For years, I stood behind a pulpit preaching certainty. Now, I stand in my truth, uncertain, and learning to be honest.

As a fundamentalist Baptist minister, I spoke of sin and salvation, heaven and hell, and God’s will as if I knew them intimately. My life revolved around defending “the truth.”

And then, gradually, I lost my faith.

A more accurate metaphor: I struggled free from a skin that had grown too tight. People leave their faith traditions for many reasons. Some experience cognitive dissonance when the teachings of their religion clash with reality. Others, like me, grow disillusioned by hypocrisy, harmful doctrines, scandals, or endless church infighting in the name of God. Still others evolve—intellectually or spiritually—beyond what their belief systems can accommodate.

What I want to share isn’t just a personal story. It’s a deeper reflection on how fundamentalism—especially in its most rigid forms—strips people of the ability to think and speak authentically. It teaches us to fear doubt, to distrust ourselves, and to suppress anything that doesn’t align with the party line. But when that grip breaks—painful though it may be—it opens the door to something rare and powerful:

A voice that is finally your own.

The Voice Fundamentalism Gives You

Fundamentalism rarely begins with coercion. It starts with comfort. It provides a tidy framework for suffering, morality, identity, and the future. For a time, that certainty feels like safety.

But the cost is steep.

The cost of certainty is often your soul’s whisper. Fundamentalism teaches that doubt is a weakness, emotion is deceptive, and independent thought is dangerous.

In the tradition I came from, particularly within the Irish Baptist context, independent thought was considered dangerous. Doubt was seen as evidence of temptation. Questioning authority, even subtly, was perceived as rebellion. Exploring alternative viewpoints was discouraged, as it risked spiritual contamination.

I was taught that my thoughts weren’t trustworthy unless they aligned with Scripture. The verse Philippians 4:8 was drilled into my mind:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

Any thought that didn’t conform to that framework was deemed sinful—something to be confessed to a God who could read your mind anyway.

Emotions were suspect. Reason was filtered through the lens of “God’s Word.” As theologian Peter Enns writes in The Sin of Certainty, “What God wants from us is not perfect belief, but perfect trust in the face of uncertainty.” Fundamentalism flips that; it demands perfect belief and sees anything less as failure.

This is how it kills your voice: by replacing your inner compass with external authority. You learn to speak in sanctioned phrases, repeat talking points, and recite verses. Over time, losing track of what you genuinely believe becomes frighteningly easy.

Men’s Voices and Fundamentalism

One of the ironies across many fundamentalist traditions is how strongly they attract men, especially young men. These environments provide a solid structure, clear roles, and rigid ideals of masculinity. For those who feel uncertain or insecure, fundamentalism can seem like an answer.

However, the very structure that appears stabilising often erases individuality.

Men are taught to quote scripture instead of forming opinions and to seek answers from pastors or imams instead of cultivating inner knowing. We are praised for submission and self-sacrifice—but not for self-awareness or emotional honesty.

We become fluent in external authority and illiterate in our internal voice. At first, this may appear as humility, but over time, it transforms into a disempowering dependency that stunts growth and sabotages authenticity.

The Voice of Fear in Fundamentalism

Another irony: fundamentalism is driven by fear, even as it promises freedom.

Fear of hell. Fear of error. Fear of leading others astray. Fear of disappointing God.

I know that fear intimately. It drove me to preach, baptise, counsel, teach—and, to my shame, to excommunicate. I believed I was protecting the church.

But beneath all of that activity was a gnawing anxiety: I was not enough. Not spiritual enough, not man enough, not worthy enough. My tireless ministry was an attempt to prove otherwise.

Outsiders often say believers are “brainwashed,” but I don’t think that captures it.

Fundamentalism teaches you to self-censor. You monitor your thoughts, curb your instincts, and silence your doubts- not because someone actively controls you, but because survival in that system demands it.

We become fluent in silence—the silence of fear and uncertainty.

Losing my faith

For me, the unravelling occurred gradually—over more than a decade. I only recognised how deeply the hooks of guilt and fear had run once they ceased to exert power over me.

The final break came while watching my father face death. After a life of preaching the joys of heaven, his final years were marked by rage and fear. I saw in him what I had feared in myself: that our beliefs hadn’t saved us from fear at all; they had merely hidden it.

I realised then: Certainty isn’t the same as truth. And faith doesn’t guarantee peace.

My grief became the womb for a new kind of clarity—one without dogma but full of depth, one that allowed questions instead of silencing them.

Finding my Voice

Losing faith was only the beginning. The more challenging task came after that: learning to speak again, not as a minister but as a person.

For years, I had been fluent in “Christianese.” I could summon theological language with ease. But it no longer belonged to me. I had to unlearn it and find new words for meaning, suffering, and beauty.

At first, it felt awkward. I stumbled. But the more I tried, the more I began to hear something quiet beneath the noise: my authentic voice.

It was unpolished. Sometimes raw. But it was mine.

When I began to speak from that place, without performance, without agenda, people listened differently. I wasn’t preaching; I was telling my truth. My experience of life in its complexity and messiness.

Why Voice Matters

We often talk about “voice” as something artists or writers find. But voice is deeper than craft or style. It’s perspective, agency, and freedom. It’s the ability to say what you think, not what you’re supposed to believe.

Fundamentalism doesn’t just discourage that; it trains you to fear it.

But once you reclaim your voice, everything changes. You ask better questions, stop needing to be right, grow more comfortable with ambiguity, and stop hiding.

Psychologist Marlene Winell calls this process “religious trauma syndrome”—a kind of spiritual and identity disorientation that often follows leaving high-control religious environments. She also notes that healing comes through creative expression, emotional honesty, and reclaiming autonomy.

Finding your voice—even if it trembles—is one of the most powerful acts of recovery.

A Life Beyond Certainty

I no longer have all the answers. I have more questions than ever—but they don’t scare me now. I’ve learned it’s okay not to know. It’s okay to change your mind. It’s okay to evolve.

And it’s more than okay to use your voice—even if it shakes.

To those still finding their way after leaving high-control religion: you’re not alone. Your doubts aren’t a defect. Your questions aren’t a problem. They are a doorway.

And on the other side of that doorway may be your voice—clear, grounded, and finally free.

Final Thoughts (and an Invitation)

I lost my faith but gained something far more valuable: the ability to speak honestly, live authentically, and connect with others through shared humanity, not fear.

If you’ve come out of a system that silenced you, know this: your voice matters. Your story matters. Speak what you can, when you can. There’s no formula. No script.

Just start with the truth. And let that be enough.

I’d love to hear if this resonates with you or if you’re in the midst of unravelling. You can reach me at www.musingsfromthemaze.com.au. Let’s walk this road together.