If a year ago you had told me — a semi-normal guy born and raised by missionary parents in the ways of the American evangelical — that I’d abandon my church of fifteen years, no longer be attending regular church services and entertaining Catholicism, well… I might have believed you, actually. That’s because last year, on Easter Sunday of all days, I became an atheist in the pew of my own church.

OK, not really. But close enough. That sunny Easter Sunday morning I sat in church listening to a well-spoken Easter sermon from my pastor, as I always had and suspected I would again many times throughout my life. And yet, for some reason, during that message, I was overcome with the overwhelming feeling that this, and everything else I’d ever learned, had little ground to stand on. One logical argument against the existence of God — which I whipped up in minutes as the sermon continued in front of me — and none of this church crap would have any ground to stand on. The shallow worship songs and “seeker-friendly” message suddenly felt empty, repetitive, showy and simple-minded in the worst kind of way.

If you want to put your life on the fast path to frustration, depression and overwhelming doubt, that’ll do it.

I continued to attend regularly and go through the duties of service one inevitably takes on in their church, but my soul was imploding. I wondered why I was the only one questioning the existence of the source of the Christian faith.

Doesn’t anyone else wonder if God actually exists? Or realize that this would all be meaningless if He doesn’t? If anyone doubts God, they sure cover it up well to look good amongst their Christian peers; much like Holden Caulfield, I have little tolerance for phonies. And those that don’t doubt must be simple-minded. That I couldn’t help but judge in comparison to my overly-analytical ways. At the same time, my jealousy of their child-like faith took root.

Months later, as bitterness grew (some justified, most not) toward my church and evangelicalism as a whole, I decided I wasn’t going to be getting any better if I kept up the facade. So I left.

Upon leaving, my dad encouraged me with a reminder that doubting Thomas had a significant role in the formation of the Church. He, among others, suggested I look at the founding fathers of the Church for guidance. Studying this “family history” might help me understand what the apostles and their direct-descending church leaders created. So that’s what I did.

What I found surprised me: early church practices look very much like the liturgy of the Catholic church, perhaps more so than any other church model I know. I found more mention of the purpose of bishops, elders and deacons and the practice of holy communion than senior pastors giving 30-minute speeches and worship bands leading choruses. In fact, some things the church founders — who were chosen by Christ Himself, mind you — quickly deemed heretical were shockingly similar to things commonly found in American evangelicalism.

So here I am. A year later, and my flailings and failings have tossed me into the last place I expected: a part of the Church I was taught to regard as less-than-Christian. Ironically, the Catholic church as we know it began within one generation of Christ; evangelicalism only turned up in the last 200 years or so. If anything has caused me bitterness towards evangelicalism, it’s in the disavowing of forefathers and unawareness that many of their theological heroes (C.S. Lewis, G.K. Chesterton, etc.) were Catholic.

Not to say that the evangelical church is pure evil. Certainly it gave me the fundamentals to grow as a Christian for several years, something I am eternally grateful for.

What I’ve found missing, though, is the reverence, depth and significance of a tradition that has existed for 2,000 years: a communion of all the saints that came before us that ferries us forward in spiritual growth with infinite depth; a greater awareness of a God that exists beyond the limits of the God American Christianity has to offer.

So now I’m trying out this Catholic thing. The traditions are foreign to me. It scares me, to be quite honest. But you know what’s funny? This sense of knowing nothing in the presence of God is the closest I’ve felt to understanding what it means to fear Him and to embrace a mysterious, paradoxical love that goes beyond our understanding.

On Easter Sunday this year, one year after my near-atheist experience, I sat in the pew of an Anglican Catholic church with a family that has shown me great care and love and has acted as a sounding board during this frustrating, yet fruitful, period in my life. I breathed in the incense, stumbled over prayers I had to read out of a book and closed my eyes as the priest blessed the congregation with holy water, all in great wonder and bemusement. I don’t yet understand much about this great ceremonial celebration I take part in. And somehow, it feels more right than I ever could have imagined.

Josh Mock is a writer, Web designer and music aficionado. He is also a regular contributor to Ghetto Blaster Magazine. You can check out more of his writing here.