnell
2010: 35).
Alongside this landscape of religious fracture, a significant transformation
in the occupational structure of Amish society has taken place. Over the past
fifty years, Amish heads of household have left farming in droves, mostly to
start their own small businesses or, to a lesser extent, to work in non-Amish
factories. This “mini-industrial revolution” (Kraybill and Nolt 2004: vii) has in
turn spawned growing socioeconomic differentiation within Amish communi-
ties, as well as diversification in health care and educational choices. In spite
of these far-reaching changes in the very fabric of Amish society, however, re-
cent ethnographic studies of Amish settlements in key Midwestern states have
painted a portrait of enormous vitality (Meyers and Nolt 2005; Johnson-Weiner
2010; Hurst and McConnell, 2010; Kraybill 2001). The number of speakers of
Pennsylvania Dutch, the Germanic-derived dialect spoken by most Amish,
is growing exponentially, even though Pennsylvania Dutch has not been re-
freshed by later waves of immigration since the late eighteenth century (Loud-
en 2016).
Based on a review of earlier and more recent studies on leaving the Amish,
this chapter argues that as the Amish community itself has become more
heterogeneous and prosperous, the ways of leaving have become equally di-
verse. Early academic studies of departure from the Amish focused, on the
one hand, on describing the cultural logic of rumspringa, baptism, excom-
munication and shunning and, on the other hand, on establishing, quanti-
tatively, the predictors of apostasy. More recent studies have tried to clarify
the motivations for and the process of leaving and to relate the different ex-
periences of leaving to baptismal status, affiliation, and gender. While central
themes can be identified as running through many Amish experiences of leav-
ing, there is no one path or master narrative that captures the former Amish
experience.
156 McConnell

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

Unfortunately, the general public has come to understand rumspringa primar-

ily through the lens of popular culture caricatures of the Amish. Lucy Walker’s
(2002) documentary, The Devil’s Playground, spotlighted northern Indiana
teens, for whom rumspringa emerged as a non-stop party, replete with alcohol,
drugs, and sex. The portrayals were widely criticised by Amish scholars who
pointed out that rumspringa does not always equate with wild behaviour (Ste-
vick 2014). This did nothing to stem the tide of reality television shows, how-
ever, where former Amish have gained fame and notoriety through shows such
as upn’s Amish in the City, tlc’s Breaking Amish, and National Geographic’s
Amish: Out of Order. Similarly, Amish-themed romance novels often turn on
a plot line involving excommunication and shunning, yet they routinely over-
state the frequency of shunning, the types of infractions that lead to shun-
ning, and the severity of the punishment (Weaver-Zercher 2013: 205–209).
Such superficial and often misleading accounts in the print and visual media
do little to clarify the motives or the experience of those who choose to leave
the faith.
Earlier scholarly studies tended to analyze both rumspringa and excom-
munication in functionalist terms and from the perspective of the church
community, rarely delving into the perceptions and experiences of so-called
defectors themselves. Hostetler (1993) describes apostasy in terms of “deviant
behaviour” and partially blames evangelical churches who prey on the Amish
for enticing youth to leave. Reiling (2002) also uses the frame of deviance but
concludes that it is “culturally sanctioned” and leads to strong levels of angst
and “negative affective response” when young people try to reconcile expecta-
tions of obedience to God and the church with unspoken parental assump-
tions that they should “sow their wild oats.” Kraybill (2001: 131–141) offers a
detailed description of the process for excommunicating and shunning adult
members who have taken their vows and then broken them. A series of minor
confessions and punishments usually precede formal excommunication; the
hope is that wayward individuals will see the error in their choices and decide
to make things right again. An individual who is formally excommunicated,
however, faces specific “rituals of shaming,” such as not being allowed to eat
at the same table or accept gifts from other church members. Kraybill argues
that shunning and excommunication are powerful forms of social control that
place loyalty to God and the church over family ties, notwithstanding the in-
consistencies in enforcement.
Kraybill’s early work (2001) on rumspringa also views it as a liminal period of
rowdiness that seems contrary to Amish beliefs but in fact serves a “redeeming
Leaving the Amish 157

function” in their social system. Because the large majority of youth eventually
settle down and join the church, Kraybill (2001: 186) argues that “flirting with
the world serves as a form of social immunisation.” Zeroing in on the issue of
whether Amish youth have a “free choice,” he argues that they do not because
they are funneled towards joining church by their upbringing and other social
forces around them. He concludes, however, that “the illusion of choice” plays
a critical role in fostering obedience to the church rules later in life because
members see themselves as having made a choice. Mazie (2005), a political
philosopher, takes up the Amish “quandary of exit” as an instructive case for
how liberal states ought to deal with conservative minorities. He affirms the
notion that the cards are stacked against Amish youth leaving because they
have to give up so much in the process, especially family ties, and have very
little preparation for transitioning to non-Amish life.
In a somewhat different vein, early quantitative studies of predictors of de-
fection were useful in shedding light on precisely which youth were at great-
est risk of leaving. Meyers’ (1994) study in northern Indiana was the first to
demonstrate statistically what all ultra-conservative Amish intuitively know:
degree of isolation from non-Amish is an important factor in shaping retention
rates. Meyers found that residential proximity to towns was positively correlat-
ed with likelihood of defection, presumably because of greater access to other
plausibility structures. As Stevick (2014: 346) points out, however, it is difficult
to know whether influences from the town or the characteristics of families
who choose to live near towns are at work here. Meyers also found that Amish
children who attend public schools are twice as likely to leave as those who at-
tend parochial schools and that males are significantly more at risk for leaving
than females, in part because they have more contact with the outside world
as members of sports teams and assisting in family businesses. These findings
corroborate the idea that the degree of physical separation from the world on
the part of the family and the affiliation matters.
Other factors shown to correlate with retention rates include occupation,
church leadership status, birth order, and family wealth. Greksa and Korbin
(2002) found that farming families and families of ordained leaders in the
Geauga settlement in Ohio have higher retention rates for their children, an
outcome they attribute to a more conservative orientation. In addition, Meyers
(1994) found that the oldest sibling is more likely to leave, while Greksa and
Korbin (2002) discovered that if the oldest sibling in the family leaves, a young-
er sibling is four times more likely to follow suit. Using the 1988 Amish Direc-
tory and local data on real estate values, Choy’s (2016) study of Holmes County,
Ohio, showed that children from wealthier Amish families were more likely to
remain Amish than those from poorer families.
158 McConnell

Finally, the emergence of an entire genre of narratives of leaving written

by former Amish has allowed a glimpse into the diverse ways they reconstruct
and make sense of their experiences. Among the earliest and most controver-
sial memoirs was Ruth Irene Garrett’s, Crossing Over, written by a woman who
grew up in a conservative affiliation in Iowa and left the church to marry a di-
vorced man who had worked as her family’s taxi driver. Subtitled, One Woman’s
Escape from Amish Life, the book cast a harsh light on the Amish, even describ-
ing them as “cult-like” (Garrett 2003). Saloma Furlong’s Why I Left the Amish is a
somewhat more sympathetic account even though she highlights the physical
and sexual abuses that may drive some individuals to leave (Furlong 2011). Ira
Wagler’s (2011) Growing Up Amish begins with the assertion that “one shouldn’t
be condemned for simply craving freedom,” and yet his own departure was a
protracted affair that involved many false starts before he achieved final sepa-
ration. In fact, a recurrent theme in these narratives is the emotional difficulty
of leaving because parents and extended family go to extraordinary lengths to
convince their wayward children to return. One man who tried to leave related
that when his dad found out where he was staying, he came and sat on the
back steps of the house all night to persuade him to come home. Because most
memoirs have been written by excommunicated former Amish from relatively
conservative communities, they tend to accentuate the conflicts that unfold
around their departures.

3 New Empirical Findings Focusing on “Leaving Religion”

Building on the foundation of early studies, but with sharper conceptual and
methodological tools, a new round of research by Hurst and McConnell (2010),
Stevick (2014), Kraybill, Johnson-Weiner, and Nolt (2013), Faulkner and Ding-
er (2014), and Foster (2016) has considerably improved our understanding of
overall patterns of defection, as well as the diverse processes and experiences
of leaving that can be seen across the Amish spectrum. Hurst and McConnell
(2010) discovered that in all but the most conservative affiliations the decision
to leave before baptism is treated much more positively than the decision to
leave after having made one’s vows. Focusing in further on baptismal status,
Faulkner and Dinger (2014) found the narratives of those who left after baptism
revealed a great deal of role conflict (see Ebaugh 1988), as well as a perceived
lack of control. In contrast, those who left before baptism, though they were
typically unmarried and had more truncated social networks, followed trusted
individuals who led them to see that the benefits of leaving outweighed the
costs; as a result, they decided they could no longer be passive followers.
Leaving the Amish 159

Kraybill, Johnson-Weiner, and Nolt (2014: 162) explore the important ques-
tion of why the overall rate of defection has fallen over the past 40–50 years at
precisely the same time that the Amish were leaving farming in large numbers.
They point out that the historical rise in the retention rate corresponded with
the growth of Amish parochial schools and the end of military draft, both of
which reinforced separation from the world at a critical time in late adolescent
life. The rise of retention rates nationally was further supported by the suc-
cessful entry of many Amish into small businesses. Young people saw that they
could remain Amish and make a living that allowed for disposable income
without having to work the long hours that come with life on the farm.
A more nuanced understanding of how Amish retention rates vary by af-
filiation has also emerged in recent years. Quantitative studies of leaving the
Amish are made possible because of the existence of published Amish Direc-
tories for each settlement that list a wide variety of household information,
including the baptism status of all children. Using the Holmes County, Ohio,
Amish Directory, Friedrich (2001: 96) found that individuals from New Order
families were four times more likely to no longer be Amish than those from Old
Order families, and, in turn, those from Old Order families were three times
more likely to leave than those from Andy Weaver affiliations. More recently,
Kraybill, Johnson-Weiner, and Nolt (2014: 163) found that defection rates in the
Holmes County settlement varied from 2.6 percent for the Andy Weaver affilia-
tions to 25.1 percent for the Old Order and 40.4 and for the New Order. In gen-
eral, these results seem to support the argument that the more conservative
the Ordnung, the higher the retention rate because strict churches demand
more of their members (Iannacone 1994). Yet there can be considerable dif-
ferences within a given affiliation in retention rates, depending on the church
district and settlement.
The diverse motives and processes for leaving have also come into clearer
focus. Hurst and McConnell (2010: 84) found the desire for fewer lifestyle re-
strictions and for a more intense and personal religious experience to be the
two dominant motivations for leaving in the Holmes County, Ohio, settle-
ment. The latter motivation seems counter-intuitive to those who assume the
Amish are already “hyper-religious,” but some Amish are attracted to the ideas
of interpreting the bible themselves, being “saved” through faith alone, and
establishing a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Though such ideas are
considered “strange beliefs” by most Amish—one New Order man criticised
the “born again approach” as “fantastic emotionalism”—they are promoted by
surrounding evangelical churches who actively proselytise the Amish.
Foster (2016), on the other hand, found that while four of her fourteen re-
spondents left because they “had been saved,” frustrations with the rules of
160 McConnell

their respective church districts were a central motivation for leaving. For
some, a key turning point, such as a new restriction on technology, pushed
them to make the final break. McConnell and Hurst (2010), for example, relate
the story of an ex-Andy Weaver woman whose father had come to her house
to cut her countertop in half because it was one foot longer than the 8-foot
maximum allowed by the church. She recounted, “So then in my mind I was
just like, ‘Well, if this little piece of countertop is going to take me to Hell, I’m
going to leave the Amish and drive a car and have some fun and go to Hell’
That was my decision.” Faulkner and Dinger (2014: 122–123) raise the possibility
of gender differences in the process and perception of leaving. In their study,
females who left harboured an intense resentment of specific rules that they
saw as arbitrary and unfairly limiting their autonomy, while males expressed a
more generalised sentiment of spiritual and philosophical conflicts.
The terms of separation can also be much more amicable, however. Foster
(2016) found that most of those who left Old Order Ohio communities before
baptism experienced a distancing from their families at first. Over time, how-
ever, they gradually improved their relations with their parents and siblings,
sometimes even joining in family events or assisting their Amish kin in matters
ranging from transportation to navigating the medical and legal systems. Most
also stayed relatively close to the area where they grew up, did not pursue fur-
ther formal education, and joined Mennonite or evangelical churches. Males
overwhelmingly stayed in the manual trades they had mastered while growing
up Amish, while females focused on mothering and homemaking. In addition,
only a few of Foster’s fourteen respondents were afraid of being “caught out,”
referring to the belief that a person’s soul is at risk of going to hell if they die
in the window of time between reaching the age of accountability and joining
the church. They were more concerned that their departure would hurt their
parents, a theme also mentioned in previous studies (Stevick 2014; Hurst and
McConnell 2010).
Finally, the border between the Amish and the non-Amish is complex and
multifaceted. In addition to religious differences, Faulkner and Dinger (2014:
109) found that it includes “different social networks and cultural traditions,
practices, and ideologies, such as language, styles of dress, modes of transporta-
tion, and values.” Drawing on Bourdieu’s (1986) concepts of cultural and social
­capital, Foster similarly discovered that her respondents faced many practical
challenges of adjusting to different expectations surrounding transportation,
dress, and language in the outside world. Those with more robust social net-
works of non-Amish and former Amish were more prepared than others to
Leaving the Amish 161

meet those challenges. Because such stories of a relatively uneventful transition

to English life do not make for good sales material, they often go unreported.

4 Conclusion

Taken together, recent scholarship suggests that the institutional structures

and processes surrounding the decision to leave the Amish are complex, flex-
ible, and changing, which allows for a diverse set of experiences among leav-
ers. Just as there are lots of ways to be Amish, there are many ways to leave the
Amish. Faulkner and Dinger (2014) suggest that future studies take an intersec-
tionality approach in order to capture the inter-relations between occupation,
gender, affiliation, and baptismal status—to which we might add social class,
type of education (public or parochial), age, marital status, and birth order. The
presence or absence of non-Amish friends and the social and cultural capital
they possess also shape the integration of former Amish into the wider society.
In general, scholarship on leaving the Amish has moved beyond functionalist
accounts that accentuate the perspective of the church community to more
nuanced studies that focus on diversity, conflict, and change and attempt to
understand the diverse, subjective experiences of leavers.

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 Chapter 13

Leaving Evangelicalism
Philip Salim Francis

1 Introduction

Exiting from a religious community, like joining, entails more than just intel-
lectual recalibration or tinkering with belief. It is, rather, an overhaul of one’s
previous conception of self, a re-creation of one’s way of being in the world.
For this reason, the transition out of any religious community—and notably
evangelicalism—is rarely smooth. For example, James Baldwin, the famed
American writer (1924–1987), described his exit from evangelicalism as a
“pulverisation of my fortress.” John Ruskin (1819–1900), leading English social
thinker of the Victorian era, referred to his deconversion as a “crash” (Hempton
2008). Numerous “obstacles”—theological, psychological, and relational—rise
up and block the way.
From the perspective of the evangelical community, these “obstacles” are
more accurately described as methods of identity preservation. These are inten-
tionally cultivated ways of being, intended to render certain evangelical beliefs
and practices steadfast, to establish the faithful in their Christian identity. In
other words, the evangelical identity, like all identities, is established through
a repertoire of repeated, ritualised performances, in the sense given the terms
“identity” and “performativitity” by American Philosopher Judith Butler
(1956–) in Gender Trouble, her groundbreaking work in 1990. Identity, in her
terms, is a sense of self that congeals over time through performance of a series
of socially prescribed bodily practices that transpire within the framework of a
particular social unit with its unique codes and compulsions.
In my fieldwork on evangelicals who leave the fold (from 2007–2017), par-
ticularly at a unique American (in the state of Oregon) school run by renegade
post-evangelical Christians called the Oregon Extension (established in 1975–),
I have documented the manner in which evangelical deconversion entails not
only a relinquishment of the performative practices of evangelicalism, but
also, simultaneously, the cultivation of performative strategies by which one
signifies to self and other that a new identity has been assumed. In fact, my
field work convinces me of the importance of defining conversion and decon-
version in such Butlerian terms.

© Philip Salim Francis, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_014

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Evangelicalism 165

This chapter focuses on my fieldwork at the Oregon Extension and draws

on the performative theoretical framework of Judith Butler to demonstate
the ways that evangelical deconversion entails a performative act replete with
bodily practice. Such an interpretation of evangelical deconversion stands in
contrast to merely intellectualist interpretations. This essay is thus in keep-
ing with a growing body of scholarship that seeks to “widen the purview of
discourse” to consider at once “the influence of multiple forces at work in reli-
gious conversion” and deconversion (Rambo and Farhadian 2014).
Since 1975, a small college-level program called the Oregon Extension, nes-
tled into a mountaintop in the Southern Oregon Cascades, has been the site of
hundreds of evangelical deconversion experiences. From 2007–2012 I under-
took an ethnographic study of the Oregon Extension in order to understand
the inner working of the program and why it set so many evangelical college
students on a path out of the fold. I was not wrong to suspect that I would learn
a great deal about the lived experience of evangelical deconversion, and, of
course, about evangelicalism. In the following, I will examine the role of the
Oregon Extension in the undoing of one evangelical method of performative
identity preservation in particular. It is what my participants refer to as the felt
need for absolute certainty.
The Oregon Extension was launched in 1975 by a small group of unconven-
tional evangelical Christian professors from Trinity College in Deerfield, Illi-
nois, as a semester study-away program on the site of an abandoned logging
camp (Francis 2017). This core group taught together for nearly thirty years, be-
fore handing the reins over to a new group of younger professors between 2008
and 2012. Since its founding, the Oregon Extension has drawn between twenty-
five and forty students each year from evangelical Christian colleges. They of-
fer students a Henry David Thoreau-like back-to-the-land experience, living
in small cabins, away from the confusions of everyday life, reading novels, po-
ems, and essays, chopping wood, and “asking life’s most difficult questions.”
Although this setting may sound benign, vast numbers of Oregon E ­ xtension
alumni—even those looking back 20 years later—describe their time in the
program as the moment in which they “broke free from the evangelical mind-
set,” as one alumnus phrases it (Francis 2017: 35).
One cannot understand the Oregon Extension experience without know-
ing that it is an aesthetically charged environment, from the sublime moun-
tain setting to the poetry and fiction that fill the syllabi. As Jennifer W. recalls,
“Arts in all forms were everywhere at the OE. Morning lectures always started
with someone sharing a poem, song, reading etc. I remember Nancy Linton
[long-time Oregon Extension professor] reading from Operating Instructions
166 Francis

(1993) by American author Anne Lamott (1954–), and sharing the song When
I Was a Boy by American singer-songwriter (1967–) Dar Williams” (Francis 2017:
36). After preludes such as these, the morning was then built around lectures
and intensive small group discussions, while the afternoon was reserved for
reading—­novels, poetry, essays. Lectures and discussion are often held at a
professor’s home, as all faculty live on site. Students tend to develop close, per-
sonal relationships with Oregon Extension professors. These relationships are
fostered in small group discussions and through formal and informal one-on-
one meetings.
At the Oregon Extension, there is no division between personal and intel-
lectual struggles. The ideas on the page are discussed in relation to a student’s
lived experience, and the characters in the novels animate the student’s life.
Shawnie P., who attended in the late 1990s, recalls in her memoir, “The Broth-
ers Karamazov was the culminating book of my Oregon Extension experience.
It took me more deeply into my questions about faith than anything before”
(Francis 2017: 37) Like the Russian author Fyordor Dostoyevski’s (1821–1881)
character, Alyosha Karmazov, some Oregon Extension alumni hold onto their
faith even as it changes. Like Ivan Karamazov, other Oregon alumnae “respect-
fully return their ticket to God.”
Though many Oregon Extension alumni end up leaving or reconfiguring
their relationship to evangelicalism, Oregon Extension professors continue to
identify as Christians. Founder and long-time professor Doug Frank’s intention
with the program, as far as I can tell, is not to dismantle his students’ “faith,” but
to cut it free from the umbilical cord of American evangelicalism, or the fac-
ile strand thereof, which is wrapped around its neck. The faith may die, Doug
would concede, but it will, at the least, have been given a chance to live.
In 2007, I established formal contact with the Oregon Extension and its
alumni in the interest of undertaking a study of the intellectual and spiritual
change that its participants undergo. I spent time in Oregon and began conver-
sations with the professors there. I contacted hundreds of Oregon Extension
alumni lists. I asked them to contribute to this study by writing a memoir about
their experience in Oregon and beyond. Of the approximately two hundred
Oregon Extension alumni respondents, roughly one hundred agreed to full
participation in the study. Within this set there is a range of reflective distance
from their time in Oregon. In their self-accounts, almost all Oregon Extension
alumni note the decisive role played by aesthetic experience—­primarily of a
novel or a poem or a song or an image—in the unsettling of their religious
foundations, or the “disruption of our felt need for absolute certainties,” to
use the phrasing of alumnus Tracy F., who attended in the early 1980s (Francis
2017: 37).
Leaving Evangelicalism 167

“The felt need for absolute certainty.” This phrase recurred in the accounts
of virtually all of my participants. When I met with professor Doug Frank at
the Oregon Extension, I began to understand why (Frank 2010). By the time
I met Frank in 2007, he was in his late 60s and had already been teaching phi-
losophy, history, and literature households (his PhD is in History) in Oregon for
about thirty-five years, shaping and unsettling the beliefs of scores of students,
who, like him, were reared in conservative evangelical. I asked Frank what he
considered to be among his primary pedagogical tasks when a new group of
evangelical students arrived at the doorstep of his program. He said that he
hopes to help students to “tame for themselves the wild need for absolute cer-
tainty in matters of religious belief,” a need which has been “bred in them from
an early age.” He said he wants to help these young evangelicals to understand
that religious “doubt is not a reflection of moral depravity.” He hopes to guide
them to resources and models that will help them learn to “dwell in the mys-
tery of unknowing.” He wants them to become “seekers,” and in this way to live
(Francis 2017: 37).
In the “New Findings” part below, I demonstrate the ways that this felt need
for absolute certainty is inculcated in evangelicals through performative acts
and also the way it is undone at the Oregon Extension, again through perfor-
mative acts, often associated with aesthetic experience. But first I will explain
through reference to previous research why such an interpretation of evangeli-
cal deconversion is relevant to current scholarship on religious conversion and
deconversion.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

The accounts of Oregon Extension alumni provide a counter-balance to a

dominant trend in scholarship on the evangelical mind and more particularly
on claims to “absolute certainty” and the role it plays in evangelical deconver-
sion. These dominant trends, flowing from a line of scholarship influenced by
Mark Noll’s important study, The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind (1994), de-
scribe evangelical claims to “absolute certainty” in exclusively intellectual and
cognitive terms, obscuring the important role of bodily practice and overlook-
ing the non-intellectual effects of the state of certainty. Here, Noll, an evangeli-
cal insider, argues, essentially, that “the scandal of the evangelical mind is that
there is not much of an evangelical mind” (Noll 1994: 3). He makes the case
that American Evangelicalism has established an anti-intellectual subculture
that seriously hinders their ability to engage in rigorous academic research.
In this case, the “evangelical mind” is measured in purely intellectual terms.
168 Francis

And so Noll, who is sympathetic to his fellow evangelicals, reaches a conclu-

sion with overlap with post-evangelical “free thinkers,” like American Dan
Barker (1949–), who publishes books with titles like Losing Faith in Faith: From
Preacher to Atheist and God: The Most Unpleasant Character in All Fiction, and
is co-president of the Freedom From Religion Foundation (Barker 1992; 2016).
Barker and other post-evangelical new atheists read the evangelical quest for
absolute certainty as anti-modern, anti-science, anti-free thought. To escape
evangelicalism, you must think your way out. Of course, it is true that evangeli-
cals often instinctively have a rearguard against things modern; and a majority
of evangelicals have famously set themselves in opposition to certain mod-
ern scientific conclusions, such as, Darwinian evolution and climate change
(Marsden 1990). But, like Noll, Barker and the new atheists, because they mea-
sure the evangelical mind in purely intellectualist terms, fail to recognise the
ways that the felt need for “absolute certainty” is about much more than just
the mind (Barbour 1994).
The intentionally cultivated felt need for absolute certainty—as I have
­suggested—is a method of identity preservation, intended to solidify evangeli-
cals in their Christian identity. It is precisely for this reason that the evangelical
experience of being absolutely certain is about much more than just the intel-
lect. The Oregon Extension, as I will demonstrate, occasions misstep after mis-
step in the performance of the non-doubter’s identity with which its students
arrive. Professors simultaneously guide students through the very difficult pro-
cess of replacing their practices of certainty with practices of uncertainty.

3 New Findings Focusing on “leaving religion”

In my study of evangelical deconversion at the Oregon Extension, I have come

to see the ways that being absolutely certain is more than a state of mind. It
is, within evangelicalism, an identity. “We were to be non-doubters,” recalls
Oregon Extension alumnus John Z. emblematically, “and this was nonnego-
tiable. It was who we were.” Like John, virtually all of my participants from
the Oregon Extension describe their former evangelical communities as fix-
ated on the maintenance of absolute certainty in matters of religious belief
and practice. All adherents were, they say, called upon to cultivate and exhibit
this high degree of certainty by following a regimen of apparently informal but
nonetheless ritualised physical and mental exercises. It was through this set
of practices that these women and men established an identity as a person of
certainty, or as a “nondoubter,” and in this way secured their place in the social
order of the community.
Leaving Evangelicalism 169

My ethnographic archive contains numerous examples of the ways that

these evangelical communities cultivate specific practices of certainty, that is,
practices that engender the non-doubter’s identity by inculcating a deeply felt
need for absolute certainty. In what follows, I will examine three of these prac-
tices of certainty: child evangelism, vilification of doubt, and certainty of sal-
vation. I will then explore the path of their undoing at the Oregon Extension.
First practice of certainty: evangelising friends and strangers from a young
age. Oregon Extension alumnus John Z. recalls how his family would spend
Saturdays going door-to-door “preaching the Gospel to sinners”.

When I was 8 years old I was allowed to knock on doors by myself (a

source of pride). I remember my heart beating heavy in my chest as
I extended a small finger toward the door bell. I remember looking down
at my shiny shoes, waiting for an answer, rehearsing my speech, turning
over in my mind the note cards of apologetic ripostes given me by my
father. I became a master of persuasion at a very young age.

I asked John about this experience:

PF: What was it like to start evangelizing door-to-door from such a young
age?
JZ: I liked having strong answers for all of their doubts. I liked convincing
others of TRUTH, and of course I sincerely believed I was saving them
from the jaws of Hell. I look back now and am shocked at how certain
I was of the things I was telling them. I mean, where does that come from?
PF: Where do you think that sense of certainty comes from?
JZ: I must have been channeling, or mimicking, the certainty I saw in my
parents or my pastors.

John suggests that he borrowed this certainty from his parents and his pas-
tors as he grew into the part, learning their arguments but also imitating all
the subtleties of their embodied relationship to these posited religious truths.
He recalls the note-cards—the scripts—that his father would give him, but
he also recalls imitating and perfecting certain evangelical vocal techniques
in his own evangelising. He speaks in several places of the sense of self—the
­self-esteem—that accrued to him when he had mastered the evangelical rou-
tine with mind and body. His parent’s were proud of him. Put otherwise, be-
ing certain takes practice; John’s identity as a non-doubter took hold through
the practice and recitation of an already scripted way of being in relationship
to certainty. Once this practice of certainty became habitual for John, it was
170 Francis

v­ irtually impossible to understand himself as anything but a man certain

about the way things are in the universe.
Second Practice of Certainty: moralising of doubt. If the difficulty of self-
identifying as a doubter begins in the practice of evangelising, it is exacerbated
by the general suspicion of doubt that pervades certain conservative evangeli-
cal communities. My informants almost universally claim that in the com-
munities in which they were raised, doubting in matters of faith was frowned
upon and doubters were regularly regarded with scorn. In many cases, doubt
was an indication of immorality.
Bob Jones alumnus Holly S. says,

My first encounter with doubt happened when I was about 7 or 8 years

old, at night, after the lights were out and the house was asleep. I would
stare at the shadows on the wall and think about the immensity of “ev-
erlasting life” in heaven. It bothered me. Everything ends; it has to end.
Why does everyone talk about this as if it makes sense? Doubt entered
my mind.

Doubt entered her mind. But it was quickly hidden away in a dark corner, she
recalls, where only she could sense its presence. Thinking back, Holly wonders
at the fact that she felt unable to voice these doubts to her parents or the elders
of the community. She is surprised that even as a child she had picked up the
signals: “questions were marks of faithlessness,” she recalls, “and so I whispered
them to myself.” Holly’s account is a particular instance of the more general
phenomenon of identifying doubt with sin, uncertainty with perfidy, and so
imbuing doubt and uncertainty with an intense moral valence.
Third Practice of Certainty: The Sinner’s Prayer. Within these conservative
evangelical communities it is by “accepting Jesus Christ into one’s heart as
personal Lord and Savior” and by saying “the Sinner’s Prayer” that one avoids
the fires of Hell. All congregants, including children, are admonished to be
absolutely certain that they have been “saved.” A familiar sermonic refrain:
“If you were hit by a car as you walked out of Church this morning, would
you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you would go to Heaven and not
to Hell?”
Because “Saying the Sinner’s Prayer” is about more than just saying the
words, because its efficacy is based on a real spiritual-emotional-volitional
act of inviting Jesus into your heart, many of my informants felt tremendous
anxiety about whether or not they had really been saved. Did I really mean it?
With my whole heart? My participants often recall the workings of their child-
hood imagination trying to attain this certainty, fearing that they might not
Leaving Evangelicalism 171

be “saved,” and extrapolating on the biblical phrase, “weeping and gnashing of

teeth.” Clearly, “getting saved” functions as a crucial practice of certainty.
In these three practices of certainty, my informants demonstrate just how
vital it is for individuals in these communities to develop a strong capacity for
absolute certainty. And they give us a sense of just how difficult it must be to
undo this felt need. As should be clear, the capacity for absolute certainty in
these evangelical communities is best understood not as the domain of one
faculty—the intellect, say—but as a repertoire of ritualised, embodied prac-
tices, undertaken within the constraints of a social unit that authorises one’s
identity as a person of certainty.
However, students regularly observe a dramatic change in their relationship
to certainty and doubt during their time at the Oregon Extension. This trans-
formation generally involves much more than an intellectual recalibration of
beliefs. It is, they suggest, an overhaul of their previous identity as persons of
certainty. This overhaul entails cultivating a new, practical—often physical—
relationship to uncertainty, and yielding to a set of ideals that valorises, rather
than denigrates, the practice of doubt. At the Oregon Extension, this valori-
sation is often expressed by the professors with terms such as “honesty” and
“authenticity.”
Drawing on the language of the Oregon Extension, Cora T., who attended
in the early 2000s, remembers feeling that “although all my certainties were
being stripped away, I was now convinced that this feeling of unknowing was
somehow the grounds for a more authentic faith.” Given the evangelical anti-
doubting culture in which these Oregon Extension alumni were formed, it is
not hard to imagine why the Oregon Extension’s culture of “authentic doubt-
ing” might engender spiritual and emotional tectonic shifts. Once the doubts
came flooding out, there was no stopping them, and this flood bore them right
out of evangelicalism.
In the same way that practices of certainty are modeled by the leaders in the
evangelical communities, these new practices of uncertainty are modeled by
the leaders at the Oregon Extension. Professors are forthcoming with students
about their own questions, doubts, and uncertainties. In lectures, small group
discussions and individual meetings, students are encouraged to form ques-
tions and voice doubts.
The task of modeling uncertainty extends beyond the Oregon Extension
faculty to include the “fictional leaders” of the community as well. Alumni de-
scribe the protagonists of the novels in the Oregon Extension curriculum as ex-
emplary of the practices of uncertainty. Walker Percy’s (American, 1916–1990)
Binx from The Moviegoer (1961), Wendell Berry’s (American, 1934–) Jayber
Crow from Jayber Crow, David James Duncan’s (American 1952–), the Chance
172 Francis

brothers from The Brothers K (1992), Dostoyeksky’s Karamozovs, and Shusaku

Endo’s (Japanese 1923–1996) Otsu from Deep River (1993) are regularly cited
as examples. The characters in these books who fused doubt with a “more au-
thentic kind of faith” helped to create a general culture at the Oregon Exten-
sion in which forming questions and expressing doubts were valorised.
The constraints and compulsions under which these new performative
strategies transpire compel these students in quite the opposite direction of
those found in their evangelical communities. Yet they are constraints and
compulsions nonetheless. As Oregon Extension alumnus Eleanor W. recalls,
“a huge proportion of my fellow Oregon students were questioning their faith
just like me, and thus I felt like I ‘fit in.’” But as these doubting students bonded,
those who could not yet bring themselves to question the faith were sometimes
left out in the cold. Perhaps this must be measured as a cost to the creation of
a counterculture with constraints and codes powerful enough to establish at
least the beginnings of a new set of performative rituals that enabled these
­Oregon Extension alumni to embrace the “spiritual quality” of uncertainty.
With uncertainty’s embrace, came a repudiation of their evangelical identity.

4 Conclusion

This study of the Oregon Extension broadens our understanding of evangelical

deconversion and complexifies the relationship between belief and practice.
Firstly, as noted above, it takes us beyond accounts of evangelical deconver-
sion that focus too exclusively on the role of the intellect. Many of the loud-
est voices advocating evangelical deconversion, such as Dan Barker, president
of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, reduce it to a process of thinking
one’s way out. One of the reasons that the Oregon Extension is so effective
at bringing about evangelical deconversion is that its professors understand
that the evangelical felt need for absolute certainty is about more than just
the intellect. They thus approach their goal of leveraging students out of “the
fundamentalist side of evangelicalism” in a more holistic manner. The Oregon
Extension professors engage the intellect, of course. They model new modes of
thought, new approaches to uncertainty, new ways of formulating questions
and being comfortable with doubt. But they recognise that practices of uncer-
tainty must also engage students at the level of the body, the senses, emotion,
and desire. Why? Because the practices of certainty in these evangelical com-
munities do likewise.
It is in part for this reason that Oregon Extension professors integrate the
arts into the curriculum. Rather than having their students merely read books
Leaving Evangelicalism 173

by the well-known proponents of leaving evangelicalism, they prefer to have

students read the Brothers Karamazov, contemplate Rothko, and listen to Bob
Dylan. Within this context, the arts become an essential element in the prac-
tices of uncertainty that these students begin to exercise. The arts bring home
for them, with strange intensity, what William James refers to as the “more,”
that endless stretch of unknowns that recedes to the edge of experience—and
beyond that edge (James 1902). Yet at the same time, my participants suggest
that the arts lend a comforting form to the perceived formlessness of belief and
identity that accompanies their initial foray into the disquieting realm of ques-
tions and doubts. The arts become a different way of knowing and unknowing
that generates and intensifies the experience of uncertainty, while rendering it
livable. Future scholarship on evangelical deconversion would do well to take
into account the role of embodied practices—such as aesthetic experience—
in the deconversion process. David Hempton, in Evangelical Disenchantment
(2008), draws a similar conclusion, particularly in his portraits of James Bald-
win and John Ruskin.
Secondly, and relatedly, this study highlights the interconnectedness of be-
lief and practice in deconversion. Influenced in part by American professor of
religion Robert Orsi (1953–), various scholars in the academic study of religion,
especially the study of “lived religion,” have been wary of late to include “be-
lief” among their terms of inquiry (See Orsi 2005). This wariness is in part a re-
sponse to recent, trenchant critiques of the discipline’s Protestant inheritance,
which, it is argued, presupposes that belief-as-assent-to-proposition is at the
heart of religion—as opposed to, say, bodily practice, ritual, or relationships.
Robert Orsi’s approach is an important corrective, of course, but in down-
playing the role of belief it is possible to miss the fact that in many traditions,
not just Protestantism, “beliefs” are an irreducible part of how religion is lived
out “on the ground.” This is especially true in the experience of my partici-
pants. In fact, the memoirs of these Oregon Extension alumni make a strong
case for the inseparability of belief and bodily practice. Beliefs preserve prac-
tices as practices preserve beliefs, and both function, at least in part, to sig-
nify a sufficiently coherent identity to self and other. At the same time that
my participants remind me of these interconnections, they teach me the
value of ­maintaining a distinction between these terms—“belief” and “bodily
­practice”—as a way of tracking the differing strata of experience on which the
transformation of identity unfolds.
To do justice to the complexity of evangelical deconversion experience,
scholars must give simultaneous attention to the role of socially embedded
beliefs, bodily practices, and sensory experiences. My argument here is in
line with the arguments presented by Rambo and Farhadian in The Oxford
174 Francis

Handbook of Religious Conversion (2014: 7) in their discussion of scholarship

on religious conversion in general. In emphasising the way that beliefs and
identities can be reshaped through cumulative marks of signification and un-
der the countervailing weight of inherited ways of being in the world (Butler
1990), scholars of deconversion can demonstrate just how tortuous it can be to
achieve a significant transformation of self—and how multidimensional the
role of mind and body must be in the process.

References

Barbour, J. 1994. Version of Deconversion: Autobiography and the Loss of Faith. Charlot-
tesville: University of Virginia Press.
Barker, D. 1992. Losing Faith in Faith: From Preacher to Atheist. Madison: Freedom From
Religion Foundation Press.
Barker, D. 2016. God: The Most Unpleasant Character in All Fiction. Toronto: Sterling.
Butler, J. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. Abingdon:
Routledge.
Francis, P. 2017. When Art Disrupts Religion: Aesthetic Experience and the Evangelical
Mind. New York: Oxford University Press.
Frank, D. 2010. A Gentler God: Breaking Free From the Almight in the Company of the
­Human Jesus. Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers.
Hempton, D. 2008. Evangelical Disenchantment: 9 Portraits of Faith and Doubt. New
Haven: Yale University Press.
James, W. 1902, The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study of Human Nature. Harlow:
Longmans, Green and Co.
Marsden, G. 1990. Understanding Fundamentalism and Evangelicalism. Grand Rapids:
Eardman’s Publishing Company.
Noll, M. 1994. The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind. Grand Rapids: Eardman’s Publishing
Company.
Orsi, R. 2005. Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the
Scholars Who Study Them. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Rambo, L., and Farhadian, H., eds. 2014. The Oxford Handbook of Religious Conver-
sion. London: Oxford University Press.
 Chapter 14

Leaving Pentecostalism
Teemu T. Mantsinen

1 Introduction

Pentecostalism is often described as an expanding and dynamic form of Chris-

tianity (Martin 1990; Vasquez 2009; Anderson 2014: 1–2), rife with disruptions
and divisions (Coleman 1998, 2013). In the beginning of the twentieth centu-
ry, when large numbers of Pentecostal groups and congregations were being
founded, many of them strictly defined their identity and moral boundaries
by opposing both mainstream Christianity and the contemporary society and
culture. For example, the Finnish Pentecostal Movement (henceforth fpm)
identified itself in terms of a community of believers, in contrast of the Finn-
ish Lutheran Church. In the fpm, many of the first-generation members came
from the Lutheran Church and Laestadian groups with a historical background
in Pietism, a revival movement which favoured individual vocation and holi-
ness teachings of Christian morality. (Mantsinen 2014: 17–19; 2015a: 45–48.)
In the first sixty years of its history, the fpm and its congregations saw con-
stant mobility and membership turnover, with people joining, leaving, and be-
ing expelled. Due to these disruptions, new congregations and deviated groups
were formed. Especially the 1960s has been labelled by many in the fpm as
an era of “legalistic spirit,” when different criteria for a “true believer” were in-
vented. In many cases, breaking social norms – for example, smoking or dating
an outsider – demanded a ritual of public apology if one wished to remain in
the group. The harsh treatment of members in the past still represents collec-
tive trauma in the fpm, as well as for many who left or were forced to leave.
The turnover rate has since decreased significantly; in the 2010s, a member
rarely gets expelled. Local disruptions and conflicts do exist, but the majority
of experiences of leavers are specific to individuals, not necessarily collectively
shared. (Mantsinen 2015b.)
In addition to group control and maintaining the sacred borders of a reli-
gion, some aspects of Pentecostal religion can be emotionally and mentally
burdening: namely, highlighting the end times and the coming of Christ, a viv-
id and intense worldview of personal good and evil, and ecstatic-charismatic
practices, such as glossolalia and prophesies. The high intensity of living up
to expectations of a committed personal practice of religion and its moral

© Teemu T. Mantsinen, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_015

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
176 Mantsinen

t­ eachings, social pressures around the experience of emotionally laden charis-

matic phenomena and a personal connection to God, and living in expectation
of the end times can be very heavy, both emotionally and cognitively, if also
fulfilling and exciting for many.
The fpm and its congregations have been open for people to leave without
sanctions or official actions towards apostates after their departure. The grasp
of a Pentecostal congregation usually ends at its doorstep. However, every exit
from a social community has its cost for an individual, especially in forms of
weakening social support and a changing worldview and understanding of re-
ality. Pentecostals have traditionally taught that for a believer the congregation
is the safeguard against the evil world and the Devil. Therefore, many who have
considered leaving have first had to face the mental pressure of assuring that
their souls are safe after the exit. Usually leavers have not experienced intimi-
dation by Pentecostals, tending to remain in contact with Pentecostals only
through their own family and closest friends.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

Research on Pentecostalism has been growing rapidly since David Martin’s

Tongues of Fire (1990), with major concentration on the African and Latin
American scene, the expansion of Pentecostalism, and Prosperity Gospel
(Coleman 2000; Corten and Marshall-Fratani 2001; Robbins 2008; 2011).
Perhaps due to the expansion of Pentecostalism around the world, there has
been relatively little attention paid to the generational transmission and failure
of transmission of Pentecostalism, as well as the act of leaving Pentecostalism.
These issues have been touched upon only briefly when scholars have writ-
ten about social and organisational changes in Pentecostal denominations
(Poloma 1989; Miller and Yamamori 2007; Poloma and Green 2010). This lack of
transgenerational and apostasy research produces challenges for understand-
ing processes of transmission, change, and personal consequences of Pente-
costalism. In my research, I have worked to fill this gap.
To date, research on leaving religion in Finland has been scarce. It is ap-
proached usually from the perspective of the majority religion, the Lutheran
Church of Finland. The first work done in this field was a study of who left the
Church – and how – by Jouko Siipi (1965). Later, Juha Seppo (1983) studied the
historical case of the first leavers, when the law of religious freedom became
effective in the 1920s, making it legal to not belong to any religious institution
in Finland. These first leavers included many who joined Pentecostal congre-
gations, but also many non-religious people. Other cases have studied leaving
Leaving Pentecostalism 177

the Lutheran Church (Niemelä 2007; Spännäri 2014), leaving the Jehovah’s Wit-
nesses (Ronimus 2011), and identity formation in exit stories from various reli-
gious groups (Timonen 2014). Additionally, recent public discussion on power
and violence in religions has generated a few studies and publications (Hurtig
2013; Ruoho 2013; Villa 2013; Linjakumpu 2015).
I have limited my research on leaving religion to those ex-Pentecostals who
grew up in Pentecostal families. In this way, I have narrowed the scope of en-
quiry and excluded converts, who often can be more fluid in their mobility
between social groups and religious identities. In my study, the informants had
the opportunity to be socialised into the religion of their parents, but some-
where this transgenerational transmission failed. My collected research ma-
terial consists of individual in-depth thematic interviews (11 people), written
personal stories and questionnaire (12 people), publicly available stories in
magazines and books and on the internet (5 separate stories), a survey con-
ducted among fpm congregations (84 respondents), and interviews with two
Pentecostal pastors. Additionally, I have used my previous ethnographical
fieldwork, interviews, and other collected research material in order to ground
my findings in the larger context of Finnish Pentecostalism.
Searching for ex-members of a minority religion can pose challenges. The
total number of leavers is still relatively small within the general population,
and therefore a public call for informants can be futile. First and foremost,
I found my informants through social media and previous contacts: via a proj-
ect website, Facebook, and e-mails, which people forwarded and shared among
their contacts. Later, I also sought informants through an e-mail list offered by
Uskontojen uhrien tuki ry. (Support for Victims of Religions Association). Finally,
to add variation to the scope of the study, I personally contacted one informant
who is now a Lutheran priest. With these methods, I managed to reach an
acceptable saturation point of data for a successful analysis of the issue.
Although academic research on leaving Pentecostalism has been scarce and
no previous academically collected material exists, there is a growing and al-
ready available body of source material. On the internet, there is a wide variety
of personal blog posts and support groups for people who have left Pentecos-
talism (as well as other religions, such as Islam; see Enstedt and Larsson 2013).
Most of these are in English, but they can be found in other languages as well.
Furthermore, newspaper and magazine articles, as well as entire books, have
been written by people who have left Pentecostalism. These personal stories
offer valuable sources for many new research initiatives to study narratives of
exits and the construction of new identities. However, since they are not sys-
tematically organised and samples cannot be standardised, there is little sense
in forming any generalisations based on them. Although this is somewhat the
178 Mantsinen

case with all exit stories – they cannot be generalised to include all personal
experiences in every situation – by carefully studying every selected case and
their backgrounds we can detect some similarities and common causes in exit
processes and trajectories. Yet, individual complexities still remain. For this, a
systematically collected – and perhaps proportionally selected sample – might
tell us more.

3 New Findings Focusing on “leaving religion”

The fpm reached roughly its current size (46,000 members, 224 congrega-
tions) already in the 1980s in a country of five million people. Apart from an
aging population and natural loss in membership, one reason for the stall in
its growth rate has been that a large number (my estimation is in the thou-
sands) of children of Pentecostals have left the fpm or have never become
baptised members. When I conducted a survey among Pentecostal congrega-
tions, I asked how many people had left their congregation in the past ten years
and how many had been expelled. According to the data, larger congregations
(more than 800 members) are careful not to expel anybody. The small congre-
gations (less than 100 members) have been relatively more prone to use their
power when it comes to a perceived deviant individual than the larger congre-
gations, although the number of people expelled is still small. One significant
and crucial explanation for the difference can be found in the large number
of lay persons working in congregations. According to my findings, although
education and professionalism (for example, the use of trained psychologists)
has increased in the fpm, this trend varies greatly between congregations. In
larger congregations, professionals are easier to find; in small congregations,
there are not enough trained, experienced people. From this it also follows that
power can end up in the hands of a few selected individuals, without checks
and balances or a concern for ethical practices.
This distorted balance of power and unprofessional practices were among
the reasons that my informants expressed as eventually leading to their exit.
However, differences between congregations, including size, were an impor-
tant factor for what kind of experiences they had. Informants from small
congregations witnessed different standards for congregational leaders and
members; in larger congregations, however, leaders were held more account-
able for their actions. Regardless of the size, however, was the matter of how
lay leaders and volunteers might act in congregations. These individuals, some
calling themselves preachers, could spread fear with their judging sermons
and prophecies on how the Devil himself would attack someone, as told to my
Leaving Pentecostalism 179

informant Annikki (all of the names of the informants in this study have been
changed for the sake of anonymity). In and around Pentecostal groups, these
deviant actors are common, and their actions can have various effects on con-
gregations and individuals, ranging from supportive to destructive.
While some exit stories included these structural elements of power as the
main causes of departure from the fpm, others were more personal and lacked
any specific organisational or human object of criticism. Different experiences
included learning natural and psychological explanations about the nature of
reality, changing one’s social circle, and emotional alienation from the Pente-
costal emotional world. In regards to the latter in particular, given the intensity
of Pentecostal religiosity, people with a more calm mentality and personality
can feel themselves alienated from the social experience of that religion. For
my informant Urho, central features of Pentecostal practices and belief, ec-
static experiences of falling down, speaking in tongues, and worshipping with
hands held high presented a culture which he could never relate to. He did not
have strong conflicting emotions; the emotional state and its balance just did
not resonate with him.
One crucial explanatory factor for cultural distance and un-relatedness (not
feeling a relationship with the religion) is the difference between the conver-
sion experiences of first-generation Pentecostals and the socialisation of chil-
dren of Pentecostal families. The fpm Pentecostal culture has mainly attracted
working-class converts, who tend to make a radical separation with their past.
Socialised children have not shared this radical separation of past and Pente-
costal life, however, leading to less tension in their lives and attitude towards
the outside world, other cultures, and ecstatic expressions and practices of re-
ligion. (See Mantsinen 2015a.) Another factor for the un-relatedness includes
age-inappropriate exposure to frightening elements of religion (such as the
Devil and the apocalypse) without proper explanations and emotional sup-
port. Although nowadays in the fpm there is a better understanding of human
development of cognition and emotions, problems of conduct do still emerge,
and due to the large degree of lay involvement in ministry, not all are suffi-
ciently trained.
What is common in all the interviewees’ stories is an expressed discrepancy
between their personal experience of themselves and the world and what they
think the Pentecostal culture promotes. Previously this conflict has been ap-
proached through psychology (for example, examining conflicts in one’s be-
lief, identity, or cognitive reasoning). Simplified, however, the basic idea is the
same: a new, conflicting idea arises to challenge an existing idea and state of
balance. This conflict has been described, for example, as dissonance (Festinger
1957), imbalance (Heider 1958), incongruity (Osgood and ­Tannenbaum 1955),
180 Mantsinen

­self-inconsistency (Epstein 1980), or self-discrepancy (Higgins 1987; Stanley

and Burrow 2015). A failure to relate to the Pentecostal culture, along with
its practices and beliefs imposed by social pressure, can cause an emotional-
cognitive break from it. If we follow the basic assumption that people seek
balance in their life (for example Festinger 1957), a discrepancy will lead to
a search for a solution from another place. If there is no alternative solution
available, as was the case for some of my informants, they can find themselves
adrift without any social and emotional support.
One possible way to study this imbalance would be to detect stress factors
and the pressure point at which the exit would happen. Such analysis should
include individual factors, but also the social field and the available compensa-
tors and possibilities. If there is no easy way to leave and switch to an existing
alternative and more balanced position, stress and pressure can begin to grow
and cause problems. Also, if the stress level is high, the rupture can be brutal.
This was the case for a few of my informants, who experienced problems rang-
ing from depression to anxiety attacks and mild psychosis. Some have eased
their way into a new position, but for all of them the process has been a jour-
ney with potential stress and at least some cognitive challenges in finding a
new identity in another reality. Therefore, it is also important to study which
factors influence the quality of the exit process.
For some of my informants, the discrepancy arose as a result of concrete
actions, such as being subjected to an exorcism or a prophecy of an impending
attack by the Devil. For others, it was a result of losing a meaningful relation-
ship with the religion – or never having had one. This includes a lack of person-
al relevance around such experiences as speaking in tongues. Pentecostalism
can be an intense experience. People with a different temperament, who may
wish for a more peaceful life or religion, can easily feel disconnected from the
culture of their parents. Social ties can compensate to some degree, but they
cannot overcome everything.
All leavers and their experiences are unique, but individual stories can be
lost in popular discussion on the particular religion and group they are leaving,
including its shortcomings and downfalls. A general analysis of social dynam-
ics also dismisses the variety of issues and reasons which are specific to each
case. Not all who leave become atheists or join another religious group. It is
important to determine other positions as well, and to analyse the processes
leading to them. In my research, I have worked to define the leavers, their po-
sitions as leavers, and their processes of leaving. As a result, I have proposed
two specific typologies: leaver processes and leaver positions. The former in-
troduces the cultural positions of leavers, defined by factors of their relation
Leaving Pentecostalism 181

to religion in general and religion in particular. The latter introduces the main
causes which influence the process and how a person copes with the process.
(Mantsinen 2015b.)
I was interested not only in the exit processes, but also their outcomes. For
this I sought first to locate the current cultural positions of my informants.
While Brinkerhoff and Burke defined one’s individual sociocultural position
towards religion with factors of religiosity and communality (Brinkerhoff and
Burke 1980: 42–44), Richardson, van der Lans, and Derks (1986) put importance
on which actors (for example, self, community, outsiders) are relevant in the
exit. To categorise exit types, Streib and his research group used Troeltsch’s and
Bourdieu’s categories to define clear positions between which people move
(Streib et al. 2009: 25–32, 97–99, 235–238). These and other definitions are im-
portant to define the nature and event of an exit. In my work, however, I have
been more interested in how ex-members position themselves towards their
past, namely, their subjective positioning and relation to cultural categories.
For this, I find how one relates to religion in general and one’s own religion in
particular to be relevant defining criteria of subjective location. (Mantsinen
2015b.)
I divided these two criteria into four-by-four set of category locations. With
relation to religion in general, the groups were: member of another religious
group, religious individual, agnostic, and atheist. With relation to religion in
particular, the groups were: accepting, understanding, critical, and rejecting.
These positions also help us to accept the complexity of the categories. For
example, being an atheist does not have to presuppose hostility towards a re-
ligious group. One can be an understanding atheist, as seen in the attitude of
Suvi, a young educated woman, towards her former congregation. She explains
charismatic phenomena with psychological models, and she has no direct con-
nection to Pentecostalism anymore. Nevertheless, she still speaks of the social
importance of the congregation to its members, and she would not dare to
condemn that specific religion altogether. In contrast, Kyllikki has switched to
another religious group and considers Pentecostalism dangerous for people.
As I analysed the stories and answers of my informants, I found two major
common denominators which influenced how they had experienced their exit
processes: the severity of their experiences and the number of Pentecostals in
their family (namely, the number of Pentecostal generations). The latter also
translates to the nature of parental conversion experiences, which can have a
significant effect on one’s socialisation and cultural immersion in Pentecostal-
ism. In my research, I have found that converted parents tend to have more
conservative morals than socialised parents, who approach their religion as
182 Mantsinen

(+ Pentecostal friends)
+ Pentecostals in Family

Social support, shared Remaining social contacts,

experiences diminishing cultural ties

‘Survivor’ ‘Alienated’

+ Intensity of – Intensity of
Experiences Experiences
(– Group Size) (+ Group Size)

‘Struggler’ ‘Withdrawer’

Radical break, Gradual shift of peer

distrust group and culture

– Pentecostals in Family
(– Pentecostal friends)

Graph 14.1 Types of leavers from Finnish Pentecostalism

an inherited culture rather than life-altering experience, an interruption. In

addition, social support in the form of Pentecostal friends added to the family
factor, and group size compensated for the intensity of personal experiences.
For the main defining factors, I named the four constructed leaver types as
“survivor,” “struggler,” “alienated,” and “withdrawer.” (Graph 14.1.)
Among my informants, those who had had intense experiences but enjoyed
sufficient social support – such as Saima, who was part of a larger group of
leavers from a small congregation – described themselves as “survivors,” as
they had found new groups and acceptance in their lives. Having traumatic
experiences and a lack of support, Annikki still struggled to find her place and
peace. In contrast to her case, “alienated” individuals had social support and
had not had intense experiences. For example, Urho still has many Pentecostal
friends but simply has no connection to the Pentecostal emotional world. As
a more private person, Suvi was at peace with her experiences, but a gradual
shift towards another peer group and interests led her to withdraw from Pen-
tecostalism. These four leaver types help us to understand major themes in the
exit processes. However, the lines between them are not definite, and some
individuals could be located in-between two or more types. Every situation is
unique and should be approached as such.
Leaving Pentecostalism 183

4 Conclusion

The fpm has not been successful in remaining relevant for a large number of
children who grew in Pentecostal congregations. The reasons for and conse-
quences of exits are numerous. Social support has been one important factor
in how leavers have processed discrepancies in their personal experiences in
the Pentecostal cultural field. While some reject religion altogether, others find
the problem to lie with Pentecostal congregational culture, not Christianity or
religion in general.
Social support can help in the exit process, but leavers usually also leave net-
works of support before gaining new ones. This has led a few of my informants
to feeling disconnected. Families can provide a buffer against strict congrega-
tional teachings, such as restrictions surrounding alcohol and sexual behav-
iour. However, religious culture in the family can also be a reason for leaving.
Converted parents restrict their children more often than those parents with a
Pentecostal background.
Reasons for leaving Pentecostalism vary, but a crucial issue for children of
Pentecostal families is the generational difference in culture and habits. Tra-
ditional Pentecostal culture often reflects the conversion experience, radical
separation from the past and “the world,” and the intensity of religion of first-
generation Pentecostals. Subsequent generations do not share that tension,
and therefore their experience of life and religion can lead to a personal crisis.
The case of Pentecostalism raises a few noteworthy issues. The first issue
involves the different consequences of conversion and socialisation for sub-
sequent generations, as explained above. A second issue is the problem of
continuation of culture in Pentecostalism. This has not been a key interest of
research in the academic field, as researchers are used to approaching Pen-
tecostalism as a conversion-centred, expansionist religion with phenomena
which intrigues them. However, the intensity of first-generation Pentecostal
converts’ religion and the poor adjustment of subsequent generations to this
culture, which they have not lived and they cannot relate to, are not only pe-
culiar to Finland. Third, approaching apostasy as an emotional-cognitive dis-
crepancy prompting cultural mobility can help us understand the process of
leaving religion, in general and from Pentecostalism in particular.

Acknowledgment

The research has been funded by Kone Foundation.

184 Mantsinen

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 Chapter 15

Leaving Roman Catholicism

Hugh Turpin

1 Introduction

This chapter presents the Republic of Ireland as a case study in how a once
deeply Catholic society is renegotiating its relationship with religion. It draws
on my own research to describe the particular style of exit these conditions
encourage for those leaving the Catholic Church. Existing Irish secularisation
literature demonstrates that changes in social expectations led to a collapse
in embodied religiosity. While this has likely reduced the overall transmission
and importance of Catholic belief and identity, the Church retains significant
institutional influence, supported by widespread “cultural Catholic” affiliation.
A series of scandals has acted as a lightning rod for the tensions implicit in
this situation, “morally contaminating” the Church and enabling discourse
around the rectitude of Catholic affiliation. Together, these contribute to mor-
ally charged secularism focussed on severing the default link between Irish
ethnic and religious identity to erode lingering Church influence. Against this
background, Irish ex-Catholics do not simply leave the Church; many also de-
pict themselves as repudiating “inauthentic” cultural Catholicism which irre-
sponsibly supports the status quo.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

Catholic population growth exceeds the global average, but the Church is
­weakening in its old heartlands. Latin American Pentecostalism booms at
Catholicism’s expense (Robbins, 2004), and 13 percent of the US population
­describe themselves as former Catholics.1 In Europe, Catholicism’s cradle, some
projections anticipate eventual religious extinction in Catholic states,2 surpris-
ingly including “Holy Catholic Ireland”, once renowned for its c­ ommitment to

1 Pew (2015). America’s Changing Religious Landscape. http://www.pewforum.org/2015/05/12/

americas-changing-religious-landscape/. Accessed 10/3/2017.
2 bbc News. “Religion may become extinct in nine nations, study finds” http://www.bbc.com/
news/science-environment-12811197. Accessed 10/3/2017.

© Hugh Turpin, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_016

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Roman Catholicism 187

the One True Church (Fuller, 2002). While excellent work exists on leaving
Catholic religious vocations (Ebaugh, 1977, 1984; Hollingsworth, 1985), and on
individual disaffiliation trajectories (for the United States, see Hornbeck ii,
2011; for Germany, see Knepper, 2012), this chapter adopts a macro-level per-
spective, examining an example of national departure from Catholic religios-
ity, and the conflicting social positions that ensue.
Sociologists long considered the Republic of Ireland a pious Western
­European outlier (Nic Ghiolla Phádraig, 2009), with religiosity more typical
of the US (Norris and Ingleharte, 2011). Neo-secularisationists attributed this
to Catholicism’s key role in defining the national community, an anomalous
situation in secularising Western Europe (Bruce, 1992; Taylor, 2007). Anti-­
secularisationists found solace in the Irish case (Ó Féich and O’Connell, 2015;
Ganiel, 2016), claiming that the “need to believe” can prevail in the face of de-
clining institutional and public religion (Davie, 1994).
Now, though the majority still identify as Catholic (78.3 percent, Census
2016), self-identification as nonreligious is rising (growing from 269,800 to
468,400 people between 2011 and 2016, a relative increase of 73.6 percent –
Census, 2016; recent data indicates that 25 percent of 14–25 year-olds identify
as atheist, agnostic or “none” – Barna, 2017). There is little evidence of reli-
gious switching (Egan, 2011), unlike in the US (Bottan and Perez-Truglia, 2015).
­Religious vocations have collapsed (Weafer, 2014), and religious practice is
­declining rapidly (weekly mass went from 85 percent in 1980 to 35 percent in
2012 – Ganiel, 2016). Agreement with Church moral stances is low (O’Mahoney,
2010; Barna, 2017) and institutional distrust is high (Donnelly and Inglis, 2010).
Qualitative work also suggests widespread antipathy towards the Church and
religious scepticism outstripping that suggested by surveys (Hilliard, 2003; Ing-
lis, 2014). Outwardly, the Republic must be described as “leaving Catholicism.”
The most analogous case of large-scale Catholic secularisation may turn out
to be Quebec’s “quiet revolution” during the 1960s (Seljak, 1996), a decoupling
of religious and ethnic identity whereby the rejection of Catholicism no lon-
ger constituted “ethno-apostasy” (Philips and Kelner, 2006; Deringil, 2012). Yet
there is disagreement regarding application of the term “secularisation” in the
Irish Catholic case. To understand this, we must examine Irish Catholicism
from its peak to the present.
The Irish Catholic “doctrinal revolution” in the mid-19th Century ushered in
an era of highly observant Catholicism (Larkin, 1976; Inglis, 1998; Fuller, 2002).
Proposed causes include the Famine and consequent population collapse of
the rural poor (Connolly, 2001), a cultural identity crisis (Larkin, 1976), the
need to limit the fragmentation of inherited landholdings (Inglis, 1998; Con-
nolly, 2001), zealous Church reform (Larkin, 1976; Connolly, 2001), the desire to
188 Turpin

be as “civilised” as the Protestant British (Fuller, 2002), and British support for
the Church as a pacifying influence (Inglis, 1998). Larkin portrays a devotional
smorgasbord featuring not only regular Mass, confession and communion, but
also “the rosary, forty hours, perpetual adoration, novenas, blessed altars, Via
Crucis, benediction, vespers, devotion to the Sacred Heart and to the Immacu-
late Conception, jubilees, triduums, pilgrimages, shrines, processions, and re-
treats (Larkin, 1976: 77).”
Mass attendance rose to 95 percent, a figure that persisted for almost a
century. Clerical pre-eminence was strengthened under the new Republic
(1937), the Church’s hold reinforced by control of healthcare and education.
Writers and social historians describe omnipresent religious inflection, with
widespread clericalism and sexual prohibition (McGahern, 1974; Ferriter, 2009;
Inglis, 1998). Social capital accrued to those best able to project pious signals,
dubbed the “Irish Catholic habitus”, cultivated at home by the traditional “Irish
mother”, who strove to carve out a niche of domestic power within a highly pa-
triarchal society by embodying the Church’s picture of feminine virtue (Inglis,
1998). Although scepticism and dissent certainly existed, public and private
life was lived in the shadow of the ethno-Catholic sacred canopy.
From the late 1960s onwards, cultural and economic globalisation gradu-
ally relativised the Faith (Inglis, 1998; Fuller, 2002). Women entered the work-
force, reducing female piety and weakening the “priest/mother” religious
­socialisation alliance. Television provided a new class of cultural commenta-
tor over whom the Church eventually lost control. The 70s saw objection to
the Church’s anti-contraceptive stance (embodied in the papal encyclical Hu-
manae Vitae) galvanise the first large-scale emergence of female anti-clerical
protest (Forster, 2007; Ganiel, 2016). Vatican ii proved disruptive, alienating the
aged by overturning cherished rituals and certainties while failing to reign in
straying youth (Fuller, 2002; O’Doherty, 2008). For many, practise became al-
most openly habitual, something Ferriter attempts to capture with the term
“practising lapsed Catholics” (Ferriter, 2012).
Though the ethnic tie remained inviolable, the diktats of the Church in-
creasingly seemed anachronistic to youth socialised from the 70s onwards,
precipitating the emergence of Catholics less inclined to turn to the Church
for moral or spiritual leadership. The Catholic habitus declined; Catholicism
“Protestantised”, requiring neither outward expression nor the imprimatur of
an external authority. Traditional Catholicism became an ageing subculture
yielding to purely “cultural” or idiosyncratically “creative” varieties (Inglis,
1998); the majority reconnected with institutional religion sporadically during
rites of passage. Privatisation accelerated when clerical sexual abuse of chil-
dren, cover-ups, and numerous other scandals erupted into the limelight from
Leaving Roman Catholicism 189

the early 1990s onwards and “tainted the role of the Church as carer, and por-
trayed it instead as abuser” (Inglis, 1998:227).
Sociological disagreement re-emerges around how to interpret a large ma-
jority who identify as Catholic, professing theism while rejecting religious
practice and Church moral strictures. Some focus on declining institutional
influence and practice to suggest that the Republic fits traditional notions of
secularisation quite well (White, 2007; Voas, 2009). Others are more ambiguous
(Inglis, 1998; Penet, 2008), while most adopt an optimistic “private Catholicism”
model primarily based on high Catholic identification and theistic survey self-
reports (Greeley, 1994; Cassidy, 2002; Anderson and Lavan, 2007; Ó Féich and
O’Connell, 2015), influenced by Grace Davie’s formulation of “believing without
belonging” (Davie, 1994). While Church hegemony is unquestionably waning, a
recent analysis also concludes that Catholicism may re-evolve to attract “spiri-
tual consumers” within an emerging “religious marketplace” (Ganiel, 2016).
Recent work in the anthropology and psychology of religion encourages
greater caution around stable privatised Catholic belief. The embargo on be-
lief within the social anthropology of religion (Needham, 1972; Ruel, 1982) has
diminished due to current trends within the anthropology of Christianity em-
phasising its effortful cultivation (Luhrmann, 2012), requiring us to describe
the social mechanisms by which believing is achieved (for example Mair, 2013);
current anthropological theory might hesitate to agree that on-paper identifi-
cation as a believer always amounts to being a believer. Furthermore, survey
self-reports may reflect socially desirable responding arising from unreflective
“fuzzy fidelity” (Voas, 2009), and Irish data from the European Values Survey
(evs) suggest that the perceived importance of religion is declining alongside
practice (cited in Keenan, 2012; Voas, 2009). At the same time, work in the an-
thropology of Catholicism notes the widespread acceptance of “lapsed” or
“cultural” Catholics; identification with Catholicism is often not particularly
belief-oriented (Norget et al, 2017). The “optimistic model”, however, suggests
that non-practicing Irish Catholics tend to be believers because the majority
survey-report belief; identificatory and doxastic self-reports are thus fused to
yield privatised Catholic theism. Lastly, problems for the optimistic model are
also suggested by work on the psychology of religious transmission, which pro-
poses that behavioural displays of commitment (regular ritual participation,
financial donation, observation of taboo, and so on) are especially important
components in successful intergenerational religious transmission (Henrich,
2009), with initial correlational studies suggesting that exposure to such “credi-
bility enhancing displays” (creds) plays a role in determining levels of ­theism/
atheism (Lanman and Buhrmester, 2016) and intercultural variations in religi-
osity between otherwise similar cultures (Willard and Cingl, in press).
190 Turpin

My own research investigated the interrelationships between declining

practice, Church scandals, and belief. The research consisted of interviews car-
ried out in a number of Dublin parishes with both religious and non-religious
individuals, religious personnel, and members of prominent secularist groups,
followed by a survey aimed at examining, among other things, the relationship
between exposure to parental behaviour indexing Catholic religiosity and the
subsequent acceptance of Catholic religious beliefs.

3 New Findings Focusing on “Leaving Religion”

Religious informants identified parental failure to “pass on the faith” as crucial

to the decline of religiosity, and the survey found the degree to which people
perceived their parents’ actions to be motivated by religious belief was the best
predictor of acceptance of theism, orthodox Catholic belief, and Catholic so-
cial identification. Furthermore, it appeared that younger cohorts perceived
parental behaviour to be less motivated by religion (Turpin, forthcoming).
This could suggest that the replacement of embodied doctrinal Catholicism
with the internalised variety proposed by Irish sociologists constitutes a re-
duction in the embodied transmission of Catholic belief and identity. ­Catholic
“believing without practicing” may be a transitory bridge to unbelief (for ex-
ample Voas, 2009) rather than a new, transmissible form of religiosity (for
­example Davie, 1994).
More devout privatised Catholicism also rewards investigation. Informants
who retained strong Catholic belief and identity but also rejected the moral
leadership of the institutional Church tended to report a Catholic upbringing
to which they felt some need to maintain a link; it was “their culture” (see also
Egan, 2011; Inglis, 2014). Thus, some de-institutionalised Catholicism could is-
sue from a temporary species of “cross pressure” (Taylor, 2007) where a deeply
rooted social identification with Catholicism conflicts with a more liberal en-
vironment and values. A privatised interpretive “take-over” from the Church
resolves this dissonance, allowing “modernity” to be embraced and Catholic
identification retained, albeit relatively unexpressed. However, for subsequent
generations receiving lower “cred exposure” as a result, Catholicism will con-
stitute a more alien supernatural product. Thus, even if a post-Catholic “reli-
gious marketplace” should emerge, the Catholic share of that marketplace is
far from guaranteed.
This overall situation might entail only a fade into something function-
ally analogous to an established state church such as in the UK; secularisa-
tionists such as Demerath (2000) and Voas (2009) describe how European
Leaving Roman Catholicism 191

s­ ecularisation trajectories can plateau at a minimally committed state of “cul-

tural religion”, perhaps a plausible destiny in any society where religious and
ethnic identity are so intertwined. However, such a trajectory is complicated
by two further interconnected factors: moral inversion and lingering influence.
Whereas non-religion in some Western European contexts is characterised
as apathetic (Zuckerman, 2008), in the Republic it is often self-conscious and
charged; Catholicism is ever an issue (Ganiel, 2016), and many ex-Catholics
view the Church and Catholicism in a highly negative moral light, as compre-
hensively expressed by the following ex-Catholic informant:

It has created a lot of guilt and oppression for generations. It has been
used to control and punish people and has slowed down the country’s
intellectual and economic development. It has particularly had a nega-
tive effect on women’s rights and helped to establish the view that all
women are seen either as virgins, mothers or whores and that they do not
hold the rights to their own bodies, either in terms of sex or reproduction
(which are two separate things). It held such a choke-hold on the country
that it was able to, for years, facilitate the physical, sexual and psychologi-
cal abuse of children by hypocritical authoritarian priests who preached
one thing and did another and whose offences were routinely covered up
as a matter of course in a society where lay people feared speaking out
against the regime of the Catholic Church.

This antipathy also emerges in an analysis of 2008 evs data from 14 western
European countries; the Republic had both the strongest anti-religious senti-
ment and the widest endorsement of religion (Ribberink et al., 2013). We can
speak both of a growing self-consciously anti-religious minority and a larger
vaguely “pro-religious” group who retain a Catholic identity while neverthe-
less rejecting the Church: a 2011 survey by the conservative Catholic Iona
­Institute found that almost half (47 percent) of the population had a negative
view of the Church, and 25 percent would be unperturbed if it disappeared
entirely.3
This widespread negative view may be motivated by a mixture of distrust
(Donnelly and Inglis, 2010) and rejection of moral conservativism (Barna, 2017).
Donnelly and Inglis found that trust in the Church had decreased more quickly
in Ireland than in other European Catholic societies since the 1990s. The Iona
data relate this attitudinal shift to sexual and institutional abuse revelations

3 “Attitudes Towards the Catholic Church,” http://www.ionainstitute.ie/wp-content/uploads/

2014/11/Attitudes-to-Church-poll.pdf. Accessed 10/3/2017.
192 Turpin

(Iona, 2011). My own survey on rejection factors found that moral conservativ-
ism and clerical abuse were the two most emphasised factors in disaffiliation.
Compared to other Catholic societies, the effect of the scandals is likely ampli-
fied in Ireland as the Church’s prior moral hegemony foregrounds the hypoc-
risy of its fall from grace (Inglis, 1998; Hilliard, 2003; Keenan, 2012).
The depletion of religious practice has likely been exacerbated by such rev-
elations; many attribute their own declining religious participation to Church
scandals (Hilliard, 2003), with practice declining more swiftly over the “era of
scandal” than the preceding decades (Donnelly and Inglis, 2010; Bottan and
Perez-Truglia, 2015). Clerical interviewees, too, corroborated this picture, de-
scribing wavering religious confidence among even “old, faithful people.”
At the interpersonal level, family religious pressure became easier to resist
(­Hilliard, 2003), and some devout individuals withdrew in shame from the es-
tablished mechanisms of public theistic expression (Egan, 2011). For instance,
one non-religious informant recalled successfully resisting his mother’s at-
tempts to force him to Mass as a teenager: “There I was with my Ma banging
on the b­ athroom door and I says to her, I says, ‘Why the fuck should I go there
and listen to that bunch of paedophile priests and the paedophile nuns that
protect them?’”
Whether clerical abuse has directly accelerated declining religiosity or has
acted to provide a cultural narrative legitimising a socially tense transforma-
tion that was already well underway is an uncertain matter. It is likely that the
scandals fell on fertile ground (O’Doherty, 2008), empowering religious resis-
tance and perhaps even drawing latent moral opposition into acute conscious
awareness (Keane, 2015), precipitating exit from a default cultural Catholicism
often described to me as marked by experiences of boredom, irrelevance, and
transparent social conformism. At the same time, some traditional or conser-
vative Catholics have incorporated such reactions into their own narratives,
maintaining that the scandals were widely exploited to abandon religious par-
ticipation: as one conservative priest phrased it, “those who were looking for
an excuse to leave got what they wanted very nicely.”
While some priests were particularly daunted by situations that required
them to go into Dublin city centre in clerical attire, maintaining that a trend
had emerged for priests to go “incognito” in secular clothing, a “very Irish thing”
(see also Goode et al, 2003, for priestly attire as “paedophile uniform”), I also
encountered the view that overt hostility “peaked around 10 or 15 years ago…
we’ve mostly moved beyond that sort of thing now.” Irish society cannot be said
to have moved back though. Habituation to religious scandal is ­evident from
its presence in comedy (for example, in the work of Dublin comedian D ­ avid
­McSavage) and noir-tinted period drama, with the alliterative term “paedo
Leaving Roman Catholicism 193

priest” long since etched into public consciousness.4 Paradoxically, the “paedo
priest” trope can even be instrumentalised to legitimise staying Catholic while
rejecting hierarchical claims to authority on Catholicism’s meaning. Liber-
ated from subordination to a corrupt clergy’s theology, a self-tailored “moral
therapeutic deism” can be inserted into the socially-approved husk of ethnic
­Catholic affiliation (for example Smith, 2005). Given the sheer salience of cleri-
cal abuse, intergroup distinctions may lie not in levels of awareness but rather
by how the “taint” is handled by various actors to legitimise their orientation
towards Catholic belief and identification.
What we can say with greater certainty is that the Church’s “moral taint”
means that committed engagement now requires more justification (for ex-
ample Ganiel, 2016; Egan, 2011). This is a problem for committed Catholics,
whose moral intuitions (for example Haidt and Joseph, 2004) can pull in differ-
ent directions: they may evoke disgust while being compelled to remain loyal
to their religious identity, with various reconciliation strategies addressing this
“moral dissonance.” “Bad apple” theories quarantine the moral taint from the
institutional Church. Deflection strategies emphasise feelings of personal vic-
timhood, repositioning Catholics as a vulnerable and stigmatised group at the
mercy of those who are “anti-Church, anti-religion, anti-everything, really”, as
one young Catholic woman averred, and as manifests repeatedly in conserva-
tive Catholic media discourse defending a cowed “silent majority” against a
­liberal elite cabal intent on hastening secularisation – for instance, one conser-
vative Catholic media article prophesised a futuristic Orwellian scenario where
Irish Catholics would have to identify one another with secret handshakes and
symbols. Alternatively, the mainstream Church, and with it the taint, can be re-
jected outright, with reformist splinter factions embraced instead. Conversely,
the taint can be spread wide, and a complicit society constructed as scape-
goating the Church. The range of these self-conscious justificatory strategies
highlights the fragmentation and inefficacy of Catholic narratives in forming
popular consensus (for example Haidt and Joseph, 2004; Keane, 2015); such
viewpoints lack large scale media exposure and are easily branded “excuses”,
or brushed off as “brainwashed” or “conspiracist.”
Secular narratives by contrast are powerfully reinforced by scandal, offering
the opportunity, the duty, of liberation from the clucthes of a repressive past.
Whereas this “revisionist view” was once the province of a ­minority (­Ruane,
1998), it has long since spread out on wings of scandal (Browne, 2012): ex-­
Catholicism is now a powerful moral stance. An example of this is the ­following

4 For instance: https://www.joe.ie/uncategorized/paedo-priests-face-slashed-in-prison-13635.

Accessed 4/11/2017.
194 Turpin

testimony from an ex-Catholic in her thirties. Initially describing her incredu-

lity about a society which permitted “priests running around killing women
and children. Like, separating women and children, selling babies, then bury-
ing them in mass graves and then ugh, God!”, she describes her feelings around
a family member’s acquiescence in cultural Catholic practices:

Yesterday, my sister baptised her second child. I am disgusted. I´m sure

it was the first time she has been in a church since the baptism of her
first child, before that, her wedding. I’m sure the real reason is to fit in, or
to please my older family members, not that they would have asked her
to do it. Maybe because she’s not sure about what to believe. Maybe she
wants to be able to get the kids into a school more easily…the reason is
definitely not because she believes... although she would argue that it is,
to defend her actions.

We can see from the frustration evident above that full secularisation is im-
peded by the fact that the vast majority continue to identify as Catholic, seen
as preserving Church influence consolidated during a more religious age. This
perception that the Church is both waning and retaining influence allows for
the simultaneous existence of strong anti-religion among the non-religious and
vestigial Catholicism in the larger “Church rejecting” block. Indeed, Church
influence could be sustained by its increased subordination; lacking the same
level of dictatorial strength, it is more easily ignored and tolerated, called upon
when needed. Older people in particular still turn to it for a sense of communi-
ty and comfort, generating pressure on family members not to disturb them by
openly defecting, and a large majority continue to enjoy traditional Catholic
rites of passage. Indeed, the sheer centrality of these to Irish social identity has
led the Church to strategise that this “anthropological link” might be exploited
as a means of re-evangelisation,5 perhaps explaining its tenacious hold on the
education system, where it strives to impart Catholic beliefs, rituals, and values
disregarded by increasingly disengaged parents.
The devout thus exhort cultural Catholics to find their faith, while secular-
ists encourage them to drop their passive support for a morally reprehensible
institution, meaning Irish ex-Catholicism is perhaps notable for its propen-
sity to define itself in opposition to cultural religion as much as devout reli-
gion. Though nonchalant popular Catholicism could be viewed as a strategic

5 Where is your God? Responding to the Challenge of Unbelief and Religious Indifference Today.
Concluding Document of the 2006 Plenary Assembly. http://www.cultura.va/content/cul
tura/en/pub/documenti/whereisyourgod.html. Accessed 4/2/2017.
Leaving Roman Catholicism 195

t­ riumph, allowing individuals to take what they want from a humbled Church,
the compromise causes problems for those who seek a more complete breach.
Ongoing confusion around Catholic census identification, for example, is
compounded by the fact that 90 percent of primary schools are under Catho-
lic Church patronage, creating difficulties for those wishing to raise children
without what one side describes as religious indoctrination and the other,
faith formation. The key objective for some secularist groups is to drive down
habitual Catholic identification among the inertial middle, dislodging the
hold of the Church and ridding society of institutional-religious obstacles and
­Catholicism-inflected laws. A prime mechanism for this is drawing attention
to the Church’s hypocrisies, which provide potent content for getting “compla-
cent Catholics” to reassess a “contaminated” affiliation.
The 2017 Tuam scandal provided a particularly clear example of such “wea-
ponisation.” Archaeologists employed by a commission of enquiry discovered
a “significant amount” of infant remains interred in a decommissioned septic
tank at a former home for “unmarried mothers” run by the Bon Secours nuns.
This prompted a surge in public condemnation, energising online secularist
groups in particular. Responses were characterised by moral disgust, with the
entire Church frequently portrayed as contaminated. There was chagrin that
religious acquaintances could remain associated with such a “murderous” in-
stitution, even promising to “pray for the little babies.” Petitions emerged de-
manding the re-introduction of an official mechanism for de-baptism and an
end to Church educational and health involvement. Apart from religious insti-
tutions themselves, the strongest antagonism coalesced around conservative
spokespeople shifting blame from Catholicism onto general society, and ha-
bitual Catholics constructed as oblivious enablers of ongoing clerical domina-
tion. This new wave of scandal potentially describes Catholicism itself almost
as a moral infection, distinguishing it from “quarantinable” clerical sexual
abuse. It also further contributes to the de-legitimisation of the majority cul-
tural Catholic default. Whether or not greater numbers of the “inertial middle”
drop a Catholic affiliation thereby precipitating acceleration in the Republic’s
institutional secularisation remains to be seen.

4 Conclusion

This chapter sought to provide a case study of how a once particularly Catholic
society can now be said to be leaving Catholicism. While much of the existing
literature argues that Ireland is best viewed as merely dropping public prac-
tice while privatising Catholic belief, I have argued that continuing reduction
196 Turpin

in embodied displays of religiosity is reducing the overall importance and

transmission of Catholicism. Meanwhile a series of scandals has morally con-
taminated the Church, rendering devout Catholicism something that must be
explained. Despite this, the Church retains significant influence in certain ar-
eas of Irish life, and the majority continue to think of themselves as Catholic,
at least in an ethnic sense. Together, these contribute to a strident secularist
minority focussed on severing the default link between Irish ethnic and reli-
gious identification in order to erode lingering Church control. This dynamic is
likely to persist into the future.

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 Chapter 16

Leaving Mormonism
Amorette Hinderaker

1 Introduction

In March 2017, a counter-organisational website made national headlines after

its release of internal documents belonging to the Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints (henceforth lds) drew legal threats from the Church. Mor-
monLeaks, a WikiLeaks inspired website launched in December 2016, released
internal Church documents including financial records and memos that were
largely ignored by Church officials. It was the March posting of a Power Point
presentation detailing “issues and concerns leading people away from the
gospel” (www.mormonleaks.io), however, that raised Church ire. Following a
take-down order, the document was removed for a few days before being re-
stored with an attorney’s letter. In the meanwhile, several media outlets had al-
ready captured and published the content. Both the content and the Church’s
protection of the document suggest an organisational concern over member
retention.
With 16.1 million members worldwide (Statistical Report 2017), the lds,
whose followers are commonly referred to as Mormons, is a rapidly growing
faith and the only uniquely American religion to gain global acceptance. Like
many faiths, the Church is concerned with new member conversion. In addi-
tion to children born into the faith each year, the church baptises nearly 250,000
new converts through their active missionary system (Statistical Report 2017).
But, as new converts join, a number of the formerly faithful leave. The Pew
Forum (2015) reports that Americans, particularly young adults, are leaving
churches in record numbers, with a third of millennials reporting that they are
religiously unaffiliated. This trend, coupled with the interest the Church has
shown (through leaked documents) in reasons members leave makes a consid-
eration of Mormon exit particularly pertinent.

2 Introducing the Case

Leaving Mormonism is, arguably, more complicated than abandoning less

encompassing faiths. Unlike other faiths, the lds is rigidly structured and

© Amorette Hinderaker, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_017

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Mormonism 201

highly institutionalised, leaving little room for member individualism or dis-

agreement. Church headquarters in Salt Lake City maintains tight controls
over local ward operations including lessons, teachings, and cultural practices.
­Hinderaker (2015) and Hinderaker and O’Connor (2015) characterised the faith
as totalistic, for its reach into members’ lives. We defined totalistic member-
ships as value-based, identity formational, involving primary family and friend
relationships, and requiring fealty.
To contemplate leaving Mormonism is to consider leaving behind funda-
mental and identity formational values, cultural practices, beliefs, and primary
relationships.
The cultural and doctrinal practices of the lds, arguably, foster a more to-
talistic membership than other churches. To begin, doctrine labels those who
leave the faith as apostates, a sin that separates the former member from both
God and faithful family members eternally. Scripture teaches: “But whoso brea-
keth this covenant after he hath received it, and altogether turneth therefrom,
shall not have forgiveness of sins in this world nor in the world to come” (The
Doctrine and Covenants 84:41), and members “that are found to have aposta-
tised, or to have been cut off from the church, as well as the lesser priesthood,
or the members, in that day shall not find an inheritance among the saints of
the Most High” (The Doctrine and Covenants 85:11). Mormonism is a religion
based in the doctrine of apostasy. The church considers itself a restoration
faith, a re-establishment of God’s one true church and priesthood authority
on Earth. Rejection of the gospel is akin to rejecting God—a sin that cannot be
atoned in death. Eternal separation from family members, further, is doctrin-
ally dictated by the Mormon practice of temple marriage, which seals spouses
and all children born of their marriage together eternally (The Doctrine and
Covenants 132:19). Breaking the covenant of temple endowment, thus, endan-
gers the eternal family.
The cultural practices of Mormonism create a tight-knit religious commu-
nity that is consuming of the member’s life. Members are expected to maintain
organisational values in their everyday lives that include austerity and refrain-
ing from coarse language, alcohol, cigarettes, and caffeine. Faithful members
who attend temple wear sacred garments daily under all clothing as a con-
stant reminder of their covenant with God. Givens (1997) noted that Mormons
spend more time in church than other faiths, both attending multiple hour
services on Sunday and engaging in weekday church activities. Shipps (2000)
connected the strong sense of Mormon community to the Church’s history of
communal living and separation. She likened the Mormon move to Utah in
1847 to an American diaspora that created a culture of self-reliance that the
current church still retains.
202 Hinderaker

The 2011 Pew Research Center report on Mormons in America (The Pew Fo-
rum on Religion and Public Life, 2011) supported the modern Mormon commu-
nal identity Givens (1997) and Shipps (2000) promoted. The report noted that
82 percent still say that their religion is very important in their everyday lives,
and 77 percent say that they wholeheartedly believe all of the faith’s teach-
ings. This connection to the Church is demonstrated even more starkly in the
Pew report’s finding that 85 percent of married Mormons are married to other
Mormons; a percentage higher than that of other faiths including Catholics
(78 percent). Further, 57 percent of Mormons surveyed at large, and 73 percent
of those living in Utah said that most or all of their friends are Mormon. The
Pew report notes that while Mormons indicate high levels of community and
religious commitment, non-Mormons still criticise the faith, most frequently
using the word “cult” to describe it. Shipps (2000) and Givens (1997) both at-
tributed modern public perceptions of Mormonism as a cult to the communal
and polygamist history of the faith, and noted that this criticism serves to cre-
ate the modern Mormon identity. These historical and doctrinal roots of the
Mormon faith serve to tether the member tightly to the church, and make exit
both risky and difficult.

3 Previous Research and Empirical Material

Considered from a communicative standpoint, organisational exit is situated

within Jablin’s (1984, 1987, 2001) phasic model of assimilation (anticipatory
socialisation, encounter, metamorphosis, exit). Assimilation literature recog-
nises the inherent tie between socialisation and later exit. Values instilled in
the socialisation process are the ties that members must break during exit.
Jablin advanced the study of exit (2001) with addition of a staged model of exit
including preannouncement, announcement/exit, and post-exit organisation-
al sensemaking. Research in corporate environments has treated exit as fail-
ure to metamorphose (Carr et al. 2006; DiSanza 1995; Gibson and Papa 2000;
Jablin 1984; Myers 2005), or the “inevitable conclusion” (Kramer 2010: 186) of
membership. The notable exception was Kramer’s (2011) study of volunteers
leaving a choir. His finding that volunteers simply stopped showing up, leav-
ing the door open to future return, suggested that unpaid members engage in
a fluid exit that does not involve a formal announcement, or a difficult post-
exit sensemaking. My own work studying exit from the lds (Hinderaker 2015;
Hinderaker and O’Connor 2015), however, suggests that the process of leaving a
totalistic faith community mirrors neither the phasic nature of corporate exit,
nor the fluid exit of volunteers.
Leaving Mormonism 203

To exit a totalistic faith is to leave not only an organisation, but the core
identity. Research on religious exit has articulated this tie to identity. In their
study of Orthodox Judaism, Davidman and Greil (2007) noted that exit entails
leaving behind the cultural script taught to describe religious identities, leav-
ing ex-members without a language to describe their new selves. Avance (2013)
treated online exit stories as expressions of deconversion testimony that allow
construction of a new ex-Mormon identity. Many such websites exist, provid-
ing a glance at the lived experiences of those leaving faiths.1

4 New Findings Focusing on “Leaving Religion”

Findings presented here represent a combined summary of data from my pre-

viously published works on leaving Mormonism (Hinderaker 2015; Hinderaker
and O’Connor 2015) to offer the reader a broader picture of apostasy and exit
from the lds. All quotations are taken from these two works. The findings sum-
mary presented here represents a combined data set of 100 narratives gathered
over a two-year period from online communities (www.postmormon.org and
www.exmormon.org), and analysed as microstories, or single tellings of lived
experiences. Boje advanced the use of microstoria analysis as a rich reading of
stories not of the elite of an organisation, but of the “little people” (Boje 2001:
45) living within organisational confines. Boje (2001) refers to this bottom-up
constructed narrative as “antenarrative,” or outside the predominant organisa-
tional story, but predictive of future narrative. Consistent with Boje’s method,
narratives in the studies summarised here were coded with an abductive pro-
cess that assumes an organisational truth as members experience it, and an
approximate truth of theory’s ability to predict and explain based on previ-
ous literature, then coded for emic typologies to compare to existing research.
Analysis provides, then, a picture of both individual exit experiences, and a
larger grand narrative of leaving Mormonism.
The narrative of exit that emerged mirrored neither the corporate exit of
previous research, nor the fluid volunteer exit process Kramer (2011) observed.
Exit was described as a “journey,” or “traveling the road out” that was nei-
ther short nor linear. Rather, former Mormons described initiating, stopping,
then reinitiating the exit process multiple times. Exit was reached through

1 A number of ex-Mormon online communities exist including exmormon.org, post-

mormon.org. Sites for former members to connect in real life or on social media include
­exmormonsunite.com, an ex-Mormon Meetup.com page, and a Facebook group for
ex-Mormons.
204 Hinderaker

a prolonged process of testing exit, returning to faith, renewed doubt, and

­re-initiation of the exit process. Mormons experienced exit as a series of stop-
pages as they quit one part of their faith at a time, stopping one activity such as
tithing, then, another like going to temple or activities at the church. The nar-
ratives described a sense of daring at each stoppage. As one writer expressed,
“I started testing the waters. I wasn’t attending church, and nothing bad had
happened to my family. So I quit paying tithing, just to see if we would imme-
diately burn in hell. Nope, we didn’t.”
Where corporate exit research reflects a pre-announcement period of com-
municative sensemaking about the decision to leave, Mormons did not describe
discussing the potential exit with friends, family, or other members. Rather, the
pre-announcement period was prolonged and agonising, involving years of
self-doubt and silencing. While all narratives analysed discussed a level of dis-
belief, the decision to exit was often triggered by a particular event that precipi-
tated a period of scrutinising formerly repressed doubts to doctrine. Catalytic
events engendered a sudden change in attitude towards the Church and were
described in terms of enlightenment: “the veil lifted,” “I saw the light,” or a “light
bulb moment.” Rather than turning towards faith for comfort, ex-Mormons de-
scribed traumatic events as an impetus to beginning the exit process, particu-
larly when clergy and church leadership reacted in ways members felt inappro-
priate. One writer questioned her place in the church after her husband died
and clergy would not allow his closest friends, who were ex-communicated for-
mer Mormons, to speak at the funeral. Members experiencing divorce or other
familial struggle described doubting the doctrine of eternal marriage, and thus
the Church. One woman described talking to her bishop about domestic vio-
lence, and beginning her exit after the bishop told her to pray harder and make
her husband a cherry pie. Violence or sexual abuse, particularly if dismissed
by clergy, became catalysts to doubt that eventually led the member out of the
faith. Even when not linked to perceived trauma, Mormons described begin-
ning the process of exit after uncompassionate clergical encounters. One writ-
er described beginning a two-month period of confusion and doubts after a
ward leader told him “that the bishopric preferred the church services that our
family did not attend” because his disabled son was disruptive.
Disbelief in doctrine separate from perceived trauma was a gradual pro-
cess of disillusionment. Writers described learning of particular pieces of
church history that they found distasteful or unbelievable, then embarking
on research that provoked deeper doubts. Historical works that contradicted
Church history, such as Native American history that contradicted the Book
of Mormon, which teaches that Christ and early civilisations interacted in
North America, were particularly likely to induce doubt. Members questioned
temple c­ eremonies, which they described as “weird,” “bizarre,” or “cultish,” and
Leaving Mormonism 205

cultural practices such as the prohibition of coffee. As one writer put it, “I had a
hard time reconciling Mormonism with rational thought—why certain things
were necessary. Why would God require certain things to get into heaven?”
The deep doubts expressed by exiting Mormons stands in sharp contrast
to exit research in corporate or volunteer environments (Jablin 2001; Kramer
2010; Kramer 2011). As Mormons found themselves unable to either believe or
practice their faith, they expressed feelings of personal inadequacy, or failure,
shifting the narrative from flawed doctrine to self-indictment. Inability to be-
lieve was rationalised not as erroneous teachings, but as personal unworthi-
ness that they feared might be punishable by God. One woman miscarried
a child while contemplating exit, and wrote, “I never told a soul but secretly
I believed that maybe God didn’t want me to have children because of my not
being valiant in the pre-existence.” In the midst of self-doubt, members ex-
pressed fears that kept them from leaving the faith. Nearly all of the narratives
analysed included fear of family rejection or retaliation for leaving the faith.
As one member wrote, “my motivation at the time wasn’t from some burning
testimony—it was from fear. I was afraid they would quit loving me.”
Where organisational exit literature expects communication with peers
and family to rationalise the exit decision, Mormons neither communicated
doubts, nor announced their exit. Doubts were instead willfully concealed,
while working to maintain an outward appearance of faith. Members referred
to wearing a “Mormon mask” to feign an appearance of faithfulness, mean-
while undertaking a lone effort of exit. As one member wrote, “somehow it just
never all tied together for me. Internally it never felt quite right, yet I contin-
ued to live dualistically, ever the strong, active Mormon under the weight of
so many doubts.” Several men described concealing their doubts even while
serving active missions and baptising other members. When members finally
separated from the Church, they did so quietly, choosing to announce the de-
cision only after they had completely stopped practicing. In the aftermath of
exit, Mormons described family rejections and loss of friends that legitimised
earlier fears. One woman described her mother shutting her out for months.
Other members described family arguments that turned into long-term feuds.
Many described a sense of grief at the loss of Church rituals and practices, a
sense of missing something that was formerly fundamental in their lives. More
positive effects of exit included feeling internal peace and growth of new rela-
tionships with non-Mormons.
The prolonged and oscillating exit process Mormons described suggests two
considerations for study of religious exit. First, results suggest a more nuanced
view of organisational exit than corporate literature suggests. The process of
exit from Mormonism suggests that where the stakes of exit are high, m ­ embers
engage in a non-communicative pattern of active concealment. Second, the
206 Hinderaker

exit process is intrinsically tied to the reach of a faith organisation into the
members’ lives. Where organisational values are deeply ingrained by a rigid
assimilation process, the process of exit is neither simple nor finite.
Current phasic models of exit suggest a linear and defined process of com-
municative sensemaking, announcement, and severing of ties. The process
of Mormon exit, however, mirrored neither this phasic model, nor the more
passive exit observed with volunteers (Kramer 2011). Mormons described a
prolonged and oscillating exit marked by deep personal doubt that reinitiated
faithfulness. Where Kramer (2010) treated organisational exit as an inevitable
conclusion, a finite state wherein the exiter is either in or out, Mormon exit
suggests exit is not a zero-sum game. Results suggests a more fluid view of exit
for faith communities marked by retention of core religious identities. In the
aftermath of exit, former Mormons with still-faithful family described continued
attendance at Mormon family functions and participation in cultural Mormon
practices. The sense of grief and loss former Mormons described, moreover,
suggests that members retain attachments not only to ingrained faith values,
but to cultural practices that may be tied to the core Mormon identity, a pro-
cess Ebaugh (1988) likened to exiting not a position, but a role.
The active process of concealment Mormons engaged in suggest a link be-
tween the stakes of leaving and communication during exit. Where research in
corporate exit reveals a communicative pattern of talking out the exit decision
and weighing options with friends, family, and peers, Mormons masked both
their contemplation of exit and their doubts. Employees and volunteers may
quit assuming small responsibilities at a job or detach from coworkers when
considering leaving. These actions represent visible cues that make others
aware of the member’s detachment. Unlike a job, however, partial participa-
tion is a totalistic faith is still viewed as apostasy. Mormons used the deroga-
tory term “Jack Mormon” to describe the partially faithful, and described active
masking of their tests to exit to avoid the perception. Mormons described dis-
playing, in effect, hyper-metamorphosis, acting highly faithful while secretly
exiting the Church. Concealment may be linked to the potentially high rela-
tional stakes of leaving a totalistic faith, as concealing the exit decision delays
social penalties until the exit is final. The price, however, is a lack of support
from peers during the exit process.
The process of exit from Mormonism suggests that the totalistic reach of
organisational values into the members’ lives is closely tied to the exit pro-
cess. The consuming faith values, cultural practices, and primary relation-
ships of Mormonism are not only symbols of membership, but constitute the
­member’s foundational identity. Teachings for both children and new converts
are d­ esigned to instill values at a core and identity formational level. The extent
Leaving Mormonism 207

to which an individual identifies with Church values during socialisation may

relate to the propensity to exit. Albrecht, Cornwall, and Cunningham (1988)
found that children raised in highly religiously identified Mormon households
were more like to remain active in the church for life than children raised in
less identified Mormon homes. For those deeply identified who later exit, how-
ever, leaving represents leaving behind not only an organisational role, but also
an elemental part of the self. The sense of grief and loss Mormons described
after exit points to the loss of identity that leaves the exiter adrift once ties are
severed. Leaving a totalistic faith involves an untethering from foundational
beliefs that are not readily replaced with another faith. The former Mormon
becomes an apostate, a classification carrying negative social connotations
that highlight the social and cultural consequences that are distinct in total-
istic exit. A few who leave the faith take to critiquing it. Many anti-Mormon
writers are former members of the faith, including Jerald and Sandy Tanner,
who Foster (1984) called “career apostates,” for their publication of multiple
anti-church articles, books, and lds documents.

5 Conclusion

Exit from Mormonism represents departure not from an organisation in the tra-
ditional sense, but from consuming values that constitute member identities.
Findings on Mormon exit have implications for both faith organisations seeking
to retain members, and for the scholarly study of faith exit. From an organisa-
tional standpoint, the catalysts to doubt and exit suggest an opportunity for cler-
gy to respond to personal crises in ways the draw members towards faith, rather
than turn them away. The self-doubt, grief, and loss of identity expressed by
Mormons suggest that for scholars, a more careful consideration of the forma-
tion of religious identities is warranted. Where religious scholars have explored
the difficulty of constructing an ex-member identity (Avance 2013; Davidman
and Greil 2007), deeper understanding of religious identity socialisation, par-
ticularly in totalistic faiths, is necessary to understanding the process of exit.

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 Chapter 17

Leaving Islam for Christianity: Asylum Seeker

Converts

Nora Stene

1 Introduction

This chapter presents a case study from Norway, and explores why and how
some asylum seekers leave one religion for another: more specifically Islam for
Christianity. The context of their conversion is migration and the difficult situ-
ation of asylum seekers. The chapter also highlights perspectives and method-
ologies especially relevant to this field of study.
There are no available official statistics on the number of asylum seeker
converts in Norway. However, the Norwegian Immigration Appeals Board
(une) estimates that between 2001 and 2015 approximately 950 individuals
converted from Islam to Christianity – listing fear of religious persecution as
support for their asylum appeals. The great majority of them were from Iran or
Afghanistan, but une data has registered smaller numbers of converts from a
total of 23 different countries (details in Stene 2016, personal communication
une 2017). It should be noted that in order to be considered a convert by the
une there must be an announcement of faith, baptism, and attachment to a
local Christian congregation (une 2016). The actual number of converts may
also be higher than the figure given above, as asylum seekers may not mention
conversion in their applications –or appeals.
The une has observed that conversions/baptisms usually take place during
the appeal-process, after an initial asylum application has been rejected. In this
period a number of asylum seekers have contact with Christian congregations
(une 2016). Clearly critical to certain kinds of active proselytisation among
asylum seekers, the une, human rights- and church umbrella-organisations
have issued guidelines to protect asylum seekers from what has been termed
“unwanted attention” from missionaries (details in Stene 2016:207). The Church
of Norway’s charter emphasises that converts may face negative reactions: “If
a Muslim is to be baptised, it will also be necessary to discuss [with the bap-
tismal candidate] the consequences baptism may have in the baptismal can-
didates’ networks both in Norway and in country of origin” (Bishops’ Council
2016:8, my translation). The fact that guidelines of this kind exists, underscores

© Nora Stene, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_018

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Islam for Christianity 211

the existence of missionary work amongst asylum seekers. The number of con-
verts also points to dynamics that are worth further investigation.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

There is little existing research on religious conversion amongst asylum seek-

ers. However, some empirical material is found in research on migrants. Per-
spectives, models and findings from a selection of these studies are presented
here, and further developed in the analysis of new material below.
From the field of migration studies, Marzouki and Roy (2013) underline the
importance of understanding both the individual and relational character of
conversion. Their book includes Le Pape’s model of ‘grammar for conversion.’
Based on interviews conducted in France, Le Pape shows how certain rules
must be respected for a religious conversion to be understood and accepted
in society. According to his understanding, conversion must be validated not
only by the faith-community, but also by a broader social group. In the broader
group, parental reactions were found to be important, and often the most dif-
ficult to handle (Le Pape 2013).
Another in-depth migration study is made by Akcapar (2006). Based on
fieldwork with Iranian converts in Turkey, Akcapar emphasises that conversion
often runs parallel to migration. He highlights the discontinuity in the lives of
migrants, alongside the continuity in efforts to retain family values and mother
tongue. Conversion is discussed as a migration strategy in a transit country,
possibly used to manipulate migration authorities. Akcapar portrays internal
strife among Iranians related to conversions, as well as the deep identification
many seem to have developed with Christianity and their new-found faith-
communities. Similar findings are highlighted in Spellman’s study of Iran­ian
networks in Britain (Spellman 2004).
Theological studies have had a focus on growth in the number of converts
from Islam to Christianity worldwide. Miller and Johnstone (2015) discuss the
possible over- and underestimation of available figures, as well as new self-
identifications like “Muslim-background Believer” and “Muslim Follower of
Christ,” and the fact that many converts avoid the term “Christian.” Miller and
Johnstone highlight an early conversion-wave in Indonesia in the 1960s and
similar developments amongst Iranians some decades later. Intensified mis-
sionary work, contact with indigenous Christians, globalisation, new media,
emigration and turmoil in the Muslim World are listed as explanations for why
Muslims convert. Concerning Iranians, Miller argues that leaving Islam may be
a way of remaining “Persian” in the context of migration, as Islam is associated
212 Stene

with the Arab world. Christianity is seen as a religion where “Persian-ness” is

given ample room (2012; 2015). Like Marzouki and Roy (2013), Miller under-
scores that a high number of ex-Muslims become Pentecostals, though Miller
also stresses that conversion to different denominations is known (2014; 2015).
Human rights studies inspired my own exploration of Christian missionar-
ies working amongst asylum seekers (Stene 2016). Based on fieldwork in Nor-
way, my study shows how a broad variety of denominations are involved. Some
missionaries offer diaconal services; others run intense proselytisation pro-
grams and many combine evangelisation and practical help. Missionaries with
a migrant background were found to work mainly among those with similar
backgrounds (see also Synnes 2012). Some missionaries were found to actively
use the language of human rights to defend their activities, though not all. The
article argues that this kind of missionary work must be understood within the
context of Christian activism, in which asylum seekers are viewed as people in
desperate need, but also as a new, local “mission field.”
Website studies of apostasy/conversion narratives are important in map-
ping out religious change. Enstedt and Larsson (2013) discuss apostates’ per-
ceptions of Islam. Through text analysis, they underscore how the religion left
behind (Islam) is presented as evil, irrational and anti-modern, and how this
corresponds to broader anti-Muslim discourses and ideas of the New Atheist
Movement (see also Larsson 2015, 2016).
Islamophobia is also explored by Marti (2016). Based on fieldwork in North
Carolina, Marti’s study presents an immigrant Christian convert who is still
associated with Islam by his congregation, through ideas of interwoven ethno-
religious identities. Marty shows how the convert remains the “other” and uses
this to his own advantage; the notion of persecution under Islam gives him the
symbolic power of being close to martyrdom. The convert also remains the raw
and exotic ex-Muslim who gives legitimacy to his congregation as he embodies
a long-awaited religious revival.
In contrast to the image of Islam mentioned above, Speelman’s interview-
based study of converts from Islam to Christianity in the Netherlands (2006),
stresses how two “Islams” are often present in the same narrative; one of strict
rules and one of a loving parent. These stories typically include the following
steps: crisis, contact with believers and a Bible, and finally conversion- when a
distant or absent God becomes a God of utmost importance. Echoing Le Pape’s
model, parents are usually part of the narrative’s turning point; conversion
happens after their death, a family break-up or a reconciliation-process.
Migrants continue to relate to their country of origin. Studies from “sender-
countries” capture important aspects, for example that leaving Islam does not
necessarily mean leaving a Muslim identity. With empirical material from the
Leaving Islam for Christianity 213

Middle East, both Kraft (2013) and Barnett (2008) show some of the complex
ways conversions are negotiated (and often hidden) in family-oriented soci-
eties. In the following, we do not meet such “closeted apostates” (see Cottee
2015), but rather converts who have taken a step out into the open.

3 New Findings on Asylum Seekers leaving Islam for Christianity

This section analyzes fieldwork material from 2014 (details in Stene 2016), and
11 follow-up interviews from 2017 (seven men; four women). The stories of four
interviewees have been chosen to give empirical insight and to offer a nuanced
image of asylum seekers’ conversion narratives. Analysis point back to findings
from previous research (see above) and is further developed in the conclusion.
To protect anonymity pseudonyms are used and some non-relevant details
have been altered.
‘Bahram’ is from Iran. Among those interviewed, he is the only one who ob-
tained residence prior to his conversion. His religious change was depicted both
as sudden and as an on-going process. He arrived in Norway with his asylum-
seeking parents. He describes them as “liberal Muslims,” but adds that he never
practiced “any of that stuff” after they died. Everyday life had not been easy
for Bahram. At one point, he started drinking heavily. Just when he thought
he could fall no further a fellow drinking friend turned up and proclaimed his
newfound faith in Jesus. Confused, Bahram started to read the Bible his friend
left behind: “I read for three days and could not stop crying.” Soon after, he ap-
proached a Pentecostal congregation and asked to be baptised, but was told
that he had to be taught more about Jesus first: “From the moment I read the
Bible I knew I believed, but I had to get to know Jesus -properly.” In the congre-
gation a small fellowship communicated in Farsi, which is important to Bah-
ram: “As Persians, we don’t like Arabs. Islam is an Arabic religion. When I found
Jesus, I did not need anything Arabic anymore.” As noted by Miller (2015b), this
conversion seems to strengthen Bahram’s ethnic, Persian identification.
The religion Bahram left behind was in many ways described as foreign. His
conversion gave him a new identity, along with a calling to missionary work.
Speaking Farsi, he joined a prayer group that attracts asylum-seeking Iranians:
“Many have a real thirst for God, even if some first come to us because they are
curious or just bored at the reception center, or think they can get residence
by becoming Christian…” In this quote, Bahram touches upon what Ackapar
(2006) calls “conversion as migration strategy.” This pinpoints the imposter-
problem: are those who convert true believers, or just pretending? Society
at large is especially concerned with this question when it comes to asylum
214 Stene

s­ eekers. To use Le Pape’s model (2013); asylum seeker converts need not only to
be accepted by a new faith-community, their conversion must also be public
and validated by a broader social group, in this case including immigration au-
thorities. Bahram ends his story with reference to the problem of being seen as
an imposter: “I have been a Christian for many years. I did not need to change
religion; I already had a residence permit. Still people don’t believe me. I try to
convince them…” This striving to have a conversion accepted by society may be
seen as part of the on-going public conversion of many asylum seeker converts.
‘Sherif’ is from Iraq. His first application for asylum was rejected. It was
accepted only after several appeals during a difficult 12-year period: “I could
never have managed without Jesus,” he says. Like what happens to many asy-
lum seekers, the long appeal-period increased his contact with Christianity, as
well as his conversion opportunities. He first met Christian activists at asylum
reception centers. Sherif describes how people from the local Church of Nor-
way collected asylum seekers, transported them to church services and even
invited them into their homes: “They were so kind, but I didn’t understand
much of what they said. I didn’t speak Norwegian at that time.” For Sherif, the
turning point came when he met Arabic-speaking Pentecostals: “They gave me
a Bible in Arabic and took me to their congregation. I read the whole Bible
and I believed. I told them ‘Jesus is my Lord’ and they baptised me.” However,
remembering his first contact with Lutherans, Sherif later found a Lutheran
congregation, where he now feels at home.
As opposed to Bahram, Sherif underlines that his conversion was not sud-
den: “It was something from my childhood. I knew churches from Iraq. I liked
them; songs came out their doors. Sometimes when I went to Baghdad where
nobody knew me, I visited churches and lit candles.” Sherif explains his conver-
sion through reference to his childhood experiences: “I always liked the Chris-
tians. I had Christian teachers in school and was drawn to their faith, even if
I didn’t know it.” Like other converts I talked to, he describes long-lasting ties to
Christianity; they stem from his childhood and even further back into history.
It is important to him that “his” Iraq once was a Christian area. These stories
of pre-migration connections to Christianity can be analysed as rhetorical de-
vices used to show the sincerity of his conversion, because like Bahram, Sherif
still has to face societies’ scrutiny of “new” converts.
In Sherif’s memory, religion (Islam) was practiced in a good way in his vil-
lage. He has little negative to say about the religion left behind. It only lacked
Jesus, and he believes relatives would become Christians: “If only they really
knew Jesus…” The image given is one of righteous people who have not heard
the gospel – yet. Like in Speelman’s study (2006), two “Islams” are present;
positive images connected to village life and older relatives alongside ­negative
Leaving Islam for Christianity 215

i­mages: “Muslims know about my faith. At times this can be dangerous, be-
cause leaving Islam can make them see you as a traitor, not only towards Islam,
but also towards your country, your family… So if my car is bumped, first I al-
ways think: ‘Muslims did this to me.’” This double-image of Islam ran through
many of the stories I heard; the Islam of up-right Muslim relatives, and the
Islam that causes fear.
‘Sandy’ is from the Balkans. She arrived in Norway with a small child, having
left an older one behind. Her application for asylum was turned down. Years
of appeals followed. During these years she got to know her Christian neigh-
bors. They invited her along to Norwegian-classes for asylum seekers and low-
church meetings. Sandy describes her earlier life like this: “Those days I cried
and cried all day, I did not sleep at all. In the end, I did not want to live. I wor-
ried sick for the child I had to leave. I only relaxed inside the church; only there
my problems were left behind. There my Christian friends helped me.” Sandy’s
case illustrates the importance of group dynamics when it comes to religious
change. As referred to above (Stene 2016), Christian evangelism and diaconal
service often blend. Groups embrace potential converts, and some convert. In
the conversion narratives of all of my interviewees, practical help from a local
community was stressed as essential. In Sandy’s case, her new network helped
with every aspect of life, social, financial and legal. To understand the on-going
group dynamics, I will expand on Akcapar’s term “conversion as migration
strategy,” and highlight “conversion as integration strategy.” To some asylum
seekers a new religious identity may become a way into (a section of) broader
society. Should residence permits be granted, their “reception-congregations”
provide a community where they already belong.
Sandy calls the pastor-couple of her congregation “my new parents.” She has
not told her biological parents about her conversion and does not intend to:
“We have very little contact. They will not understand.” The phrase “my new
parents” may be connected to a theme touched upon by previous researchers.
As argued by Marzouki and Roy (2013) and Le Pape (2013), conversion may be
individual, but it also has a relational aspect. Relation to parents seems to be
especially important. In the stories of those I interviewed, a family rupture of-
ten preceded the conversion. Some converted after the death of parents (like
Bahram), or after the loss of regular contact (like Sherif and Sandy). Some
struggled to keep ties alive- or concentrated on other relatives than parents.
Like the Middle Eastern converts discussed by Kraft (2013) and Barnett (2008),
relations with family members were generally portrayed as important, despite
the difficulties some converts experienced.
In Sandy’s case, her congregation kept praying that the problem of her bro-
ken family might be solved. Then one day: “… like a miracle my sister arrived
216 Stene

in Norway, with my child!” Overjoyed, Sandy turned to the congregation she

believed had spurred the miracle. Previously she had not fully identified as
Christian, now she did. She joined the local church with her children and they
were baptised together: “…because we were finally together.” The turning point
in this story was not the growth of personal faith, but the resolution of a crisis
attributed to a miracle. To Sandy, the natural consequence was conversion.
‘Mansur’ is from Afghanistan. In his story an outer and inner journey run par-
allel. He cries as he recounts how he barely survived en route to Europe. He did
not want to beg, but was forced to contact handout places. Some food packages
included biblical quotes. He was curious about the Bible and the Christians:
“They sang even if they did not know how to sing! And why give things for free
to those you do not know?” When he arrived in Norway, he had lots of spare
time and studied the Bible. He also continued to read works of Muslim scolars,
like he had done before, but what they wrote disappointed him. Compared to
the converts presented above, Mansur gave harsh statements about Islam. Like
apostates in Enstedt/Larsson (2013) and Larsson (2016), he portrayed Islam as
a straitjacket and message of punishment. These negative images were con-
trasted to Christianity, explained as a religion of generosity and forgiveness:
“It answered all my questions about life. I found a church and finally felt safe.
I spent days and even nights sitting there. One night I dreamt of being guided
through a house, and recognised it as my church. The dream strengthened my
faith.”
Mansur’s narrative is focused on inner change. He portrays himself as a
seeker looking for religious answers. He was in danger, but was saved; in need,
and met helping hands. Like many asylum seekers, he identifies the Bible as es-
sential to his conversion. This may be explained by the centrality of the Bible in
Protestant Christianity, which is the type of Christianity most asylum seekers
in Norway meet. To Mansur, the content of the Bible was important. To others,
possessing the book seemed just as important. Several recounted how they, in
a miraculous way, read it all in a few days. Besides reading the Scripture, many
conversion narratives also focused on church-buildings. Like Sandy, Mansur
depicts the church as his place of refuge. Explanations for this are not eas-
ily found by reference to Protestant Christianity, which concentrates more on
faith than buildings. However, the political context is relevant; asylum seekers
often live in fear of an expulsion order, but they also know that Norwegian
police do not enter churches to carry out such orders. Stories of peace inside
church-rooms may therefore be related to the storyteller’s legal status. Fur-
thermore, the narratives underline how conversion “takes place” inside rooms
and buildings. Not only congregations, but also buildings embrace converts,
thereby stressing a conversion’s tangible aspect. To Mansur, the local church
Leaving Islam for Christianity 217

is important: “It is my new home.” So far little explored, this perspective from
material culture studies shed light on the importance of physical structures
in conversion narratives. It is a perspective that may prove useful for further
studies in this field.

4 Conclusion

The four stories above are personal and unique. However, they all have detect-
able patterns relevant to the topic of this book.
To some asylum seekers, what follows leaving (a particular) religion is reli-
gious conversion. The conversion may be part of a migration and/or integra-
tion strategy. As migrants, individuals are in a vulnerable situation and new
socio-religious networks develop into important safety nets. Life prior to con-
version is often portrayed as a perpetual crisis and conversion as a solution. To
some converts, blending into new, local networks becomes paramount. Some
also nurture ethno-religious identifications, like being Christian-Persian. To
all, the relational character of conversion remains essential, especially relating
to close relatives. However, changing religious affiliation may lead to a break of
contact with family and kin. For some asylum seekers this break of contact has
provided space for new relationships.
In this study, a double-image is given of the religion left behind. As ex-­
Muslims, interviewees expressed both critical and moderate views on Islam,
often alongside appreciations of Muslim relatives. Many converts did not dwell
on leaving, but rather on joining. In other words, they did not stress apostasy
as much as newfound faith. These findings stand in interesting contrast to the
one-sided negative representations of Islam found on apostate webpages, as
discussed by Enstedt and Larsson (2013). Difference in method and material
may have shaped these findings; web-based text analysis and fieldwork give
different empirical bases. These findings underline that people express them-
selves differently on webpages and in face-to face situations. In future research,
both methodologies are clearly useful.
As mentioned above, some converts in the Middle East use terms like
“­Muslim-background Believer” or “Muslim Follower of Christ.” In this study of
asylum seekers, all the converts called themselves Christians. I argue that this
is connected to the fact that they want their religious change to be public and
recognised by the authorities. As asylum seekers, they cannot use the some-
times fuzzy-boundary conversions of the Middle East. They must show a clear
break if they are to be given asylum due to fear of religious persecution. This
may explain their often unambiguous presentation of a new religious identity.
218 Stene

Although we do not know how many asylum seekers that converts from
I­slam to Christianity, such cases are well known to immigration authorities
and church congregations. As this case study shows, for some religious change
does not mean rejecting religion altogether; but leaving one religion to em-
brace another. Our studies of “leaving religion” need to include these groups,
in order to further investigate how religious affiliations can and does change.

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 Chapter 18

Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective

Erica Li Lundqvist

1 Introduction

This chapter puts queer theory in dialogue with the study of religion, specifi-
cally in relation to Islamic studies and those who have left their religion or are
in the process of doing so. It also explores the intersection of sexuality and re-
ligion and uses queer theory to investigate the taken-for-granted categories of
“normal” and “natural,” asking what they mean in religious terms when religion
is studied as a socially constructed and cultural phenomenon.
Queer theory does not consist of just one theory, or even a number of clearly
formulated theories, but of several different perspectives and ways of inter-
preting society, culture, and identity (Kulick 1996; Kulick 2005). Queer theory
draws on poststructuralism, deconstruction, and psychoanalysis, and scholars
such as Michel Foucault (1978), Eve Sedgwick (1990), and Judith Butler (1990,
2003) are major influences in the field. One feature common to all queer per-
spectives is critique of what is perceived as normative, destabilising the status
of norms as “given” or taken for granted. If we apply a queer perspective to
people who are leaving religion, rejecting religiosity or religious faith altogeth-
er, then the irreligious position can, on one hand, be understood as opposing
religious norms and, on the other, also be destabilised and called into question
as a fixed, non-religious position (Taylor and Snowdon 2014). In short, no posi-
tion is safe or stable from a queer perspective.
As subject positions, identities, and bodily experiences merge within com-
plex networks of norms, the content of a queer theoretical approach seeks to
engage and disrupt these norms, or at least describe and expose them (Schip-
pert 2011). What is interesting from a queer-theoretical perspective is to see
how religious norms are socially produced and maintained, and what conse-
quences these norms have for people about to leave their religion.
Therefore, reconciliation or disaffiliation with religion should not be con-
sidered a static two-sided coin (that is, believing or not believing) but rather as
a dynamic process of doubt, ambivalence, and religious crisis. I therefore call
for a more dynamic and intersectional approach that views unbelief and disaf-
filiation as processes combining various subject positions, competing values,

© Erica Li Lundqvist, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_019

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective 221

interests, and rights. The concept of intersectionality indicates that for exam-
ple, ethnicity, gender, and class are co-constitutive and shape one’s relation-
ship to power and oppression (Crenshaw 1991). Intersectionality has recently
been extended to include sexuality, religion, and belief, as well as (dis)ability,
age, and other social dimensions, to illustrate how these aspects correlate and
are always in play (Kolysh 2017).
Religion and irreligiosity can therefore be understood as intersecting with
other social categories rather than studied as though they operated on their
own in isolation. That is, people rarely identify themselves just in terms of re-
ligious affiliation or atheist (irreligious) positions, but rather understand their
religious/irreligious selves in relation to gender, class, ethnicity, sexuality, etc.,
and may well foreground different dimensions of these identifications depend-
ing on the circumstances. Although different perspectives will be highlighted,
this chapter concentrates on the two intersections most often assumed to cre-
ate the most tension, that is, religious belief and sexual orientation.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

This chapter draws its empirical examples and methodological discussion

from a study of former Muslims in Sweden who were born and raised with Is-
lam as their normative religious system, but at some point in life, often in their
young adulthood, left Islam as well as their country of birth. A snowball sam-
pling strategy was employed and two initial participants were recruited from
within my own personal network. The two initial interviews were conducted
face-to-face while the other interviews were conducted via email, mostly due
to geographical distance. Pseudonyms are used in all cases except for Serin and
Omar who wishes to use their real names. Ayman is a Shiite Muslim from Leba-
non, Abs is also of Lebanese origin but was raised as Sunni. Serin is a 40-year
old woman from Jordan. Taym is from Syria and Omar is from Egypt.
They all display ways to disconnect from religion, all of which have differ-
ent characterisations (see, for example, Gooren 2010 on disaffiliation; Cottee
2015 and Zuckerman 2012 on apostasy and unbelief; Flynn 2007 on irreligios-
ity; and Wright et al. 2011 and Köse 1996 on deconversion and conversion). For
example, some interviewees are now non-practicing Muslims who do not up-
hold Islamic views or rituals but still feel they belong to the community of
Muslims (Umma) in the sense of “belonging without believing” (McIntosh
2015). Although they might have abandoned their religious beliefs, they have
not abandoned their community. Other leave takers believe without belonging
222 Lundqvist

to the Muslim community, as in the case of many lgbtq persons like Ayman
and Abs or other migrants from Muslim countries now living residing in Swe-
den. Following Hervieu-Léger (2006), such an attitude can be understood as “a
distant shared memory, which does not necessitate shared belief, but which –
even from a distance – still governs collective reflexes in terms of identity”
(p. 48). There were also examples of what Wuthnow (1998) has called “patchwork
religion,” in which people take what they want from a religion and omit parts
that do not fit their way of life, such as abstaining from alcohol or praying five
times a day (see also Otterbeck 2015). A few of the interviewees stated that
they were not religious at all, but were instead pursuing a quest for spiritual-
ity. There are also examples of non-attending believers and private practitio-
ners who still felt attached to their (former) religious traditions (for example,
praying when visiting the graves of family members), and examples of those
who had lost faith not only in Islam but in religion entirely, like Omar and
Serin. Some interviewees considered themselves Muslim just because they were
born into a Muslim family, making the process of leaving the religion easier
than for a formerly devout Muslim. The point is that there is a risk of relying
on misleading assumptions about people who leave their religion, since cur-
rent research into people who leave religion, without claiming an atheist or
publicly oppositional stance against religion, is limited.
Previous studies have focused mainly on people who find ways to reconcile
two often-conflicting positions (Lundqvist 2013; Yip 2005), such as “contrasting
belief versus unbelief or religiosity versus atheism or agnosticism” (Streib and
Klein 2013: 717), or ”coping with identity threat” as Jaspal and Cinnirella (2010)
puts in their study of young British Muslim gay men of Pakistani background.
Other studies emphasise the eventual outcome of the conflict between sexual-
ity and religiosity. The aim of this research is to generate a better understand-
ing of former Muslims’ own knowledge and personal understanding of what it
means to be or not to be a Muslim and discuss the process by which individu-
als resolve this conflict by leaving Islam.

3 New Findings Concerning Leaving Religion

The decision to leave religion is not made overnight. In some cultures, leaving
religion is a major move (even leading to the death penalty in some countries),
a deviant act, a social risk, and, for many, a powerful personal transition. This
section will examine the process of moving out of religion and give examples
of the interviewees’ renegotiating of their identity through a complex relation-
ship of tension between the continuity of their former identity as Muslim and
Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective 223

transformation to a new non-religious identity. In other words, we will look at

the process of unfixing normative subject positions.

3.1 The Pursuit of Autonomy

“I was born homosexual but forced to be a Muslim,” Abs told me. According to
Abs, who grew up in Lebanon, he was never truly a believer:

You grow up with something. You think it is the truth because your moth-
er and father say it is so. Like it is in every culture. My reaction was that
I wanted to get to know my religion more, since it was my religion, my
identity, so I wanted to go deeper.
Interview, Abs, 14/09/2016

Ayman had similar views: “I have never been a Muslim, fully. I can say that it
is something I inherited. But to be Muslim or religious is not just something
you are but something you have to understand” (email interview, Ayman,
10/11/2016). This same kind of reasoning was expressed in Taym’s narrative.
Taym grew up in Syria and was raised to be a “strong” Muslim “like everyone
else.” During his adolescence, Islam had a great influence on his life, but the
more he got to know about his religion, the more he started to doubt his faith:
“It started from small details,” innocent thoughts, that were the beginning of
his journey to leave Islam, he said. This left him with a desire to learn more
about Islam, as he did not want to sink into what he called “fake faith”:

I was stronger. I started to think more and more. I read the Koran word
by word many times. It’s just because I hadn’t chosen to be a Muslim. For
me, I wanted to be Muslim after conviction of [the truth of] Islam. That
was a good motive to keep thinking. By that time I was losing my belief
in Islam. I didn’t pray like before. Ramadan became a normal month like
other months. I found a lot of injustice in Islam. And that Mohammad
was such a mean and criminal person.
Email interview, Taym, 26/11/2016

This pursuit of autonomy as a long-term gradual process of stepping away

from one’s previous religious environment (Streib and Klein 2013: 717) often
includes “finding oneself” on the basis of one’s own choices and individual
identity, which could sometimes lead to “a struggle within,” as Abs said. Af-
ter leaving Lebanon to study in Berlin, Abs became very involved in learning
more about the teachings of Islam. He went to the mosque regularly and talked
with his friends about important religious questions. Subsequently, one day he
224 Lundqvist

d­ iscovered that some important values and matters in his life were not com-
patible with the teachings of Islam, such as being a homosexual. “I sometimes
prayed to God during Ramadan to fix me, to make me a heterosexual,” Abs said,
adding that he knew that all people know, within themselves, what is “right”
and what is “wrong.” Abs knew that there was nothing wrong with being ho-
mosexual. This was the point of no return, when Abs decided he was finished
with Islam (Interview, Abs, 14/09/2016). This pursuit of autonomy can also take
other forms, in some cases leading to rebellion against one’s upbringing and a
rejection of religion altogether. Serin, a woman in her forties who was born in
Jordan, changed her views of Islam at the age of six, when she moved to live in
Saudi Arabia. Serin believed that religion should be a free choice, “not a man-
datory law or lifestyle”:

At that time, my image of God changed from that of a god of tolerance

and love to a god of power and control. I started to feel that I wanted
another God – their God would not represent me, would not accept my
faults. I was scared of the dark, of voices, of everything. I felt controlled
by Allah, whom I never saw.
Email interview, Serin, 06/07/2017

Omar, who identifies as an ex-Muslim and anti-theist explain his relation to

Islam in similar words as Serin:

Religion meant a lot to me, it was the main lens throughout I saw every-
thing, what I pereceived (sic!) as true or unture (sic!), good or bad. I was
brought up in a conservative sunni family and raised as a devout Muslim
and I had been so for the majority of my life up until I started studying the
scripture myself. However after havig (sic!) left Islam, I became to regard
it as what it is a tool of oppression, runs counter to reason, science and
the values of human rights, and hence my opposition to it as an ideology.
Email interview, Omar, 29/06/2017

Although both Serin and Omar has now rejected Islam entirely, the journey of
abandoning Islam was not easy, it was laden with emotional and intellectual
struggle. For both it was a gradual process that took place over several years,
while studying the Islamic scriptures and early history of Islam. Omar explains
that there is a quote saying: “The best cure for religion is studying the scripture”
(email interview, Omar, 29/06/2017).
Even if some interviewees might express considerable disbelief in God,
this might not be enough to reject religion in its entirety. It could instead be
Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective 225

r­ egarded as negotiation with their religion of birth and the dominant discourse
on what one should believe and do as a Muslim – “the pressure from others
that you should pray, fast, and practice the religion fully,” as Ayman put it (in-
terview, Ayman, 10/11/2016). Possible discrepancies between religious faith and
obligations to perform rituals and other religious duties, often combined with
pressure from society and family, were the main causes of the rejection of re-
ligion. Enstedt (2018: 83) argued in his study of apostasy in Sweden that “while
one’s religious beliefs can be abandoned, or denounced as in an apostasy narra-
tive, the faith can be intact and so can habits and practices, norms and values,
that are deeply connected with, in this case, Islam. One can therefore leave
the social and belief aspects of religion but still be religious in a range of other
aspects.” The next section will discuss the influence of the social environment
and how migration can affect both the self-understanding and identification
processes.

3.2 Experience of Migration

After migrating to Sweden, many of the informants’ views of other, non-­
religious aspects of life, such as politics and family, changed. The important
change for Abs regarding sexuality was his developing individualism when
it came to both sexual decision-making and forms of relationships (see also
Ahmadi 2003). For Abs, being able to live as homosexual, to be himself, was
possible in Sweden, and in light of that experience, he found that the social
environment of his upbringing restricted him in expressing his true self before
others:

I have lived here [in Sweden] for five years. I was born and grew up in
Lebanon until I was nineteen, and during that time I was always super
self-conscious, was in the ‘closet,’ did not reveal myself to anyone because
I saw how other ‘gay-like’ boys were treated in school, in society.
Interview, Abs, 14/09/2016

Nonetheless, he claimed that many were afraid to be themselves even in Swe-

den. There were times when he still concealed his sexuality even in Sweden, as
he was afraid to be the butt of jokes. As for Serin, the move to Sweden made her
feel less isolated, as Islam was central to the culture in which she grew up. She
also argued that women’s space in society is very limited in Muslim societies:

Before, I thought that I was a bad person, that God would never love me
or accept me because of my thoughts and opinions about him. Nowadays
I feel freer, inner peace, stronger, mature, more progressive and relaxed.
226 Lundqvist

I don’t need to bother myself with religious issues. Specifically, since mov-
ing to Sweden I’ve felt more harmony within myself and more aligned
with society.
Email interview, Serin, 06/07/2017

Their encounter with, as well as their understanding of “the Swedish way of

thinking” and “Swedish culture” seems to have influenced both Serin’s and
Abs’ views of life. In Sweden, relationships are more egalitarian, and there is a
relatively strong tendency towards similar views between the sexes regarding
sexuality. However, this newfound freedom comes at a cost. Serin, for example,
has lost most of her friends and family:

I don’t socialise with my friends who became religious, and I have lost
many of them. Some of them don’t accept me and my thoughts. I avoid
all the religious people, relatives, and my family as well. It is really a great
shift in my social life – you feel like you have another identity.
Email interview, Serin, 06/07/2017

Omar’s narrative shows similar traits to Serin’s:

(…) it can be a struggle at times because my vocal criticism of religion

and me abandoning Islam has strained my relationship with some family
members and many relatives and friends, to varying degrees, including
some who ever cursed me and cut off their relationship with me. It can
be also challenging to be open with my views and criticism of Islam even
here in Sweden, not just on account of reactions from Muslims but also
from some swedes who are very politically correct and in their fear of rac-
ism have a knee jerk reaction of defending Islam itself, not just Muslims.
Email interview, Omar, 29/06/2017

It is interesting to observe the consequences of religious norms for the inter-

viewees and the strength of the connection between religion and family. Reli-
gious leave takers – be it unconsciously, deliberately, out of necessity, or even
accidentally – destabilise religious normative values and put forward different
perspectives on, and interpretations of society, culture, and identity.

3.3 The Closet Metaphor

The metaphor of the “closet,” as in “coming out of the closet,” the hegemonic
and quintessential gesture of lgbtq people publically acknowledging who
they really are, can also be applied to those leaving religion (see Cottee 2015).
Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective 227

The metaphoric narrative of “coming out,” belonging to a binary dialectic of

suffering in silence versus thriving through self-expression, is useful when talk-
ing about relinquishing religious belonging and identities (see, for example,
Sedgwick 1990; Seidman 2002; Plummer 1995). I will take Ayman’s narrative as
an example, as he refuses labels altogether, opting for an emancipation from
identity constructs. He explained that it is the aspects of identity connected to
sexuality and religion that are primarily the cause of all the problems, stigmas,
and misconceptions about sexuality and faith:

For me it is all about not putting a label on people according to religion,

sexual orientation, race, or the like. We are all equal … It is the label, be-
ing labelled as a Muslim or Christian or Jew. I don’t want that. I am a hu-
man being. I could just as well have been born into a Jewish or a Buddhist
family, so it is not something you chose. … Sexual orientation is also a
label. That is why I also don’t identify as homosexual. Sure, I am for the
simple reason that I am attracted to the same sex, but I am reluctant to
label myself as that and say that I am.
Email interview, Ayman, 10/11/2016

In relation to the closet metaphor, discussions of people’s (non-)religious iden-

tity may be less interesting than discussing why some people feel it necessary
to deny their sexual orientation and others to publically announce it. One
must also consider that people might simply have an authentic lack of interest
in religion and not be actively or consciously distancing themselves from or
opposing themselves to religious values through identifying as, for instance,
homosexual. Even so, when interviewed, they might retrospectively construct
their religious and sexual selves as trying to find that “authentic identity” and
perform it both to themselves and to those around them to show that they
have shifted in orientation away from something as well as towards something
new. The metaphoric narrative of “coming out of the closet” is therefore hege-
monic as it is the quintessential gesture of acknowledging who one is, telling
the “truth” (Enstedt and Larsson 2013). Since most people use labels as a short-
hand way of conceptualising and describing their identity to themselves and
others, whether aligned with religious, sexual, or other intersectional dimen-
sions, the unwillingness to be categorised while living according to some reli-
gious expectations is in many ways queer, as it disrupts the heteronormative
view of identities as unequivocal, fixed, and authentic.
It is reasonable to argue that people tend to have more fractionalised self-
conceptions that reject labels with any religious connotations, but might
use other types of labels to describe, for example, their political views. For
228 Lundqvist

i­ndividuals who do label themselves, a label such as “atheist” or “apostate”

identifies that person’s former religious identity but also stresses the opposi-
tional current self-identification, as the “non-“ prefix in non-Muslim and non-
heterosexual imply. One may still acknowledge that society and culture have
major impacts on a person’s self-understanding and experiences of sexuality
and religion. An emphasis on identification processes rather than more stable
identities highlights the strategies that facilitate, or reasons that complicate,
the process of leaving religion at the same time as it highlights what makes
a person a believer and what does not. In such a process, people can identify
several aspects of life they typically associate with Islam and being a Muslim
and ascribe meaning to these aspects.

4 Conclusion

Although religion has an impact, what it means to be religious depends on

many factors and may change over a lifetime without necessarily causing any
major difficulties, although it also most certainly can do so. Future research
into leaving religion might benefit from looking into what it actually means
to claim a Muslim identity and, most importantly, into the difficulties of
maintaining such an identity, for instance, in a migration situation. Research
into how people construct new religious or non-religious identities by leav-
ing or changing religion needs to be aware of the systems that push subjects
towards forced identity categorisations. Research must account for both es-
sentialist perspectives that approach sexual/religious identities as existing
categories and more constructivist perspectives that actively avoid applying
modern Western identity labels in other contexts. As such, a queer theoretical
approach to the matter of leaving religion challenges us to think more critically
about our reliance on natural bodies and authentic selves. Introducing a queer
perspective to the study of leaving religion is fruitful because of the similarities
between the normative and the taken for granted uncovered in heteronorma-
tivity and sexuality studies.
Studies of irreligiosity gain substantially from critical views of religious
norms, doctrines, and practices as part of the great human pursuit of knowl-
edge and power instead of accepting them as static and outside individual
influence. The focus on the normative aspect of religion can help highlight
and problematise the seemingly obvious in religiously lived lives, giving new
dimensions to ethnological, anthropological, and sociological studies of
leaving religion. By studying religiosity and the lack thereof from a starting
point in what is held as normative, queer studies can serve to destabilise that
Leaving Islam from a Queer Perspective 229

­ ormativity and investigate what religions hide in plain sight – deviant and
n
queer lives – as well as questioning what is meant by terms such as “believer,”
“Muslim,” and “religious.”

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 Chapter 19

Leaving New Religions

Carole M. Cusack

1 Introduction

Early studies of joining and leaving new religious movements (henceforth

nrms) exhibited deficiencies found in research on religious conversion in
general. These include a tendency to sharply distinguish the pre- and post-­
conversion identity of nrm members, and to view leaving as a simple process.
New religions were compared to established religions, and the vocabulary used
to describe nrm members differed from that used for Buddhists or Christians.
Terms like “recruit” for “convert,” and “affiliation” and “disaffiliation” for “con-
version” and “apostasy” showed that nrms were regarded as social movements
or “cults” not “religions” (Richardson 1993: 352–354). Disaffiliation, except
in cases of alleged “brainwashing” involving deprogrammers (Melton 2004:
232–235), was rarely of interest. From the 1980s the study of joining and leav-
ing nrms became more nuanced; it is evident that people leave for a range of
reasons. All leavers (like all joiners) are not identical; some retain faith while
abandoning membership, while others abandon both.
David Bromley has posited three exit roles for leavers departing organisa-
tions: Defector, Whistle-blower, and Apostate (Bromley 1998a: 145). The status
of each leaver depends upon the degree of tension with broader culture that
the organisation manifests. The majority of leavers do not engage in public
airing of grievances, loss of faith, or dispute with religious organisations, but
experience departure as an “uncontested leave-taking” (Bromley 1998a: 146).
Whistle-blowers and apostates have more difficult exits; they are perceived as
disloyal and may be voluble critics of their former religion. Apostates may re-
ceive threats and even go into hiding. Because nrms are, in Bromley’s terms,
“subversive,” exhibiting a high degree of tension with society, apostate roles
are prominent for ex-members (Bromley 1998a: 153). There is also doubt about
the use of ex-member testimonies. Benjamin D. Zablocki posited “believer,”
“apostate,” and “ethnographer” sources in research on nrms. He argued “there
is very little difference between the reliability (that is, stability across time) of
accounts from believers and ex-believers (or apostates)” (cited in Carter 1998:
222). The validity of ex-member accounts is harder to ascertain, given believers

© Carole M. Cusack, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_020

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
232 Cusack

provide positive accounts while apostates provide negative testimonies. This

is not unique to nrms, but occurs in all religions (see, for example, Larsson
2016). Scholars use member and ex-member sources, adding to them personal
observation and external accounts, such as those by journalists.
This chapter describes academic models of conversion and deconversion
that have been used to study nrms, and analyses the concept of “brainwash-
ing” and the use of “deprogramming” (or exit counselling) to forcibly separate
individuals from religious groups (Zablocki 1998). This model of leaving nrms
was promoted by the anti-cult movement (acm), and encouraged ex-­members
to craft a “captivity” narrative that justified violent intervention (Bromley
1998a: 155). This is followed by a survey of roles adopted by ex-members, and
the perspectives they hold regarding the groups they left. The Church of Sci-
entology (henceforth CoS) has experienced a high number of departures since
2008, and is the focus due to a surplus of ex-member memoirs and the emer-
gence of the “Free Zone,” a loose network of former Scientologists that still
practice L. Ron Hubbard’s “tech” outside of CoS structures (Rubin 2011). The
Free Zone supports Bromley’s idea that “most individuals exiting religious
movements labelled subversive are not hostile to the groups with which they
were formerly affiliated” (Bromley 1998b: 7). The conclusion reviews scholar-
ship about leaving new religions in the twenty-first century, and suggests areas
for further research.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

The study of nrms emerged in the 1960s, when counter-cultural worldviews

and lifeways gained ground as so-called traditional Western religion (especial-
ly Christianity) lost explanatory validity and institutional power. These nrms
included: neo-Hindu movements like Transcendental Meditation (TM) and
the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (iskcon), which were
founded by Indian gurus, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (in 1959) and Srila Prabhu-
pada (in 1965) respectively; Western versions of Buddhism emerged as Tibetan
and Japanese monks came to the West; Hazrat Inayat Khan’s Sufi Order in the
West (founded 1914); and other groups like Subud, Scientology, and the Chil-
dren of God. In the 1960s, research on nrms was mostly conducted by soci-
ologists, and participant observation (usually joining a group temporarily or
permanently) was an important technique for gathering information. This re-
inforced the notion that nrms did not mandate “true” conversion, but rather
“adherence” or the adoption of specific behaviours that mapped out a “conver-
sion career” (Richardson 1980).
Leaving New Religions 233

Scholarship on conversion emerged in the early twentieth century. In 1902

William James proposed “tension, deprivation, and subsequent frustration …
as the underlying foundation for conversion” (Gooren 2007: 338). The language
of conversion and deconversion had Christian origins, as seen in Arthur Darby
Nock’s Conversion (1933), which focused on religious change in the ancient
world (see also Magnusson, Part 1 in this volume). Nock claimed only Chris-
tianity required “true” conversion, which he defined as the “reorienting of the
soul of an individual, his deliberate turning from indifference or from an ear-
lier form of piety, to another, a turning which implies that a great change is
involved, that the old was wrong and the new is right” (Nock 1933: 2). In the
1960s West nrms were studied variously: for example, as deviant social groups;
and as offering insights into the origin of religions. However, they were rarely
considered as being of similar importance or legitimacy as, for instance, early
Christianity.
Over time, newer models of conversion developed that emphasised stages of
interest, participation, and commitment, demonstrating that conversion was
a process that is ongoing, rather than a dramatic transformation like that of
the apostle Paul on the road to Damascus (Acts 9: 3–9). Individuals experience
changes throughout life, and joining and leaving religions are thus elements in
the development of the self, which is “flexible, amenable to infinite reshaping
according to mood, whim, desire and imagination” (Lyon 2002 [2000]: 92). John
Lofland and Norman Skonovd’s model of conversion identified “motifs” that
influenced the self-directed religious quest of seekers (intellectual, experimen-
tal, mystical, affectional, and coercive) (Lofland and Skonovd 1981: 375). This
differs radically from the “transformation” by God idea based on Christianity.
The nrm milieu offers “seekers” a range of options to experiment with with-
out commitment. Older ideas of evangelism, in which missionaries preached
the message to passive populations, sit awkwardly with the active seeker, ex-
ploring religions through books, websites, retreats and seminars. As James
T. Richardson noted, “[t]his seeking approach to life is of such importance that
some people become members in spite of the absence of some usually expect-
ed pressures such as the development of interaction and affective ties between
members and prospects” (Richardson 1985: 169). The “seeker” orientation ex-
plains leaving as well as joining nrms; the typical “conversion career” in which
a person joins and leaves many religious and spiritual groups in their lifetime
is the result of the active, meaning-seeking person taking what they need from
each group and moving on when no longer satisfied (Richardson 1980).
Models of leaving new religions proliferated since the 1980s and emphasise
a range of factors that may prove decisive. Stuart A. Wright explored familial
bonds in nrms and reconceptualised leaving as equivalent to the breakdown
234 Cusack

of the intimate marital bond in divorce (Wright 1991), also demonstrating that
close family ties and parental disapproval are factors in many people leaving
nrms (Wright and Piper 1986: 22). This approach is welcome because it em-
phasises individual agency, normalises what is often viewed as “deviant” re-
ligion preying on weak or psychologically damaged recruits, and permits the
leaver mixed feelings about time spent in a nrm. Janet Jacobs used Wright’s
five-factor model of defection from nrms to study the power of charismatic
leaders and bonds that female members developed with them. These are: “1)
the breakdown in member’s insulation from the outside world; 2) unregulated
development of dyadic relationships within the communal context; 3) per-
ceived lack of success in achieving world transformation; 4) failure to meet
affective needs of a primary group; and 5) inconsistencies between the actions
of leaders and the ideals they symbolically represent” (Wright cited in Jacobs
1987: 295). The women she interviewed separated from the group first, and only
later relinquished the emotional bond they felt with the charismatic leader,
even exhibiting “willingness to exonerate the leader from any wrong-doing”
(Jacobs 1987: 299). Her interviewees related to their nrm leaders as love ob-
jects, and felt emotional pain in losing the connection to them, which rein-
forces Wright’s familial emphasis in explaining leaving nrms.

3 “Brainwashing” and “Deprogramming” in “Leaving New Religions”

In the 1960s and 1970s joining nrms was viewed as deviant behaviour, and an
explanatory framework developed that robbed converts of agency and en-
dowed “cults” and their charismatic leaders with powers of “brainwashing” and
“coercive persuasion” (Snow and Machalek 1984: 178). These claims emerged
during the Korean War (1950–1953), when Chinese soldiers influenced Ameri-
can captives to cooperate, and in rare cases, to defect to communist China.
English psychiatrist William Sargant (1907–1988) published Battle for the Mind:
A Physiology of Conversion and Brainwashing (1957), which became an im-
portant source for the emergent acm. The application of the “brainwashing”
model to nrms is problematic, in that none were total institutions which ef-
fectively imprisoned members, so the prisoner of war analogy was false. Yet it
found an audience via popular culture including print and television media
(Richardson and Introvigne 2007).
The popular acceptance of “brainwashing” spawned two related phenom-
ena; the “captivity” narrative and the practice of “deprogramming.” Bromley
­described the elements of the former as: the convert presents themselves
as innocent of the group’s “true” nature and overpowered by “subversive
Leaving New Religions 235

t­echniques;” experiencing brutality and humiliation as a member; escaping

from the “cult” and rejecting its teachings; and warning others of the risks they,
and society, face from such deviants (Bromley 1998a: 154). Deprogramming, a
practice pioneered by Ted Patrick (b. 1930), usually involved kidnapping the
nrm member and restraining them for an unspecified time, while engaging
in confrontational techniques to get them to relinquish faith. This process was
generally instigated by parents, was costly and risky, involved the “abrogation
of freedom of religious expression,” and was often unsuccessful, with depro-
gramming subjects often returning to the group (Lewis and Bromley 1987: 509).
Richardson identified the “brainwashing” model of conversion to nrms as
a version of the traditional Christian account of the Damascene conversion of
Paul, in which “an ostensibly powerful man was totally incapacitated by the
actions of the external causal agent [God] focusing on him as an individual”
(Richardson 1985: 165). The convert is disempowered, and allegedly discards all
of their previous beliefs, life experiences and values, with the teachings of the
“cult” being adopted entirely after the conversion. Prior to the twentieth centu-
ry it was assumed that religious conversion in the West was to Christianity, the
“true” religion, and thus unproblematic. In the twentieth century the view that
religion was undesirable was expressed by Sigmund Freud and others. This
gave rise to hypotheses that “deprivation” or other negative factors made some
people more susceptible to being converted, a hypothesis that dominated the
first half of the twentieth century. In the 1960s and 1970s the secular acm and
the Christian “counter-cult” movement formed; both were involved in promot-
ing the brainwashing and deprogramming model. David A. Snow and Richard
Machalek note that the idea that ex-member accounts are hostile, unreliable,
and supply evidence supporting the brainwashing hypothesis is because those
promoting that hypothesis often rely on “information derived from ex-converts
who have been deprogrammed” (Snow and Machalek 1984: 179).
It is now agreed by legal professionals, psychiatrists, religious studies schol-
ars, and psychologists, that “brainwashing” is misleading term, and the phe-
nomenon is invalid and/or non-existent. In 1998 Benjamin D. Zablocki tried
to rehabilitate the concept as “exit cost analysis” (Zablocki 1998: 216). He ar-
gued that, if restricted to religious groups and relationships between mem-
bers and charismatic leaders, brainwashing was reframed in terms of exit
costs it became a useful concept in understanding how groups retain (rather
than attract) members. He drew on rational choice theory, a popular tool in
the ­consumerist reading of religious participation, employed the concept of
“religious switching” (Sherkat 1991), and offered a cost-benefit analysis of stay-
ing or leaving. He defined brainwashing as “a set of transactions between a
charismatically-led collectivity and an isolated agent of the collectivity with
236 Cusack

the goal of ­transforming the agent into a deployable agent” (Zablocki 1998:
221). Individuals cease to act as agents of themselves, and act as agents of the
charismatic authority.
Zablocki’s redefinition of brainwashing is interesting; but his research
would be more persuasive if the reframed “brainwashing” was subtracted from
the argument, as he admits it is rare. Leaving nrms is a statistically common
experience requiring explanation, in which the idea of “exit costs” has value,
and can contribute to models that emphasise doubt, searching for alterna-
tive roles, and, after a turning point becoming an “ex” rather than a member
(Ebaugh 1988). In the twenty-first century the consensus that “brainwashing”
and “deprogramming” are pseudo-scientific and with no explanatory value
in terms of leaving nrms has become scholarly orthodoxy. The monograph
Agents of Discord: Deprogramming, Pseudo-Science, and the American Anticult
Movement (2006) by the late Anson Shupe and Susan E. Darnell chronicled
the American attitude to nrms from the post-War era to the present, chart-
ing the rise and fall of the acm, and proposing a “social economy” model of
nrms in the new millennium (Shupe and Darnell 2006). Yet, brainwashing and
deprogramming have survived the onslaught of legal challenges and scientific
assessments and have moved sideways into the (related) fields of extremism,
terrorism, and counter-terrorism studies (Morris et al. 2010). W. Michael Ash-
craft’s A Historical Introduction to the Study of New Religious Movements (2018)
summarises the history of the field through an examination of the scholars
who created it. His focus on identifying the positions, ideological, scientific,
and personal, that scholars personally espoused updates the study of nrms in
light of the vital question of situating the researcher in the research (Chenail
2011).

4 Leaving the Church of Scientology

A substantial number of ex-Scientology memoirs have appeared since John

Duignan’s The Complex: An Insider Exposes the Covert World of Scientology
(Duignan and Tallant 2008). These memoirs are not written by rank and file
Scientologists, but by those who exited the elite Sea Org (a para-naval group
often compared to the Jesuit Order in the Catholic Church). Sea Org members
sign “billion year contracts” which commit them permanently to CoS. They
work long hours for negligible wages and experience a high level of interfer-
ence in their personal lives, often separated from spouses, banned from having
children, and in the worst case, forced to labour on the Rehabilitation Project
Force (Swainson 2017). The authors justified their lives by reference to serving
Leaving New Religions 237

charismatic founder L. Ron Hubbard (1911–1986) or his successor David Miscav-

ige (b. 1960). It is difficult to understand why Sea Org members endured such
humiliation, violence, and hardship; Zablocki’s “exit cost” analysis may appear
attractive, as it “is primarily concerned with the paradox of feeling trapped in
what is nominally a voluntary association” (Zablocki 1998: 220).
Ex-Scientologists have attracted much attention in the last decade, with
memoirs, crusading journalists’ exposures of scandals affecting CoS, and
films, including Paul Thomas Anderson’s feature film starring Joaquin Phoe-
nix and Philip Seymour Hoffman, The Master (2012), Alex Gibney’s documen-
tary ­Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief (2015), and John Dower’s
My ­Scientology Movie (2015), scripted by investigative journalist Louis Theroux.
The impact of the Internet is incalculable, from sites hosting confidential CoS
materials to online ex-member support groups, like Ex-Scientology Kids, with
the tagline “I was born. I grew up. I escaped” (Ex-Scientology Kids 2017). This
mass of information about Scientology is remarkable, considering CoS aggres-
sively controlled its public image by using legal means (copyright, libel, and
defamation) to prevent apostates and outsiders from publishing negative or
critical information about CoS (Cusack 2012).
As noted, the majority of Scientology defectors are Sea Org members, and
the memoirs reveal a life of drudgery, low pay, surveillance, lack of privacy, and
violence. This shifts emphasis from the biography and teachings of the char-
ismatic founder of Scientology L. Ron Hubbard, which were the focus of early
ex-member books – Jon Atack’s A Piece of Blue Sky (1990) and Ronald DeWolf
and Bent Corydon’s L. Ron Hubbard: Messiah or Madman? (1987) – and jour-
nalistic exposés including Russell Miller’s Bare-faced Messiah: The True Story of
L. Ron Hubbard (1987). Readers of Marc Headley’s Blown for Good: Behind the
Iron Curtain of Scientology (2009) or Nancy Many’s My Billion Year Contract:
Memoir of a Former Scientologist (2009) are less concerned with whether
L. Ron Hubbard was mentally ill, a liar, or a ruthless monetarist, than with
the daily drudgery experienced by the elite Sea Org. Nancy Many converted
to Scientology in 1971, but Marc Headley (twenty years her junior) was raised
in CoS, educated at the Scientology high school Delphi Academy in Los An-
geles, and joined the Sea Org as a teenager. Both worked hundred hour weeks
and experienced marital pressure, and both “blew” (left the church). Headley’s
motorcycle escape involved being “run off the road by the Gold Security suv,
attempt(s) to be recovered by at least two other Golden Era staff in vehicles
(that I knew of)” and rescue by “the Riverside County Sheriff’s department”
(Headley 2009: 307). Headley and Many are voluble critics of the church they
served selflessly for decades; they have exited both the organisation and the
belief system, which they seek to discredit.
238 Cusack

Yet some former members of the CoS continue to practice auditing and
to do Training Routines (TRs): in the former an auditor questions a believer
using an E-Meter (electropsychometer measuring galvanic skin response) to
identify the source of negative memories or engrams; the latter involves work-
ing in pairs through various exercises under the supervision of a highly-ranked
Scientologist. These ex-members also study the Operating Thetan (OT) levels,
collectively known as “The Bridge to Total Freedom,” a hierarchical set of eso-
teric texts that are gradually revealed to Scientologists who have progressed
spiritually as members of the Free Zone (Rubin 2011). These ex-Scientologists
orient their lives around L. Ron Hubbard’s teachings; they express regret at as-
pects of Scientology that necessitated their departure, chiefly institutional is-
sues and the leadership of David Miscavige (Rubin 2011: 208). Elisabeth Tuxen
Rubin’s research among Danish ex-Scientologists suggests that many feared
leaving because of the CoS practice of “disconnection,” shunning by those who
remain in the church, even family members. Rubin’s informants continued to
practice Scientology as individuals, or contacted a group like Ron’s Org (started
by Captain Bill in 1985) in Switzerland or Germany (Rubin 2011: 209). These ex-
members believe while rejecting institutional belonging. Mark “Marty” Rath-
bun, former Inspector General of the Research Technology Centre, was a key
figure in the Free Zone from 2004 when he left Scientology after twenty-seven
years. He now identifies as non-religious, and regrets involvement in Theroux’s
My Scientology Movie, but for more than a decade Rathbun provided Scientol-
ogy services to Free Zone practitioners, and watching him conduct TRs and
direct re-enactments of events at CoS Gold Base near Hemet, California are the
highlights of that film (Dower 2015).
The case of Scientology is also important for correlating ex-member testimo-
nies with information contained in critical accounts by investigative journalists,
and also with the online publication of confidential church materials. This is a
game-changer for scholars, who can now write about controversial topics, and
who can test the accuracy of material published by early defectors like Atack
and Corydon against originals online. Free Zone practitioners are similarly en-
abled by the Internet, which connects ex-Scientologists across geographical
and other divides. This has implications for the study of leaving nrms, as while
institutions like CoS can expel members, such ex-Scientologists may continue
to practice the religion, despite institutional hostility and censure.

5 Conclusion

In the twenty-first century the study of leaving nrms has expanded to al-
low possibilities that were unanticipated in the early studies from the 1960s
Leaving New Religions 239

and 1970s. It was initially assumed that, as new religions were regarded as less
“genuine” than traditional faiths like Christianity, conversion and apostasy
were minor phenomena better described as “recruitment” and “disaffiliation”
(Richardson 1993). Sociologists of religion initially researched nrms as social
problems and instances of deviance on the part of members. In the 1970s the
anti-cult movement and the Christian counter-cult movement promoted the
discourse of “brainwashing” and favoured the use of forcible removal of “cult”
members by deprogrammers (Zablocki 1998).
In the twenty-first century brainwashing is a discredited concept and depro-
gramming is seen as a violation of religious freedom and also, on occasion, in-
volving kidnapping which is a criminal offence (Lewis and Bromley 1987). New
religions are understood by scholars, and increasingly by the public, as legiti-
mate paths, and the all-pervasive nature of the Internet has increased available
information about religions for scholars and interested people alike. The study
of leaving new religions has been complicated by the fact that the individual-
ism characteristic of late modern Western culture has resulted in ex-members
choosing to exit groups and institutions, but retain their faith or practices; Free
Zone Scientology is the clearest example of this (Rubin 2011). The study of leav-
ing nrms is now part of a religious and spiritual landscape in the late capitalist
West that is complicated, contentious, and constantly changing.

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 Chapter 20

Non-Religion and Atheism

Caleb Schaffner and Ryan T. Cragun

1 Introduction

The other chapters in this part examine the process and experience of leaving
a variety of different religions. However, there are several topics that those oth-
er chapters do not address, and the aim of this chapter is to fill some of these
lacunae. Specifically, we are hoping to offer some insight into both the beliefs
of those who have left religions in general – in our particular case, atheists –
and explore how confident atheists are that they have made the correct deci-
sion. In a sense, then, we are examining those who have already left religions,
but with the aim of understanding how certain they are in their new beliefs.
This connects back to the broader topic of leaving religion both because the
people who were interviewed for this study all left religions but also because it
is exploring whether those who have left religion in general consider returning
to religion.
We explore two aspects of this question. First, we examine the various ways
that atheists understand their new worldview, as not all atheists understand
atheism to mean the same thing. Second, we explore how dogmatic atheists
are with their new beliefs. Are atheists open to the possibility that they are
wrong? And, if so, to what extent are they open to this possibility?
To address these questions, we draw upon data gleaned from 201 surveys
and fifty semi-structured interviews with Chicagoland atheists who had exited
religion. The former contained scales measuring childhood religiosity, child-
hood religious ethnocentrism, and present-day dogmatism, which form our
quantitative analysis. Fifty interviewees were randomly selected from survey
participants. Interviews lasted twenty to seventy minutes, investigating pres-
ent-day beliefs concerning atheism, among other topics. Many reflected on
their previous theistic beliefs, offering varying degrees of certainty that they
would not return. Their explanations are the focus of our qualitative analysis.

2 Previous Research and Empirical Material

Religious beliefs (and disbeliefs) often are central to people’s identities, serving
as a foundation upon which more mundane beliefs rest. Thouless (1935) noted

© Caleb Schaffner and Ryan T. Cragun, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_021

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Non-Religion and Atheism 243

that respondents in his research rated their belief or disbelief in god as more
certain than ordinary, knowable topics. Given the primacy many attach to re-
ligion (or atheism), there are advantages to being certain. Those most certain
about the existence of god rate higher in emotional stability and life satisfac-
tion, regardless of whether they are certain of god’s existence or non-existence
(Galen and Kloet 2011).
Interestingly, there is no consensus about the epistemological belief re-
quired to be a genuine atheist, even among researchers and authors. Some
atheist literature (for example Cliteur 2009) uses a lenient definition, describ-
ing it merely as the lack of belief in a deity. Often this is termed “negative athe-
ism.” One of the most prominent contemporary atheists, Richard Dawkins
(2006), would fall into this camp, describing himself as just shy of absolute
certainty.
In contrast, many dictionaries (for example Merriam Webster and Cam-
bridge) use a stricter, positive atheist definition, that is the complete certainty
that a god does not exist. In her publications, Madalyn Murray O’Hair would
often define atheism in this way, stressing an atheist must completely reject
the possibility of any deity (Schaffner 2012). Around the world, the number of
people who identify as positive atheists is increasing, but projections based
primarily on fertility rates suggest that atheists may shrink as a percentage of
the world’s population in coming decades due to higher rates of fertility in pre-
dominantly religious countries (Pew Research Center 2015). However, within
developed countries, the percentage of people who are atheists and/or nonre-
ligious is increasing and projected to continue to increase (see also Stinespring
and Cragun 2015). Below, we explore how the individuals we interviewed un-
derstand atheism and illustrate that their conceptions of atheism are varied
and nuanced.
In addition to trying to understand how those who have left religions under-
stand their new beliefs, prior research has also begun to explore the extent to
which individuals who have left religions are confident they have made what
they perceive to be the correct decision. In other words, how dogmatic are
atheists? One possible contributor to the dogmatism of atheists that prior re-
search has noted (Hunsberger and Altemeyer 2006) but not adequately tested
is whether the religion in which atheists were raised was also dogmatic. If in-
dividuals raised in very dogmatic, ethnocentric religions who leave those reli-
gions remain dogmatic, this could be evidence for a hangover effect from one’s
prior religion. Variation in dogmatism is a prime domain to probe for evidence
of residual or hangover influences from one’s religious upbringing.
Some research has explored these types of hangover effects, like one’s ad-
herence to gender ideology (Cottee 2015) or dietary customs (Davidman 2014).
However, one prominent hole in the exit literature concerns the effects of the
244 Schaffner and Cragun

religious intensity of one’s upbringing on current dogmatism. It is possible that

the strength of one’s religious upbringing may resonate into the present day.
Hunsberger and Altemeyer (2006) suggest that a deeper and more intense
experience with theism may increase the certainty that it is incompatible with
oneself, resulting in increased atheist dogmatism. Altemeyer (2012) maintained
this hypothesis in a personal correspondence, predicting a weak-to-moderate
positive correlation (r = +.3) between religious emphasis during one’s upbring-
ing and present-day dogmatism. We test this hypothesis below.
Although very little prior research supports it, the inverse is also possible:
higher levels of religiosity during one’s upbringing may result in lower levels of
atheist dogmatism. Having been a devout believer growing up only to leave the
faith may allow one to view their current beliefs more tentatively, as the best
available explanation rather than as a certainty. Below we present some data
that allow us to examine whether childhood religiosity influences the dogma-
tism of atheists.

3 New Findings Focusing on “leaving religion”

After leaving their original religion, our interviewees took a variety of trajecto-
ries which all eventually culminated in atheism. Roughly twenty-eight percent
considered themselves atheists immediately upon leaving their original reli-
gion. Another nine percent formally joined another religion before they ceased
believing in a god or higher power.
As noted, there is controversy in defining atheism. Responses from our inter-
viewees revealed similar variability, with some stressing certainty that a deity
does not exist and others offering less certainty. Survey participants identified
themselves as having one of four epistemological stances about the existence
of a deity: positive atheists, hard agnostics, soft agnostics, and apathetic athe-
ists. Positive atheists are completely certain of the non-existence of any de-
ity. These were the single most numerous epistemological group, comprising
forty-four percent of all valid survey responses. Representing the dictionary-
definition of atheist, their explanations were numerous, but generally terse.
In comparison, those who were not positive atheists devoted considerable in-
terview time to explaining their stances and justifying their application of the
“atheist” label, apparently aware that their claims would be contested by some
of their peers.
Unlike most positive atheists, Regina1 offered her reasoning at length. It
proved memorable and unique among the fifty interviews. She reasoned that,

1 All names are pseudonyms.

Non-Religion and Atheism 245

as the non-existence of anything is unprovable, atheism entails a degree of

faith, whereas agnosticism does not. She defined atheism as a religion, where-
as agnosticism is a stance about how knowable god or gods are. Implicit here
is that religion is defined by faith in something that cannot be conclusively
proven:

I think atheism is a religion. I believe being agnostic is non-religious. But

I think atheists… You have to believe that there is no god. Agnostic you
don’t really know. You need proof in either direction. There is no proof
that god does not exist. There’s just a lack of evidence that he does. You
really have to believe that he doesn’t exist. So I count that as religion.

Most interesting about Regina’s delineation was its resemblance to tactics

used by the Religious Right to oppose and attempt to diminish the teaching of
evolution and secular morality in classrooms, by equating them with religious
faith. Regina was cognisant that this stance differed from the majority of rank-
and-file atheists, pointing to it as the key way she differed from her peers:

And the way that I definitely know I differ from other atheists is the fact
that I do think of atheism as a religion. I don’t think a lot of atheists think
that we have to have faith to be atheists. But I definitely think that you
have to have faith to be atheists: faith in the lack of god, as opposed to
faith in a god.

Again, Regina was distinct as far as the interview sample was concerned. While
others were similarly certain, most stress the impossibility of a deity, rather
than explicitly portraying atheism as tantamount to religion. She was the only
one to wrestle with how to prove a negative and attempt to resolve it in such
a manner.
Those who were epistemologically hard agnostics stated that they did not
think it was possible for humans to ever definitively know whether or not god
exists. Like Regina, Trent similarly talked about the impossibility of proving a
negative like the non-existence of a deity. While Regina solved this impasse
by stressing that atheism is a faith (and that she was among its faithful), Trent
took a different route. As it is impossible to prove the existence of a negative,
all atheists are necessarily agnostic by definition, according to Trent.

Trent: Well, I mean, basically I think to an extent every atheist is agnostic.

Because you just can’t know if there’s a god. I mean it’s infallible.
Interviewer: Would you want to elaborate a bit, on how it’s truly unknow-
able in the end?
246 Schaffner and Cragun

Trent: Yeah. The claim that if I said I have an invisible dinosaur in my

backyard. You can’t see him or feel him. Only I can. If no one’s looking.
That’s an infallible statement. No one can say that surely doesn’t exist.
That’s basically god. Because we don’t really know his attributes. People
have different points of view of what god is. The Christian god on the
other hand, you can basically say he’s untrue, because of different his-
torical events that never happened the flood and stuff like that, that are
attributed to him.

While Trent and Regina both used broad brush strokes to address the lines be-
tween atheism and agnosticism, they painted different pictures. Trent framed
atheists as a subgroup within the broader category of agnostics, while Regina
designated atheism a religious category, distinct from the areligious, epistemo-
logical category of “agnostic.”
The final three sentences in Trent’s reply illuminate how atheists can exhibit
certainty that their beliefs will not change. Trent – and other atheists – can be
certain about the non-existence of the gods of world religions because those
deities have miracles and historical events attached to their names, which can
be falsified by scientific investigation or the lack of corroborating evidence. In
contrast, when Trent talked about being unable to definitively prove the non-
existence of a god, he was talking about a deity in the abstract sense: a Deist
conception of god, which has no specific worldly effects to investigate.
Those whose beliefs made them soft agnostics limited the above statement
to themselves, stating that they personally did not know whether or not a deity
exists. After leaving religion, Lionel initially considered himself to be agnostic,
before self-identifying as atheist. When pressed for any additional argument
or event which precipitated this shift, Lionel could not point to any precise
watershed moment. Instead, he stated:

At that point it was maybe a switch in the label I would use. But it wasn’t
that I had a huge switch in my belief then… Technically I wouldn’t even
quite call myself an atheist today, just because I don’t put too much stock
in my ability to be sure in such a fundamental thing. I just think they’re
plenty of things with the universe that I’m not capable of understanding.
And its ultimate cause in nature is probably the biggest. But, that said,
I think that the possibility of there being a god is so extremely unlikely
that for all intents and purposes I’m an atheist.

Lionel’s reasoning was not unique among the interviews. Several other par-
ticipants mentioned being personally unsure to some degree. Multiple
Non-Religion and Atheism 247

r­espondents actually quantified their certainty of a god’s non-existence:

99-point-some-amount-of-nines-repeating percent. Lionel and these other re-
spondents essentially “rounded up” to consider themselves atheists. Lionel’s
stance was distinguished from Trent’s by the scope of uncertainty: whereas
Trent did not consider it possible for humans to ever be certain of the non-
existence of god, Lionel’s response was more measured, limited to himself
Finally, the epistemologically apathetic were unconcerned with whether or
not a deity exists. Patrice started from a point similar to Trent, laying the foun-
dation for explaining his lack of complete certainty with a metaphor. However,
he fell into a different category than Trent: epistemologically apathetic.

Patrice: And even though I don’t believe in god, I don’t believe god exists,
I don’t know there’s no higher power, obviously. I don’t believe one exists
and I don’t believe if it did exist – hypothetically speaking – I don’t be-
lieve it would care anything about what’s going on here. But I can’t know
for sure. And I know that theoretically that’s supposed to be agnostic.
But I don’t believe in the god in the same way that I don’t believe that the
moon is made of cheese. I don’t believe in it but it’s not like an ambiguous
‘I don’t believe in it,’ I don’t believe in it because there’s no reason to. So
I identify as atheist even though the more atheist purists would call me
‘agnostic.’
Interviewer: Functionally atheist as opposed to epistemologically atheist?
Patrice: Yeah. That’s a good way to put it. Functionally atheist, that’s a
good way to put it.

Where Patrice diverged from Trent is how he handled this inability to prove a
negative. Trent concluded that it is beyond the realm of human ability to do so.
In contrast, Patrice did not care about the proposition, opting to live his life as
a functional atheist and put the prospect out of his mind.
Furthermore, Patrice’s assertion that “there’s no reason to” believe in a god
that would not “care about what’s going on here” demonstrated that, similar to
Trent, he conceptualised such a deity as wholly removed and uninterested in
human affairs. Often, negative atheists do not rule out what they conceptualise
as a deistic god, while they feel completely confident stating that more specific
conceptions of a god – such as the Abrahamic god – do not exist.
The “functionalist atheist” label accurately summarised Patrice’s decision to
live his life without concern about a god or religious dogma. Others used simi-
lar terminology, such as Glenn, who stated, “I guess I live my life as a de facto
atheist. I don’t live my life in a way that I believe there’s going to be any kind of
retribution by a deity.” Underscoring that one’s actions are identical to positive
248 Schaffner and Cragun

atheists is one key avenue which negative atheists use to legitimise their ap-
plication of the “atheist” label.
We now turn to our findings regarding dogmatism. In recounting their exit
narratives, sixty percent of interviewees researched joining another religion,
though very few formally joined any. The religions researched ranged from
Islam to Baháʾí to Mormonism. Seven interviewees had a brief quest phase,
researching and entertaining the possibility of joining multiple different re-
ligions. Some immediately dove into atheism, while others first dipped their
toes into multiple religions. Eventually, all respondents reached a level of cer-
tainty that no religion is satisfactory and no argument could persuade them
of the existence of any deity. In recounting acquaintances’ futile attempts to
persuade her to attend their church, Tracy memorably summarised their at-
titudes towards her disbelief:

I had somewhat similar experiences with other people, where they just
think that if I just pray with them they’ll change my mind. I’m afraid of
dogs and people are like ‘If you just meet my dog you’ll be okay.’ It’s just
the same thing with god.

Like Tracy, individuals must be confident enough in their disbelief to discount

the possibility of ever amending some of their most central convictions in or-
der to return to theism. However, in the interviews, there were differing levels
of certainty. While many were positive that their beliefs could now never be
changed by any life event or argument for theism, others’ expectations were
more tempered. Five interviewees specifically mentioned the potential revers-
ibility of their beliefs. One clear example was Brad, who stated that “atheism is
just a working assumption for my worldview.”
Another case was Kelsey. She was a self-starter, raised by Catholic parents
who were not particularly religious. At ten, she became more interested in re-
ligion, stressing, “I don’t think that a change was noticeable to most people. It
was very private.” She prayed and read the bible frequently in her room. She
also attended some Catholic retreats. Since leaving religion and becoming an
atheist, she reported some concern that she may return to theism later in her
life:

Kelsey: There’s definitely a little bit of feeling that, since I was raised re-
ligious, a fear that maybe I would go back to it. And I really don’t want
to. And I think that’s part of spending… I spent the first fifteen years
of my life believing in something. And it’s weird to think that for those
Non-Religion and Atheism 249

first fifteen years I was wrong. And I’m afraid that someday when I’m old
I will go back to it and I really don’t want to. I guess that’s a fear that
I have…
Interviewer: That it’s so ingrained in you that down the road you might
want to?
Kelsey: Yeah. And definitely me right now I really hope not. But… yeah,
it’s definitely weird because it is taught at such a young age.

Brad and Kelsey demonstrate that some atheists consider it possible that their
identity might not be permanent; their identity is capable of changing with
more information or later in their lives. This possibility was unwelcome and
greeted with concern, as in Kelsey’s case where she really hoped she would not
return to believing in a god or higher power. Nevertheless, the interviewees
who mentioned the prospect served as one pole on the spectrum of dogma-
tism: a more cautious stance, contrasted with absolute certainty.
In light of Altemeyer’s (2012) suggestion of a potential correlation between
childhood religiosity and atheistic dogmatism, we specifically tested that claim
using three scale measures. The first scale was a forty-point dogmatism mea-
sure that does not specifically reference religion. The mean in our sample was
17.0; the standard deviation was 5.8. We also developed two measures of child-
hood religiosity. The first measured emphasis placed on religiosity in one’s
childhood. This scale ranged from zero to forty-eight, with a mean of 25.1 and
standard deviation of 13.0. The second measured how ethnocentric or exclu-
sive one’s childhood religion was. This scale ranged from zero to twenty-four,
with a mean of 11.6 and standard deviation of 6.7. We regressed these variables
along with a variety of control variables on dogmatism (results not shown), but
for parsimony we report here simple bivariate correlation coefficients.

Table 20.1  Correlations Between Dogmatism, Religiosity, and Religious

Ethnocentrism (* p < .05, ** p < .01)

Dogmatism Religiosity Religious

Ethnocentrism

Dogmatism
Religiosity .01
Religious Ethnocentrism .17* .71**
250 Schaffner and Cragun

Only childhood religious ethnocentrism behaves according to Altemeyer’s

(2012) predictions, exhibiting a positive correlation with dogmatism which is
significant at a .05 level. Childhood religiosity has no discernable impact on
dogmatism. In fact, upon controlling for its considerable overlap with child-
hood religious ethnocentrism, it actually has a marginal (p<.10), negative im-
pact on dogmatism (results not shown).
Overall, the effects of one’s childhood religion are nuanced, with the two
prongs having unique effects. Childhood religious ethnocentrism behaves as
hypothesised by Altemeyer’s correspondence (2012). Recall his prediction was
aimed at the umbrella concept of childhood “religious emphasis,” rather than
specifically on either prong which comprises it. Those raised with more nega-
tive views of other religious groups maintain the strict dichotomy between
their own beliefs and others, even after overhauling their belief system upon
exit. They remain steadfast in their new beliefs, seeing little chance of amend-
ing them in the future. This provides evidence that stances learned in religion
can result in a hangover effect, with a continuation of the sharp differentiation
between one’s new, atheistic beliefs and competing options.
In contrast, childhood religiosity behaves opposite to initial expectations.
While it has no effect when the only measure considered, controlling for child-
hood religious ethnocentrism isolates its unique contributions. When compar-
ing two individuals who received identical messages concerning their faith’s
acceptance of outside groups, the individual with a more religious upbringing
is expected to be less dogmatic in the present day. Being so personally invested
in a religion, only to eventually exit can sensitise one to the tentative nature of
their present beliefs.
Kelsey serves as a perfect example, as seen in her survey results. She ranked
above average in childhood religiosity, yet below average in childhood religious
ethnocentrism. Believing so fervently in her pre-teens and early teens, only to
eventually leave, made it conceivable that her beliefs may again change. The
tendency to belief might be deeply ingrained inside her. Her explanation con-
tains two strands: cognisance that even one’s most central beliefs can drasti-
cally change and the possibility that a tendency towards Catholicism cannot
ever be completely uprooted.
For those whom religion was a particularly central aspect of their identity
growing up, their childhood dogmatism may persist even in light of shifts in
other beliefs and values. Specific, consciously-recognised instances of resid-
ual influences of one’s childhood religion appear to survive the transition to
atheism. Our data suggest that being raised with a strong distinction between
one’s in-group and out-group carries over to new beliefs to some degree, even
Non-Religion and Atheism 251

as one switches religious reference groups. Some maintain a strict distinction

between their beliefs and others, stressing certainty in the superiority and
­ultimate correctness of their present answers to major, existential questions.
But the correlation is not particularly strong, suggesting that this is true of just
a minority of atheists or a generally weak effect. For other atheists, having been
deeply invested in a belief system only to exit leads one to consider the tenta-
tive nature of their present beliefs. Further analysis is needed, but our results
suggest a small, persistent effect of one’s childhood religion, even when the
specific faith – and theism in general – is disavowed.

4 Conclusion

Our aim in this chapter has been to illustrate that among those who have left
religion in general, in our case atheists, there is not universal certainty. What
it means to be an atheist differs, with some insisting on the non-existence of
any and all gods, while others find the question irrelevant to their daily lives.
Likewise, the degree of confidence atheists exhibit in their new worldview var-
ies and appears to have at least some connection to childhood religiosity, even
if the relationship is not particularly strong. As the other chapters in this part
illustrate, many people leave religions. While most atheists and a growing per-
centage of the nonreligious are remaining atheists and nonreligious, respec-
tively (see Merino 2011), our research suggests that there is the possibility that
members of both groups could change their views and adopt theism or join a
religion. However, such transitions are uncommon. As secularisation theorists
have long argued (Bruce 2013), once you go secular, you rarely go back.
Our chapter illustrates that scholars are just beginning to explore the pro-
cess of leaving religion in general. In order to have a clear understanding of
what it is like to become nonreligious, scholars need better ways of measuring
types of nonreligion, like those we employed above, as well as better ways of
measuring types of religious upbringing. In addition to these variables, it is,
of course, necessary to understand the environment in which a religious exit
takes place (for example, How religious is the surrounding society? Family?
Friends?) and an individual’s social location (for example, Are they part of a
racial and/or gender majority? Are they well-educated? Wealthy?). Tentatively,
we suggest that, while childhood religious experience will no doubt be filtered
through variables like environment and social location, it may remain an im-
portant factor influencing how nonreligion and atheism are manifest after
people leave religions.
252 Schaffner and Cragun

References

Altemeyer, B. 2012. Email correspondence. 3/4/2012.

Bruce, S. 2013. Secularization: In Defence of an Unfashionable Theory. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Cliteur, P. 2009. “The Definition of Atheism.” Journal of Religion and Society. 11, 1–23.
Cottee, S. 2015. The Apostates: When Muslims Leave Islam. London: C. Hurst and Co.
Davidman, L. 2014. Becoming Un-Orthodox: Stories of Ex-Hasidic Jews. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Dawkins, R. 2006. The God Delusion. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.
Galen, L.W., and Kloet, J.D. 2011. “Mental Well-Being in the Religious and the Non-­
Religious: Evidence for a Curvilinear Relationship.” Mental Health, Religion, and
Culture. 14: 7, 673–689.
Hunsberger, B.E., and Altemeyer, B. 2006. Atheists: A Groundbreaking Study of Ameri-
ca’s Nonbelievers. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books.
Merino, S.M. 2011. “Irreligious Socialization? The Adult Religious Preferences of Indi-
viduals Raised with No Religion.” Secularism and Nonreligion. 1:0, 1–16.
Pew Research Center. 2015. The Future of World Religions: Population Growth Projec-
tions, 2010–2050. At http://www.pewforum.org/files/2015/03/PF_15.04.02_Projec
tionsFullReport.pdf. Accessed 14/5/2015.
Schaffner, C. 2012. “Filling in the Definition of ‘Nones’: Framing in the Early Atheist
Movement.” Delivered, Midwest Sociological Society Conference. Minneapolis,
29/3/2012.
Stinespring, J., and Cragun, R.T. 2015. “Simple Markov Model for Estimating the Growth
of Nonreligion in the United States.” Science, Religion, and Culture. 2: 3, 96–103.
Thouless, R.H. 1935. “The Tendency to Certainty in Religious Belief.” British Journal of
Psychology. 26: 1, 16–31.
 Part 3
Theoretical and Methodological Approaches

∵
 Chapter 21

Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion

Ryan Szpiech

1 Introducing Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion

In the early fourteenth century, the Castilian Jew Abner of Burgos (d. ca. 1347)
embraced the Christian religion and began to call himself Alfonso of Valladolid
after changing his city of residence. He passed the remaining three decades of
his life writing extensive polemics against Judaism, not in Latin, but in Hebrew,
some of which he and possibly others translated into Castilian. Although there
is no evidence that the sincerity of his conversion was ever in question among
his Christian brethren, Abner/Alfonso—he is known by both names, depend-
ing on the sources—became one of the Christian anti-Jewish polemical writ-
ers who was most often cited by Jews, a majority of whom roundly condemn
him as a liar, traitor, and apostate (Szpiech 2013: 144–150).
Abner/Alfonso’s reputation among Jews as a notorious apostate has per-
sisted to the twentieth century. Historian Yitzhaq Baer, states, “Abner did not
belong in the fold of orthodox Catholicism; he was a typical mumar, a heretic
within the Jewish camp” (Baer 1961: 1:334). Yet even though his “heresy” was
commonplace, his reputation was not, for as word of his actions spread, he
became no less than “the best known apostate ever to arise in medieval Jewry”
(328). For Baer, Abner/Alfonso’s identity as an apostate relies on the lingering
persistence of his Jewish identity, his remaining within the Jewish fold rather
than leaving it. For Baer, Abner/Alfonso “remained a Jew at heart.” (334). Yet
not all historians agree, and some see him as a traitor who left Judaism (for ex-
ample, Shamir 1975: 53, who deems him a “true convert”). Raphale Jospe sums
up the problem, posing the question, “Do we treat such thinkers and their
works as Jewish, as Jewish until the time of their apostasy, or as non-Jewish
and having no place in the context of Jewish philosophy?” (Jospe 1988: 9, my
translation). If Abner/Alfonso was a “Jew at heart” who remained “within the
Jewish camp,” was his departure from Judaism insincere and incomplete? Must
he be deemed a “true convert” (and so also a “true apostate”) in order to “leave”
one religion for another?
Abner/Alfonso’s life and works present historians with a vexing question
about scholarly methodology: how can one approach without bias the subject
of leaving religion in historical sources? The question springs from a broader

© Ryan Szpiech, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_022

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
256 Szpiech

methodological challenge that confronts all historical study of religious iden-

tity: how can the differences between beliefs and practices, whether on an
individual or collective level, be historicised in objective, or at least neutral,
terms? The goal of this chapter is to introduce basic historical approaches to
the subject of leaving religion and to point out the challenges that such ap-
proaches face. The discussion that follows will first provide a brief overview of
past and contemporary approaches to the historical study of leaving religion.
It will then provide a brief critical evaluation of such methodologies, offering a
few recommendations for future methodological avenues.

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points

As in modern religious studies, leaving religion in a historical context has not

been studied as a topic on its own until very recently. Generally speaking, it
has been approached as a subtopic of conversion studies, and this conflation
has brought with it a number of theoretical problems and challenges. Most prob-
lematic is the imposition, often unintentional, of a hierarchy of values in which
faith and piety are implicitly held to be positive and normal while loss of faith
and departure from religious belief or practice are characterised as negative
and deviant. Such a hierarchy is certainly evident in the earliest scholarly lit-
erature on conversion. For example, William James, in his foundational 1902
study of religious experience, negatively casts leaving religion as “backsliding”
and conversion as positive, a “high-water mark of [man’s] spiritual capacity”
(James 1987: 237). Such a view casts unfavourable judgment on leaving faith
and regards it as a purely negative force that “diminishes” the individual’s spiri-
tual capacity. Later studies based on his model have inadvertently perpetuated
a similarly hierarchical structure by accepting pre- or early modern paradigms
of faith as natural and given rather than as culturally and historically deter-
mined. Overcoming the persistence of such assumptions is an important chal-
lenge for contemporary studies of entering or leaving religion.
Arthur Nock’s 1933 study, Conversion, the first truly scholarly treatment of
the subject in a historical context, constitutes the first serious effort to move
away from such an implicit hierarchy. In contradistinction to conversion as an
inner act of faith, he introduces what he calls “adhesion” to a religious tradi-
tion both from within and outside of the believer’s faith community. He even
goes so far as to present conversion to Christianity from the perspective of an
ancient pagan like Celsus (second century) for whom “Christianity is primarily
a mass movement of falling away from tradition” (Nock 1933: 207). Because he
considers religious change not only in terms of entering religion or acquiring
faith but also in terms of conversion as a falling away from tradition, he might
Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion 257

be taken as a distant founding figure in the modern study of leaving religion

and deconversion.
Despite the possibilities opened up by Nock’s intervention (many of which
Nock himself did not explore), much historical literature from the middle of
the twentieth century continued to treat leaving religion as a sub-topic of
the study of conversion. Historians of the medieval world have tended to ap-
proach it only through related categories such as heresy, apostasy, unortho-
doxy (Grundmann 1953; Russell 1965; Leff 1967; Moore 1975; Kanarfogel 2012)
while historians of the later medieval and early modern period represent dis-
sent from tradition in terms of doubt, scepticism, or secularisation (Febvre
1937; Popkin 1979; Tuck 1988; Edwards 1988; Cohen 1999). While the former
group sometimes treats deviation from or abandonment of normative belief
according to medieval categories of faith and heresy, the latter tend to suffer
from an implicit teleology that champions the story of scepticism as the story
of modern secularism and Enlightenment reason.
An important theoretical shift in the scholarly literature of religious experi-
ence has accompanied the so-called linguistic turn in historiography over the
last half-century, when intellectual and religious historiography has begun to
engage more directly with questions of language as a mediator and determin-
ing factor not only of religious meaning and experience (Proudfoot 1985) but
also of historical meaning (Skinner 1969; Jay 1982; Toews 1987; Spiegel 1990).
This turn in historiography follows the lead of Michel Foucault, for whom
“discourse is not the majestically unfolding manifestation of a thinking, know-
ing, speaking subject” (1972: 54). Because historical evidence always exists as a
“discursive formation” that makes sense only in a particular context, historians
must take care to “disconnect the unquestioned continuities by which we or-
ganise, in advance, the discourses that we are to analyse” (25). The approach to
historical sources as forms of discourse in need of decoding and interpretation
rather than as transparent stores of “data” about social and economic histori-
cal facts, has provoked a sense of crisis in the discipline, especially many parts
of Europe, where social historiography still remains committed to traditional
methodologies (Vásquez García 2004). As Nicola Clark explains, the resistance
to the influence of cultural and literary studies points to the deep and “unset-
tling” shift that it has implied for accepted historiographical methodologies.

If the “real” is known only in and through its discursive construction (…)
how could historians assume (as they customarily had) the adequacy of
words to refer to things? (…) If language does not refer in a one-to-one
fashion to things in the “real world,” how could historians argue that their
language about the past corresponded to “what had actually happened?”
clark 2004: 6
258 Szpiech

Facing the question imposed by discourse has involved two important shifts
in religious studies: the awareness of religious change (entering or leaving re-
ligion) defined not as a historical event but as a lived experience always medi-
ated by symbols; and the awareness that the representation of that experience,
in language or other symbolic structures, is not simply reflective but is actually
constitutive of the experience itself. As Proudfoot explains, “the labels a per-
son adopts in order to understand what is happening to him determine what
he experiences” (1985: 229).
Some scholars in the social sciences have adopted an approach to their
sources based on discourse analysis. Stromberg, for example, has based his an-
thropological study of conversion narratives on the premise that “the event is a
symbolic construction” (Stromberg 1993: 15, 133 n. 10) and Leone has adopted a
“semiotic” approach (2004). Nevertheless, the linguistic turn has also led to the
characterisation of conversion and apostasy as a “historiographical problem”
(Szpiech 2017) in which “a great divide opens between eleventh- and twelfth-
century ideas about conversion and modern studies in sociology, anthropol-
ogy, and history” (Morrison 1992: xv).
Yet the effect of this shift need not only be received as negative. Rather than
seeing all examples of leaving religion as a “falling away” from tradition or loss
of faith, the linguistic turn has provoked a heightened attention to the role of
individual testimony in characterising movements of faith, whether towards
or away from participation, orthodoxy, or belief. This historiographical relativ-
ism resulting from the “linguistic turn” constitutes one of the most important
turning points in the study of conversion and leaving religion over the last
century and has led to the generalised view that any conversion can also be
seen as an apostasy from another, contrary faith and, vice versa, that all leaving
religion can be potentially understood in positive terms as the discovery of
a new understanding and worldview. As Lewis Rambo explains, “Some forms
of conversion also require an apostasy. Some conversions require explicit and
enacted rejection of past affiliations, but all conversions implicitly require a
leaving-behind or a reinterpretation of some past way of life and set of beliefs”
(Rambo 1993: 53). A good example of this two-sided treatment in a historical
context is Segal (1992), which presents the “conversion” of Paul as both a find-
ing of new faith and an “apostasy” and departure from Judaism. Similarly,
Malkiel (2007: 6) considers the image of Jewish apostates in medieval Ashkenaz
who “hurdled the Jewish-Christian divide with ease, as if they did not consider
it terribly significant.” Such approaches that are cognizant of the two-sided
­nature of religious change, whether movement between religions or departure
from religion altogether, have more successfully avoided the distortions that
Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion 259

caricature religious change only in negative terms as loss and apostasy or in

positive terms as triumph and enlightenment.

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

Most studies that mention apostasy include it in studies of conversion, con-

sidered both in broad, social terms (such as the “Christianization” of Europe
or the “Islamization” of the Levant, for example Jones 1962; Aubin 1963; Bul-
liet 1979; Fletcher 1997) and in narrow individual ones (such as the stories of
individual apostates). Both of these approaches developed under the influ-
ence of French historiographical trends associated with the Annales school,
which reformed positivist historiographical trends of the late nineteenth and
early twentieth century by taking a more critical approach informed by the
growth of other social sciences such as sociology and anthropology. One of
the most influential methodologies in European history in the middle decades
of the twentieth century was the history of “mentalities” that grew from the
Annales school in France. Annales historians were divided within this view
between pursuing “microhistory” as a means of accessing locally contextual-
ised worldviews, and a more comprehensive longue-durée approach, looking
at historical and economic factors over a long time span. While the latter pre-
sented religious change as part of a large-scale social movement, the former
focused on unique and idiosyncratic cases of belief and disbelief, yielding
studies of heresy, witchcraft, or mysticism (for example Le Roy Laudarie 1978;
Ginzburg 1980; Ginzburg 1991). One notable study by a pioneer from the
Annales school, Lucien Febvre, explicitly addressed the question of “unbelief”
in the sixteenth century on the basis of literary texts of the period (Febvre
1982). Similarly, Jeremy Cohen has taken individual case studies as the basis
for a generalised speculation about the “mentality of the medieval Jewish
apostate” (Cohen 1987).
Although the Annales focus on mentalities yielded some useful results in
the historical study of religion, it also involved speculation about motives and
subjectivity on the basis of only fragmentary, narrative sources, sometimes
without a thorough accounting of the limitations presented by such sources or
the attention to discourse necessary to read them in a meaningful, historicised
context. One notable trend in response to these limitations has been to avoid
treating religious change as a discreet historical event that can be historicised
alongside other events and instead to focus on the histories of representa-
tion. This shift is not simply a product of limitations in available sources or
260 Szpiech

knowledge, however, but also a methodological shift in the treatment of rep-

resentations (narratives, images, etc.) as vital aspects of the conversion “event”
in themselves. In contrast to Cohen’s consideration of the “mentality” of the
medieval Jewish apostate, Karl Morrison, on the basis of some of the same
sources, argued that, “scholars cannot penetrate to experience through texts,
that what we actually can study is a document” (xii). Linking conversion and
apostasy as contrary aspects of one conceptual phenomenon, he calls the lat-
ter “the keystone of the pathology of conversion” (Morrison 1992: 91), and sees
the text as a window not into the “mentality” of the convert but into that of
the author who depicted him or the public that imagined him. The narrative
approach, shifting from the history of the experience of entering or leaving
religion to that of understanding these processes through stories, has been de-
veloped in numerous subsequent publications over the last twenty-five years
(for example Fredriksen 1986; Deweese 1994; Hindmarsh 2005; Schmitt 2010;
Hindmarsh 2014; Szpiech 2013). Similarly, a few studies (Barbour 1994; Viswa-
nathan 1998) have explicitly treated leaving religion (apart from conversion)
on the basis of narrative and discourse analysis. Others, taking stock of these
methodological changes, have produced similar historical studies according to
a more traditional methodology, although often with innovative results (Ar-
nold 2005; Lillevik 2014; Endelman 2015). Selim Deringil, for example, has stud-
ied sources in the archives of the Ottoman Empire to argue that “Conversion
and/or apostasy were seen as particularly dangerous in the nineteenth-century
Ottoman Empire because they were perceived as de-nationalisation” (Deringil
2012: 2–3). An equally innovative approach to the social history of apostasy
is Paola Tartakoff’s study of the uncommon prosecution of various Jews, con-
verts, and “apostates” by the medieval (papal) Inquisition in fourteenth-cen-
tury Aragón (Tartakoff 2012: 2–3). Most approaches can be sorted according
to what John R. Hall calls “generalizing” versus “particularizing” orientations
(Hall 2007: 158–161), each producing different results according to different foci
and approaches to language.

4 Critical Reflections, Evaluations and Predictions

Investigations of religious belief and behaviour before the twentieth century

are largely confined to written documents, ritual objects, and visual represen-
tations, and these are generally scarcer and more thinly contextualised the
further back in time one proceeds. There are usually few or no ethnographic,
sociological, or anthropological studies from the period to draw from; evidence
Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion 261

providing first-hand observations is quite limited, and observations that do

survive must be read always as local representations, not scientific or ethno-
graphic records. Moreover, sources of demographic or other numerical data
are extremely tenuous. Historians do not have the data or proximity to assess
the often complicated motives behind the decision to leave religion. Thus the
nuanced distinctions proposed by Zuckerman between “shallow” and “deep”
apostasy or “mild” and “transformative” apostasy experiences (Zuckerman
2012: 6–7), which relies on first-hand contact with modern subjects, are virtual-
ly impossible for the historian. As Steven Epstein has observed about studying
renegades and apostates, “the subject is partly motive, which is always difficult
for the historian to fathom” (Epstein 2006: 137), and this difficulty is exacer-
bated by a lack of extensive or detailed documentation.
Such a lack limits the historian’s knowledge and determines the sorts of ques-
tions that can and cannot be asked about religious communities and the mem-
bers who entered and left them. There are, as a result, numerous risks presented
by the limitation of information and reliance on written documents that must
be carefully avoided when studying leaving religions in the past. Making ex-
trapolated assumptions about motives, identities, beliefs; assigning monolithic
and singular identities and perspectives to religious communities; relying on
modern categories of the sacred and secular as a measure of a society in which
such categories did not exist as such; reading too much into too little informa-
tion. Many historical studies on conversion and apostasy find themselves lim-
ited by one or another of these methodological and theoretical assumptions.
To be sure, historians continue to revise their methodologies in an attempt
to avoid past missteps without succumbing to new biases. Gabrielle Spiegel
recommends a moderate combination of discourse analysis and scepticism
in attending to what she calls the “social logic” of historical sources (Spiegel
1990: 85). Suggestions like these are extremely useful. Yet however carefully
they negotiate the pull between text and context in their analysis, historians
of all stripes face a stark choice in answering the methodological challenges
of the last decades: can the “real” be accessed through texts or not? Is there
even a single “real” to be historicised and analysed and if so, how can it be ap-
proached? Christine Ames cautions against taking epistemological skepticism
too far. “The linguistic turn indeed changed how scholars of religion receive
and interpret texts. But they must still, despite source limitations and the dif-
ficulty of gauging internal faith from external practice, resist the magnetism of
intellectual history, of reducing medieval religion to it” (Ames 2012: 342). The
caution makes sense, yet it does not offer a clear course of action out of the
impasse: without a solid theoretical basis on which to resist the destabilisation
262 Szpiech

of the real brought on by the turn to discourse, that resistance and reduction
rely more on faith and imagination than knowledge or understanding. One
may study the representations of leaving religion as evidence of cultural his-
tory, but, in the absence of extensive testimony, one can only consider motives
and experiences by approximation and extrapolation, and along this path lie
formidable risks of interpretive bias.

5 Suggestions How To Do It

In an attempt to avoid imposing overly simple characterisations of belief

in historiography, Marc Baer proposes four categories for conversion in his-
tory: “acculturation” (incorporation into a larger cultural system), “adhesion/
hybridity” (adopting new beliefs and practices alongside the old), “syncretism”
(fusion of old and new), and “transformation” (total replacement of the old
with the new) (Baer 2014: 25–26;). Adapting Baer’s view, we can propose char-
acterising leaving religion according to comparable, parallel categories: “dis-
tancing” (cultural and geographic separation to mark departure from belief
systems and a waning of ritual practice without a certain change of beliefs);
“de-ritualisation” (an abandonment of former practices and beliefs alongside
a certain persistence of a generalised spiritual sensibility); “deconversion”
(a marked temporal and historical rupture with old ways and beliefs without
a certain stance, whether positive or negative, on any new spirituality); and
“secularisation” (a total rejection of any religious sensibility in favor of a non-
religious worldview and practice). These categories represent a spectrum of
positions towards former and current ideas about religion and identity and
might serve, as least in a heuristic sense, to account for the varieties of experi-
ence implied by the broad notion of “leaving religion.”
To apply these terms to the example with which we began, that of Abner
of Burgos/Alfonso of Valladolid, we might ask how one may write a historical
account of his departure from Judaism. Should historians attempt to date his
“distancing” in social terms according to his actions (baptism, adherence to a
new social group, etc.) or in affective terms according to his own statements
about his inner doubts and isolation? Because he wrote in Hebrew and by all
accounts approached Christianity through mostly Jewish paradigms, we might
say that he never “deconverted” from Judaism, as Shamir implies, but only that
he “de-ritualised,” as Yitzhak Baer’s reading suggests, making him more of a
Jewish apostate than a Christian convert. He did not, in any case, become secu-
larised to a purely philosophical worldview outside of religion, thus although
he left one religion for another, he did not “leave religion” altogether. Was he
Historical Approaches to Leaving Religion 263

more a “heretic,” or more a “Jew at heart”? While these questions remain dif-
ficult to answer, we can be more certain that Abner/Alfonso is notable because
his account of leaving Judaism is one of the best autobiographical accounts of
religious change from the Iberian Peninsula, and thus his representation of his
experience fits coherently into a larger chronology of conversion and apostasy
narratives in the Middle Ages.
The case of Abner of Burgos/Alfonso of Valladolid underscores the difficul-
ty of establishing the study of “leaving religion” as an independent historical
area. Whether the historian follows the categorical distinctions offered above,
or other ones, the challenge she faces is how to represent historical change
without relying on pietistic or presentist hierarchies and value structures that
see leaving religion either in negative terms (as a “loss of faith”) or in positive
ones (as a “rational” break with superstition), and at the same time without fill-
ing in data with information about “typical” experiences where such material
is obscure or lacking in the source record. As historiographical writing more
generally takes ever greater stock of individual actors and perspectives in an
effort to characterise experience, identity, and agency in historical terms, so
the historiography of religion might best strive to offer not a history of religious
belief or unbelief per se but a critical ethnography of the production and use
of religious symbols and narratives by specific communities and individuals.
As Foucault argues, it should eschew “a reading that would bring back, in all
its purity, the distant, precarious, almost effaced light of the origin” and in-
stead commit itself only to “the systematic description of the discourse-object”
(1972: 140). In other words, the study of leaving religion in a historical context
might do best to attend principally to how leaving religion is depicted, resisting
the tendency to generalise too much from representations to historical events.

References

Ames, C.C. 2012. “Medieval Religious, Religions, Religion.” History Compass. 10:4,
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 Chapter 22

Geographical and Demographic Approaches to

Leaving Religion

Lily Kong and Orlando Woods

1 Introducing Geographical and Demographic Approaches to

Leaving Religion

This chapter provides an overview of geographical and demographic ap-

proaches to leaving religion. Just as the study of leaving religion is associated
with processes of religious conversion and change, geographical and demo-
graphic approaches seek to map such changes across space and the human
lifecycle. More than that, the fact that “people enter, exit, and move within reli-
gion, just as they are born, will die, and migrate, in life” (Voas 2003: 94) reveals
the importance of such approaches, not least because they seek to understand
religious change within the frame of life events, such as schooling, work, mar-
riage, migration, procreation, upward (or downward) socio-economic mobil-
ity, retirement and death. By combining an understanding of demographic
events and the socio-economic, political and cultural contexts within which
religious change takes place, it will become apparent how geographical and
demographic approaches to leaving religion are mutually enriching, and have
the potential to offer unique perspectives to understanding the phenomenon
of leaving religion.
To talk about leaving religion is, first and foremost, to accept that an individ-
ual identifies with a religion—one that is distinguishable from other systems
of belief (Ivakhiv 2006). Leaving religion—or apostasy—is one half of the
conversion equation; the other being the entering of religion. It should not be
assumed that “leaving” religion is the same as “renouncing” religion; the pro-
cess can be one of religious transfer as much as it is rejection. When viewing
the process from a temporal perspective, the equation can be solved instantly
(that is, when converting out of one religion and into another), protractedly
(that is, when there is a period of time before converting into another religion)
or never (that is, when the convert remains “religion-less”) (see Streib 2012 for
a broader overview of deconversion pathways). Further complicating the dis-
course are three necessary considerations. The first pertains to how actively an
individual engages with their religion. Given that many individuals are born
into the religious identity of their parents, the religion that they identify with

© Lily Kong and Orlando Woods, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_023

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
268 Kong and Woods

is often not so much a function of their own choice (or an expression of their
own religious agency), but of their circumstances and environments. In such
cases, one may be nominally religious, but have little active engagement with
the religion or belief in its doctrine; a case of “belonging without believing”
(McIntosh 2015; after Davie’s 1990 notion of “believing without belonging” and
Day’s 2011 notion of “believing in belonging”). If this is the case, then the notion
of leaving the religion of birth becomes normative: it was not chosen, there-
fore leaving it is an expression of human agency overcoming the situational
or circumstantial determinants of religious “choice.” Moreover, recent debates
concerning religious socialisation highlight the extent to which a religious up-
bringing can influence the decision to stay with or leave religion in later life
(see Altemeyer and Hunsberger 1997; Loveland 2003).
Related to this is the second consideration, which pertains to the role of
choice in the process of leaving. To leave a religion assumes a modernist dis-
tinction between being “in” or “out” of a religion; it is choice that dictates
which side of the dualism one identifies with. Such a dualism is, however, fal-
lacious in many contexts around the world. Indeed, the very idea of religious
dualism (and its more integrative counterpart – religious syncretism) suggests
that individuals can identify with more than one religion at once, and do not
necessarily need to leave or be “out” of a religion in order to identify with a new
one. Woods (2013), for example, highlights the retention of Hinduism amongst
Christian “converts” in Sri Lanka, whilst Keyes (1993) shows how the spread
of Buddhism amongst hill tribes in northern Thailand did not result in the re-
placement of one set of beliefs with another, but an expansion of understand-
ing and the co-existence of multiple belief systems.
The third consideration pertains to classifications of “religion.” If religion is
a set of beliefs that are identified with or adhered to (or are just immanent),
then can positions of secularism, atheism and agnosticism be classified as re-
ligions? If so, can converting from a position of secularity to one that identi-
fies with a more formal religion such as Buddhism or Christianity constitute
leaving one religion and entering another? Whilst we return to the problem
of discursive framing later in the chapter, it is necessary to recognise upfront
that we treat the field of “leaving religion” in a broad sense, to include both the
transference and renunciation of “religion,” and shifts from positions of “non-
religion” to “religion” as well.

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points

Traditional geographical and demographic approaches to leaving religion

concern the mapping of patterns of religion identification across space and
Geographical and Demographic Approaches to Leaving Religion 269

the human lifecycle. Often, such mapping occurs periodically, with longitu-
dinal analysis used to identify and explain changes in religion over time (see
Zelinsky 1961; Park 1994). There are, however, some key differences between
demographic and geographical approaches. Demographic approaches seek
to correlate life events (such as getting married and having children), human
development (such as rising incomes and access to education, and the associ-
ated propensity to migrate) and broader population profiling (such as chang-
ing gender and age profiles) with the act of leaving religion. This has involved
studying how demographic variables such as gender, inter-religious marriage,
socio-economic status and migration can affect the propensity to leave reli-
gion (see, for example, Hout et al. 2001; Lawton and Bures 2001; Kaufmann
et al. 2012). Such studies strive to model behaviours and predict changes in
religious composition over time. By correlating gender with leaving religion,
for example, Skirbekk et al. (2010: 300) predict that men are six percent more
likely to switch out of their religion of birth than women, and that women who
identified with no religion at the age of 16 are twenty nine percent more likely
than males to subsequently adopt a religion (a possible function of patriarchy
within inter-religious marriage). Demographic modelling like this is predictive
in nature, and aims to develop a macro-level overview of when – but not nec-
essarily why – individuals are likely to leave a religion.
Geographical approaches have traditionally sought to explain the variabil-
ity of religion across space (see Kong and Woods 2016). In doing so, they seek
to highlight contextual differences that can explain why individuals may leave
a religion. Geographical approaches have, therefore, the potential to sensitise
the discourse to different interpretations of “religion,” and what it could mean
to “leave” it. Throughout history, geographical processes associated with the
movement and diffusion of people, ideas and capital have resulted in large-
scale shifts in religious affiliation. Specifically, processes of modernisation
(along with colonialism and the colonisation of territory, and international mi-
gration), communism and secularisation have all caused individuals to leave
religion, and have therefore helped to reshape the religious topography of the
world. Each of these constitutes a turning point impacting the religious lives of
large populations. We examine each in turn below.
First, the modernisation of society and culture has caused populations to
leave traditional religions associated with superstition and ritual. Whilst mod-
ernisation was once associated with colonialism and/or the colonisation of
space by religiously-motivated groups, it has more recently found meaning
in socio-economic advancement. In the first instance, colonialism caused the
importation of religion to pre-modern societies, and introduced “the notion
of religion as an individual option” (Ivakhiv 2006: 172, original emphasis; see
also Smith 1998). Specifically, the missionisation of large parts of Asia, Africa
270 Kong and Woods

and Latin America during the era of European colonialism resulted in depar-
tures from indigenous religions, and the uptake of Christianity (van der Veer
1996; see also Carlson’s 2015 discussion of the Islamisation of the Middle East).
This has, for example, transformed the religious topographies of the Philip-
pines and Jamaica: from animism and zemi1 worship, to Catholicism and Prot-
estantism respectively. In the second instance, in countries such as Singapore,
socio-economic advancement has been shown to correlate with a shift towards
more rational thought, which in turn has resulted in individuals leaving su-
perstition-based systems of belief and embracing more cognitive, scripture-
based religions such as Christianity, Islam and Buddhism (Tong 2007; Woods
2012a). Thus, whilst modernisation was once associated with the importation
of religion by colonising powers, it is now associated with a more protracted
shift away from superstition and ritual, and the uptake of more formal, “world”
religions instead.
Second, the spread of communism throughout parts of Asia, Russia, Eastern
Europe and Latin America from the 1960s to 1980s coincided with the spread
of state-sponsored atheism. This was a response to the belief that organised
religion contradicted the Marxist philosophy of communism, and must there-
fore be repressed. In Cambodia, the spread of communism under the Khmer
Rouge (1975–1979) resulted in a departure from Theravada Buddhism, as wit-
nessed by the forcible de-robing and execution of monks, and the destruction
of temples and pagodas (Poethig 2002). Whilst expansive in scale and scope,
the efficacy of such repression did, however, vary. In China, attempts to eradi-
cate Christianity during the Maoist era (1949–1979) were largely unsuccessful,
as Christians escaped execution and imprisonment by operating underground
instead (Chao and Chong 1997). This demonstrates the geopolitical potential
for scaling-up the analytical framework, showing how the state can influence
religious change by actively (and sometimes forcibly) inducing a departure
from religion.
Third, socio-economic advancement has witnessed the large-scale retreat
of religion from many Western societies; a shift enshrined in the secularisa-
tion thesis. The secularisation thesis predicts that higher per capita income
correlates with a lower demand for religion, as measured by regular partici-
pation in formal religious services and practices (Norris and Inglehart 2004).
Such diminished demand is caused by the structural and social differentiation
brought about by modernisation, which has caused the social role of religion
to be eclipsed and replaced by other providers (Bruce 2002). Secularisation
is believed to have caused Switzerland’s Christian community to shrink from

1 A zemi is an ancestral spirit worshipped by the indigenous Taíno people of the Caribbean.
Geographical and Demographic Approaches to Leaving Religion 271

ninety five percent of the population in 1970 to seventy five percent in 2000,
and is projected to fall to forty two to sixty three percent by 2050. Similarly,
Austria’s Catholic community is predicted to shrink from seventy five percent
of the population in 2001, to less than half by 2050 (Goujon et al. 2007). At a
global level, the Pew Research Center (2015) predicts that during the period
2010–2050, the population of the religiously “unaffiliated” will grow by more
than sixty million, with much of this growth coming from Christians convert-
ing out of religion and into a position of non-religion. Whilst such patterns
have been witnessed throughout much of Western Europe, critical scholar-
ship has more recently sought to interrogate the extent to which secularisation
actually brought about a departure from religion, and whether or not such a
process has now given way to an era of “post-secularisation” (Kong 2010), or a
more nuanced understanding of contemporary religiosity that finds meaning
in alternative forms of belief and spirituality.
In recent decades, traditional approaches have given way to more granu-
lar exploration of what it means to leave a religion. These new approaches re-
flect a change in focus: from identifying patterns, to exploring the processes
and politics associated with leaving religion. This has also resulted in closer
engagement with geographical conceptions of space, with the role of space
shifting from that of a contextual canvas upon which religion is practiced, to
a mediator and outcome of religious activity. This change in focus does, to a
large extent, reflect the paradigm shift in cultural geography that occurred in
the late 1980s; a shift that was informed by poststructuralist thought and the
emergence of the geographies of religion as an increasingly viable sub-
discipline within human geography (see Kong 2001, Kong 2010; Knott 2005; Dwyer
2016). Complementing such a shift has been the emergence of more complex
and variegated religious landscapes brought about by international migration,
which itself has contributed significantly to the processes of religious switch-
ing (through, for example, the shift from a majority to minority religious posi-
tion during the migration journey). Thus, if traditional approaches sought to
identify large-scale patterns of religious change, new approaches add nuance
by exploring the effects of inter-community mixing and ever-greater religious
pluralism on the propensity to leave religion.
Inter-religious mixing and pluralism has resulted in more complex webs of
conversion practices and politics. Migrants’ religious identities are often but-
tressed by specific ethnic and linguistic identities, creating rigid assemblages
that, if left (or joined), can affect the convert in both positive and negative ways.
On the one hand, Özyürek (2009: 102) draws on Viswanathan’s (1998: xi) obser-
vation that “conversion is arguably one of the most unsettling political events
in the life of a society” to show how German Muslims (who left ­Christianity)
272 Kong and Woods

and Turkish Christians (who left Islam) are each depicted as threats to nation-
al security, and a “challenge to [the] socio-spatial ordering of self and other.”
Similarly, Ramahi and Suleiman (2017) coin the term “intimate strangers” to
reflect the tension between estrangement and emotion experienced by female
converts to Islam in the United Kingdom.
On the other hand, Kalir (2009: 132) demonstrates how the conversion of
secular Chinese migrant workers to Christianity whilst in Israel is “because of a
more deep-seated disposition towards what they consider to be a modern ref-
ormation of their personal identity.” Converting to Christianity represents not
just a departure from their secular past, but is also a metaphor for becoming
“modernised.” It involves leaving their (traditional, rural, impoverished) back-
grounds behind, and embracing a Western belief system (that goes beyond
Christianity) instead. The resultant cultural capital associated with conver-
sion enables them to “symbolically distinguish themselves from nonmigrants”
(Kalir 2009: 146), thus enforcing a sense of their own difference and, implicitly,
betterment.

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

Demographical approaches to the study of leaving religion reflect – almost

exclusively – a quantitative bias. The use of large-scale datasets is needed to
provide the robustness needed to model population-related behaviours at the
national level. Recently, such approaches have been refined by the use of time-
series data to offer longitudinal perspectives on leaving religion and religious
change, and a shift from bivariate to multivariate modelling of religious behav-
iours (Sherkat 2001, Sherkat 2004; Kaufmann 2008). Combined, these devel-
opments have improved the sophistication of demographic analyses. This has
resulted in the ability to more accurately model the net impact of secularisa-
tion by balancing net departures from religion with the net arrivals generated
by immigration. Such modelling reveals the “power of demography to reverse
secularization” which in turn “may lead us to question the widely shared view
that secularization is an inevitable handmaiden of the modernization process”
(Skirbekk et al. 2010: 304). Whilst such “powers of reversal” are transformative,
they also highlight the potential for manipulation, and the whitewashing of
statistical anomalies.
That said, as big data increases the range, quality and frequency of demo-
graphic data available to researchers, we can expect the predicting, inferenc-
ing and modelling of behaviour to become an increasingly integral part of the
demographic value-proposition. Whilst the predictive focus is already evident
Geographical and Demographic Approaches to Leaving Religion 273

in, for example, Skirbekk’s et al. (2010) study of the religious composition of
the United States until 2043, we can expect to see such modelling scale up (by
looking at regions and inter-country dynamics), across (by looking at coun-
tries beyond the United States and, more generally, the West) and down (by
examining subnational fluctuations). Such models will continue to be based
on demographic projections, although their accuracy and sophistication will
only improve as more data points become available through digital technology,
and the predictive power of computational algorithms increases.

4 Critical Reflections, Evaluations and Predictions

Whilst the geographies of religion subdiscipline is growing in prominence

within the wider geographical enterprise, it has so far failed to sufficiently in-
tegrate religious conversion and the processes of leaving religion into its canon
(Woods 2012a). Doing so has caused distinctively geographical perspectives to
either be lost, unrecognised, or claimed by neighbouring disciplines within
the broader social sciences (see, for example, Williams 2005; also Knott 2005).
Indeed, much of the empirical work discussed in this chapter does not come
from geographers, but from sociologists, political scientists and scholars of re-
ligious and area studies instead. Thus, whilst Kaufmann (2008: 2) laments the
fact that “sociologists often overlook the role of demography” when explaining
religious change, the greater irony is that geographers are yet to engage with
the discourse in a meaningful way either.
Geographical perspectives are not, however, without value; in fact, the re-
verse is true. Given that religion is, by now, “everywhere” (Dwyer 2016: 758) in
geographical scholarship, and that religion “varies from place to place, context
to context” (Ivakhiv 2006: 170), research must continue to embrace more criti-
cal, geographically nuanced approaches that unravel what it means to enter,
leave, return to, and be “with” or “without” religion (Tse 2014). Such approaches
can help to shed light on the key shortcomings of existing scholarship, which
tend to be context-specific and yet universalising in their gaze. Most work on
secularisation, for example, focuses on European contexts, where state reli-
gions prevail, but is problematised when applied to the more open religious
marketplace of the United States (see Kaufmann 2008). Geographical sensitiv-
ity is therefore needed to overcome the focus on the “normative” West, and to
re-engage with non-Western, often postcolonial contexts.
Doing so will serve to reify the terminological complexity that is inherent to
the study of (leaving) religion by showing how “the language of conversion has
often failed to adopt perspectives that are broad or inclusive enough to cover
274 Kong and Woods

the full gamut of conversion processes and outcomes” (Woods 2012a: 445).
Indeed, a growing trend throughout the United States is to self-identify with
being “spiritual rather than religious; or as polyconfessional, multireligious,
nondenominational, or evolving; or as religious but of no single persuasion,
and so on” (Ivakhiv 2006: 170); a trend that, as recognised at the beginning
of this chapter, is normative in other parts of the world. By destabilising – or
removing – the boundary between categories of religion and non-religion, the
potential for a more inclusivist discourse opens up; one that is sensitive to the
potentialities of postmodern thought, and which questions the very premise
that one can ever “leave” a religion.
A more critical discourse also requires new methodological approaches to
overcome the quantitative bias outlined above. The veracity of large-scale da-
tasets has often been uncritically assumed, and has led to a tendency to create
what Bruce (1999: 40) terms “theor[ies] of everything” that attempt to “explain
religious change at the macrolevel, yet in doing so… risk overlooking market
nuances at the microlevel” (Woods 2012b: 217). These theories run the danger
of coming across as overly simplistic – and, in some cases, misleading – in
their explanatory potential. Increasingly, and in accordance with an injection
of geographical sensibility, research should embrace more explorative and,
therefore, qualitative approaches to understanding religious behaviours, ac-
tions and outcomes. Doing so would reflect more a methodological expansion
than replacement. Quantitative approaches will still be needed to meet the
instrumentalist demands of public policy and planning, but we can also ex-
pect more balanced, mixed methodology approaches that yield more holistic
understandings of what it means to “leave religion.”

5 Suggestions How to Do It

Geographers have a lot more to offer in terms of reframing and expanding the
discourse. Doing so will help to extend the “transgressive lens” of the geogra-
phies of religion, and thus help to develop a more encompassing discourse
that explores how leaving a religion “goes beyond the reorientation of individ-
ual belief, and is instead a process of change that involves the (re)definition of
self and other” (Woods 2012a: 452, 440; Kong 2001; Kong 2010). Such a discourse
would recognise the fact that leaving religion represents a departure from a
pre-existing state of being, and would seek to identify and understand the po-
litical and symbolic ramifications of leaving a religion. In particular, to help re-
alise the uniqueness of geographical perspectives, we suggest that scholarship
focuses more explicitly on exploring how these ramifications intersect with
the mediating role of space.
Geographical and Demographic Approaches to Leaving Religion 275

An immediate and specific area of investigation is the processes and politics

of dispossession associated with the religious conversion of space (see Woods
2012a, Woods 2013). Such dispossession transcends the individual, and can
­occur at various scales of analysis, ranging from the conversion of religious ter-
ritory to the conversion of religious buildings. For example, the forcible conver-
sion of Palestinian (Islamic) territory to the Jewish settlement of Israel involved
a massive restructuring of the population, the renaming of physical landmarks,
and other efforts to create a “distinct Hebrew toponymy” (Azaryahu and Golan
2001: 180). Similarly, one outcome of secularisation has been the conversion
of churches and other places of religion into alternative lifestyle spaces, such
as bars, clubs and residential accommodation (see, for example, Woods 2018,
Woods 2019). At each scale, geographers can contribute unique perspectives by
examining the processes – and ensuing politics – needed to desacralise space,
and to bring about a departure from the religion that they were previously asso-
ciated with. Doing so would contribute to a more wide-ranging discourse that
engages more closely with issues of geopolitical and policy-related concern.

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 Chapter 23

Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion

Isabella Kasselstrand

1 Introducing Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion

Quantitative research has relatively recently become a prominent approach in

the social scientific study of religion. While there are a handful of examples of
such studies from the first half of the past century, quantitatively oriented re-
search on religion has been a more common occurrence since the 1960s (Voas
2007). Predominantly a result of significant technological advancements in the
second half of the twentieth century that allow for complex calculations to be
carried out instantaneously by a computer, this development follows a similar
surge in the application of statistical methods across the social sciences more
broadly (Blalock 1989).
Early quantitative researchers on apostasy (for example Caplowitz and
Sherrow 1977; Hunsberger 1976; Roof and Hadaway 1977; Wuthnow and Glock
1973) responded to a need for measuring a changing religious landscape – an
undertaking that required statistical tools. Since then, quantitative research
has continued to thrive. Today, the amount of resources available for scholars
interested in studying religious disengagement quantitatively are abundant
and constantly growing. Such resources, which are discussed in this chapter,
include a wide range of publicly available data sets as well as statistical soft-
ware programs that have the capacity to perform advanced statistical analysis.
Although statistical methods are increasingly popular in the study of re-
ligion, this approach has been criticised for its limited ability to thoroughly
capture diverse meanings that exist in the social world (Gergen 1999). This has
also been noted specifically in relation to research on religion and nonreligion.
Yamane (2000), for example, asserts that highly subjective phenomena, such
as religious feelings and experiences, are inherently unquantifiable. Despite
this criticism, statistical methods provide important strengths and insights
on apostasy that cannot be discerned from the use of qualitative approaches.
Along these lines, Voas (2007) maintains that quantitative research provides
rigor, clarity, and the ability to distinguish social trends and patterns.
In this chapter, I explore approaches, opportunities, challenges, and limi-
tations of using statistical methods to study the phenomenon of individuals

© Isabella Kasselstrand, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_024

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion 279

leaving religion. In order to showcase the strengths and dilemmas of this

approach, methodological literature and theory are discussed and evaluated
alongside a presentation of previous empirical quantitative research studies
on apostasy. Finally, this chapter concludes with overall suggestions for re-
searchers who are interested in using this methodological approach.

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points

Due to the complex and intricate nature of the object of study, each researcher
that uses statistical methods has to carefully consider how to conceptualise
apostasy. Yet, I also believe that there is considerable value in adopting a defi-
nition that has been used in previous literature. Brinkerhoff and Mackie (1993)
reason that apostasy involves disengagement from two major dimensions of
religion: “belief” and “community.” In operationalising these concepts, the au-
thors focus on indicators of “persistence of beliefs” and “denominational self-
identification.” More specifically, they compare respondents’ answers to the
questions on “childhood denominational identification” and “current denomi-
national identification.” Additionally, they examine whether the respondents
still maintain the religious beliefs that they were raised in. Brinkerhoff and
Mackie (1993) suggest that an apostate is a respondent who used to identify
with a religion but no longer does so and who no longer holds the beliefs that
he or she was socialised into. Operationalising apostasy by comparing adult-
hood and childhood religiosity corresponds with core theory in apostasy litera-
ture, including socialisation theories that explore the salience and persistence
of childhood religious socialisation on religious beliefs and belonging in adult-
hood (Altemeyer and Hunsberger 1997).
In the same fashion, Streib and Klein (2013) define apostasy as “disaffiliation
from a religious tradition.” They discuss variables from the cross-national, pub-
licly available data from the International Social Survey Program (Table 23.1)
that allow for comparing a respondent’s current religious affiliation with the
one that he or she grew up in. Using a similar definition, Streib et al. (2011)
refer to apostasy as “deconversion” and provide a comparative and contextual-
ised account of leaving religion in the United States and Germany using both
quantitative and qualitative methodology. Similarly, Schwadel (2010) studies
religious disaffiliation in the United States by comparing current and child-
hood religious affiliation using data from the General Social Survey.
Statistical methods make a wide range of contributions to our theoreti-
cal understanding of individuals who leave religion. One of the key debates
280 Kasselstrand

Table 23.1  Repeated Cross-Sectional Data on Individuals

Data Sourcea Years Countriesb Access

European Social 2012–2016 36 European ess – European

Survey countries Research
Infrastructure http://
www
.europeansocialsurvey
.org
General Social 1972–2018 United States norc at the University
Survey of Chicago http://gss
.norc.org
International Social 1985–2017c 45 countries gesis https://www
Survey Program .gesis.org/issp
World Values 1981–2014 100 countries wvs Association http://
Survey www.worldvaluessurvey
.org/

a While this table lists common large-scale data sources, this list is by no means comprehen-
sive. A collection of a larger number of cross-national and country specific data sources can
be found through the Association for Religion and Data Archives (http://thearda.com).
b Not all countries participate in all rounds of the data. For a full list of countries by year, visit
respective website.
c Extended module on religion available in 1991, 1998, 2008, and 2018 (forthcoming in 2020).

on religious disaffiliation that quantitative researchers engage in is whether

changes in religiosity are due to “age effects,” meaning that people’s levels of
religiosity change as they age, “cohort effects,” suggesting generational shifts
in levels of religiosity, or “period effects,” that assume variations in religious
beliefs and practices across different historical time periods. This theoreti-
cal question is of great relevance to researchers using quantitative methods
to study apostasy. Voas (2007) agrees that distinguishing cohort and age ef-
fects is a key challenge that quantitative researches should pay attention to.
Some examples of such studies include Hamberg’s (1991) longitudinal study
on Sweden that shows that while older individuals were more religious, all
cohorts saw a decline in subjective religiosity between 1955 and 1970. Using
data from the General Social Survey, Chaves (1991) maintains that secularising
trends of church attendance in the United States are a result of a combina-
tion of age, period, and cohort effects. Also using data from the General Social
Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion 281

Survey, Schwadel’s (2011) study showed that religious service attendance and
frequency of prayer declined across cohorts, that biblical literalism was associ-
ated with both period and cohort declines, and that belief in the afterlife was
stable across cohorts. The author argues that the debate surrounding religious
disaffiliation is a result of methodological limitations. However, he explains
that there are recent developments in the statistical techniques that are avail-
able to researchers, suggesting that today’s software programs, such as spss,
R, Stata, and sas, have the ability to distinguish between the three different
effects. More specifically, he describes a technique called “intrinsic estimator
models” that allow for unbiased estimates of age, period, and cohort effects, a
method he utilizes in his own study. This technique is discussed in-depth in
Yang et al. (2008). This development highlights a general trend in the use of
statistical techniques in the social sciences, namely that there are continuous
advancements that allow us to examine intricate trends, patterns, and rela-
tionships that we were previously unable to study.

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

An important methodological concern in the study of apostasy is the avail-

ability of data that adequately grasp the dynamics of leaving religion. The most
common source of secondary data is “cross-sectional” in nature, which means
that data have been collected from a particular group of individuals at one
point in time. Many large-scale, cross-sectional data sets (see Table 23.1) repeat
the implementation of the same (or very similar) surveys at multiple points in
time, but with different participants. This type of data is called “repeated cross-
sectional data.” These data sets include a range of variables on various topics of
interest to social scientists across different fields of research. For example, they
provide information on respondents’ opinions on different political and social
issues, their demographic characteristics, and perhaps of most relevance for
studies on apostasy, their religious affiliation, beliefs, and behaviour.
While repeated cross-sectional data on individuals’ current religious be-
liefs and practices can offer important insights on societal trends of religious
change (for example the percentage of respondents who identify with a reli-
gion across different years), they are unable to examine changes at the indi-
vidual level (such as whether a particular person has left the religion that he
or she was raised in). Although this can be done through survey questions that
ask individuals to recall past religious affiliation, practices, and beliefs, there
are also limitations to using data gathered on respondents’ memories of their
282 Kasselstrand

childhood. While Brinkerhoff and Mackie (1993: 240) use this approach in their
own study on apostasy, they maintain that “the literature is replete with the
pitfalls of relying on memory in reporting beliefs and behaviors from the past.”
“Panel studies,” which consist of data that are collected from the same sample
of the same respondents at multiple points in time, are perhaps the most useful
type of data for discerning trends of apostasy since they measure the changes in
religiosity for each individual over time, without relying on his or her memory
or on assumptions that two different samples are comparable. However, col-
lecting this type of data requires extensive resources and long-term commit-
ment. Thus, there are few such data sources available. Nevertheless, there are a
number of noteworthy examples of studies on apostasy that are based on panel
data. For example, Sherkat and Wilson (1995) analyse religious switching and
disaffiliation between senior year of high school and eight years later. They use
American data from two waves (1965 and 1973) of the Youth-Parent Socializa-
tion Panel Study (Interuniversity Consortium for Political and Social Research)
to explore the effects of social ties on religious switching and apostasy, conclud-
ing that women, Conservative Protestants, individuals with children, and peo-
ple with lower levels of education, are less likely to be apostates. They further
advocate for panel data as filling important gaps in studying religious dynam-
ics. Using panel data from the first (1994–1995) and the third (2001–2002) waves
of the National Longitudinal Study of Adolescent to Adult Health (Add Health),
Uecker et al. (2007) examine declines in religious participation, affiliation, and
personal importance of religion among American youth who were seventh
to twelfth graders in the first wave and 18–25-year-olds in the third wave. One
dimension of their study emphasizes behavioural factors, showing that those
who engaged in premarital sex, who had consumed marijuana, and who used
alcohol experienced the largest decline in religion (see Table 23.2).
Scholars use a variety of descriptive and inferential techniques in the pursuit
of studying apostasy. “Descriptive analysis” involves the most basic forms of
statistical analysis, whereby researchers examine the distribution of responses
within and across relevant variables on religious disengagement. Such analysis
involves frequency tables, charts, and summary measures (such as mean, me-
dian, mode, range, and standard deviation), as well as basic bivariate tables.
Examples of such statistical analysis include Streib’s (2012: 6) finding that 11%
of Americans and 14% of Germans are religious disaffiliates and that Germans
are more likely than Americans to cease to believe in God (see ­Table 23.3); and
Caplovitz and Sherrow’s (1977) many bivariate tables of apostasy across vari-
ous demographic variables (such as religion of origin, geographical region, size
of home town, parental relations, career intellectuality, and type of college
attended).
Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion 283

Table 23.2 Percent of Young American Adults Experiencing Types of Religious Decline

Attendance Importance of Disaffiliation

Religion

Premarital Sex
Had sex before age at marriage 72.8 21.0 17.5
Did not have sex before 49.6 15.1 14.1
age at marriage
Marijuana Use
Has ever smoked marijuana 79.2 24.3 21.3
Has never smoked marijuana 60.4 16.5 13.2
Alcohol Consumption
Increased alcohol consumption 73.0 21.1 17.2
Did not increase alcohol 62.0 18.4 16.7
consumption
All Young Adults 68.6 20.0 17.0

Adapted from Uecker et al. (2007: 1676) with data from Add Health (1994–1995; 2001–2002)

Table 23.3 Changes in Belief in God

Which best describes your belief about United States Germany

God?

I don’t believe in God and never have 4.2% 28.3%

I don’t believe in God now but I used to 5.4% 15.2%
I believe in God now, but I didn’t used to 7.3% 8.5%
I believe in God now and I always have 83.1% 47.9%
100% 100%

Adapted from Streib (2012: 6) with data from issp (2008).

While the goal of descriptive analysis is to provide an overview of the charac-

teristics of a sample, “inferential statistics” aims to generalize findings from
a sample to a larger population. This approach includes some bivariate tech-
niques (for example Pearson’s R correlation, anova, t-test, and chi-square)
and various multivariate options (such as linear and logistic regression
284 Kasselstrand

techniques). Examples from the empirical literature on apostasy include, for

example, Suh and Russell’s (2015) multivariate regressions on religious changes
using 2006–2010 panel data from the General Social Survey that show that the
religiously unaffiliated become more secular over time and score the lowest on
every measure of religiosity. Additional examples are Hertel’s (1988) regression
and anova results that show that workforce participation rates among apos-
tates differ by gender, whereby women who are apostates have the highest levels
of participation in the labour force while male apostates have the lowest levels.
The key strength of multivariate compared to bivariate inferential tech-
niques are that they allow for studying the relationship between two variables
while controlling for a range of potentially intervening factors. This is a neces-
sary step in order to suggest a causal relationship between two variables. For
example, Kasselstrand et al. (2017) use multivariate analysis of data from the
World Values Survey to show that, compared to those who are religious, athe-
ists and the nonreligious Americans are significantly less likely to have con-
fidence in social and political institutions, even after controlling for general
trust, religious service attendance, age, marital status, education, gender, race,
income, and political views.
Both descriptive and inferential statistics can tell us much about apostasy
in the modern world. Inferential statistics calculate the probability that the
findings from a smaller sample reflect characteristics or relationships in a
larger population. Given that we rarely have access to an entire population in
social science research, it gives us an opportunity to study the population with
a smaller, more easily attainable sample. On the other hand, while descriptive
findings are not generalizable to a larger population, such analysis “can be quite
revealing, providing insights that would not otherwise be apparent” (Black
1999: 46). More specifically, descriptive findings can offer a broad overview of
measures and characteristics of apostasy that are more reader friendly, in par-
ticular for an audience that is not well-versed in statistics. With a strong, rep-
resentative sample, it is also possible to add an inferential component to basic
univariate and bivariate statistical tests (such as chi-square to a bivariate table
and confidence intervals to sample means). In other words, even ­researchers
without advanced quantitative skills in multivariate inferential statistics can
produce findings from survey data that are of crucial value in the field.

4 Critical Reflexions, Evaluations and Predictions

While there are countless opportunities to further our understanding of

apostasy with statistical methods there are also several challenges associated
Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion 285

with this type of research. One challenge lies in understanding the effects of
survey question and response option wording on the overall findings (Davie
2007; Willander 2014; Wuthnow and Glock 1973). Brinkerhoff and Mackie (1993)
note that one of the reasons for why studies often report diverse levels of reli-
gious disaffiliation is due to differences in how questions are asked in surveys.
For example, there are distinct outcomes when comparing a question that asks
about religious identification, religious belonging, and religious membership.
They also mention that the surveys that are used to collect data are seldom
made available to the readers in published literature. Along with this, Bruce
(2002) argues that current research on religious decline has methodological
deficiencies. More specifically, he argues that some scholars invent latent reli-
giosity by using leading questions, questionable cut-off points in categorising
and analyzing data, by wrongfully interpreting largely secular responses as re-
ligious, and by failing to adopt a critical approach in relation to the meanings
behind people’s values and attitudes on religion.
While attention to questionnaire construction is vital when studying reli-
gious decline, with various data sets designed to compare trends at a cross-
national level, it is also important to note that survey measures on religiosity
generally do not consider the diverse conceptual meanings found in different
environments. Along these lines, Davie (2007: 114) speaks of the necessity to
“take into account cultural specificity, historical trajectory, linguistic nuance,
and culturally varied motivations.” Likewise, while some large-scale data sets
(such as the World Values Survey and the International Social Survey Program)
provide information on non-Western contexts, a large abundance of accessible
survey data are shaped by Western, primarily Christian, conceptions of religi-
osity (Spickard 2017).
In other words, applying set survey items to multiple contexts broadly over-
looks the historical and cultural processes that have shaped the meaning of
being religious or secular in a certain context. For example, many secular Euro-
peans, particularly in Scandinavia, identify with the national churches and use
them for life cycle ceremonies as a recognition of a cultural heritage despite
being nonbelievers in God (Kasselstrand 2015; Zuckerman 2008). This is in line
with Hervieu-Léger’s (2006: 48) argument that it is possible to “belong without
believing” suggesting that one can believe in the social aspect of religion. Like-
wise, many Europeans “believe without belonging” in that they have rejected
organised religion while still holding personal religious beliefs (Davie 2007).
Given that apostasy may not necessarily encompass a simultaneous rejection
of all dimensions of religion, it is thus important to clearly define what con-
stitutes “leaving a religion,” when considering diverse sociocultural contexts.
On this note, it is also worth considering whether a person who rejects all
286 Kasselstrand

d­ imensions of religion, or who has become a self-defined atheist, is necessarily

a more salient apostate than an individual who rejects certain dimensions of
religion or who has simply become apathetic to religion.
Furthermore, the experiences of leaving a religion are evidently largely
different across different cultures and religions. Indeed, the process of “com-
ing out” as atheist or agnostic has stronger normative implications in certain
contexts. For example, the role conflict associated with revealing an atheist
identity in the United States (Smith 2011) is much more pervasive than in more
secular contexts, with widespread religious indifference (Kasselstrand 2016).
Thus, one needs to carefully consider such implications when analysing large-
scale cross-national data sets on religion. Bruce (2002) highlights contextual
norms as a challenge in studying religious change using survey methods as
core values and expected behaviours of the specific social group may influence
how respondents answer survey questions, referring to a study by Hadaway et
al. (1993) that showed that Americans tend to exaggerate their religious service
attendance.
In other words, it is likely that participants give answers that they think the
researcher wants to hear. What this means for the study of apostasy is that we
need to interpret individuals’ responses in relation to dominant social norms
and expectations present at the time and the place that the survey was imple-
mented. This may be particularly challenging in longitudinal studies that are
based on panel data. For example, individuals may exaggerate their religious
involvement during a time period when secularity was particularly stigma-
tised, only to alter their response in a later survey, following changing social
norms, irrespective of their true levels of religious engagement.
In response to the challenges that are associated with using statistical
data described in this chapter, I predict that the future will bring an increas-
ing wealth of mixed methods research on apostasy. The main advantage of a
mixed methods approach is that by using both quantitative and qualitative
elements in a research project, it is possible to combine the strengths of each
method and offset their weaknesses. As statistical data can be used to study
general trends and as qualitative research explores in-depth meanings, an in-
tegration of the two leads to a more comprehensive understanding that may
not be possible if using one method alone (Johnson and Onwuegbuzie 2004).
With mixed methods, researchers may therefore be able to use statistical data
that may be generalised to larger populations while still incorporating more
in-depth explanations for the complex processes of apostasy.
I also foresee a growing number of studies that attempt to predict future lev-
els of secularity on the basis of current and past trends. This can, for example,
Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion 287

be seen in a recent study from Pew Research Center (2015) where present levels
of religious affiliation and population growth patterns are used to predict the
size of various religions and the unaffiliated in year 2050. Here, the authors
argue that although the religiously unaffiliated population will increase in
size, as well as in its share of the population in Europe and North America, its
proportion of the global population will decline due to different population
growth rates in different regions of the world. Another example of research
that uses such a methodology is Stolz et al.’s (2016) prediction of religiosity,
spirituality, and secularity in 2030 based on trends in 1950 and 2012. This study,
based on Swiss data, foresees a continued decline in established religion and a
growth in the secular population. While studies that predict future levels of re-
ligiosity rely on the assumption that current and past trends will continue into
the future, many of these studies offer robust predictions that are of significant
value to our field of study. As such, I agree with Bruce’ (2002) argument that as
social scientists, we should attempt to measure and map out religious trends,
despite any potential challenges in doing so.
Finally, the future of secular studies may see an increase in the use of “big
data,” which is a term used to describe sets of data that are not subject to sam-
pling and are instead generated on entire populations. Such data include cen-
sus data, various forms of administrative data (for example membership data
from religious organisations) and data on internet behaviour gathered from,
for example, search engines. Overall, I believe there is potential to expand our
use of big data in studying apostasy and secularisation. An example of us-
ing big data on internet behaviour to understand religious decline includes
Stephens-Davidowitz’ (2015) finding that there has been an increase in google
searches about doubting the existence of God, a steep decline in searches for
churches, and a limited interest in searching for information about Jesus and
the Pope. In fact, he notes that the celebrity Kim Kardashian was subject to
49 million google searches in the first half of this decade, compared to only
five million for Jesus Christ and three million for Pope Francis. These data
offer valuable, detailed, information that reveal trends of changing interests
for the large segment of the world’s population that accesses the internet for
information.

5 Suggestions for How to Do It

My first suggestion for how to complete a quantitative study on apostasy in-

volves using secondary data (such as one of the data sets discussed in Table 23.1).
288 Kasselstrand

There is a common misconception that primary data is at all times superior.

As a matter of fact, in many circumstances, secondary quantitative data analy-
sis may serve as a stronger and more robust method of research. The perhaps
most obvious advantage to secondary data analysis is that it requires consid-
erably less time and resources. Survey construction and implementation that
would yield data on apostasy that is generalizable to larger populations is a
close to impossible undertaking for a sole researcher with limited resources.
Furthermore, secondary data is associated with fewer data collection prob-
lems (Kiekolt and Nathan 1985). Many large-scale surveys are administered
by organisations employing experts with extensive knowledge on survey con-
struction, sampling techniques, and data collection. These surveys are likewise
commonly put through rigorous pre-testing in order to improve the quality
of the data. However, it is important to note that when using secondary data
sources, a researcher’s conceptualisation of apostasy is dictated by the items
that are available in the data. For example, most large-scale data sets on reli-
gion include indicators on religious affiliation, church attendance, and belief
in God, but variables on ritual participation are rare. Thus, more comprehen-
sive measures that thoroughly capture various dimensions of apostasy require
collection of original data from surveys designed for this particular purpose.
An important resource for researchers interested in secondary data analy-
sis is the Association of Religion Data Archives (the arda) available at http://
www.thearda.com. This database offers public access to a wide range of data
sets collected at different levels and across various contexts. What makes the
arda particularly useful for researchers with limited knowledge in statistics
is the fact that they also offer online analysis features on their website, where
basic statistical findings for variables of interest can be produced. The data
sets are also downloadable and can be analysed with statistical software, such
as spss, Stata, sas, and the open source software called R (The R Project for
Statistical Computing), available at http://www.r-project.org.
There are countless opportunities to expand our knowledge on individu-
als who leave religion by using statistical approaches, particularly given the
increasing abundance of high quality data for open access and new and im-
proving software tools for this purpose. Being able to understand and conduct
such analysis is increasingly becoming a key to researching secularity. Indeed,
without access to statistical data our knowledge of secularisation and apostasy
would be limited. It is with the use of such data that we have come to learn
about key changes in our population, including the recent but sharp drop in
religious belonging in the United States (Sherkat 2014), the decline in religious
service attendance in Europe (Berger et al. 2008), and the growth in various re-
ligious groups and the unaffiliated population around the world (Pew ­Research
Statistical Approaches to Leaving Religion 289

Center 2015). In summary, statistical methods are both advantageous as well as

necessary when studying patterns of apostasy that move beyond individual
experiences.

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 Chapter 24

Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion

Daniel Enstedt

1 Introducing Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion

Sociological research on leaving religion has progressed in four overlapping

phases: (1) The initial phase emerged during the 1960s and focused on the
decline in religious affiliation in Western Europe and North America. This re-
search was closely related to studies about secularisation, unbelief, and irreli-
giosity in modern, Western, and primarily Christian societies. (2) During the
1970s and peaking in the 1980s, studies about the process included exiting not
only Christian and Jewish groups, but also new religious movements (hence-
forth nrms; so called “cults” or “sects”), and changed the direction of study
through discussions of the brainwashing hypothesis and the “snapping” and
deprogramming of nrm members. (3) During the third phase, from the 1990s
until around 2010, research on leaving religion based more on case-­studies,
but the focus remained on leaving Christianity, Judaism, and nrms. (4) In the
fourth phase, from 2010 on, interest in leaving different religious traditions,
such as Islam and orthodox Judaism, grew and was combined with a theoreti-
cal development based on empirical fieldwork. The next part of this chapter
will discuss the sociological research on leaving religion conducted since the
end of the 1960s and onwards.
This chapter fits in a larger framework of secularisation and societal and re-
ligious change, but I will limit its scope by focusing on studies that specifically
examine the process of leaving religion.1 Several different concepts – such as
apostasy, deconversion, disaffiliation, religious shifting, “nones” (people who
claim no religious affiliation), leave-taking, and becoming an ex – are used in
sociological discussions of leaving religion.2

1 The boundaries between the sociology of religion and other disciplines, such as psychology,
ethnology, and anthropology are not always clear-cut, as some of the research discussed in
this chapter will show.
2 See Cragun and Hammer (2011) for a critical discussion of the concepts used in the sociology
of religion to examine leaving religion.

© Daniel Enstedt, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_025

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion 293

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points3

The study of unbelief, irreligiosity, and atheism emerged in the sociology of

religion during the 1960s. The papers and discussions from a symposium on
unbelief held in Rome in March 1969 were published in The Culture of Unbelief
(1971). Peter L. Berger called the symposium “an historic occasion” and a “pio-
neering venture,” and emphasised that the sociology of religion can no longer
study religion exclusively, but needs also to “broaden its scope to deal with the
social dynamics of contemporary nonreligious culture” (1971: vii-viii).4 During
the symposium, which highlighted the tension between science and religion,
the causes and effects of unbelief were discussed in relation to secularisation,
(irreligious) “counterculture,” and emerging Marxist theory in modern West-
ern societies. The type of religion emblematic of post-1960s America, as out-
lined by Robert Bellah and Richard Madsen in Habits of the Heart (1985: 221),
embraces individualism, anti-authoritarianism, religious bricolage, religious
experiences and emotions, self-centeredness, and (not least) disaffiliation
from conventional religious groups and established religious organisations
and structures.5
In Toward a Sociology of Irreligion, Colin Campbell suggested that the debate
on secularisation encouraged sociologists to study irreligiosity. “The blunt fact
is that until very recently sociologists have entirely ignored irreligion” (Camp-
bell 1971: 8). Furthermore, he warned of a tendency to over-intellectualise the
study of irreligiosity: “There is a considerable body of evidence to suggest that
the actual transition from religious commitment to religious rejection is much
more a matter of moral outrage and ethical rebellion than one of intellectual
doubt and rational persuasion” (Campbell 1971: 125).6 Robert Bellah addressed
a similar problem in The Culture of Unbelief with the term “objectivist fallacy,”
that is a “sophisticated error in understanding the religious life of the ordinary

3 Parts of the following part have been published elsewhere (see Enstedt 2018).
4 This symposium was attended by Talcott Parsons, Robert Bellah, Thomas Luckmann, Charles
Glock, Harvey Cox, Bryan Wilson, and others who have since influenced the sociological
study of religion.
5 In Habits of the Heart (1985), sociologists Robert Bellah and Richard Madsen coined the oft-
cited term “Sheilaism” to cover this type of individual religiosity.
6 Campbell’s book had a minor impact, but gained some attention 40 years later when it was
republished and more research was conducted in the field of irreligiosity. Lois Lee follows
Campbell in Recognizing the Non-Religious (2015) when she scrutinizes secular, non-­believing
subjectivities in north London. Lee’s interest is not primarily on leaving religion but instead
on secular and non-believing positions in contemporary society.
294 Enstedt

man, which has never been primarily a matter of objectivist belief” (1971: 43).
In addition to the objectivist fallacy, one should also consider the overall em-
phasis on religion and non-religion as “belief” and the neglect of other aspects
of (non)religiosity such as practice, habits, emotions, values, and power.
According to Wade Clark Roof, religious defection is part of a larger (coun-
ter)cultural trend of criticism and mistrust of institutional religion as part of
the established order that guards and reproduces the dominant cultural val-
ues and morals of a society (Roof 1978: 44). Roof concluded, based on ­United
States (hereafter US) census data, that religious defection “follows clearly
along age, sex, educational, and regional lines. Secular influences in modern
society are generally greater among the young, the educated, […and] men
more than woman” (43). Furthermore, “young defectors are prone to come
from affluent, middle-class families, and are likely to be married and hold jobs”
(Roof 1978: 43). In a survey of Berkeley students, Robert Wuthnow and Charles
Y. Glock also concluded that religious defection from “conventional” religion
is closely aligned with countercultural behaviour and with “a more general
disenchantment with the conventional” and “dissatisfaction with the life that
conventional society offers” (Wuthnow and Glock 1973: 175). In a follow-up
study, Robert Wuthnow and Glen Mellinger (1978) noted that the tendency to
religious defection in the 1960s and early 1970s had halted, at least among the
Berkeley students in their study, but not reversed.
In The Religious Drop-Outs (1977), David Caplovitz and Fred Sherrow aimed
to identify the causes of religious apostasy among Jewish, Catholic, and Prot-
estant college students in the US. They suggested that a wider range of various
traits could “be seen as questioning either religiosity or the commitment to
social groups” (Caplovitz and Sherrow 1977: 182). These conclusions from the
1970s exemplify how leaving religion has been explained and understood in
the sociology of religion through the concepts of religious belief (religiosity)
and religious belonging (commitment to social groups). “Of all the factors re-
lated to apostasy, the most significant, not surprisingly, was religious belief”
(Caplovitz and Sherrow 1977: 182). The most “intellectual students” were most
likely to question religious articles of faith and to abandon them when they
collided with rational arguments. I will return later in the chapter to the ques-
tions raised by understanding religion as belief/believing and as belonging.
Caplovitz and Sherrow also pose apostasy “as a form of rebellion against par-
ents” and against the parents’ religion (1977: 50). Much of their findings were
later criticised by psychologist Bruce Hunsberger: “the assumption that change
of religious identification necessarily represents rebellion against parents and
rejection of religious identification is, at best, speculation.” (Hunsberger 1980:
159; see also Hunsberger 1983, and Altemeyer and Hunsberger 1997).
Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion 295

One of the earliest attempts to define religious defection is found in Ar-

mand L. Mauss’s article “Dimensions of Religious Defection” (1969). Mauss
noted the lack of research about religious defection, and strove to contribute
to the field theoretically by stipulating three dimensions of religious defection:
(1) the intellectual (or belief) dimension, (2) the social dimension, and (3), the
emotional dimension (1969: 129–139). Combining these three dimensions, a
hypothetical eight-celled typology emerges, in which, for example, a person
who scores high in all dimensions will be a “total defector,” while others can be
intellectual or emotional defectors, but still participate regularly in religious
activities (Mauss 1969: 131). This typology can help to distinguish various kinds
of defection, but it does not explain much about the causes, consequences,
and processes of leaving religion.7
Merlin B. Brinkerhoff and Kathryn L. Burke (1980) argued for a typology
based on the symbolic interactionist perspective, rather than theories about
secularisation and demographic factors. Their focus was on leaving “sects,” and
they concluded that religious “disaffiliation is a gradual, cumulative social pro-
cess in which negative labeling may act as a “catalyst” accelerating the journey
to apostasy while giving it form and direction […]. Social expectations, con-
sistent with the tag, are communicated to the dissident through interaction.”
(Brinkerhoff and Burke 1980: 52). Although leaving religion is still a one-way
process, from one position (the believer) to another (the non-believer). As
James T. Richardson has pointed out, studies on leaving religion should assume
that leaving is not a single event, but rather consider it a “multi-event,” that is
a more complex, fluid, and sequential process, with no necessary “end station”
(Richardson 1978; Richardson 1980). Even so, Richardson continued to view the
process as a unidirectional linear process, however complex.
Helen Ebaugh’s influential study, Becoming an Ex (1988) must be mentioned
in any discussion of the symbolic interactionist perspective on leaving religion.
According to Ebaugh, life in modern society is characterised by shifting from
role to role. In her analysis of a wide range of different roles during the exit
process, Ebaugh (an ex-nun) extracted a set of defined stages passed through
before the exit role is internalised. The exit process differs significantly from

7 An elaborated model of the apostasy process is found in Deconversion by Heinz Streib et al.
(2009). The authors point out five characteristics of deconversion: “1. Loss of specific reli-
gious experiences; 2. intellectual doubt, denial or disagreement with specific beliefs; 3. moral
criticism; 4. emotional suffering; 5. disaffiliation from the community” (Streib et al. 2009: 22).
Besides these aspects, they also lists a range of possible “deconversion avenues,” or possible
outcomes of the deconversion process, such as (1) leaving religion, (2) finding a new religion,
or (3) leaving the religious group while keeping some aspects of the religious faith (Streib
et al. 2009: 26–28).
296 Enstedt

other socialisations into roles, and also differs in type between whether it leads
to another major role (as during conversion from one religion to another) or
solely to the antithetical exit role. What characterises the exit role in the second
case is that the “identity as an ex rests not on one’s current role but on who one
was in the past” (Ebaugh 1988: 180). While studies on conversion have focused
on the process that leads to the new role, studies on deconversion and apostasy
focus on the process of leaving a role.8 “In the process of role exit, there tends
to be mutual disengagement in that the individual moves away from the group
while the former group simultaneously withdraws from the individual with
regard to expectations and social obligations” (Ebaugh 1988: 181–182). The first
three stages of exiting a role in this model are (1) doubting, usually because of
a change in life situation (for example, unemployment, migration, or change
in organisation or relations), (2) seeking alternatives that also reinforce initial
doubts, (3) coming to a turning point and its three functions: “the reduction of
cognitive dissonance, the opportunity to announce the decision to others, and
the mobilisation of the resources needed to exit.” (Ebaugh 1988: 184). After the
significant turning point, the fourth and last stage consists of creating the exit
role that includes a new self-presentation.
Another perspective on leaving religion that gained much attention during
the 1980s was aligned with studies of “cults” and the brainwashing hypoth-
esis. But as Stuart A. Wright noted in Leaving Cults: The Dynamics of Defec-
tion (1987), the image of the brainwashed cult member was based on p ­ opular
“misconceptions [that] derive, in part, from accounts by deprogrammed
ex-­members, anticult organisations, and the resulting images often perpetu-
ated by the media […]” (Wright 1987: 93). The narrated experiences of critical
ex-members became characteristic not only of the general understanding of
cults, but also of understandings of religion per se; as an anti-cult organisation
quoted by Wright (1987: 94) put it, “All religion is brainwashing.” The discourse
about “cults” and their strategies of recruiting potential members, frequently
reproduced in popular culture and media, has usually been stereotypical and
prejudicial. In this discourse, the member is described as a victim, kidnapped
or in some way manipulated to join the group. Terms like “mind control” and
“brainwashed” are frequently used, and the leader of the religious group is de-
picted as a pathological individual motivated by money, glory, or sex (Wess-
inger 2000: 6). The understanding of sect or cult members as victims has been
countered by substantial criticism (Richardson and Introvigne 2001: 163).

8 See also Stuart Wright’s (1988) “Evaluation of Three Analytical Frameworks on Leaving Reli-
gion: Role Theory, Causal Process Model, and Organisational Model.”
Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion 297

Falling from the Faith (1988), edited by David G. Bromley, is divided between
discussions of disaffiliation from mainline churches and disaffiliation from
nrms, mainly in an American religious context (Bromley 1988: 9). In the chap-
ter on leaving Mormonism (Church of Latter Day Saints), Albrecht et al. note
that religious leave-takers may, may return to the religion they left as young
adults or join another church when they are older and about to form a fam-
ily. One reason given for such a return was the desire to give their children
a religious upbringing; another was the feeling of something missing in life.
Apostasy was found to be more likely if the original religious socialisation was
weak, and a reoccurring sign of immanent apostasy was “a long period of dis-
engagement that preceded disaffiliation” (Albrecht et al. 1988: 79). Religious
doctrinal issues are rarely a significant problem that precedes dropping out of
religion: “disengagement and disaffiliation are not necessarily accompanied by
a rejection of Mormon belief” (Albrecht et al. 1988: 80).9 Kirk Hadaway (1989)
noted, in line with Albrecht et al., that “it is likely that many of the younger
apostates will find their way back to a religious identity.” Hadaway conducted a
cluster analysis that distinguished between five well-defined subgroups among
apostates in the US,10 and wrote that “some apostates may reject a religious
identity out of consistency with their unbelief, while others may retain belief
and even hold a strong religious faith, but reject labeling themselves with the
name of a religious institution” (Hadaway 1989: 213).
In the beginning of the 1990s, family formation and gender were analysed
in relation to apostasy and religious switching (Sandomirsky and Wilson 1990),
different types of religious “careers” (apostates, switchers, converts, and stal-
warts), engagement in community, and family (Brinkerhoff and Mackie 1993),
and religious mobility such as apostasy and switching on the religious market-
place, where apostasy is a form of cultural consumption restricted by family
and organisational variables. In their 1995 article about religious mobility, reli-
gious switching, and apostasy, Darren E. Sherkat and John Wilson emphasis the
“new paradigm” in the sociology of religion, based on rational choice theory.
They complement the focus on the supply side, and the competition between
religious institutions and other cultural institution within an open market, by

9 Another aspect of apostasy concerns the apostate’s political values, as discussed in Lynn
D. Nelson’s chapter. Nelson notes that the apostates’ political values are liberal in terms
of morals and legislation, that “[d]rop-outs are more liberal than the unchurched and
church members of all attendance levels,” and that “[d]isaffiliation notably increases po-
litical liberalism” (Nelson 1988: 133).
10 The subgroups are (1) successful swinging singles, (2) sidetracked singles, (3) young set-
tled liberals, (4) young libertarians, and (5) irreligious traditionalists.
298 Enstedt

highlighting the importance of the demand side and the social influence on
people’s religious choices and preferences (Sherkat and Wilson 1995).
In their Amazing Conversions: Why Some Turn to Faith & Others Abandon
Religion (1997), Bob Altemeyer and Bruce Hunsberger asked about what hap-
pens when the predictions made by the socialisation theory fail: when a strong
emphasis on religion during childhood leads to apostasy and when a nonre-
ligious upbringing results in religiosity (Altemeyer and Hunsberger 1997: 12).
The “amazing” apostates, according to psychologists Altemeyer and Hunsberg-
er, those relatively few who had have an intensive religious upbringing and yet
left their parents’ or primary caregivers’ religion. In contrast, sociologist Mat-
thew T. Loveland concludes his article on religious switching by downplaying
religious socialisation, involvement, and education during childhood. Those
with a religious upbringing “are no less likely to switch than are those who
spent less time learning religious ways of life” (Loveland 2003: 154).
The anthology Leaving Religion and Religious Life (1997), edited by David G.
Bromley, William Shaffir and Mordechai Bar-Lev, includes chapters on Canada,
the US, Germany, Australia, Israel, and Denmark, and thus somewhat broad-
ens the scope, but the focus remains primarily on Christianity in Western soci-
eties, except for two chapters on Judaism. Attempts to contribute theoretically
are evident in several of the chapters, emphasising the complex process of
leaving religion and its multidimensional outcomes and consequences. Leav-
ing religion in the US is best understood, according to Roof and Landres, more
as a “continuing dynamic of religious exit and re-entry than a momentous shift
in the religious system as a whole” (Roof and Landres 1997: 94).
The Politics of Religious Apostasy (1998), another volume edited by David G.
Bromley, also highlights the role and process of apostasy mainly in relation to
Christian groups and nrms. While one part of the anthology deals with the
social construction of the apostate role and the social factors, personal motiva-
tions, and individual narratives aligned with it, the other part discusses the role
and impact of the apostate in the conflict between nrms and mainstream soci-
ety. Interestingly, in this volume emphasis was put on the narratives produced
by the apostates, especially in Stuart A. Wright’s and Daniel Carson Johnson’s
chapters.11 The anthology Joining and Leaving Religion: Research Perspectives
(2000), edited by Francis and Katz, contains not only sociological perspec-
tives on leaving religion, but also educational and theological perspectives. It
focuses mainly on Christianity, with some inclusion of Judaism and mention
of nrms. Andrew Yip’s chapter on religious leave-taking in non-heterosexual

11 The focus on the narrative aspects of apostasy is highlighted by John D. Barbour in Ver-
sions of Deconversion (1994). See Peter Stomberg’s chapter in this handbook.
Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion 299

Christians is particularly interesting in attributing exit in this population not

to their loss of faith, but to their wish “to keep their Christian faith intact” (Yip
2000: 142).12
In Society without God (2008) and Faith No More (2012), Phil Zuckerman ad-
dresses the question of unbelief and apostasy. Society without God examines
the “godless” societies of Sweden and Denmark and is based on interviews
with nearly 150 Swedes and Danes. Zuckerman gives three theoretical answers
for why Sweden and Denmark are so irreligious: “a lazy church monopoly, se-
cure societies, and working women” (Zuckerman 2008: 117). Without competi-
tion on a religious market, social and economic deprivation, and someone at
home to care for the children’s religious upbringing and the family’s religiosity,
the population becomes more irreligious than before. In Faith No More, Zuck-
erman turns to the US, examines the experience of leaving religion through
­in-depth interviews, and finds that in the United States, compared with Scan-
dinavia, “apostasy is more controversial, more deviant, and thus personally
more intense and dramatic” (Zuckerman 2012: 171). The reason for this, Zucker-
man argues, is that non-religion is the norm in Denmark and Sweden, while
the opposite is true in the US. In (Un)believing in Modern Society (2016), Jörg
Stolz et al. scrutinise the changing religious landscape in Switzerland from the
1960s until the present day and argue that increased individualisation has led
to a “me-society” with a “secular drift” – a tendency to leave institutionalised
religion (Stolz et al. 2016: 194).13 In contrast to Zuckerman, who mentions
religious monopoly as a contributor to secularisation, Stolz et al. claim that
religious–secular competition, not religious monopoly, fuels the secular drift
(Stolz et al. 2016:11–50).
Simon Cottee’s The Apostates (2015) is based on thirty-five life-story inter-
views with ex-Muslims in Canada and the UK. The process of leaving Islam
follows a “coming out of the closet” structure and consists of three phases: be-
fore, during, and after apostasy. Cottee describes the phases in detail, ranging
from the apostates’ changing relationships to food, alcohol, and sex, to what
seems to be the hardest part of the process: coming out in front of their reli-
gious parents. After leaving their religion, ex-Muslims reported being unable
to find a reliable “ex-Muslim post-apostasy script” (Cottee 2015: 173). They de-
scribed the post-apostasy period as a struggle with their “‘inner Muslim’” and
their “halal voice” (Cottee 2015: 176–177). In Becoming Un-Orthodox: Stories of
Ex-Hasidic Jews (2015), Lynn Davidman examines the stories of forty ex-Hasidic

12 See also Erica Li Lundqvist’s chapter in this handbook.

13 Their study is based on life-story interviews with seventy-one people in Switzerland and
surveys with 1229 persons in Switzerland.
300 Enstedt

Jews living in the US.14 Her emphasis is not only on narrative, but also embodi-
ment and ritual practices, which have generally been missing in previous stud-
ies about leaving religion, and she highlights the process of unlearning and
“disinscribing” a religion. Like Cottee, Davidman follows the process of leaving
religion, or in this case becoming un-Orthodox, from small first transgressions
to overt stepping out. She concludes that “elements of our inbred bodily prac-
tices and original cultural tool kits can never be fully abandoned” (Davidman
2015: 195). In When Art Disrupts Religion (2017), Philip S. Francis analyses life
stories, memoirs, and field notes from eighty-two Evangelicals to investigate
how aesthetic experiences unsettle, undo, and even replace religion. Francis,
like Davidman and Cottee, also highlights religious bodily practices, and prob-
lematises the one-sided focus on the belief aspect of religion (see also Francis’
chapter in this handbook).

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

From the 1960s, a variety of methodological approaches and various kinds of

material have been used to develop the sociological study of leaving religion.
The most common approaches in the abovementioned research have been for-
mal and informal interviews, collection of observational data, small surveys
directed to respondents, and (to a lesser extent) public opinion polls. Previous
sociological studies have also tended to be case studies of religious groups such
as the Church of Latter Day Saints, the Unitarian Church, and Hasidic Jews, or
of specific cohorts such as college students in the US.
Charles Glock suggested, in Culture of Unbelief, that unbelief should be
studied by examining first the nature and varieties, and then the causes and
effects, of unbelief (Glock 1971). Several sociological studies emphasise the
demographic characteristics (education, gender, socioeconomic status, etc.)
of those leaving religion. However, an increasing number of studies about the
process and various phases of leaving religion have been conducted and have
raised questions about the causes and consequences of the process. This de-
velopment has led to a more nuanced understanding, in which leaving religion
is understood as a more fluid and sequential process, with no defined desti-
nation. Later in life, leave-takers can even return to the religion they left, for
example when they begin to have children and form a family.

14 See Davidman and Greil (2007) for a previous study about exit-narratives of Orthodox
Jews. See also Roni Berger’s 2014 study about leaving an ultra-Orthodox Jewish commu-
nity, and Shaffir (1997) for an earlier study about disaffiliates from Jewish group.
Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion 301

Most sociological studies on people leaving their religion have examined

the phenomenon in Christian groups and nrms, although Judaism has oc-
casionally been included. More recently, there has been a noticeably greater
interest in conducting long-term ethnographical fieldwork among other reli-
gious traditions, such as Islam, paired with a more theoretically elaborated and
critical understanding of the apostasy narrative. One ethical issue that should
be considered is the potential risk for researchers to reproduce negative, ste-
reotypical, or even prejudicial images of the religious groups that the apostates
have left (see Carter 1998). This risk is evident in studies about the exit process
from nrms, where the discourse about “brainwashing” and manipulative lead-
ers often emerges in apostasy narratives. This is also true for Islam; ex-Muslims’
witness narratives are often used in anti-Muslim rhetoric to confirm such an
image (Larsson 2016; Enstedt and Larsson 2013).

4 Critical Reflections, Evaluations, and Predictions

Previous sociological research has examined the characteristics of religious

leave-takers (religious affiliation and upbringing, age, gender, education,
and socioeconomic status) and the diverse consequences and outcomes of
the apostasy process. The main problems with the prevailing research about
leaving religion, as noted by Brinkerhoff and Burke, are that “the process by
which the individual disaffiliates [from a religion] has not been systematically
examined” and that the prevailing studies provide “rather static pictures of
disaffiliation” (Brinkerhoff and Burke 1980: 41). Kirk Hadaway also noted that
“[w]e know more about who the apostates are, but we still do not know enough
about why people become apostates,” and suggested that further research in-
clude case studies of apostates and former apostates to “add valuable informa-
tion to our understanding of the process through which persons reject religion
or reaffirm a previously held religious identity” (Hadaway 1989: 214). This cri-
tique was repeated in 1997 by William Shaffir wrote that there is only “sparse
knowledge about the total process through which individuals disengage and
disaffiliate” and that the “long-term consequences flowing from disaffiliation”
are not fully understood (1997: 12).
Theories about leaving religion are related to other theories about religious
change, often expressed on a personal level. One fundamental distinction
needs to be made between disaffiliation as change in religious belief and disaf-
filiation as a change in religious practice (Yang and Abel 2014: 143). On the one
hand, religious belief can remain ostensibly the same, while religious group
and group-related practice is abandoned. Hence, a person can leave a religion
but still be religious, in what Grace Davie and others have called “believing
302 Enstedt

without belonging” (Davie 1994). On the other hand, religious belief can be
abandoned, while religious practices, habits, norms and values, which are
deeply connected with the religion that has been left, can be kept intact. One
can therefore leave the social and belief aspects of religion but still be religious
in other aspects (see also Mauss 1969).
The studies by Francis, Davidman, and Cottee mentioned above, show
­several ways to study leaving religion. Francis’ analysis of how aesthetic expe-
riences can unsettle, undo, and even replace religion widens the field by bring-
ing in other materials, and Davidman and Cottee, in their respective studies,
discusses the process of leaving religion in relation to bodily practices, and by
doing so put the one-sided focus on the belief aspect of religion into question.
In addition to these new perspectives and emerging theoretical and method-
ological developments, it is important to include more religious groups in the
study of leaving religion. While more attention has recent been paid to Islam,
the lack of research on Hinduism, Buddhism, Shintoism, Sikhism, and Jainism,
for example, is evident in this handbook and elsewhere.

5 Suggestions How to Do It

William Shaffir suggested some future directions in the sociological study of

leaving religion, calling for longitudinal studies into the longer consequences
of religious leave-taking, and argued for follow-up research into apostates’
movements in and out of religion through their lifespans (Shaffir 1997: 12–14).
Studying variations in religious change over a lifespan, putting leaving religion
in the context of individuals’ lives, can help us relate this process to other in-
trinsic aspects of religiosity, such as teachings, narratives, beliefs, and practic-
es, and extrinsic aspects, such as issues related to religious and family groups,
unemployment, migration, health, and economy. Questions about power,
gender, and intersectionality should also be addressed more thoroughly. Fur-
thermore, it is also necessary to stress that the question of apostasy is often
used as a tool for fighting so-called deviant and competing interpretations and
practices within a religious tradition. This is not a new phenomenon, but it
has gained a new momentum within for example Islamic traditions, especially
after the wars in Syria and Iraq and with the rise of violent interpretations of
Islam (Larsson 2017).
Questions could also be asked about how religious groups themselves cre-
ate apostates, both on an individual level (as examined in most previous re-
search) and on a group level. Such a perspective would focus the century-old
sociological question concerning structure and agency on the extent to which
Sociological Approaches to Leaving Religion 303

structural preconditions affect a person leaving religion and ask how far the
exit role is already embedded in the structure of the religious community,
apostasy narratives, and other expressions of leaving religion. Parts of the left
religion –norms, values, and habits – can often still be observed in leave-takers,
even if these practices change after exiting the religion: for ex-Muslims, there
“is no ‘beyond Islam’ […] Islam won’t let them go” (Cottee 2015:203; see also
Enstedt 2018). A greater focus on everyday life and bodily practices has been
suggested to open up the study of leaving religion (McGuire 2008; Ammerman
2014). Studies into areas such as clothing, norms, values, spatiality, theories
of multiple religious belonging in a global context, social and emotional fac-
tors (Woodhead and Riis 2010), food (Harvey 2015), and materiality (Houtman
and Meyer 2012) could all provide valuable insights into the processes, conse-
quences, and even the ambiguity of exiting a religion.

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 Chapter 25

Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion

Kyle Messick and Miguel Farias

1 Introducing Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion

Why do some people leave the religion they were brought up in? Are there in-
dividual differences between believers and unbelievers? These are some of the
questions that have sparked a recent interest in the cognitive, socio-cultural,
and neurological study of the non-religious individual. This chapter will sum-
marise and discuss some of these perspectives.
We will use the terms “unbelief” and “unbelievers” as blanket terms to refer
to atheists and others who perceive themselves as having no religious belief
or affiliation. For the purposes of this chapter, unbelief is defined as an ex-
plicit absence or rejection of supernatural belief. There are, of course, different
types of unbelievers; one only needs to recall that Socrates was sentenced to
death for not believing in the Homeric gods, although he still believed in a
metaphysical being that guided the universe. He was only an unbeliever to the
culture he found himself in. This chapter focuses on those who do not believe
in the existence of any god(s), but this does not mean that these individuals are
devoid of other kinds of non-supernatural beliefs, or they may even, at least
unconsciously, espouse some kinds of supernatural beliefs.

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points

Psychology is a fractured discipline, where many of its sub-areas are in tension

or open disagreement. The study of unbelievers is not an exception, just as it
was not for the study of believers either (Ladd and Messick 2016). There have
been various proposals about why individuals leave religion or are unbelievers,
ranging from the lack of a father figure to a more prominent analytical style
of processing information (Vitz 1999; Leuba 1916, Leuba 1934). It is good to re-
member that there is a history of psychological perspectives which has looked
somewhat unfavourably towards religious belief: Freud, for example, famously
argued that the image of God worked as an infantile and pre-conscious desire
for a father figure (Armstrong 1993). Similarly, ecstatic religious experiences

© Kyle Messick and Miguel Farias, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_026

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
308 Messick and Farias

such as “oceanic feelings” of merging with the universe were understood as

a regression to a pre-personal, early infantile state or, in the case of the ex-
periences of some Christian mystics, such as St Theresa of Avila, these were
interpreted as hysterical symptoms (Mazzoni 1996). With hindsight, what is
interesting from such psychological perspective is that the default position of
a mature individual is understood to be unbelief; a fully grown, autonomous
and educated adult, who has explored and understood his or her own psychic
history, should be freed of religious belief and longings for any god.
William James (1902) presented a somewhat different, certainly more posi-
tive perspective on religion, which has been influential. This influence was
probably less due to the scientific merit of James’ ideas but to the fact that he
captured a cultural mood: religion as an individual experience, not so much
a set of beliefs or a set of communal rituals, but a variety of feelings and af-
fects happening to an isolated individual. By framing religion as a natural phe-
nomenon he also, indirectly, inspired subsequent generations of psychological
scientists who postulated that to be religious or to believe in religious ideas is
not only normal, but the default position of all humans. At the extreme of this
position, we find attempts to locate “God” genes or specific brain regions re-
sponsible for generating religious-like experiences. A more moderate position
considers that we possess a set of cognitive characteristics that bias us towards
seeking human or super-human agency in nature, such as anthropomorphism,
or that our description of gods is constrained by our way of conceiving intui-
tive and counter-intuitive abilities so that, for example, a god can walk through
walls or on water as these are mildly, but not extremely counter-intuitive ac-
tions (Bloom 2007; Boyer 2008; Whitehouse 2016).
A number of studies in the last decade have attempted to show that reli-
gious belief is in part the outcome of an intuitive thinking style (for example
Shenhav, Rand, and Greene 2012) without noting that other cognitive process-
ing styles can be associated with unbelief (Caldwell-Harris et al. 2011). Cogni-
tive theories that try to establish religious belief as intuitive or “natural” must,
however, account for the existence of unbelief. Can cognitive dispositions
towards belief be muted or overridden (Gervais and Norenzayan 2012)? One
possibility is that one becomes an unbeliever by violating one of various cogni-
tive mechanisms that make us “born believers” (Barret 2012; Norenzayan and
Gervais 2013). Thus, we would need to violate: our intuitive mental representa-
tions of supernatural agents and our motivation to seek them out as sources
of meaning, comfort, and control; further, we would have to resist or break
away from the cultural reinforcement for the existence of these supernatural
agents and, lastly, to engage in analytical processing instead of accepting our
intuitions about these agents. This model is not universally accepted and there
are growing criticisms about lack of supporting evidence or contradictory
data (Szocik 2018; Lindeman and Svedholm-Häkkinen 2016; van Eyghen 2016
Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion 309

Caldwell-Harris 2012; Kalkman 2014). One recent study, which calls into ques-
tion the “naturalness” and “intuitiveness” of belief, consists of a set of three
experiments conducted as a field study (in the pilgrimage route to Santiago)
in the lab using brain stimulation: it failed to find any significant association
between intuitive/analytical processing, or cognitive inhibition, and super-
natural belief (Farias, van Mulukom, Kahane, et al. 2017). Instead, the authors
suggest that the sociological and anthropological data in support of a social-
educational origin and modulation of belief are more robust than the avail-
able cognitive evidence for the naturalness of religion. They also argue that the
possibility that some individuals would have to override cognitive dispositions
to become unbelievers is a deeply implausible one from an evolutionary per-
spective, as this would require a very considerable effort with no obvious gains.
From an early age we tend to build relationships with non-physical agents,
such as fictional characters, imaginary friends, and religious entities like gods
and spirits (Barrett 2012; Boyer 2008). Supernatural agents often have a social
role and a place in the upbringing of children, along with ritual practices.
Within secular families, though, children are less likely to be exposed to meta-
physical agents (Corriveau, Chen, and Harris 2015). It is a kind of truism to
affirm that individuals growing up within secular families have never lost a
religion—they were simply never socialised into it.
The social psychological literature has examined why some individuals
leave or de-convert from their religion. Most de-converts do not necessarily re-
ject their belief in god(s) and thus do not become unbelievers. They may sim-
ply change the content of their religious beliefs, as it happens when a Christian
becomes a Muslim, or even keep the same beliefs but reject the institutional
side of religion, which often entails no longer engaging in religious practices.
On the other hand, developing a negative bias towards an established religion
can also affect the endorsement of religious beliefs and enactment of rituals
(Greer and Francis 1992). An example of this taken from popular culture was
the announced break with the Roman Catholic Church by best-selling author
Anne Rice, who wrote the Vampire Chronicles series of books. She explained
that despite continuing to believe in and follow the teachings of Jesus Christ,
her conscience would no longer allow her to be associated with an institu-
tion that she perceived as anti-gay and anti-science (Kunhardt 2010). This has
been called a “secularizing” or “privatizing exit” – two of six potential forms
of de-conversion where an individual moves away from religion altogether or
chooses to keep some beliefs and even rituals (Streib 2014). Other types of de-
conversion actually do not lead the individual towards unbelief but, rather, to
adopt a similar or even more conservative system of religious beliefs.
There are then various social and emotional factors that may cause an in-
dividual to leave religion: a sudden rejection of God is more likely to be led
by emotional factors, whereas a more gradual de-conversion may be rooted in
310 Messick and Farias

intellectual reasons (Hood and Chen 2013). Gradual de-conversion in the usa
has been positively associated with a higher level of education (Walters 2010),
although the inverse has been reported in different cultural contexts (Lee and
Bullivant 2010). One emotional reason for leaving religion, which theologians
have considered for a long time and has recently been examined by social psy-
chologists, is anger towards God (Exline, Crystal, Smyth, and Carey 2011).
Leaving religion generally involves a combination of four social and emo-
tional domains: (1) intellectual doubt or denial about the truth of a belief
system; (2) moral criticism: rejection of an entire way of life of a religious
group; (3)  emotional suffering: grief, guilt, loneliness, despair; and (4) disaf-
filiation from the community (Barbour 1994). In addition to socio-emotional
factors, there are some indications that personality may also play a role in de-­
conversion (Streib et al. 2011). In US and German samples, de-converts were
found to have lower levels of religious fundamentalism and right-wing authori-
tarianism, as well as higher levels of openness to experience – when compared
to their religious peers.
Particularly in countries dominated by religious traditions, leaving religion
can have important personal consequences. US de-converts have reported to
experience negative social, existential, and career consequences, while justify-
ing their resolution in moving away from what they perceive as a “rigid and
oppressive way of life” (Marriott 2015). Although they report prejudice and
discrimination, they also report greater well-being after converting to unbe-
lief (Doane and Elliot 2015). There is growing evidence that unbelievers are
some of the least liked people in areas of the world with religious majorities
(­Gervais, Shariff, and Norenzayan 2011). For further non-European examples,
see Schirmacher’s chapter.
Neuroscience studies suggest that there might be biological factors associ-
ated with unbelief. It has been argued that the dopamine system and the fron-
tal lobes play important roles in the generation of religious belief (McNamara,
Durso, Brown, and Harris 2009)—but what accounts for unbelief? Whereas
most studies deal with healthy individuals, the literature investigating neu-
rological deficits presents interesting insights concerning the biological pro-
cesses of unbelief. One study, which included an assessment of beliefs before
and after brain surgery, found that the cerebrum was associated with religi-
osity levels of participants. The cerebrum is known to be involved in move-
ment, sensory processing, language, learning, and memory. In this study, it was
found that individuals with anterior cortical lesions (front of the cerebrum)
were less religious than those with posterior lesions (back of the cerebrum;
Urgesi, Aglioti, Skrap, and Fabbro 2010). In other words, some areas of the brain
seem to play a role in deciding if an individual holds stronger religious beliefs.
Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion 311

F­ urther evidence from lesion studies shows that among patients with demen-
tia within the frontal and temporal lobes, and in those with Parkinson’s dis-
ease, the changes that occur in the frontotemporal lobe can be associated with
a loss of interest in religion and a simultaneous decrease in the neurotransmit-
ter dopamine.
The frontal lobes seem to play an active role in religious practices (John-
stone et al. 2012), and alterations of brain frontal functions have been shown
to result in an increase or decrease of religious belief (Devinsky and Lai 2008;
Mendez, Lauterbach, and Sampson 2008). One neurobiological theory of be-
lief and unbelief argues that the prefrontal cortex is critical for doubt process-
ing, so that damage to the prefrontal cortex would result in less doubt and
a higher probability of increased religiosity (Asp, Ramchandran, and Tranel
2012). They hypothesize that those with a doubt-deficit will be more religious,
whereas the less religious would have a higher doubt-processing capacity. One
small study showed that patients with damage to the prefrontal cortex had an
increase in religiosity and a correspondent decrease in doubt processing, when
compared to non-patients. The authors further suggest that there is a neuro-­
developmental basis for this theory: religious beliefs are generally strong in
children, but with adolescence there is increased growth in the prefrontal cor-
tex and of doubt processing, and adolescence is known to be a period when
many report to lose their religion temporarily or for good (Asp and Tranel 2013).
Other studies have focused on the role of the medial prefrontal cortex (part
of the frontal lobe) in relation to religious belief and unbelief, as this brain
area is known to regulate self-reflection, compliance to social norms, error de-
tection, and theory of mind—all these potentially being cognitive prerequi-
sites to religious belief (Muramato 2004). Thus, strong religiosity would r­ esult
from a hyper-activation of the medial prefrontal cortex, whereas an under-
performing medial prefrontal cortex could result in an absence of religious
ideas. The underlying hypothesis is that unbelievers would show lower levels
of self-­reflection and endorsement of cultural norms, error detection, and
theory of mind. One brain imaging study on religious belief and pain process-
ing has showed that unbelievers show a lower activation of the ventromedial
pre-frontal cortex, a specific part of the prefrontal cortex, when compared to
religious individuals while looking at a religious-themed image (Wiech, Farias,
Kahane, et al. 2009); however, this was explained by a process of emotional re-
appraisal of the pain by religious individuals, and it’s not reasonable to suggest
that, overall, unbelievers would have lower levels of activation of the medial
pre-frontal cortex.
Dopamine-rich midbrain regions have also been associated with shifts in be-
lief and belief formation (Schmack et al. 2015; Schwartenbeck, FitzGerald, and
312 Messick and Farias

Frontal Lobe

Prefrontal
Cortex

Temporal Lobe

Figure 25.1 There is increasing evidence that numerous areas of the brain influence
unbelief

Dolan 2016), as with religious belief and rituals (Perroud 2009). As increased
availability of dopamine increases religious belief, the opposite has been found
for a deficit of dopamine, such is the case with Parkinson’s patients, who show
a dopamine deficiency and lower levels of religiosity (Harris and McNamara
2009). Further, particular types of Parkinson’s disease seem to differentially af-
fect religious ideation; for example, left-onset Parkinson’s patients experience
a severe inability to activate religious concepts and accessing aesthetic-based
religious cognition (Butler et al., 2011 Butler, McNamara, and Durso 2010), while
patients with right-onset Parkinson’s showed greater difficulty accessing ritual-
based religious cognition (Butler, McNamara, and Durso 2011).
Although this body of work provides some evidence that religious unbelief
is associated with or underpinned by biological variables, the findings are very
preliminary, showing ambiguous or even contradictory results. For example,
concerning the role of dopamine in the increase of unbelief, it has been sug-
gested that religious practices may decrease with Parkinson’s onset, but quali-
tative data show that religion and spirituality are still regarded as important
by these patients (Redfern and Coles 2015; Edwards et al. 1997). In addition to
conflicting findings, there are also shortcomings in the literature in relation to
how religiosity is defined and measured.
Some psychologists have argued that leaving religion is counterintuitive or
a sub-optimal strategy, as subjective well-being is apparently higher among
religious people (Hayward et al. 2016; Aghababaei 2014; Aghababaei et al.
2016; though see Horning et al. 2011). However, recent research has found that
Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion 313

well-being is associated with certainty of belief, so that people with a higher

certainty in their religious ­beliefs or unbelief report higher levels of well-being
(Galen and Kloet 2011). Additionally, religious beliefs are associated with satis-
faction in life (Ellison 1991; Pollner 1989), happiness (Myers and Diener 1996),
and coping with the death of a loved one (Palmer and Noble 1986) and difficult
life events (McIntosh et al. 1993). But these effects largely disappear when con-
trolling for a variety of life circumstances, particularly societal factors that reg-
ulate the satisfaction of basic needs (food, health, housing; see Maslow 1943).
In more affluent societies, levels of subjective well-being are similar among
believers and unbelievers (Diener 2011). Subjective well-being is further boost-
ed in unbelievers when the level of social engagement and embeddedness are
high, similarly to what has been found for religious believers with high levels
of communal involvement (Galen 2015).
Evidence from experimental social psychology indicates that unbelievers
might cling on to belief systems based on the intrinsic value of science or ideas
of humanity’s moral progress (Farias, Newheiser, Kahane, and de Toledo 2013;
Rutjens, van Harreveld, and van der Pligt 2010; Rutjens et al. 2016). These un-
believers would find in such secular ideas the same kind of cognitive-emotive
comfort that religious believers do, by using secular explanations to provide
meaning and order in their lives (Stavrova, Ehlebracht, and Fetchenhauer
2016). One possibility is that within growing secular societies individuals will
find other non-religious sources of existential meaning that provide them with
psychological comfort and well-being. To what an extent these non-religious
sources engage the same kind of psychological processes as religious beliefs in
regard to meaning-making is still an open question.

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

Above we have highlighted different theoretical approaches which rely on var-

ious methods, from social psychological experiments using self-report mea-
sures to brain-imaging and lesion studies. Table 1 gives examples of some of
the key methods used by the various domains of the study of unbelief. Note
that there are potential overlaps between some of these domains; for example,
cognitive studies of religion sometimes use paradigms that are very common
in experimental social psychology (for example various priming studies in Ger-
vais and Norenzayan 2012).
The recent focus on unbelief clearly follows contemporary trends that
emphasize cognitive, evolutionary, and biological perspectives instead of,
314 Messick and Farias

Table 25.1 Examples of Methodological Approaches to the Study of Unbelief

Cognitive Social- Biological Well-being

Psychological and Meaning

Priming experiments Field and lab Brain lesion study Large sample
using tests of experiments that with self-report surveys of well-
intuitive and manipulate stress measure of being, socio-
analytical thinking and existential spirituality(Urgesi, economical status,
with self-report anxiety with self- Aglioti, Skrap, and and levels of
measures of religious report measure of Fabbro 2010) religiosity(Diener,
belief(Gervais and belief in science Tay, and Myers
Norenzayan 2012) (Farias, Newheiser, (2011)
Kahane, and Toledo
2013)
Survey using tests Bereaved and Double-blind brain Nationally
of intuitive and cancer patient stimulation study representative
analytical thinking samples with self- of the right inferior sample with
with self-report report measures of frontal gyrus using measures of
measures of religious religiosity and anger implicit tests of personal control,
belief (Shenhav, towards God(Exline, supernatural belief life satisfaction,
Rand, and Greene Crystal, Smyth, and (Farias et al. 2017) and belief in
2012) Carey 2011) scientific progress
(Stavrova,
Ehlebracht, and
Fetchenhauer
2016).

say, d­ evelopmental perspectives. There have also been some attempts at cat-
egorising unbelievers through the development of empirical-based typologies
(Schnell 2015; Silver et al. 2014). Despite the interest and expansion of this liter-
ature, it is hard to pinpoint any particular methodological turning points with
one exception: the attempt to understand and measure unbelief as a positive
phenomenon, instead of as simply the absence or low levels of belief, as Beit-­
Hallami (Martin 2006) proposed in one of the early writings on this subject.
This turn has led researchers to not only propose typologies of unbelievers but
to map out potential kinds of unbelief, such as Humanism, Science, Progress,
and Existentialism.
Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion 315

4 Critical Reflections, Evaluations and Predictions

Much work on religion and unbelief is likely to suffer from personal biases
as researchers lean towards or against religious belief. One cannot forget that
much of the research in the psychology of religion and health has been inex-
tricably associated with an US-based agenda to promote religion as a source
of physical and mental health. Conversely, there have been efforts by North
American researchers to promote the idea that unbelievers are more analyti-
cal or reflective than believers (Pennycook, Ross, Koehler, and Fugelsang 2016).
These personal biases are inscribed in historical processes which psycholo-
gists tend to overlook. For example, cognitive theories that claim religious be-
lief to be innate reflect an earlier historical understanding of belief as being
God-given (Brooke 1991), which means that those who are not believers are
either acting against God, or against their human nature (Barrett and Church
2013). It is curious that cognitive theories of religion are partly regurgitating
this innateness idea, but using updated concepts and methods, instead of
studying unbelief in its own right.
It is also unclear how much psychological variables can contribute to
­explaining the emergence of unbelief, after taking into account broader socio-
cultural and educational factors (Banerjee and Bloom 2013; Voas and MacAn-
drew 2012; Willard and Cingl 2017). Understanding these broader variables is
also crucial for the purpose of definition and categorisation. A variety of partly
overlapping terms such as “non-religious,” “nones,” and “atheists” are used in
the field, but there has been little effort in attempting to clarify and refine
these concepts (Conrad 2018; Lee 2014).
Unlike sociology and anthropology, psychology has never formulated spe-
cific theories for religious belief and is unlikely to do it for unbelief. Psychology
has considered that religious belief is underpinned by or associated with gen-
eral developmental, cognitive, and social-psychological processes. Probably
the most enduring and successful psychological explanatory efforts have been
functionalist – how does religious belief and practices help individuals to cope
with adversity, uncertainty, fear or to make sense of our lives? It is likely that
the study of unbelief will follow a similar route in looking at how various forms
of unbelief fulfil psychological functions or motivational needs.

5 Suggestions on How to Do It

There are two exciting things about the study of unbelief: one is the novelty
of the field concomitant with large national surveys showing the growth of
316 Messick and Farias

unbelievers; the second is its interdisciplinary nature. Recent journals and

­organisations such as the journal Secularism and NonReligion and the NonReli-
gion and Secularity Research Network (nsrn) feature articles from various dis-
ciplinary fields, including psychology, sociology, anthropology, religious studies
and cultural studies. There is a very clear awareness of the need to understand
where each particular field is coming from, including methodologically. This
has led to the development of contributions focusing on various methods to
studying unbelief, from the use of brain stimulation and implicit association
tests to large-scale surveys and interviews.1 This is an excellent example of how
a field can grow benefitting from the insights of other disciplines.
The rapid pace at which non-religion studies are expanding means that it
needs to pay closer attention to terminology and definition (Lee 2012), as well
as adapting methods for different cultural settings (Sevinç, Coleman iii, and
Hood 2018). With so many different types of unbelievers and cultural differ-
ences among those in different areas of the world, it is hard to find definitions
apply easily across countries. One recent ongoing effort to advance the field
and terminological concerns is a large cross-cultural and interdisciplinary
project on mapping unbelief, which include large and small grants with over
40 participating research groups worldwide.2 This programme of research will
advance our understanding of the kinds of unbelief we can find, who are the
unbelievers regarding socio-demographic characteristics, and also explore the
alternative meaning-making systems available to individuals growing without
belief or who have left their religious beliefs behind.
We have started this part by stating that there are two exciting things about
the study of unbelief: its novelty and its interdisciplinary nature. There is a
third less acknowledged factor though, which is a real potential to demolish
and reconstruct how we have to come to understand religion and religious
belief in particular. Recent cognitive and evolutionary approaches to religion
have been criticised for neglecting or distorting historical and anthropological
records showing the existence of unbelief in Ancient India and Greece, and
in small pre-literate societies (Brazil and Farias 2016). The developing study
of unbelief has the potential to very quickly change or obliterate the field of
cognitive science of religion, with its key assumptions of the naturalness or
innateness of religious belief. It may be the case that as the study of unbelief
advances, in a decade or two many of the current cognitive assumptions on
religious belief will be regarded no differently from ninetheenth century theo-
ries suggesting that Mars and Venus were populated by human-like societies.

1 https://nsrn.net/2016/04/27/blog-series-research-methods-for-the-scientific-study-of-nonre
ligion/ Accessed 25/02/2019.
2 https://research.kent.ac.uk/understandingunbelief/ Accessed 25/02/2019.
Psychological Approaches to Leaving Religion 317

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 Chapter 26

Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches to

Leaving Religion

Peter G. Stromberg

1 Introducing Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches to

Leaving Religion

People leave religious institutions or change their religious beliefs for many
different reasons. A person might change their religious affiliation because a
political transformation has rendered that affiliation dangerous or economi-
cally undesirable; there may be some form of coercion involved. For example,
the colonisation process with its attendant Christian missionisation entailed a
massive replacement, on several continents, of indigenous religions with some
version of Christianity. Did the people who abandoned indigenous religions
deconvert? Of course, this is but one of many possible scenarios of religious
change. A person might gradually abandon the faith in which they were raised,
or might encounter a religious tradition that for one reason or another seems
extraordinarily compelling, and for that reason leave her old faith for a new
one.
Whether all of these phenomena should be considered instances of decon-
version is by no means resolved. Furthermore, the similarity between such in-
stances of leaving religion may be only superficial, and thus a single theoretical
framework—a single general explanation for all of these cases—may not be
possible. For these reasons, writing coherently about leaving religion requires
one to specify which sort of leaving is being explained. In most of the literature
on leaving religion, the phenomenon is studied in the context of the contested
ideological situations in contemporary societies (although important excep-
tions are found in Part 1 and 2 of this book). As Gooren (2011) notes, in practice
the study of deconversion was shaped by its origins in the context of sociologi-
cal study of new religious movements that arose in the early 1970s. Since that
time the purview of the topic has expanded considerably, but it is fair to note
that to some extent the concerns of these early studies established the para-
digm in this literature.
Above all—and Gooren’s (2010) thorough review and synthesis of the lit-
erature on conversion and disaffiliation makes this clear—across several

© Peter G. Stromberg, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_027

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
324 Stromberg

d­ isciplines, research on the topic has been oriented around questions about
the “religious marketplace.” This terminology alerts us to the fact that most
of this work has been carried out in situations not only of religious pluralism,
but in contexts in which religious groups are in some sense in competition for
members. It is the study of such situations that constitutes the prototypical
case of leaving religion in the literature, and this fact to some extent deter-
mines the questions that will be asked about the phenomenon. In the current
chapter, I will stay within the boundaries established by these broad trends
in this area of study. And within these boundaries, I am concerned to review,
evaluate, and perhaps help to develop approaches based on the study of au-
tobiography and narrative. As such, this chapter is primarily methodological.
Collection of narratives is a research method, and the question is, what are the
advantages, disadvantages, and implications of this method?

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points

Probably the dominant strain of the research literature on narrative and de-
conversion has its origins in sociology and social psychology of religion, and
adopts a generally positivist approach. In such an approach, language is as-
sumed to transparently reflect underlying forces that are the true target of
analysis. As is the case in the natural sciences, the analyst assumes that empiri-
cal phenomena (such as narratives) can be explained by discovering under-
lying stable principles that produce those phenomena. In this approach, the
analyst does not focus on language or narrative in itself. Rather, narratives are
used to discover and document underlying social factors that are in themselves
considered causal.
An example is Janet Jacobs (1987) study entitled “Deconversion from Re-
ligious Movements: An Analysis of Charismatic Bonding and Spiritual Com-
mitment.” Based on 40 intensive interviews with previous members of several
movements she characterizes as “authoritarian,” Jacobs reports two signifi-
cant findings. First, her subjects report that their deconversions were—in her
terms—“evolutionary,” that is, gradual rather than sudden.1 Second, the pro-
cess of deconversion was driven by disenchantment with the leader of the
group.
The year after Jacobs’ study, an edited collection entitled Falling from the
Faith: Causes and Consequences of Religious Apostasy (Bromley 1988) appeared.

1 The term “evolutionary” here seems unnecessarily confusing, in that it is usually used to de-
note a process of development.
Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches 325

Although not all of the studies contain narrative material, a number of them
do, and they utilize narrative material in a manner similar to Jacobs. Perhaps
the most interesting of these studies, from the perspective of developing nar-
rative analysis, is Susan Rothbaum’s chapter entitled “Between Two Worlds:
Issues of Separation and Identity after Leaving a Religious Community.” Roth-
baum (1988) offers an insightful analysis of narrative materials to document
the emergence, in deconversion stories, of a sense of personal identity that
contrasts to the more collective identity fostered by participation in the reli-
gious group.
Another, more recent example of this approach is Wright et al. (2011),
“­Explaining Deconversion from Christianity: A study of Online Narratives.”
Working within a rational choice paradigm, the authors seek to understand
deconversion by studying written autobiographical narratives posted online.
The narratives are analysed using a coding system that classifies subjects’ ex-
planations into a few general categories that occurred repeatedly in the corpus
of fifty narratives. The authors find three explanations that occur frequently,
and one more that occurs less often. The three common explanations are:
“intellectual and theological concerns, God’s shortcomings, and interactions
with Christians.” (Wright et al. 2011: 6). The final reason is interaction with non-
Christians. By intellectual and theological concerns, the authors mean to re-
fer to statements to the effect that the tenets of Christianity often contradict
basic principles of science or provide a weak explanation for such problems
as ­human suffering. “God’s shortcomings” refers most frequently to subjects’
experiences of praying for help with personal problems and failing to find
it. “Interactions with Christians” concerns matters such as hypocrisy among
Christians, their failing to live up to their professed moral standards. Finally,
interaction with non-Christians covers stories about being convinced to aban-
don Christianity by the arguments of non-believers.
Perhaps the most ambitious and thorough studies of deconversion nar-
ratives within the positivist approach have been carried out by Heinz Streib
and his colleagues. Like Jacobs, they find that the most common trajectory in
the deconversion story is that of a gradual disaffiliation from a faith tradition
(Streib et al. 2009: 95). However, they expand on this finding. Their analysis of
deconversion stories eventually leads them to identify four general types of de-
conversion stories or trajectories. The first is “Pursuit of Autonomy,” by which
they mean separation from a religious tradition in which the subject was raised
and which the subject adopted in a generally unquestioning way. The second
is “Debarred from Paradise,” referring to leaving a religious tradition to which
the subject had previously made a strong emotional commitment. In other
words, the central contrast between the first and second narrative themes has
326 Stromberg

to do with whether one is leaving a religion that one has accepted as a matter
of course or one that one has embraced through a strong emotional commit-
ment, either through growing up in the religion or converting to it. The third
trajectory, “Finding a New Frame of Reference,” embraces stories of loss of faith
followed by conversion to a tradition that the subject, for one reason or an-
other, finds to be more engaging. (The narratives in this category could equally
well be labelled conversion stories.) Finally, the authors suggest a category of
“Life-Long Quests—Late Revisions.” These stories are in essence extended
versions of the ones found in the previous category; they entail what is often
called a “seeker” orientation, which may be realised as commitment to and
subsequent deconversion from multiple religious traditions.
I should note that although primarily positivist in its research method, the
analysis here introduces a value orientation through its reliance on James W.
Fowler’s (1991) scheme of religious development.2 That is, the authors integrate
the question of whether deconversion entails faith development into their re-
search design (Streib et al. 2009: 100–101). Their general, and heavily qualified,
conclusion about religious development is that more often than not deconver-
sion results in a psychological situation that is higher in openness to experi-
ence and lower in right-wing authoritarianism, religious fundamentalism and
absolutism (Streib et al. 2009: 232).
The other central (although somewhat less prominent) theoretical stance
underlying work on narrative and the deconversion can be labelled “discur-
sive” and is distinguished from the positivist approach in the first place by a
different conception of the role of language. Rather than seeing language as
a medium that transparently reflects aspects of the world, discourse analysts
assume that language plays a significant part in determining how humans
­perceive and understand the world. Hence studies undertaken from this theo-
retical stance unfold not as quests to discover what social, cultural, and psy-
chological factors cause deconversion but rather to illuminate how language
itself (and by extension, narrative) constructs the deconversion.
Those who adopt this approach do not necessarily give up on finding un-
derlying social or psychological factors that contribute to deconversion, how-
ever they hold that such factors can only be revealed through careful analysis
of the language of the deconversion narrative. Furthermore, the emphasis on
how the believer’s language constructs the deconversion leads naturally to an

2 Considering some forms of belief to be “higher” than others in a developmental sense is not
a judgment that I personally consider to be sustainable. However, I recognize that some dis-
ciplines approach such questions differently than anthropologists typically do. This dispute
is not central to the present endeavor, and I will not pursue it here.
Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches 327

e­ mphasis on the deconversion narrative as a means whereby believers con-

struct meaning in their lives. In sum, the discursive approach is typically ori-
ented around how a believer uses language and narrative to make sense of his
or her situation, and it may also go beyond this to seek regularities in the social
and psychological factors that underpin the deconversion.
An example of the latter is Gooren’s (2010) “conversion career” approach,
which is built on the conviction that at bottom deconversion is about subjects
trying to find coherence and meaning. (I would agree with Gooren and other
authors such as Barbour (1994) and Larsson (2017) that in this sense deconver-
sion and conversion are the same). Since none of us has the option of adopting
a neutral point of view, every position in the world entails a set of assumptions
about the nature of reality. “All human beings need a philosophy, whether
atheism or a religion, to give meaning to their lives” (Gooren 2010: 131). From
this perspective, what is at stake in the study of deconversion (or conversion)
are the processes whereby persons manage to change the context of meaning
in which they are embedded. How is this accomplished, and what are its social
and psychic consequences?
In attempting to clarify this process, Gooren turns to the study of believers’
narratives, illustrating that narrative analysis is often the favoured means for
analysing questions about meaning. It is a significant clue that many conver-
sion stories turn around moments of anguish, experiences when the believer
faces the despair born of meaninglessness.
It will be useful to look at one of Gooren’s narratives in a bit more detail, and
I will choose one that I know well, in that it is taken from my own work (Strom-
berg 1993). Gooren introduces the case of evangelical Christian George by cit-
ing a passage in which George talks about his father, a committed Christian
who hoped George would follow in his religious footsteps. However, George
strayed from the path, and eventually abandoned his wife and young chil-
dren. On a subsequent visit with his family, George was overcome with regret
when he recognized that he had in effect abandoned his children, and shortly
thereafter he returned to his father’s faith. Gooren (2010: 87) cites this as an
example of “the importance of social factors in the conversion process” since
the conversion is precipitated by George’s profound feelings of pain upon real-
ising his separation from his children. However, Gooren could also have noted
that in converting, George was simultaneously embracing his father’s religion
and devotion to his family. It is this alignment with his own personal history
that strongly contributes to George’s conviction that his conversion restored a
sense of meaning in his life.
Gooren, then, combines the quest to find underlying social and psycho-
logical factors that account for conversion and deconversion with a discursive
328 Stromberg

approach that seeks to illuminate how believers use narratives to fashion a

context of meaning. Barbour (1994) illustrates another approach that is more
closely attentive to the language of the narrative in order to illuminate pro-
cesses of meaning-creation. One might imagine that the conventions whereby
the deconversion narrative takes shape are frills that can be dispensed with in
studying the deconversion itself. But Barbour would ask (as I would), where
is this deconversion itself, where in the universe does it reside? If the answer
is that it is an event or series of events that occurred in the past and caused
certain changes in the narrator, then our access to the deconversion is forever
blocked. In fact, we have access to the deconversion only through what the
subject reports, which is for the most part the deconversion narrative. In this
sense the conventions used in the deconversion narrative not only recount but
actually constitute the deconversion (Stromberg 1993, Avance 2013).
The deconversion is also, as Barbour points out in discussing John Stuart
Mill (1806–1873), a transformation of self that may affect the entire person,
including their emotions and the moral environment in which he or she dwells
(Barbour 1994: 46). Mill’s narrative account of his deconversion centers on an
abandonment of his father’s view of an approach to life—symbolic of “the
most disagreeable aspects of the Calvinist God” (1994: 47)—for the more hu-
manist views of his wife, Harriet Taylor. The deconversion is at once a change
in belief, a coming of age, and the emergence of a literary and philosophical
voice. Such a case study makes that point that deconversion may be inter-
twined with a wide range of issues that impinge upon personal experience and
history. Studying this process allows us to understand conversion and decon-
version as they illustrate the broader processes whereby human beings inte-
grate themselves with moral communities.

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

The two theoretical orientations I have identified correspond rather neatly to

two different methods. While both orientations begin with collecting narra-
tives, how the narratives are collected, presented, and analysed tends to differ
between the two orientations. From the positivist perspective, the narrative
is of interest not in itself but rather to the extent it provides evidence for un-
derlying causal factors. For example, Streib and his colleagues adopt a mixed
methods approach that combines questionnaire research with 99 open ended
narrative interviews with persons who deconverted (Streib et al. 2009: 93).
However, in their analysis narrative is used almost exclusively as an extended
form of questionnaire research. This is evident in their dependence on the
Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches 329

practice—widespread within the positivist orientation—of substituting for

the narrative itself a series of codes that attempt to capture common themes
in the corpus of interviews. I will comment on the implications of this practice
below; for now it is sufficient to note that this approach is clearly distinct from
that taken in discourse analysis.
Although there are a wide variety of methods brought to bear by discourse
analysts, they share a close attention to the role of language and speech in the
deconversion narrative itself. Here the focus is on the various conventions of
narrative itself: metaphor, plot devices, figuration, and so on. A common ana-
lytic device (see for example Enstedt and Larsson 2013) is to seek to understand
the persistence of certain themes and figures in the narratives that take shape
through a historical tradition. Furthermore, as Barbour repeatedly points out,
such narratives then become the patterns for subsequent ones. That is, the nar-
rative conventions whereby a person constructs their deconversion serve as
a model for those who follow after. A good example of this is the models of
deconversion that appeared during the Romantic period. Barbour summarises
the argument of M.H. Abrams (1971), who holds that Romantic writers were
prone to reproduce a secularised form of older models of spiritual autobiogra-
phy, wherein they construed their artistic calling as a transformation of their
earlier religious commitments. In such autobiographies, the plot does not re-
count a separate level of events, rather the writer understands the plot as the
deconversion itself. The pinnacle of human achievement in Romanticism is ar-
tistic creation, and hence the literary account of transformation accomplishes
what it describes, the substitution of an artistic orientation for a religious one.
In his paper entitled “Belief, Deconversion, and Authenticity among U.S.
Emerging Evangelicals,” James Bielo (2012) illustrates the constitutive role of
narrative in processes of religious change. Bielo presents something of a spe-
cial case in discussing deconversion narratives among what he calls emerging
evangelicals. A central notion among such groups is that traditional Christian-
ity overemphasises belief—assent to certain canonical propositions—as the
essence of the faith. In narratives that describe their abandoning of this posi-
tion, these emerging evangelicals are in essence displaying their new faith by
narrating it. That is, the key element of their new faith is precisely a denial
of the importance of belief as traditionally understood, so the deconversion
narrative cannot take shape around transition between beliefs. In light of this,
the narrative assumes a special importance in articulating what it is that the
believer has come to accept. There is no institution or proposition to which
the deconversion can be tied, rather there is only the narrative to formulate
the coherence of the new faith. In the case of one of Bielo’s subjects, Glenn,
this narrative concerns a particular sort of social relationship, “the collective
330 Stromberg

experience of everyday life with his house church members.” (Bielo 2012: 269).
It is this story, and others like it, that constitutes faith.

4 Critical Reflections, Evaluations and Predictions

Streib and his colleagues, in the study discussed above, include a considerable
amount of narrative material in their analysis, using long direct quotes from
the interviews. However, in that they adopt a generally positivist orientation,
this aspect of the work to some extent undermines the overall thrust of their
analysis. The story of Gina, for example, is presented as a paradigmatic narra-
tive of one of their four categories, pursuit of autonomy. Yet the narrative itself
centers on the role of a romantic relationship in triggering Gina’s exit from the
Mormon faith. The man she loves loses his faith, and her inability to remain
apart from him eventually leads her to also leave the church. This is, as the
authors say, a process of separation from the religious community into which
the subject was born, and hence fairly described as the pursuit of autonomy.
But Gina’s deconversion might just as accurately be described as driven by the
effort to preserve a valued social relationship, which is quite different from a
pursuit of autonomy.
The problem here is that the coding methods that are typical of the positiv-
ist orientation, by design, abstract from the rich details of a narrative account
in order to identify simplified factors that characterise some social phenom-
enon. The more one moves in the direction of reporting narrative detail, the
more one undermines one’s efforts to extract a few general explanatory ele-
ments from the narratives.
More broadly, the positivist approach has two sorts of disadvantages. First,
it is fair to say that these approaches to narratives ignore the bulk of the narra-
tives they examine. The analyst strips away the vast majority of what the nar-
rator actually says, on the grounds that it is not relevant to the basic categories
the researcher has developed for his or her coding system. What is removed
may contain much that is vital to the narrative. In addition to neglecting all
parts of the narrative that are not captured by the coding system, this process
removes many of the narrator’s values, their sense of how different experienc-
es fit together into a cohesive plot, the way they use symbolic resources to map
the idiosyncrasies of their own biography and temperament, the rhetorical
and other discursive resources the narrator uses, aspects of narrative perfor-
mance such as voicing and timing, and so on.
The effect of all this is that in this approach one necessarily ignores the nar-
rative conventions that structure stories of deconversion, and consequently
Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches 331

the ways in which such conventions may condition understandings of self

and history. This is the second disadvantage of the positivist approach: it ig-
nores the possibility that narrative itself may play a role in the phenomenon
of deconversion. That is, narrative is not only a research method, it is a cul-
tural mechanism whereby persons make sense of their lives. For this reason,
changing narratives may just as well constitute as describe the phenomenon
of religious change. Barbour’s and Bielo’s close attention to full narratives of
deconversion help to illustrate that the practice of reducing narratives to the
assertion of various social and psychological factors not only misses much of
the narratives, but much of deconversion. This is not to deny the value of posi-
tivist approaches, which I have used at times in my own work (Stromberg et al.
2007). Such approaches can allow us to gain a sense of the typical patterns in a
corpus of interviews, and ultimately begin to develop an understanding of the
sorts of social and psychological factors that are implicated in leaving religions.
However, in that the topic of this chapter is narrative and autobiographical
analysis, it must be noted that in the positivist approach narrative is typically
used as an extended form of questionnaire research. One hopes, in the long
term, for the development of mixed methods approaches that can combine
the strength of both positivist and discursive orientations.

5 Suggestions How to Do It

In this final part I will briefly outline an expansion of the discursive approach
that I believe may prove of considerable value in the study of narratives about
religious change. In several recent publications (Stromberg 2018; Stromberg
2019), I have attempted to lay the foundation for a style of narrative analysis
that builds on my earlier work (Stromberg 1993) by focusing on performative
and discursive aspects of narratives. Very often narratives go beyond describ-
ing distant situations, rather they attempt to depict them. Especially where
a speaker is concerned with something emotionally salient—such as a story
about a change in her faith—she will, both intentionally and unintentionally,
make that change present in the moment of telling. This means that her story
will likely be rich in the numerous methods speakers use to depict: manual
gestures, facial portrayals, direct quotation, analogies and metaphors, incorpo-
ration of other narratives, and so on (see Keane 2008)
Focusing on these discursive features allows us to understand narratives as
tools used by speakers and hearers to build cultural environments. In narra-
tives, participants build a world. The theoretical impetus for this conceptuali-
sation cannot be fully presented here, but is rooted in contemporary a­ ttempts
332 Stromberg

to understand the close relationship between cognition in general and the

environment. Anthropologist Tim Ingold (2000), for example, points out that
the mind “is immanent in the network of sensory pathways that are set up
by virtue of the perceiver’s immersion in his or her environment.” (Ingold
2000:3)
Rather than approaching thinking as a process carried out exclusively in a
brain separated from the world, we should study the ways that thinking is em-
bedded in the world. Such attempts are prefigured in the American pragma-
tist tradition. Shaun Gallagher (2014: 115–116) summarises John Dewey’s view
of cognition as follows: “For Dewey’s understanding of cognition, the unit of
explanation is not the biological individual, the body by itself, or the brain,
but the organism-environment…Dewey was influenced by Peirce’s view that
in coping with a problematic situation, we use physical tools as well as ideas
to physically reshape the environment. This includes linguistic tools, which in
communicative contexts may be used to reshape the dynamics of the situa-
tion.” To see narratives in this way is to open up new possibilities for under-
standing such matters as—to take the matter before us here—how believers
use stories to conceptualise and re-conceptualise their situations.
An example, taken from a different realm of discourse, provides a small but
powerful example. In a recent paper (Stromberg 2018), I discussed a psycho-
therapy patient—pseudonym Darby—with whom I worked with many years
ago. I want to focus on one brief moment in our final session together. Darby
was relating a dream about a long lost boyfriend. As we talked about the dream,
it emerged that its setting was much like the office in which we were sitting.
I pointed out that the long-lost boyfriend could also be me, and Darby said,
“but I wouldn’t take you to a place like that.” When I asked where she would
take me, she said “out to lunch.” My point here is the way that response served
to transform the situation created by the narrative. It suggests a completely
new reading of the dream narrative, which is associated with a transformed re-
lationship between Darby and myself, and hence a transformed moral context.
The fact that this new relationship and moral context would have been com-
pletely inappropriate serves to underline how this small change in the narra-
tive utterly transformed the environment in which Darby and I were operating.
The way that even minor changes can change an environment, including
such matters as the underlying moral basis of the situation, illustrates the
point I want to emphasise here. From this perspective, leaving a religion can be
conceptualised as leaving the institutional, cultural, and communal territory
of the religion. Of course, one can only move by going somewhere else, and
hence leaving will inevitably entail taking up a new set of images and ideas and
beliefs. What we should be looking for in narrative approaches, then, is why
Narrative and Autobiographical Approaches 333

and how old symbolic environments are traded for new ones, and the ongoing
implications of this change.
As I have emphasised, such understanding can only grow out of detailed
and careful attention to full narratives and their performance. While the sort of
analysis that I labelled positivist above has its place, it cannot fairly be labelled
the study of narrative. Instead, it uses narrative as a research method to extend
and supplement a reductive approach to the matter of deconversion. This may
sound like a criticism, but I do not intend it as such. This sort of work has an
important role to play in the investigation of leaving religion, however it is not
to be confused with narrative analysis.
The analyst should treat a deconversion narrative or autobiography as the
present instantiation of the social process of leaving religion. Even if that leav-
ing occurred decades ago, its traces upon history and the person exist only as
they are formulated in the present, only as they constitute the current envi-
ronment of the narrator. Careful attention to the myriad linguistic and para-
linguistic features of the narrative and—if possible—its performance, will be
rewarded by subtle insights into how the narrative creates a cognitive environ-
ment appropriate to a particular form of faith. Such information will provide
new avenues for understanding why people leave religions, and what happens
as a result.

References

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­Literature. New York: W.W. Norton.
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Bielo, J. 2012. “Belief, Deconversion, and Authenticity among U.S. Emerging Evangeli-
cals.” Ethos. 40:3, 258–276.
Barbour, JD. 1994. Versions of Deconversion. Autobiography and the Loss of Faith. Char-
lottesville: University of Virginia Press.
Bromley, D.G. 1988. Falling From the Faith. Causes and Consequences of Religious Apos-
tasy. Beverly Hills: Sage Publishers.
Enstedt, D., and Larsson, G. 2013. “Telling the Truth about Islam? Apostasy Narratives
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the Virtual Middle East. At http://www.cyberorient.net/article.do?articleId=8459.
­Accessed 09/10/2017.
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Quest for Meaning. San Francisco: HarperCollins.
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Larsson, G. 2017. “Apostasy and counter-narratives—two sides of the same coin: The
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45–54.
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Consequences of Religious Apostasy. London: Sage Publications, 205–228.
Streib, H., Hood Jr. R.W., Keller, B., Csoff, R-M., and Silver, C.F. 2009. Deconversion. Qual-
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 Chapter 27

Media and Communication Approaches to Leaving

Religion

Teemu Taira

1 Introducing Media and Communication Approaches to Leaving

Religion

Long research traditions exist behind both the theorisation of the relationship
between religion and media (Arthur 1993; Hoover and Lundby 1997; Mitchell
and Marriage 2003; Lynch et al. 2012) and that of the conversion to and renun-
ciation of religion. For some reason, however, these two traditions have rarely
overlapped. Neither in the study of leaving religion nor in that of religious
­conversion—one of the main research areas in the psychology of religion and
religious experience—has there been a focus on the role of media. There is, for
­instance, no chapter on media in The Oxford Handbook of Religious Conversa-
tion (Rambo and Farhadian 2014), and the word “media” is not even indexed in
the volume, though “internet” is. One of the reasons might be that the studies of
converting to and renouncing religion have focused on individuals—their life
stories, psychological factors and social status—ignoring some of the factors
that facilitate and influence those individuals’ decision-making. While media
cannot be said to be the main reason behind or motivation for renouncing any
given religion, it is nevertheless crucial not to discount its role in facilitating
the leaving of religion and maintaining the apostate’s new identity. As research
focusing primarily on the significance of the role played by media in one’s deci-
sion to leave religion is scarce, the main aim of this chapter is to provide some
tools for thinking about the relevance of media and communication to leaving
religion. Most of the views presented here apply primarily to countries with
relatively free and uncensored media and access to online media.

2 Theoretical Perspectives and Turning Points

There are many ways to map how to study the role of media in leaving religion;
this chapter focuses on media logics, media discourses and media use. The rea-
son for this three-pronged approach is that these areas cover a broad range of

© Teemu Taira, 2020 | doi 10.1163/9789004331471_028

This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC 4.0 license.
336 Taira

material, from the very abstract level of media logics to more concrete ways in
which media facilitates and, in some cases, prompts people to leave religion.
The concept of media logic refers, in its early formulation, to the produc-
tion of media culture in general and to news in particular and its influence on
different areas of life (Altheide and Snow 1979). In studies concerning religion
and media, the media logic has been discussed by focusing on the concept of
mediatisation. Mediatisation refers to the development of media as a semi-
autonomous institution which begins to direct the ways in which people relate
to other areas of life and what information they get out of particular areas of
life. In the context of religion, mediatisation has been forcefully argued for by
Stig Hjarvard (2012, 2013), according to whom, the outcome of mediatisation
of religion is “a new social and cultural condition in which the power to define
and practice religion has been altered” (Hjarvard 2013: 83). This new condition
means that media as an institution, rather than face-to-face contacts between
believers or authorities of religious institutions, provides the primary interface
for information about religion. That is, media not only transmits information
but also takes an active role in the producing and framing religious issues. Fur-
thermore, media tends to favour secular views over religious ones, thus adding
pressure for religious groups and institutions to retain their adherents (Castells
2002: 406). Although this development does not explain why individuals leave
religion or switch from one to another, it suggests that the ways in which media
operates may have a secularising impact.
It is, nevertheless, debatable whether media does indeed play a strong secu-
larising role. This is because the mainstream media tends to be a liberalising
rather than simply a secularising force (Taira 2015), and religious authority
may be exercised in previously unseen ways through new media technologies
(Herbert 2011: 635–637; Larsson 2011). However, Hjarvard’s perspective on the
mediatisation of religion provides a theoretical framework for thinking about
and testing the media’s operating logic and its role in facilitating the leaving of
religion in contemporary societies.
In some cases, the mainstream media takes a position of defending the
dominant religion (Knott et al. 2013). For instance, after a trend emerged of in-
dividuals renouncing the Evangelical-Lutheran Church of Finland because of
comments made on television in a current affairs programme about the rights
of homosexuals in 2010, mainstream newspapers, in spite of their wish to take
the liberal rather than conservative side in the debate, explicitly encouraged
people not to leave the church, arguing that change had to be effected from
within not without the church. In this case, the logic of news production in
highlighting conflicts and unexpected events resulted in the preservation and
repetition of the topic in daily headlines, thus in fact accelerating the rate by
Media and Communication Approaches to leaving religion 337

which Finns renounced the church in spite of the explicitly contrary stand-
point of newspapers. This case demonstrates that the media logic cannot be
boiled down to the opinions of individual media professionals or even to the
views of media outlets generally. Likewise, this case demonstrates why the
theorisation of media and its procedures, mechanics and habits, jointly with
actual media content, is relevant for the study of the media’s role in leaving
religion.
Another dimension of mediatisation is how media takes the place of reli-
gion. Effects of mediatisation include the reduction of the time people spend
with religious institutions and the decline of the need for such institutions.
That is, media offers a substitute and constitutes a new framework for mean-
ing, or “sacred canopy” (Berger 1990). If media operates increasingly as a space
of meaning-making, it eventually robs one typical function of the religious
framework. In this sense, it can be argued that the more media has an influ-
ence on individuals’ lives, the more likely they are to find the religious context
irrelevant. However, media also produces and reproduces religious imagery
constituting popular narratives and detached symbols (Hjarvard 2012: 34–39).
These weakly institutionalised and somewhat individualised and aestheticised
forms in turn offer a new religious identity for some, but the development is
concomitant with the more general argument about media’s overall detrimen-
tal role to institutionalised religion. This is because the media uproots estab-
lished religious symbols from their traditions and institutions and the attach-
ment to other, more recent religious forms is typically weak, often expressed by
fascination and interest rather than by commitment.
In addition to theorising media logics and its possible contribution to in-
dividuals leaving religion, one can focus on the discourses, representations
and narratives media produces about religion. By media discourses relevant
to the leaving of religion, I do not mean only news stories and features about
individuals who leave religion but also the overall portrayal of religion and
non-­religion in media that altogether provide a set of information, images and
­stories and thus potentially affect people’s relation to religion.
When an individual leaves a dominant tradition or church, there is no news
story. Individuals are interesting only if they are celebrities, politicians, con-
troversial critics, “career apostates” or the like (Foster 1984; Royle 2012; Lars-
son 2016). However, when people leave the dominant church en masse, then
there is a story for the media to cover and assess. This applies to specific events
that prompt people to leave religion as well as to wider social developments.
An example of the former is the aforementioned trend of the renunciation of
the Evangelical-Lutheran Church of Finland in 2010 following its public state-
ments on the rights of homosexuals. Despite the mainstream media’s ­relatively
338 Taira

­ ositive attitude towards the Lutheran Church, the newsworthiness of the

p
mass renunciations widely prolonged the crisis, prompting Finns to evaluate
whether or not they wanted to preserve their church membership. An example
of the latter surrounds “the rise of nones” in the US and in Europe. The fact that
the media have started to write about “nones” as if they had formed a cohesive
group or community (see Bullard 2016) potentially presents people with a new
identification that had otherwise been rather marginal a couple of decades
ago. It is well known that “nones” are a very heterogeneous group (Lipka 2015;
Woodhead 2016): some hold strong religious beliefs but do not have an affili-
ation, some atheists strongly reject all religious beliefs and actively campaign
against religions. Nevertheless, when the media writes about “the rise of the
nones,” backed up by recent statistical data, the narrative creates a coherence
and identity that is alluring to those who consider leaving religion.
A further complication is that groups labelled as “sects” or “cults” in the me-
dia are treated differently from mainstream churches. In such a case, an indi-
vidual’s decision to leave the group is potentially relevant to the media, as an
interview with such an individual offers the opportunity to valorise concerns
about control, protection, government intervention and the ­possibility of
brainwashing. Media stories about individuals leaving groups deemed closed,
conservative, oppressive and otherwise suspicious offer protreptic models
for those involved and function as reminders of the dangers of such “cults.”
­Indeed, scholars have suggested that there is clear media bias against New
­Religious Movements (Beckford 1985; Richardson and van Driel 1997; van Driel
and Richardson 1988); the media acts as if it were an authority on acceptable
religions, condoning the renunciation of less acceptable ones.
Media discourse about leaving established minority religions, on the oth-
er hand, is more ambiguous. Leaving Buddhism, Hinduism or Judaism is not
usually the media’s primary interest, but the situation is different in the case
of Islam. Western media has proven to have an insatiable appetite for ­stories
about people leaving Islam, partly because of support groups and activist or-
ganisations for ex-Muslims in social media, such as the Council of Ex-­Muslims
of Britain, the Ex-Muslims of North America and WikiIslam (Larsson 2007; En-
stedt and Larsson 2013; Cottee 2015). For instance, the Finnish public broad-
casting company’s story “Fatima gave up Islam, but cannot remove her veil—­
leaving Islam is a taboo in Finland” (Vatanen 2016) was significant because of
the uniqueness of its tale. The article told of two ex-Muslims of Somali back-
ground who were still wearing the veil, because they were afraid that their
family and relatives would not approve otherwise. These women discovered a
Finnish ex-Muslim’s blog, which encourage them now to speak in the national
Media and Communication Approaches to leaving religion 339

media about being ex-Muslims. Although the article offered a sympathetic

view on the trials and tribulations of ex-Muslims, recapitulating the problems
they have experienced, it was not attempting to paint Islam in broad strokes.
Rather, the article was typical in its defence of individual choices—that Islam
is one among many possibilities that should be allowed to be chosen from in
the same open way that leaving Islam should be a viable option without hav-
ing to weather pressure from the religious group or relatives of the same faith.
One of the significant aspects in the media’s involvement is what kind of
publicity is given to non-religious people and organisations. Studies suggest
that, while atheist activists are often covered in media, the media does not
always approve of their mission. Richard Dawkins, for instance, is a frequent
face on media, but he is often perceived as too aggressive, provocative and
­uninformed in his views about religion (Knott et al. 2013; Taira 2015). This sug-
gests that, while the media gives space for critical voices, it does not neces-
sarily encourage people to leave religion, except in cases where the religious
group in question is considered too limiting, repressive or conservative—that
is, in comparison to the media’s relatively liberal values. The sheer presence of
such stories about non-religious people and their activities, however, is likely
to keep fast the possibility of leaving religion in people’s minds. Non-religious
organisations are thus keen on their campaigns gaining media visibility.
One of the most famous campaigns is the atheist bus campaign which ran
the slogan “There’s Probably No God. Now Stop Worrying and Enjoy Your Life”
in its original UK form in 2009 and, in a slightly amended form, in thirteen
other countries (Tomlins and Bullivant 2017). It is difficult to estimate how in-
fluential such campaigns have been, but, based on individual testimonies, they
have contributed to some people becoming non-religious (Cimino and Smith
2014; Kontala 2016).
The campaigns fostered momentum for people leaving religion, but they
always come with the risk of unintended consequences. The media narrative
is often delicate, and there are times when neutral or somewhat positive cover-
age turns sour. One example of such a campaign can be found in 2010, when
Finnish Freethinkers replicated the example in the US of the Atheist Agenda
offering Hustler magazines in exchange for religious books at the University
of Texas, San Antonio. The same public stunt, swapping porn magazines for
Bibles, was frowned upon in the Finnish public sphere, not only by the media
but also by many activists in non-religious organisations (Taira 2012: 31–32).
Although the media is not opposed to religion in general (Knott et al.
2013), some media companies co-operate with those who wish for people to
leave religion. One interesting example is Richard Dawkins, whose purpose is
340 Taira

c­ onsciousness-raising and helping people to come out as atheists. Dawkins has

featured in many antireligious documentaries shown on the main television
channels in Britain and are widely available on dvd and YouTube.
Similar antireligious discourses are present in social media without the me-
diation of traditional media companies and houses. Blogs, for instance, are
easily available for those thinking of leaving religion. Some websites, such as
WikiIslam, focus on particular tradition, while others campaign for atheism
in general. An example of the latter is Pharyngula, administrated by biology
professor PZ Myers. The blog conjures up an image of conflict between religion
and science, one in which everyone must choose a side: “Science and religion
are two different ways of looking at the universe and changing the world, and
I believe that you must set one aside to follow the other.” (Myers 2013: 146).
This is one of the ways in which media discourses offer alternative points of
­identification—science, in this case—for those who do not identify with a
particular faith.
The analysis of media discourses supports the idea that the overall media
logic contributes to the media’s liberalising effect, but it does not mean that
media is antireligious as such. While media discourses are powerful, they
are rarely the sole factor that motivates someone to leave any given religion.
Hence, it is necessary to explore how people utilise media, particularly social
media, to achieve a better understanding of how the media facilitates and in-
fluences people’s decisions to leave religion.
Online environments create favourable circumstances for small religious
groups to disseminate their message and reach potentially interested people
without the mediation of mainstream media. Furthermore, it provides the
space for like-minded people to seek information not otherwise featured on
mainstream media (Campbell 2010; Taira 2013: 213). However, the same holds
true for people interested in leaving religion. Just as Muslims post their conver-
sion narratives on the internet (van Nieuwkerk 2014), so do people who leave
any religious tradition (Enstedt and Larsson 2013). Similarly, just as the internet
has been dubbed a “recruitment tool for cults” (Rick Ross, quoted in Cowan
2014: 698), there is equally evidence for people leaving religion because of op-
portunities opened up by free online access to information and like-minded
people.
A useful example about the significance of media in general and social me-
dia in particular can be found in the example of people who have left Con-
servative Læstadianism in Finland. Læstadianism is a Lutheran revival move-
ment that started in Lapland in the middle of the nineteenth century. In the
twenty first century, the movement has been under scrutiny by the liberal
media, partly because of practices in the faith perceived as oppressive. The
Media and Communication Approaches to leaving religion 341

movement is also somewhat closed, with problems typically being dealt with-
in the community, without involvement from outsiders, the police or a secular
court of ­justice. Members usually also cut ties with people who abandon the
movement.
Stories by former Læstadians on the internet empower individuals on the
brink of leaving the movement. When people write anonymously in a discus-
sion forum, they find that other people have had similar experiences and con-
cerns. This sharing of narratives encourages such individuals to come out in
public, and the mainstream media, in turn, is eager to publish their stories and
explore the cases further, forcing leaders of the group to comment on accusa-
tions made in the public. The ensuing publicity and scandal further empower
those who have been nursing doubts that they have yet acted on to share their
viewpoints (Hintsala 2016; Rova 2016.). The opportunities offered by online
environments to members of the movement create an accretion of scandal,
aided from the outside by the media. Despite the crucial role of the online
environment, the decision to leave religion usually necessitates some kind of
face-to-face contact with people that can be trusted (Richardson 2014: 745).
In the case of Læstadianism, apostates have noted public speeches, partisan
associations and scholarly writings as facilitators relevant to their decision to
leave the movement (Rova 2016).
Another example is an American 21-year-old, “Lynnette,” a former Evangeli-
cal Christian who writes about how her brother came out on his Facebook
page as an atheist, which in turn helped her to “separate actual atheist be-
liefs from the stigma against atheism” (Lynnette 2014: 38). After a couple of
months, she began to explore atheist blogs and concluded that atheists, too,
can be good people. When Lynnette had been an atheist for almost two years,
she thought that she was still only halfway out of the closet. She has mentioned
her atheism on Facebook profile information, but has been afraid to announce
it elsewhere. (Lynnette 2014: 38–39). This example includes both trusted peo-
ple and lesser-known blog contributors, demonstrating that media matters,
though it is not the sole factor operating behind one’s choice to leave religion.
The role media plays in facilitating apostasy is further evidenced among for-
mer Mormons in America. A study of people leaving Mormonism confirms
three relevant aspects of the online environment: first, even innocent queries
for information lead to “anti-Mormon” websites that can sow seeds of doubt
and serve as catalysts for people to abandon the religion; second, online com-
munities of former Mormons can function as sanctuaries in which people can
share their stories with like-minded people, get recognition for their new ex-
Mormon identity and sustain themselves in a new community; third, rather
than offering a neutral space for individuals to share their stories, the websites
342 Taira

encourage “users to post their ‘exit stories’ and to offer ‘support’ to one an-
other” (Avance 2013: 21).
Interviews with people affiliated to non-religious organisations reveal that
some have found inspiration for leaving religion and joining non-religious ac-
tivities by watching Dawkins on YouTube or reading books on atheism (Kon-
tala 2016: 109). While the book has been an important medium for a long time,
the online environment has become increasingly relevant in recent years in
empowering and inspiring people to come out as atheists (Cimino and Smith
2014). In addition to watching and reading online about non-religiosity and
atheism, people find websites sharing information about the experiences of
their peers. For example, on the website of Richard Dawkins, the Foundation
for Science and Reason, is a Convert’s Corner—a page where users can leave
testimonies on how they became non-religious and read about the experi-
ences of others. As of the beginning of 2017, more than 2000 testimonies are
published there.
User testimonies can also be found on select Facebook groups. One particu-
larly interesting example is the Facebook page of the film Religulous (2008). On
4 October 2013, the administrator posted the following message: “Religulous
opened 5 yrs ago today; still religious people in the world (damn!) but to thou-
sands who told me they quit, congrats and Thank YOU!.” Users commented on
this in many ways. In addition to praise and stories about attempts to convert
others, some offered testimonies about the film’s life-changing experience,
such as the following: “I honestly have to thank you, because I saw this movie
when I was 13 and it changed my life. Thank you for questioning every religion.
I’m a big fan and congratulations.”
Yet another example is The Institute for the Secularisation of Islamic Societ-
ies, which mainly opposes Islam as a political doctrine not as a personal faith,
though the institute nevertheless supports people leaving Islam. Even in their
classic publication, Leaving Islam (Warraq 2003), the institute advertised their
own website, including a list of websites where assistance and support could
be found. They understood the potential of the online environment in these
matters already at the beginning of twenty first century. More recently, the
importance of the internet and social media in the Islamic context has been
emphasised by Brian Whitaker, who suggests that non-believers in the Middle
East have “begun to find a voice” and “social media have provided them with
the tools to express themselves.” (Whitaker 2014: 5). Although there are broader
demands for political and social changes that come with the interest in leaving
religion, the development of media technology and easy access thereto means
that “young Arabs today are far more aware of the outside world than previous
generations and, when they hold up their own countries to the mirror, many
Media and Communication Approaches to leaving religion 343

dislike what they see” (Whitaker 2014: 6). Leaving Islam, facilitated by media
use, is one possible response to this cognitive dissonance.
The potential power of individuals’ media use is also recognized by state of-
ficials, since “most of those arrested for ‘defaming’ religion have got[ten] into
trouble as a result of their internet activity” (Whitaker 2014: 27). The signifi-
cance of the internet is further emphasised by an ex-Muslim, Ali A. Rizvi, the
author of The Atheist Muslim (2016), who claims to have received “thousands
of emails” from atheist Muslims (or people wishing to become one but cannot
do so in public). He suggests that especially young people are now intercon-
nected, and they are “getting access to ideas through the Internet. They are
becoming more skeptical.” (Rizvi 2017).
Given the ubiquity of mediated information about the possibilities of leav-
ing religion and supporting networks, it has become clear that the outside of
religion is not somewhere “out there” but rather “here”—available after a cou-
ple of clicks. It is not simply the easy accessibility of information; the online
environment allows people to imagine themselves as potentially a part of a
non-religious community (Cottee 2015). As Cimino and Smith (2014: 64) put it,
“the substantial transformations in our contemporary communication tech-
nologies are creating a new way for atheists to come out, speak out, and meet
up in a still largely religious society.” This does not explain why individuals
leave religion, but it does suggest that it would be unwise not to consider the
role played by the consumption of media and communication technologies in
the process of leaving religion.

3 Methodological Perspectives and Turning Points

The methods for studying the role of media and communication in leaving
religion are not very different from standard humanistic and social scientific
methods. However, some methods are more suitable than others for studying
the different aspects highlighted in this chapter.
First, the study of media logics calls for methods that help grapple with the
roles and functions of media institutions generally and also the relationship
between the media and other institutions in contemporary society. The most
appropriate way to study media logics in relation to leaving religion is the de-
velopment of theories based on case studies. Second, media discourses can be
studied by utilising standard qualitative methods such as discourse analysis,
content analysis and narrative analysis. It is also possible to add quantitative
content analysis to the methodical repertoire, particularly if the hypothesis
is that the availability of certain kinds of stories pertaining to religion affects
344 Taira

people’s decisions to leave religion. Third, media use can be analysed by means
of ethnographic methods, such as interviews, observation, media ethnography
and audience research. Furthermore, the increased digitalisation of society
and the growing significance of the online environment carry methodological
implications. Netnography, online surveys, video analysis and digital methods
operating with “big data” are likely to increase in the near future.
It would be unrealistic to propose that an individual researcher would be
able to cover all the aspects highlighted in this chapter. From the individual’s
point of view, it is rather a question of singling out the most relevant and in-
teresting approach, hoping that different studies will cumulatively foster a dia-
logue that results in a more coherent and rigorous understanding of the role
media plays in leaving religion. In addition to an exploration of the individual
testimonies people share on such websites as Dawkins’s Convert’s Corner and
WikiIslam, a more general study of the media’s role could proceed in two steps.
The first step would be to investigate what role, if any, the media plays in
people’s decisions to leave religion. Although media ethnography is often
enough for studying the role of media use, one option would be to collect writ-
ings by people who have left religion, and select for interviews individuals in
whose writings the role of media has been addressed directly.
The second step would be to explore media coverage of leaving religion.
Although there are plenty of studies focusing on media discourses, representa-
tions and narratives pertaining to religion, few studies investigate the way the
media covers the leaving of religion.
Together, these two steps could provide building blocks for a more com-
prehensive understanding of media logics, media discourses and media use in
relation to the study of leaving religion.

4 Critical Reflections, Evaluations and Predictions

I have suggested that the significance of the role played by media in leaving
religion has not been examined thoroughly enough. However, if the assertions
about the ubiquity of media are to be believed, it can be expected that media
will become more relevant in the future. There is thus a need for studies to
specify which roles media play in leaving religion, but it may be more precise
to anticipate that media are becoming common factors in facilitating people’s
decisions but also in creating new circumstances in which various options em-
phasising individual choice are introduced. Therefore, it is likely that the study
of leaving religion will have to take media and communications into consider-
ation in order to understand apostates in general.
Media and Communication Approaches to leaving religion 345

5 Suggestions How to Do It

This chapter has outlined various focal points for the study of the role of media
and communication in leaving religion and suggested some methods. This in-
clusion of a variety of media means that thinking about media convergence is
significant for future studies. Convergence means simply the “coming together
of things that were previously separate” (Meikle and Young 2012: 2), while me-
dia convergence refers specifically to “the flow of content across multiple me-
dia platforms, the cooperation of media industries, and the migratory behav-
iour of media audiences” (Jenkins 2008: 2). What this means in the context of
studying leaving religion is that researchers have to pay attention to the inter-
play of various media—newspapers, radio, television, social media and other
online environments at the levels of media logics and discourses—as well as
the multiple ways people use them. While specific media technologies privi-
lege some opportunities over others, as suggested by traditional medium the-
ory, the media convergence means that no single medium exists in a vacuum.
One possible example to highlight media convergences and combine the
three areas examined in this chapter—usage, discourses and media logics—
would be the Finnish website Eroa kirkosta1 (“Divorce from the Church”) and
the role it plays in people giving up faith. At the level of media use, it has been
shown that most Finns who resigned from the church in recent times have
done so through this website.2 Furthermore, through the website, people have
familiarised themselves with associations and networks that support those
without a religion. At the level of media discourse, it would be relevant to fo-
cus on the strong public presence of the website in the mainstream media. The
website publishes press releases with information pertaining to the number
of apostates and reasons people give for leaving the church. Often, documents
prompt other media outlets to publish stories about resignations, referring to
the website’s press releases—quoting reasons from testimonies and the statis-
tical data published there—with little alteration. This likewise offers a glimpse
into the media logic. Writing stories about mass resignations is considered rel-
evant news material; it is cheap news production for media houses, as reliable
data and sound bites are provided in the press release, and the message of the
press release—that is leaving religion if you have any reason to do so—is not
too far from the liberal standpoint of the mainstream media.
This example suggests a more general point: it is not simply the media that
matters but the articulations between media and people’s social practices. The

1 https://eroakirkosta.fi/dynamic/index.php/ Accessed 25/02/2019.

2 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eroakirkosta.fi Accessed 25/02/2019.
346 Taira

media is an integral part of the ways in which people practice their religiosity,
but also their considerations to leave religion, and opens up opportunities for
people who wish to leave their religion, though the media is rarely the primary
factor for doing so. Media help people find information and seek out support;
this fact underlines the significance of thinking about how media is articulated
in the process of leaving religion.

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Index

Abner of Burgos 255, 262–263 Apostasy 2–7, 14, 28–30, 36, 39, 67–77,

Absolutism 326 81–93, 116, 118, 155–156, 176, 183, 201, 203,
Abuse 188, 191–193, 195, 204 206, 217, 221, 225, 231, 239, 255, 257–263,
Acculturation 262 267, 278–289, 294–299, 301–302, 341
Adhesion 256, 262 Ethno-apostasy 142, 187
Aestethic experiences 165–167, 173, 300, 302, Apostasy narrative 212, 225, 263, 301, 303
312, 337 Apostate 6, 15, 62, 67, 69, 72, 75, 77, 85, 88,
Affiliation → Religious, affiliation 90, 92, 207, 217, 228, 231, 255, 259, 260,
Africa 23, 73, 176, 269–270 262, 279, 286, 298
Afterlife 281 Apostates 4, 28, 32, 39, 62, 72, 76, 82–86,
Age 3, 58, 73, 142, 154, 160–161, 167, 169, 179, 90, 92–93, 116, 127, 139, 176, 201, 207,
194, 221, 224, 249, 269, 280–281, 212–213, 216, 231–232, 237, 258–261, 282,
283–284, 294, 301, 309, 328 284, 297–302, 337, 341, 344–345
Age as an Era 75 Arya Samaj 15, 18, 22
Age of Reason 72 Asia 17, 32, 34, 88, 91, 118, 269–270
Hellenistic Age 47 Assimilation 58, 71, 202, 206
Agents 236, 308–309 Association of Religion Data Archives 288
Agency 105, 120, 126, 234, 263, 268, 302, 308 Atheism 15, 47, 53, 69–71, 76, 81, 189, 222,
Super-human agency 308 242–251, 268, 270, 293, 237, 340–342
Agnostic 181, 187, 244–247, 268 Atheist 4, 44, 46–47, 51–53, 70–72, 76, 99,
Agnosticism 1, 222, 245–246, 268 168, 180–181, 187, 212, 221, 222, 228,
Alcohol 6, 121, 156, 183, 201, 222, 282–283, 242–249, 251, 284, 286, 307, 315,
299 338–343
Alfonso of Valladolid 255, 262–263 Attendance → Church attendance
Algorithm 273 Austria 68, 83, 271
American pragmatist 332 Authorities 34, 56, 60, 62–63, 69, 87, 103, 116,
Analysis 3, 50, 113–114, 132, 140, 147, 177, 180, 143, 211, 214, 217–218, 336
189, 191, 203, 211–213, 217, 235, 237, 242, Autobiographical 146, 263, 325, 331
251, 258, 260–261, 269, 275, 278, Autobiography 2, 57, 59, 63, 324, 329, 333
282–284, 288, 295, 297, 302, 324–333,
340, 343–344 Baptism 68, 154–155, 158–160, 194–195, 210,
Ambedkar, Bhimrao 99–114 262
Ancient 7, 44–50, 53, 74, 233, 256, 316 Belief 3–4, 45, 49, 69, 83, 86, 90, 92, 107, 114,
Animism 270 142, 150, 160, 164, 167–168, 172, 173, 179,
Annales school 259 186, 189–190, 193, 195, 221–223, 225, 237,
Anthropology, anthropological 99, 132, 189, 243, 246, 250–251, 256–263, 267–268,
194, 258–259, 292n, 309, 315–316 270–272, 274, 279, 281, 283, 288, 294–295,
Anthropomorphism 308 297, 300–302, 307–316, 326n, 328–329
Anti-authoritarianism 293 belief incompatibility 126, 179
Anticult organisations, anti-cult ‘believing in belonging’ 73, 268
movement 5, 232, 236, 239, 296 ‘believing without belonging’ 73, 189,
Anti-gay 309 268
Anti-Jewish polemic 255 ‘belonging without believing’ 73, 221,
Anti-Muslim rhetoric 201, 301 268
Anti-religious 72, 99, 191 intuitive belief 45
Antireligious discourses 340 reflective belief 45
350 Index

Bible 57, 67, 70, 74–75, 159, 212–214, 216, 248 Evangelicals 32, 58, 60, 63, 72, 75, 77, 146,
Biblical literalism 281 156, 159–160, 164–173, 300, 327, 329, 341
Big data 272, 287, 344 Lutheranism 70, 74, 76–77, 175–177, 214,
Biological 50, 215, 310, 312–314, 332 336–338, 340
Neurobiological 311 Orthodox 70–72
Birth 28n, 99, 105, 142, 157, 161, 221, 225, Pentecostalism 6, 72, 74–75, 77, 175–183,
268–269 186, 212–214
Birth-rate 15 Protestantism 17, 70, 72, 76, 86, 118, 127,
Blog 177, 338, 340–341 173, 188, 216, 270, 282, 294
Brain 308–314, 316, 332 Christian mystics 308
Brain-imaging Chronology 263
Brainwashing hypothesis 231–232, 234–236, Class→Social class
239, 292, 296, 301, 338 Cognitive 45, 125n, 167, 176, 179, 180, 270,
Buddhism 6–7, 14, 16, 19, 21–23, 28–40, 304, 308–309, 311, 313–316, 333
58–59, 99, 111–113, 117, 128, 302, 338, 131, Cognitive dissonance, cognitive
136, 139–140, 232, 268, 270, 302, 338 discrepancy 119, 126, 179–180, 183,
Theravada 116–128, 136, 270 296, 343
Vipassana meditation 130–141 Cognition 179, 312, 332
Cohort 190, 280–281, 300
Cambodia 31, 270 College students 165, 294, 300
Canada 39, 60, 144, 151, 298–299 Colonialism, Colonisation 57, 70–71, 88, 99,
Capital (forms of) 160–161, 188, 269, 272 117, 269–270, 273, 323
Caste 15–16, 19–24, 100–102, 104, 106–108, 110 Commitment 70, 120, 131, 135, 137, 140, 186,
Castilian 255 189, 202, 233, 282, 293–294, 324–326,
Celsus 256 329, 337
Census 14, 17n, 73, 187, 195, 287, 294 Communication 205–206, 210, 335, 343–345
Childhood 170, 214, 242, 244, 249–251, 279, Communism 32–33, 71, 118, 120–121, 126–127,
282, 298 234, 269–270
China 31, 234, 270 Community 2, 4, 18–19, 28–29, 36, 56, 59, 60,
Choice 19, 24, 63, 70, 89, 105, 140, 157, 224, 62, 71, 75, 81, 83–84, 86, 88, 90, 92,
261, 268, 297, 341, 344 110–111, 117, 119, 142–149, 154–156, 161,
Church 2, 57, 64, 67–69, 74–77, 86, 139, 164, 168, 170–171, 175–176, 181, 187, 194,
154–161, 170, 175–177, 186–196, 200–207, 201–202, 211, 214–215, 221–222, 256,
210, 214–216, 218, 232, 236–238, 248, 297, 270–271, 279, 295n, 297, 300n, 303, 310,
299–300, 309, 330, 336–339, 345 325, 330, 338, 341, 343
Church attendance 2, 68, 73, 188, 206, Congregation 29, 154, 175–183, 210, 212–218
280–281, 283–284, 286, 288, 297n Conservatism 139, 143–144, 146, 157, 181,
Christianity 1, 6–7, 14, 17, 19, 21, 23, 29, 191–193, 195, 224, 309, 336, 338–339
35–36, 39, 45–46, 48, 57–64, 67–77, 113, Context 1, 45–46, 51, 58, 68, 103, 109, 118, 131,
118, 175, 183, 189, 210–218, 232–233, 235, 136, 138–140, 142–143, 173, 177, 191,
239, 256, 262, 268, 270–272, 292, 298, 210–212, 216, 228, 234, 255–263,
323, 325, 329 267–269, 271, 273, 279, 285–286, 288,
Amish 154–161 297, 302–303, 310, 323–324, 327–328,
Catholicism 70, 186–196, 250, 255, 270 332, 336–337, 342, 345
Catholic 2, 17, 61, 63–64, 68–70, 75–76, Conversion 3–5, 14–15, 17–24, 29, 35–36,
186–196, 236, 248, 271, 294, 309 55–58, 61–63, 71, 75, 82, 99, 108–113,
Conservative Protestants 75, 157–159, 118–120, 124–128, 131–132, 142, 145–146,
167, 170, 282, 340 154, 164–165, 167, 175, 179, 181, 183, 200,
Index 351

210–217, 221, 231–235, 239, 255–263, 267, Deconversion 2, 4, 102, 108–109, 111–113,
271–275, 296, 323, 326–328, 335, 340, 118–119, 124–128, 132, 137, 139, 145–146,
342 150, 164–165, 167–168, 172–174, 203, 221,
Conversion career 207, 232–233, 297, 327, 232–233, 257, 262, 267, 279, 292, 295n,
337 296, 309–310, 323–331
Convert, converts 17–18, 22, 29, 35–36, Defection → Religious, defection
57–58, 83, 86–87, 93, 120, 124, 177, 179, Defector, defectors 2, 6, 59, 139–140, 156, 231,
183, 200, 206, 210–218, 231, 234, 255, 260, 237–238, 294–295
262, 267–268, 271, 297, 309–310 Defrock, disrobe 30, 32, 34, 39, 117
Coping 6, 36, 127, 222, 313, 332 Dementia 311
Council of Ex-Muslims of Britain 338 Demographic 139, 144, 261, 267–269,
Counterculture 18, 172, 232, 293 272–273, 281–282, 295, 300, 316
Counterintuitive 312 Demography 272–273
Cult, cults 2, 16, 44–45, 47, 49, 52, 131, 158, Denomination 68, 143, 147
202, 231, 234–235, 239, 292, 296, 338, Denominational 143–144, 147, 151, 279
340 Deprogramming 232, 234–236, 239, 292
Cultural 2, 7, 13, 17, 24, 36, 67, 71–72, 74, 76, De-ritualisation 262
100–101, 125, 140, 142–143, 145–146, 155, Desacralise 275
160, 179–183, 186–195, 203, 207, 220, 262, Descriptive analysis 282–284
267, 271, 285, 294, 297, 300, 307–311, 316, Desecularised 1
326, 331–332, 336 Desire 58, 82, 90, 121, 126, 138, 159, 172,
Cultural capital 160–161, 272 187–188, 297, 307
Cultural habits 6 Development 6, 31, 58, 72–73, 77, 112n, 117,
Cultural practices 24, 160, 194, 201, 131, 140, 179, 191, 211, 233–234, 269, 272,
205–206 278, 281, 292, 300, 302, 311, 314–316,
Cultural studies 257, 316 324n, 326, 331, 336–337, 342–343
Cross-cultural 316 Deviant 67, 69, 156, 178–179, 222, 229,
Culture 1, 14, 17, 21–22, 24, 71, 76, 142–145, 233–234, 256, 299, 302
156, 171–172, 175, 179–183, 190, 201, 217, Devil 176, 178–180
220, 223, 225–226, 228, 231, 234, 239, Digital technology 273
269, 293, 296, 307, 309, 336 Disaffiliation → Religious, disaffiliation
Disbelief 204, 224, 242–243, 248, 259
Data 5, 7, 144–147, 149, 151, 157, 177–178, 187, Discourse 29, 31, 36–37, 44, 47, 125, 127n, 128,
189, 191, 203, 210, 242, 244, 250, 257, 261, 131–134, 137, 140, 142, 147, 165, 186, 193,
263, 272–273, 278–288, 294, 300, 212, 225, 239, 257–259, 262, 263, 267,
308–309, 312, 338, 344–345 269, 273–275, 296, 301, 332, 335,
Cross-sectional data 280–281 337–338, 340, 343–345
Large-scale data 272, 274, 280–281, 285, Discourse analysis 258, 260–261, 326, 329
288 Discursive 125, 133, 257, 268, 326–327,
Secondary data 281, 287–288 330–331
Datasets 272, 274 Discrepancy 119, 125–127, 179–180, 183, 225
Dawkins’s Convert’s Corner 344 Discrimination 5, 15, 19, 21–23, 100–102, 310
Death 21–23, 28n, 30–31, 63, 75, 82, 105, Disenchantment 294, 324
112–113, 123, 201, 212, 215, 267, 307, 313 Disrobe → defrock
Death penalty, sentenced to death, capital Divergence 23, 142, 149
punishment 50, 52, 69, 81–90, 92–93, Doctrine 16, 30, 36–37, 63, 76–77, 116–117,
222 121, 123–124, 126, 130, 137, 139–140, 201,
Declaration of Human Rights 3, 103 204–205, 228, 268, 342
352 Index

Dopamine system 310–312 Ex-Muslims 5–6, 212, 217, 224, 299, 301, 303,

Doubt 2, 52, 119, 121, 123, 125–128, 133–135, 338–339, 343
138, 140, 144, 167–173, 203–207, 220, 223, Ex-Pentecostal 6, 177
231, 236, 251, 257, 262, 287, 293, 295n, Experiment, experimental 37, 103, 233, 309,
296, 310–311, 341 313–314
Dream narrative 332
Dualism 268 Facebook 177, 203n, 341, 342
Faith 15–18, 20, 28–29, 35–36, 55–57, 60, 64,
Early modern 63, 256–257 67, 69, 72, 74, 76–77, 81–83, 86, 89,
Economic 5, 21, 45, 102, 104, 107, 126, 128, 140, 103–104, 109, 112, 142, 149, 154, 156, 159,
155, 188, 191, 257, 259, 267, 269–270, 166, 170–172, 188, 190, 194–195, 200–207,
299–301, 304, 323 210–217, 220, 222–223, 225, 227, 231, 235,
Economy 236, 302 239, 244–245, 251, 256–258, 261–263,
Ecstatic religious experiences 175, 179, 307 294, 295n, 297–299, 323–333, 339–342,
Education 19, 34, 60, 67, 91, 100–101, 104, 113, 345
139, 143, 147–148, 155, 160–161, 178, 188, Family 2, 5, 28, 36, 38–39, 46, 50–51, 63,
194–195, 269, 282, 284, 294, 298, 84–85, 87, 100, 122, 139, 143–144, 154,
300–301, 309–310, 315 156–160, 169, 176, 181–184, 192, 194, 201,
Emotion 2, 45, 103, 119, 125–126, 128, 132, 134, 204–206, 211–213, 215, 217, 222, 224–227,
138, 158–159, 170–172, 175–176, 179–183, 234, 238, 251, 297, 299–300, 302,
224, 234, 243, 272, 293–295, 303, 327–328
309–311, 325–326, 328, 331 Father figure 307
Empirical 6–7, 211–213, 217, 221, 273, 279, Female 30, 34, 39, 74, 84–85, 150, 157, 160,
284, 292, 314, 324 188, 234, 274
Enlightenment 31, 38, 44, 47, 49, 57–58, 70, Fieldwork 5, 7, 118, 132, 164–165, 177, 211–213,
72, 75, 77, 88, 131, 134–137, 204, 257, 259 217, 292, 301
Epistemological 138, 243–247, 261 Finland 3, 24, 29, 68, 74, 176, 183, 336–338,
Ethical 31, 38, 47, 108, 117, 178, 293, 301 340
Ethnic 17, 24, 64, 71, 142, 144–145, 150–151, Food 119, 121, 143, 149, 216, 299, 303, 313
186–188, 191, 193, 196, 213, 221, 271 Freedom of Religion 4–5, 14, 70, 87, 91, 113
Ethnographic 132, 155, 165, 169, 177, 260–261,
301, 344 Gandhi, Mahatma Mohandas 20–21, 23,
Ethnography 263, 344 102–108
Euripides 44, 50–53 Gender 5, 39, 58, 74, 132, 143, 149, 155,
Europe 2, 5, 48, 58, 64, 69–70, 72–73, 84, 91, 160–161, 221, 243, 251, 269, 284, 297,
186, 216, 257, 259, 287–288, 338 300–302
Eastern Europe 70, 270 General Social Survey 279–280, 284
Western Europe 1n, 5, 48, 69–70, 187, 271, Geography 77, 221, 238, 262, 267–269, 271,
292 273–275, 282
Evangelical-Lutheran Church of Finland → Geographies of religion 273–274
Christianity, Lutheran Human geography 271
Evolutionary 309, 313, 316, 324 Germany 17, 68, 71, 187, 238, 279, 283, 398
Exit 2–3, 105, 127, 131–132, 134, 138–140, Ghar Wapsis 15, 18–19
145–146, 157, 164, 176–183, 186, 192, 200, God 6, 16, 20, 49, 56, 59, 62, 67, 71–72, 75–76,
202–207, 231–232, 235–237, 239, 81, 90, 103, 149, 156, 166, 168, 176, 194,
242–243, 248, 250–251, 267, 273, 292, 201, 205, 212–213, 224–225, 232–233, 235,
295–301, 302, 309, 330, 342 243–249, 282–283, 285, 287–288,
Excommunication 68, 69, 75, 155–156 307–310, 314–315, 328, 339
Index 353

Goenka, S. N. 130–140 Image (impression) 139, 212–217, 224, 237,

Greece 43–44, 49–51, 53, 85, 316 258, 260, 296, 301, 307, 332, 337, 340
Immanent 136, 268, 297, 332
Habits 6, 87, 183, 225, 294, 302–303, 337 Immigration, immigrant → Migration
Happiness 313 India 13, 16–24, 39, 99, 101–102, 107, 111–113,
Hate crimes 5 135, 316
Health 155, 195, 282–283, 302, 313, 315 Indigenous 71, 211, 270, 323
Hebrew 55–57, 60, 255, 262, 275 Individualism 117–118, 120, 126n, 150, 201,
Heresy 6–7, 67, 69, 81, 83, 90, 116, 255, 257, 225, 239, 293, 299, 337
259 Institution 2, 13–14, 69, 70, 91, 107, 110, 113,
Heretics 4, 6, 38, 56, 67–69, 76–77, 90–91, 144–145, 147, 176, 194–195, 234, 238–239,
116–118, 128, 255, 263 284, 297, 309, 323, 329, 336–337, 343
Hierarchy 19, 23, 29, 38, 107, 193, 238, 256, Institutionalised religion 132, 140, 144, 161,
263 186–191, 193, 195, 201, 232, 238, 294, 299,
Hinduism 6–7, 13–24, 99–113, 123, 268, 302, 309, 332, 337
338 International Social Survey Program 279–
Historiography 257–259, 262–263 280, 285
History 4, 23, 48, 52, 57, 59–60, 67, 77, 82, 85, Infantile 307–308
93, 102, 109, 113, 117n, 135, 167, 175, Inferential statistics 283–284
201–202, 204, 214, 224, 236, 258–263, Institute for the Secularisation of Islamic
269, 307–308, 327–328, 331, 333 Societies, The 342
Holistic 140, 172, 274 Interdisciplinary 113, 132, 316
Holy Spirit 75–76 Internalised 190, 295
Homosexual, homosexuality 223–227, Internet 91, 177, 237–239, 287, 335, 340–343
336–337 Intersectionality 161, 220–221, 227, 302
Hustler magazine 339 Interview 5, 35, 118, 126, 132, 140, 142,
Hybridity 262 146–147, 177, 190, 211–213, 215, 221, 242,
Hypocrisy 90, 148, 191–192, 195, 325 244–246, 248, 299–300, 316, 324,
Hysterical 308 328–331, 338, 342, 344
Intrinsic estimator models 281
Identity 3, 5, 35, 59, 70–71, 91–92, 142, Inquisition 57, 260
146–147, 164–165, 168–169, 171, 173, Intuitive 45, 157, 159, 308–309, 312, 314
175, 177, 179–180, 201, 203, 206–207, Iran 4, 81, 84, 86–87, 210, 211, 213
213, 220, 222–223, 226–228, 231, Iraq 4, 82, 214, 302
249–250, 255, 262–263, 272, 286, Ireland 186–196
296, 325, 335, 338, 341 Irreligiosity 1, 22, 108, 220–221, 228, 292–293,
Collective identity 16–17, 19, 22, 61, 120, 297n, 299
128, 148, 151, 164, 168, 172, 186–187, Islam 1, 4–7, 15, 17, 19, 21, 23, 36, 57, 59,
190–191, 202, 206, 212, 222, 228, 255, 325, 63–64, 71, 75, 77, 81–93, 113, 118, 177,
341 210–218, 220–228, 248, 270, 272, 292,
Religious identity 6, 13–14, 23, 64, 100, 299, 301–303, 338–339, 342–343
186, 193, 207, 215, 217, 227–228, 256, 267, Islamic 4, 6–7, 71, 81–86, 90–92, 220–221,
297, 301, 337 224, 275, 302, 342
Sexual identity 3 Islamic State (isis) 4, 92
Social identity 18, 23, 194 Israel 56, 60–62, 145, 272, 275, 298
Ideology, ideological 16, 19, 92, 102, 104, 110,
119, 121, 133, 140, 160, 224, 236, 243, 323 Jainism 14, 16, 113, 302
Image (illustration) 67, 166, 311 Jamaica 270
354 Index

Jesus 55, 60, 63, 74–75, 77, 159, 170, 213–214, Mediatisation 336–337

287, 309 Medieval 22, 69, 255, 257–261
Judaism 6, 55–64, 69, 142–151, 203, 255, 258, Medium theory 345
262–263, 292, 298, 301, 338 Membership 14, 18, 23, 67–68, 73, 75, 142,
Ashkenaz 258 147, 150, 175, 178, 201–202, 206, 231, 285,
Hasidic Jews 299–300 287, 338
Orthodox Jews, Judaism 61, 63, 142–151, Mental representations 308
292, 300n Me-society 299
Metaphor, metaphorical 134, 137–138,
Khmer Rouge 270 226–227, 247, 272, 329, 331
Koran → Quran Metaphysical 117, 307, 309
Method, methodology 1–2, 6–7, 36, 91,
Latin 255 108–110, 132, 137, 146, 158, 165, 168, 177,
Latin America 176, 186, 270 203, 210, 217, 221, 255–257, 259–261, 274,
Læstadianism 175, 340–341 278–281, 284–289, 300, 302, 313–316,
Liberal 1, 85, 157, 190, 193, 213, 297n, 336, 324, 326, 328–331, 333, 343–345
339–340, 345 Microhistory 259
Liberalism 72, 75, 77, 297n Microlevel 274
Lifecycle 267, 269 Migration
Life events 248, 267, 269, 313 Asylum 89, 210, 214–215, 217
Life stories 299, 300, 335 Asylum seeker 210–218
Linguistic identities 271 Immigrant 212
Linguistic turn 257–258, 261 Immigration 155, 210, 214, 218, 272
Literary studies 257 Migration 2, 132, 140, 154, 210–211,
Longitudinal 269, 272, 280, 282, 286, 302 213–215, 217, 225, 228, 267, 269, 271, 296,
Longue-durée 259 302
Mission 15, 17, 60, 205, 212, 339
Macro-level 187, 269, 274 Missionary 21, 35–36, 58, 60, 63, 70, 200,
Magic 38, 45, 49 210–213, 233
Male 29–30, 34, 44, 145, 157, 160, 269, 284 Missionisation 269, 323
Manipulation 211, 272, 296, 301 Mixed methods 274, 286, 328, 331
Manipulation in experimental study 314 Mobility 2, 175, 177, 183, 267, 297
Maoist era 270 Modernisation 1, 70, 117, 269–270
Marijuana 282–283 Modernist 134, 136, 268
Marriage 19, 21, 62, 74, 117, 121, 201, 204, 267, Monastery 29–30, 34, 39, 63, 131
283 Moral, morality 2–3, 30, 50–51, 70, 72, 75–76,
Inter-religious marriage 60–61, 269 103, 111, 119, 125–128, 130, 133, 139, 167,
Marxist philosophy 270 170, 175, 181, 186–196, 245, 293–294,
Marxist theory 293 295n, 297n, 310, 313, 325, 328, 332
Meaning-making 120, 313, 316, 337 Mormonism (Church of Latter Day
Measuring 238, 242, 251, 278 Saints) 139, 200–207, 248, 297, 330,
Media 58, 86, 91–92, 156, 177, 193, 200, 203n, 341
211, 234, 296, 335–346 Motivation 30, 58, 92, 113, 119, 127, 155,
Media culture 336 159–160, 190–191, 205, 269, 285, 296, 298,
Media discourse 193, 335, 337, 339–340, 308, 315, 335, 340
343–345 Motive 109–110, 119, 126–127, 156, 159, 223,
Media logic 335–337, 340, 343–345 259, 261–262
Television 38–39, 91, 156, 188, 234, 336, Multiple religious belonging 248, 303, 326
340, 345 Multireligious 274
Index 355

Multivariate modelling 272, 283–284 Panel studies 282

Muslim 1, 4, 13, 15–23, 32, 36, 55, 71, 81, Paradigm 45, 48, 53, 91, 125, 138, 256, 262,
83–86, 88, 90–91, 93, 127, 149, 210–213, 271, 297, 313, 323, 325, 330
215–217, 221–226, 228, 271, 299, 309, 340, Parkinson’s disease 311–312
343 Patriarchy 37, 188, 269
Sunni Muslims 4 Pedophilia 2
Shia Muslims 4, 221 Performance 164, 168, 330, 333
Myanmar 31, 118 Performative, performativity 105, 149,
Mystery cults 45, 49 164–165, 167, 172, 331
Mysticism 259 Pew Research Center 1–2, 73, 143, 186n, 200,
202, 243, 271, 287–288
Narrative 2, 13, 47, 99, 116, 118–119, 124–126, Philippines 270
130–140, 145–146, 148–149, 151, 155, 158, Pietistic 263
177, 192–193, 203–205, 212–213, 215–217, Piety 142, 144, 147, 149, 188, 233, 256
223, 225–227, 232, 234, 248, 258–260, Political 3, 5, 17, 32, 73, 83–87, 91–92, 99, 101,
263, 298, 300–303, 324–333, 337–341, 344 104, 109, 113, 121, 131, 140, 216, 227, 267,
Narrative analysis 132, 260, 325–333, 343 270–271, 274–275, 281–282, 284, 297n,
National Longitudinal 282 323, 342
Netnography 344 Political scientists 157, 273
Neurological 307, 310 Polyconfessional 274
New religious movements 5, 17, 120, Pope, the 64, 76, 287
231–239, 292, 323, 338 Popular culture 156, 234, 296, 309
Nondenominational 274 Population 1–2, 15, 17, 31, 71, 73, 139, 144, 148,
Nones 2n, 292, 315, 338 154, 177–178, 186–187, 191, 233, 243, 269,
Non-heterosexual 298 271–272, 275, 283–288, 299
Non-religion 2, 191, 242–251, 271, 274, 294, Porn 339
299, 316, 337 Positivist 259, 324–326, 328–331, 333
Normative 49, 143–144, 149–150, 220–221, Postcolonial 273
223, 226–228, 257, 268, 273–274, 286 Post-secularisation 271
Norway 17, 210, 212–216 Postmodern 274
Poststructuralist 220, 271
Objective 7, 195, 256 Power 4, 17, 33, 37–39, 51, 70–73, 75, 77, 88,
Objectivist fallacy 293–294 93, 104–105, 110, 142, 177–179, 188, 200,
Online 76, 195, 203, 237–238, 288, 325, 335, 212, 221, 224, 228, 232, 234, 244, 247, 249,
340–345 272–273, 294, 302, 336, 343
Openness to experience 310, 326 Prayer 56–57, 170, 213, 281
Organisation 7, 15, 18–19, 22–23, 58, 60, 63, Prejudice 118, 137, 296, 301, 310
106, 125, 130, 132, 139–140, 147, 176, 179, Premarital sex 282–283
200–203, 206–207, 210, 231, 237, 293, Pre-modern societies 269
296–297 Procreation 267
Organisational exit 202, 205–206 Psychic 135, 308, 327
Oregon Extension 164–173 Psychological 5, 31, 164, 179, 181, 191, 234,
Orthodoxy 6, 15, 143, 236, 258 307–315, 326–327, 331, 335
Unorthodoxy 135, 257 Psychologists 110, 139–140, 178, 235, 294, 298,
310, 312, 315
Pagan 256 Psychology 36, 103, 132, 140, 145, 179, 189,
Pagodas 270 292n, 307, 313, 315–316, 324, 335
Pakistan 13, 15–16, 19, 86, 88–89, 91, 222 Psychotherapy 332
Palestinian 275 Public opinion polls 300
356 Index

Queer 220, 227–229 Upbringing 157, 190, 224–225, 243–244,

Qualitative 145, 187, 242, 274, 278–279, 286, 250–251, 268, 297–299, 301, 309
312, 343 Religulous (movie) 342
Quantitative 144, 155, 157, 159, 242, 272, 274, Renouncing religion 55, 142, 267, 335–336
278–280, 284, 286–288, 343 Retirement 35, 39, 267
Questionnaire 177, 285, 328, 331 Right-wing authoritarianism 310, 326
Quran 81, 84–85, 89, 90, 92–93, 223 Ritual 6, 15, 18, 48–49, 56, 110, 142, 145, 173,
175, 189, 260, 262, 269–270, 288, 300,
Rational 5, 72, 117, 126, 131, 135, 138, 140, 205, 309, 312
235, 263, 270, 293–294 Ritual participation 189, 288
Rational choice theory 235, 297, 325 Role 4–5, 23, 31, 33, 38, 48, 73, 127, 132,
Rebellion 67, 69, 75, 83, 224, 293–294 138–140, 146, 149, 157–158, 165–167,
Regression 283–284, 308 172–174, 187, 189, 206–207, 231–232, 236,
Religious 258, 268, 270–271, 273–274, 286,
Activity 13, 36, 38, 58, 60, 63, 91, 101, 120n, 295–296, 298, 303, 309–312, 326,
124, 201, 204, 212, 271, 295 329–331, 333, 335–337, 341,
Affiliation 59, 132, 142–143, 147–148, 343–345
154–155, 157–159, 161, 186, 193, 195, Russia 71, 73, 83, 270
217–218, 221, 231, 258, 269, 279, 281–282,
287–288, 292, 301, 307, 323, 338 Sacred 24, 107, 111, 175, 188, 201, 261
Bricolage 293 Sacred canopy 188, 337
Change 2, 143, 151, 212, 213, 215, 217–218, Sangha 29–39, 117
233, 256–259, 263, 267, 270–274, 281, Satisfaction 243, 313–314
284, 286, 292, 301–302, 323, 329, 331 Saudi Arabia 4, 81, 84, 91, 224
Commitment 120, 131, 135, 137, 140, Scandinavia 285, 299
186–187, 189, 202, 233, 293–294, 324, Scepticism 50, 187–188, 257, 261
329, 337 School 21, 31, 37, 91, 100, 103, 143, 148, 157, 159,
Decline 1, 70, 73, 77, 190, 280–288, 292 164, 194–195, 214, 225, 237, 259, 267, 282
Defection 28, 118, 145, 157–159, 234, Science 1n, 45, 47, 99, 109, 117, 168, 224,
294–296 258–259, 273, 278, 281, 284, 293,
Disaffiliation 2, 67, 74, 118–119, 130–134, 309–310, 313–314, 316, 324–325, 340, 342
138, 140, 142, 145, 147, 187, 220–221, 231, Scientology 232, 236–239
239, 279–285, 292–297, 301, 310, 323, 325 Scripture-based religions 270
Disengagement 131–133, 138, 140, Secular 1, 14, 19, 59, 61, 72, 87, 117–118, 120,
278–279, 282, 296–297 125–126, 137, 143, 192–193, 235, 245, 251,
Experience 122, 126–128, 135–138, 155, 261, 268, 272, 284–288, 293n, 294, 299,
159, 176, 179–180, 251, 256–257, 278, 293, 309, 313, 336, 341
295n, 307–308, 335 Secular drift 299
Fundamentalism 310, 326 Secularisation 1, 47–48, 58, 70, 72, 186–191,
Marketplace 111, 189–190, 273, 297, 324 193–195, 257, 262, 269–275, 280,
Monopoly 72, 299 287–288, 292–295, 299, 309, 329, 336
Multiple belief systems 248, 268, 303 Secularisation thesis 251, 270
Pluralism 118, 271, 324 Secularism 77, 186, 190, 194–196, 257, 268,
Rejection 67, 69, 76, 132, 140, 187, 191, 201, 316
224–225, 258, 262, 267, 285, 293–294, Sect 1, 5, 38, 113, 131, 292, 295–296, 338
297, 307, 309–310 Self-report measures 313–314
Switching 1–2, 69, 73, 142, 144, 146, 187, Semiotic 258
235, 271, 282, 297–298 Sexual identity → Identity, sexual identity
Syncretism 17, 70, 262, 268 Sexual orientations 3, 221, 227
Topography 269–270 Sharia 81, 84–87, 93
Index 357

Shintoism 302 Study of Adolescent to Adult Health 282

Sikhism 14, 19, 113, 302 Sudan 4
Singapore 270 Śuddhi ritual 15, 18, 22
Snapping 292 Supernatural 38, 103, 110–111, 114, 190, 307,
Social class 5, 58, 103–104, 108, 161, 179, 188, 309, 314
221, 294 Supernatural agents 117, 308–309
Social differentiation 270 Superstition 58, 263, 269–270
Social psychology 313, 324 Survey 37, 59, 144, 177–178, 187, 189–192, 202,
Social sciences 1n, 258–259, 273, 278, 281, 232, 242, 244, 250, 279–281, 284–288,
284 294, 299n, 300, 314–316, 344
Socialisation 119, 143, 145, 179, 181, 183, 188, Sweden 68, 73–74, 221–222, 225–226, 280,
202, 207, 268, 297–298 299
Society 1, 3, 15–17, 22, 46–48, 58, 62, 64, 69, Switching → religious switching
71–72, 74, 76, 86, 88, 92, 102–111, 116, 125, Switzerland 68, 89, 238, 299
127, 139, 155, 161, 175, 186, 188, 191–196, Symbolic 56, 104, 212, 234, 258, 272, 274, 328,
211, 213–215, 220, 225–228, 231–232, 235, 330, 333
251, 261, 269, 271, 293n, 295–296, Symbolic interaction 295
298–299, 343–344 Symbols 117, 193, 206, 258, 263, 337
Socio-economical 45, 267, 269–270 Symptom 308
Socio-economic mobility 267 Syria 4, 17, 221, 223, 302
Socio-economic status 269
Socio-emotional 310 Temples 16, 18, 22, 31–39, 102–104, 201, 204,
Sociologists 1, 48, 101, 110, 187, 190, 232, 239, 270
273, 293, 312 Testimony 70, 89, 194, 203, 205, 231–232, 238,
Sociology 47–48, 132, 258–259, 292n, 258, 262, 339, 342, 344–345
293–294, 297, 315–316, 324 Thailand 29, 31–40, 268
Socrates 46, 52, 307 Theologians 4, 6, 44, 57, 76–77, 81–85, 91–93,
Somali 338 310
Space 217, 225, 267–269, 271, 274–275, 337, Theological 51, 67, 72, 85, 92–93, 133n, 135,
339–340, 342 143, 164, 211, 298, 325
Spirits 116–117, 122, 126n, 309 Theology 53, 67, 76, 85, 104, 193
Spiritual 17–18, 24, 61, 118, 120, 123–127, 135, Theoretical 2, 6–7, 47–48, 51–52, 113, 118, 130,
137, 142–143, 155, 160, 166, 170–172, 132, 165, 220, 228, 247, 256–257, 261,
188–189, 233, 238–239, 256, 262, 274, 279–280, 292, 295, 298–302, 313, 323,
324, 329 326, 328, 331, 336
Spirituality 59, 73, 222, 262, 271, 287, 312, Theory 13, 48, 62, 100–101, 110–111, 114, 137,
314 189, 203, 220, 235, 279, 293, 296n,
Sri Lanka 17, 31–32, 34–35, 39, 111, 268 297–298, 311, 345
Statistical analysis 278, 282 Theory of mind 311
Statistics 1, 144, 157, 210, 236, 272, 278–289, Theresa of Avila 308
338, 345 Torah 56, 62, 143, 148–149
Stereotype 49 Tradition 1, 4–7, 13, 16–19, 23–24, 28–40,
Stereotypical 296, 301 46–47, 50–52, 58–60, 71, 73–74, 77,
Stories 45, 77, 135–137, 145, 160, 177–181, 203, 81–85, 90, 92–93, 130–131, 133n, 134–137,
212–217, 259–260, 299–300, 325–327, 139–140, 142–143, 147–151, 160, 173, 176,
330–332, 335, 337–339, 341–343, 183, 188, 192, 194, 207, 222, 232, 235, 239,
345 256–260, 269, 272, 279, 292, 297n,
Story 39, 71, 75, 137, 160, 203, 214, 216, 257, 301–302, 310, 323, 325–326, 329, 337,
299, 325, 330–331, 337–338 340
Structural differentiation 155, 270 Transcendent 134–136, 232
358 Index

Transformation 48, 74, 104, 107, 119, 125, 127, 206–207, 211, 220, 224–227, 235–236,
132, 135, 155, 171, 173–174, 192, 223, 250, 256, 263, 272–273, 279–280,
233–234, 262, 323, 328–329, 343 284–287, 294, 297n, 302–303, 313, 326,
Transmission 2, 176–177, 186, 189–190, 196 330–331, 339
Trauma 138, 175, 204 Variables 147, 249, 251, 269, 279, 281–282,
Traumatic 18, 182, 204 284, 288, 297, 312, 315
Traumatised 121, 148 Violence 5, 28, 39, 43, 93, 101n, 177, 204, 237
Tribe 5, 43, 268 Vipassana → Buddhism, Vipassana meditation
Typology, typologies 139–140, 180, 203, 295,
314 Western societies 131, 270, 293, 298
WikiIslam 338, 340, 344
Unaffiliated 73, 200, 271, 284, 287–288 Witchcraft 69, 259
Unbelief 46, 75–76, 81, 83, 87–88, 148, 190, Work (Job) 58, 87, 99, 101, 122, 157, 159, 236,
220–222, 259, 263, 292–293, 297, 267
299–300, 307–316 World Religions 6, 13, 246, 270
Unemployment 296, 302 World Values Survey 280, 284–285
Unitarian Church 300 World War ii 3, 111
United Kingdom 60, 190, 272, 299, 339 Worldview 47, 120, 126, 175–176, 232, 242,
United Nations 3 248, 251, 258–259, 262
United States 18, 144, 187, 273–274, 279–280,
286, 288, 294, 299, 310 Youth-Parent Socialization Panel Study 282
Unorthodox 135, 257 YouTube 340, 342

Value 5, 21–22, 36, 38, 50, 61, 106, 109–110, 119, Zemi 270
139, 157, 160, 185, 189–190, 194, 201–202,