My Utopian Society: A Church Without God

Growing up, I actually enjoyed church. I was young, and everything about it felt like a weekly event—almost like a routine party with structure. I loved dressing up, seeing familiar faces, and of course, the cookies, lemonade, and Cuban sandwiches afterward. My grandparents’ church was especially great. Did I retain a single sermon? Absolutely not. I was too busy coloring or playing with a slide puzzle. But I loved being there.

As I got older, though, things changed. When I was finally old enough to listen—not just attend—I found myself leaning in, really enjoying the motivational and inspirational tone of the life lessons being shared. Until, of course, someone mentioned God. That was usually where they lost me.

I never really believed in God—not even a little. By the time I was 12 or 13, the only time I’d willingly go to church was if a cute boy invited me and offered to bring me Sonic (yes, that really happened). My grandmother was not thrilled.

I should also acknowledge that, like many others, I carry my own weight of religious trauma. While I’ve mostly shared the more lighthearted memories here, there’s a darker layer beneath the surface. There were times I felt deeply inadequate—especially around family—because I lacked the same devotion to faith. At my lowest points, particularly while navigating some of the most difficult mental health struggles of my life, I was told that I wouldn’t be in that situation if I had stayed in the church. That stung. Maybe they meant it with love, but it felt like blame. And who knows—maybe if I had followed a belief system that told me I'd go to hell for ending my own suffering, I wouldn’t have considered it. But that’s a whole conversation for another day. That belief—that someone in unbearable pain deserves eternal punishment—frustrates me beyond words, much like many other doctrines that are often weaponized within Western religion. It’s a cruel way to view suffering, and it only deepens the stigma around mental health. No amount of prayer eased what I was going through. Moving on.

Now, as an adult, I still don’t identify with faith, religion, or spirituality. But I do understand the psychological draw of religion. It offers answers. To the past, the present, and the unknown. And as humans, we love answers. We crave certainty. Religion also provides something else: a scapegoat for blame, a structure for relinquishing control, and a pre-built community. A place full of people who likely won’t challenge your beliefs, where you can feel safe, surrounded by familiarity.

And honestly? I get it.

Despite not believing in God, part of me still longs for the good parts of church. The community. The routine. The sense of reflection, hope, motivation. I wish there was a “church” for the common human. Something completely void of religion, but rich in connection. A weekly gathering space that nurtures our emotional, psychological, and social selves. A place to be inspired, grounded, and uplifted—without dogma, doctrine, or guilt.

I don’t know what I’d call it. Sanctuary of Self? The Human Hour? I’m open to brainstorming. But I do know it would take place weekly. Might as well stick with Sunday mornings—everyone else is already busy then anyway.

Recently, I went to a conference that reminded me of what this could look like. It opened not with prayer, but with deep breaths and mindfulness over soft music. There was a reading of the nonprofit’s core values (Please read them here, they are great). Then a keynote speaker—a woman CEO—told her story of resilience, surviving addiction and internalized racism, and it was raw, honest, and deeply moving. It felt like a sermon, but one rooted in reality, not mythology. We had group discussions afterward, some journaling prompts, and—my favorite—cookies and lemonade at the end.

It felt like church, but better. My version of church.

I would love to start or end every Sunday in an environment like that. Surrounded by kind, thoughtful people. Reflecting, laughing, learning. Dressed up if I feel like it.

In my utopian society, we have this space. A collective pause each week. Not one based in religion or faith, but in shared human experience. A time for gratitude, reflection, and connection. No discrimination. No money grabs. No savior complexes. Just a space where ethics, kindness, and community matter—and where they aren't confined to the walls of a traditional church. Maybe we’ll even have stained glass windows. Because, why not?

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After writing this blog post, I couldn’t help but fall down a bit of a rabbit hole. I started Googling my thoughts—my beliefs, values, and questions—to see if there was already a religion or spiritual label that resonated with me. I wasn’t looking for a new faith exactly, just… some sense of alignment. Something that made me feel a little less alone in how I think.

It reminded me of an essay I once wrote that asked, “What does faith mean to you?” I remember spending all 1,000 words explaining that my faith lies in myself. In the here and now. In my own autonomy and power to make choices that better my life and positively impact those around me. I don’t have faith in a higher power, but I have deep faith in human potential.

I always joke that I wish I believed in karma, destiny, or divine intervention. How nice it would be to think that something bigger had a master plan. But the truth? The idea of an invisible force pulling the strings has always felt... odd. If I had to choose, I think I’d believe we’re living in a simulation or an elaborate science/social experiment before I’d believe in a traditional god.

And then—finally—I found something that clicked: Humanism.

According to the American Humanist Association, “Humanism is a progressive philosophy of life that, without theism or other supernatural beliefs, affirms our ability and responsibility to lead ethical lives of personal fulfillment that aspire to the greater good.”

Yes. That. All of that.

The more I read, the more it resonated. It was like stumbling upon a worldview I didn’t know had a name. And it doesn’t stop there—Humanism even has something called The Ten Commitments, which lay out guiding values like empathy, humility, service, and responsibility. Not commandments, not rules—just meaningful principles for living well and doing good. Read them here.

And, in a pleasant twist I wasn’t expecting, it turns out there are Humanist communities near me. Right here in Florida—even in Orlando. Who knew?

I don’t know if I’m ready to fully label myself, or join anything just yet, but discovering that this exists—that I’m not alone in my beliefs—is genuinely comforting. It makes me feel less like I’m out here trying to reinvent the wheel, and more like I’ve just found the right road. Yay for that.