“They Were Never True Believers” — The Convenient Dismissal Clause
The go-to verse for that is 1 John 2:19 —
“They went out from us, but they were not of us.”
That line has done a lot of heavy lifting over the centuries. It provides a neat theological escape hatch: if someone leaves, it’s not because something might be wrong with the faith. It’s because something was wrong with them.
Of course, there are supporting texts — Hebrews 6, Matthew 7, 2 Peter 2 — each offering its own spin on the idea that you can get close to the truth without ever really possessing it. For the faithful, it’s a reassuring narrative. It means their worldview is insulated. No need to wrestle with messy questions about why sincere people lose belief — the Bible already explained it.
Looking back, I can see how useful that is. It keeps the system airtight. If someone deconstructs or walks away, they become an example, a warning, or a statistic — but never a voice worth listening to. The message to the faithful is clear: don’t follow, don’t question, and certainly don’t empathize.
In that sense, those verses do double duty. They’re not just theological cautions about falling away — they’re also subtle psychological safeguards. They help believers dismiss anyone who leaves as irrelevant, deceived, or defective. It’s a way of protecting the group from uncomfortable conversations. If the doubters are “false converts,” then their doubts don’t have to mean anything.
It took me a while to see how deeply that mindset runs. When I left, people didn’t say, “He’s wrestling with big questions.” They said, “He was never one of us.” That’s the religious version of a door slamming shut. Years of belief, prayer, and service — wiped clean, rewritten as an illusion.
I don’t think most people who quote those verses are being purposefully cruel. They're protecting something precious to them — their confident sense of certainty. Maybe they genuinely need to believe that faith never fails, that the truth never cracks. My sister-in-law said to me that if her beliefs were wrong, then she had wasted her life. She was basically afraid and insecure. But it is still annoying to be erased by someone else’s need for security.
In the end, I realized those verses weren’t describing me — they were describing a system that can’t admit it might be wrong. It’s not about truth; it’s about control. Once you see that, you stop needing their approval to validate your experience.
And as the years go by, that realization becomes oddly freeing. The older I get, the less I need to prove anything — to them or to myself. I can look back and see how belief systems, like people, protect themselves when they feel threatened. And I can let that go. What once felt like rejection now feels like release — the quiet satisfaction of knowing I finally stepped outside the walls and learned to breathe on my own.
Just for fun, here's one of the faithful calling me out a few years ago: you were NEVER ever a Christian
Of course, there are supporting texts — Hebrews 6, Matthew 7, 2 Peter 2 — each offering its own spin on the idea that you can get close to the truth without ever really possessing it. For the faithful, it’s a reassuring narrative. It means their worldview is insulated. No need to wrestle with messy questions about why sincere people lose belief — the Bible already explained it.
Looking back, I can see how useful that is. It keeps the system airtight. If someone deconstructs or walks away, they become an example, a warning, or a statistic — but never a voice worth listening to. The message to the faithful is clear: don’t follow, don’t question, and certainly don’t empathize.
In that sense, those verses do double duty. They’re not just theological cautions about falling away — they’re also subtle psychological safeguards. They help believers dismiss anyone who leaves as irrelevant, deceived, or defective. It’s a way of protecting the group from uncomfortable conversations. If the doubters are “false converts,” then their doubts don’t have to mean anything.
It took me a while to see how deeply that mindset runs. When I left, people didn’t say, “He’s wrestling with big questions.” They said, “He was never one of us.” That’s the religious version of a door slamming shut. Years of belief, prayer, and service — wiped clean, rewritten as an illusion.
I don’t think most people who quote those verses are being purposefully cruel. They're protecting something precious to them — their confident sense of certainty. Maybe they genuinely need to believe that faith never fails, that the truth never cracks. My sister-in-law said to me that if her beliefs were wrong, then she had wasted her life. She was basically afraid and insecure. But it is still annoying to be erased by someone else’s need for security.
In the end, I realized those verses weren’t describing me — they were describing a system that can’t admit it might be wrong. It’s not about truth; it’s about control. Once you see that, you stop needing their approval to validate your experience.
And as the years go by, that realization becomes oddly freeing. The older I get, the less I need to prove anything — to them or to myself. I can look back and see how belief systems, like people, protect themselves when they feel threatened. And I can let that go. What once felt like rejection now feels like release — the quiet satisfaction of knowing I finally stepped outside the walls and learned to breathe on my own.
Just for fun, here's one of the faithful calling me out a few years ago: you were NEVER ever a Christian