Inside Alpha: An atheist’s foray into Christianity

Tabatha Leggett signs up to Christianity’s most successful recruitment programme.

It’s 7.30pm on a Tuesday evening and I’m at a small church in East London. A man called Adam* hands me a name label, pours me a plastic cup of squash and says dinner won’t be long. I pull up a seat and introduce myself to ten strangers. It’s all rather awkward.

The reason I’m at church isn’t because I’m religious (I’m not) or because my fridge is empty (it is). It’s because I’ve signed up to Alpha, a weekly course run by churches all over the world in order to spread the Christian message. Although I’m an atheist, I don’t have a problem with people who subscribe to religion. I am, however, wary of brainwashing, I think most religious beliefs are kind of stupid and I strongly suspect that organised religion is a horrible thing. But, 2.8 million people in the UK have done an Alpha course, and I’m willing to be proved wrong.

Over the next six weeks, I’ll exchange Bible reading tips with experts, share stories about intimate prayers with total strangers and spend a lot of time crying down the phone to my mum.

But it all begins when Adam hands me a hot dog. I don’t drop mine on the floor, unlike four of the other people, who I suppose are nervous or something. For pudding, we get a box of chocolates. In week one, they’re Roses. The strawberry ones go first, which makes me suspicious because they’re the worst ones.

Adam, the course leader, is wearing a Superdry shirt. After dinner, he explains that it’s customary to sing. Rebecca plays the acoustic guitar and Adam mans the PowerPoint presentation, which would have got an A* if it was a piece of ICT GCSE coursework because the lyrics make noises when they appear on the screen.

After singing comes talking. Specifically, Adam talking. Over the next six weeks, his talks will cover: “Is there more to life than this?”; “Who is Jesus and why did he die?”; “How can we have faith?”; “How can we read the Bible?”; “Why and how do I pray”; and “What about the Church?”. After each talk, we’ll break off into groups and discuss what we’ve learnt.

The first couple of sessions are similar. They involve Adam handing out copies of the Bible and saying things like, “So let’s assume Jesus does exist and came to Earth to save us…” I’m genuinely the only person who is annoyed that Adam makes no attempt to prove Jesus’s existence.

Adam’s big points in the first two weeks are that we should love Jesus because he loves us in spite of our tendency to sin and that we should try to emulate his behaviour, because it’s nice to have a role model.

Discussion time isn’t fruitful. Natalie asks me how I’m able to distinguish between moral and immoral behaviour if I don’t base my actions on Jesus’ example. I explain that I work out what makes my peers happy and try to do those things. Everyone laughs, which I find confusing because I’m not joking. I agree that having a role model can be helpful, but ask how they know Jesus is the best one. Anna and Will, who are married, tell me that it’s because the Bible said so. But how do they know the Bible is right? “No offence, Tabatha,” replies Louise, “but the Bible is quite far-fetched. I don’t get why someone would have made that stuff up if it weren’t true.” It sounds like I’m lying, but I’m not.

***

By week three, things intensify. Over dinner, we talk mostly about Adam’s marriage. It strikes me as odd that these people are willing, after only two weeks of knowing each other, to share intimate stories. I wonder whether they’re lonely.

This week, Adam’s main point is that Christianity isn’t about rules. Fine, but there’s still no attempt to prove God’s existence.

During discussion time, Natalie tells us that God forgives everything as long as you repent. Adultery? Yes. Murder? Yes. Mass genocide? Yes. The Christians are bored of my questions and Alasdair says, “Wouldn’t you forgive your child if he committed mass genocide, Tabatha?” I tell him it’s a poor example because there’s not an obvious answer, he tells me I’m too young to understand and I tell him he’s patronising.

Then we talk about which bits of the Bible we should take literally. Louise tells me I’ll work it out if I read the Bible. I tell her I’ve read it. She says I will never develop a full understanding because I’m not God so I can’t understand everything. This is becoming a recurring theme. These people have answers to some problems, but as soon as they hit a brick wall they settle for not understanding God and refuse to think through alternatives. They can explain why God is forgiving (it’s because Jesus took our sins), but they can’t explain what taking our sins entailed, or why a perfect creator put sin in the world in the first place.

On my way out, I overhear Patrick, a socially awkward member of the group, telling Adam that he suffers from anxiety attacks. I feel bad for making fun of him in my head, and also sad that Adam, a stranger who is not qualified to talk about anxiety, is the only person Patrick feels he can turn to. I cry a bit when I get home.

By week four, I find myself looking forward to Tuesday evening, which I didn’t expect. This week, Leslie, a priest from the church, speaks about evolution, which has to be our most interesting topic to date. “How do I know evolution isn’t true?” he begins, continuing: “Because God revealed himself to me through scripture.” This annoys me: these people keep saying really obscure things and not explaining them. Leslie explains that scripture is “God-breathed,” so when you read the Bible, God is speaking directly to you. I’m not an idiot but I have absolutely no conception of what that means.

Leslie goes on to offer practical Bible-reading advice: you should read it for 15 minutes a day and ask God questions by verbalising your thoughts. By this stage, I’m annoyed. I want to know why we should read the Bible, how they know it’s true, what God sounds like and how He chooses which prayers to listen to. Instead, Leslie says things like, “If we pray, we become trees. Trees grow fruit, so we will live fruitful lives.” This kind of obscure, metaphorical chat is driving me mad.

In discussion time, it becomes clear that although these people are interested in religion, they’re uncritical of it. It’s really starting to bother me that this institution encourages blind faith at the expense of scientific enquiry. “Wouldn’t it be cool if God spoke to someone we knew,” Alasdair muses, and everyone nods in agreement. Well, quite. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why these people don’t ask good questions and why they dedicate so much of their lives to something they don’t seem to fully understand. I call my mum on the way home and cry again. Alpha’s starting to make me sad.

***

Week five is all about prayer, and I’m dreading it. These people love sharing uncomfortable truths, but I find it all very awkward. During dinner, I discover that everyone else on this course is already a Christian. Rebecca runs an Alpha course for kids, Maya is here with her brother Matteo because the last Alpha course she did was so helpful and Anna has bought her husband Will because they want to explore their current faith. With so many course repeaters, I’m starting to question the 2.8 million statistic I read on the website.

Adam tells a story about his wedding ring. It’s a more elaborate version of this: Adam went to Costa. He left his wedding ring behind. He realised what he’d done. He said a quick prayer. He went back to Costa. He found his ring. He reckons God answered his prayer. No one asks why God was so busy looking for Adam’s ring instead of sorting out problems like poverty.

The next thing Adam says makes me feel intensely uncomfortable. Richard isn’t at Alpha today, because his father died of cancer last night. Adam explains that despite his prayers and his commitment to Christianity (which he implies puts him higher up God’s priority list), he died. “We don’t know why, but God had a plan for him. It was right that he died,” Adam says. I’ve always had issues with organised religion, which suppresses freedom of thought and causes things like war, but I didn’t think small-scale religion caused any harm. It’s things like this, though – people like Adam telling people like Richard that it’s a good thing that his dad died of a terminal illness – that make me doubt that. In my mind, that’s a wicked thing to say.

In discussion time, we’re asked to talk about prayers that have been answered. I’m the only person who has never prayed. Louise claims that God once answered her prayer to get her to the airport on time. Alasdair thinks God stopped a wave breaking on him when he went surfing as a teenager. Robin tells us that God warned him to wear a helmet when he snowboards. But the weirdest and most upsetting claim comes from Maya, who asked God to let her leave her job. A week later, she fell pregnant and saw that as a sign that she should leave. She miscarried her child. Three days later, the company she worked for closed. “I thought God gave me a child, but He actually closed down my company,” she said. “He answered my prayer, but not how I expected.”

“Anyone feel unconvinced by the power of prayer?” Natalie asks. “YES,” I feel like shouting. “YOU’RE IDIOTS. ALL OF THOSE THINGS WERE PROBABLY COINCIDENCES THAT YOU’RE READING TOO MUCH INTO.” But I can’t say anything because how can you say those things to a group of people who have shared intimate facts about miscarriages and are now crying?

Natalie ends the session by asking us to close our eyes and say a prayer. You can opt out, and I do. Maya asks God to reveal himself to the group’s non-believers (which is basically just me). I think I hate this.

***

By week six, I’m relieved it’s over. Alpha has been emotional, frustrating and intensely sad. I’m exhausted. Thankfully this session does answer some of my questions. It doesn’t prove God’s existence, but I do finally understand why people keep going back.

Adam’s talk today isn’t about the Bible or God or any of the other issues he forgot to tackle. It’s an extended speech about why you should join the church. His answer? Because you’ll make friends there. “We have socials once a week,” he explains. The term “social” made me cringe at university, and it’s even worse to hear a grown man use it. But as I look around the room, I realise everyone’s happy. Patrick, who has suffered from anxiety attacks for 30 years, has found a group of people who accept him. Maya and her brother Matteo have a reason to hang out every week, and Jackie has gained a social life outside of her work.

“If you’re a Christian, you’re our friend,” Adam says. Why can’t you find friends outside of the church? You can, but you won’t be as close because you don’t share a belief. I’m not convinced these people know what they believe because I don’t think they’ve thought about it properly. But what I do know is that I’m sitting in a room of happy people, and although this Alpha thing may not be for me, it is for them. They’re happy because they’ve got new friends and I’m happy because I didn’t get brainwashed. Everyone’s a winner.

*Names have been changed to protect individuals’ identities

A stained glass window at Southwark Cathedral. Photograph: Getty Images

Tabatha Leggett is a freelance journalist who has been published in GQ and VICE and on the London Review of Books blog and Buzzfeed.com.

John Moore
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The man who created the fake Tube sign explains why he did it

"We need to consider the fact that fake news isn't always fake news at the source," says John Moore.

"I wrote that at 8 o'clock on the evening and before midday the next day it had been read out in the Houses of Parliament."

John Moore, a 44-year-old doctor from Windsor, is describing the whirlwind process by which his social media response to Wednesday's Westminster attack became national news.

Moore used a Tube-sign generator on the evening after the attack to create a sign on a TfL Service Announcement board that read: "All terrorists are politely reminded that THIS IS LONDON and whatever you do to us we will drink tea and jolly well carry on thank you." Within three hours, it had just fifty shares. By the morning, it had accumulated 200. Yet by the afternoon, over 30,000 people had shared Moore's post, which was then read aloud on BBC Radio 4 and called a "wonderful tribute" by prime minister Theresa May, who at the time believed it was a genuine Underground sign. 

"I think you have to be very mindful of how powerful the internet is," says Moore, whose viral post was quickly debunked by social media users and then national newspapers such as the Guardian and the Sun. On Thursday, the online world split into two camps: those spreading the word that the sign was "fake news" and urging people not to share it, and those who said that it didn't matter that it was fake - the sentiment was what was important. 

Moore agrees with the latter camp. "I never claimed it was a real tube sign, I never claimed that at all," he says. "In my opinion the only fake news about that sign is that it has been reported as fake news. It was literally just how I was feeling at the time."

Moore was motivated to create and post the sign when he was struck by the "very British response" to the Westminster attack. "There was no sort of knee-jerk Islamaphobia, there was no dramatisation, it was all pretty much, I thought, very calm reporting," he says. "So my initial thought at the time was just a bit of pride in how London had reacted really." Though he saw other, real Tube signs online, he wanted to create his own in order to create a tribute that specifically epitomised the "very London" response. 

Yet though Moore insists he never claimed the sign was real, his caption on the image - which now has 100,800 shares - is arguably misleading. "Quintessentially British..." Moore wrote on his Facebook post, and agrees now that this was ambiguous. "It was meant to relate to the reaction that I saw in London in that day which I just thought was very calm and measured. What the sign was trying to do was capture the spirit I'd seen, so that's what I was actually talking about."

Not only did Moore not mean to mislead, he is actually shocked that anyone thought the sign was real. 

"I'm reasonably digitally savvy and I was extremely shocked that anyone thought it was real," he says, explaining that he thought everyone would be able to spot a fake after a "You ain't no muslim bruv" sign went viral after the Leytonstone Tube attack in 2015. "I thought this is an internet meme that people know isn't true and it's fine to do because this is a digital thing in a digital world."

Yet despite his intentions, Moore's sign has become the centre of debate about whether "nice" fake news is as problematic as that which was notoriously spread during the 2016 United States Presidential elections. Though Moore can understand this perspective, he ultimately feels as though the sentiment behind the sign makes it acceptable. 

"I use the word fake in inverted commas because I think fake implies the intention to deceive and there wasn't [any]... I think if the sentiment is ok then I think it is ok. I think if you were trying to be divisive and you were trying to stir up controversy or influence people's behaviour then perhaps I wouldn't have chosen that forum but I think when you're only expressing your own emotion, I think it's ok.

"The fact that it became so-called fake news was down to other people's interpretation and not down to the actual intention... So in many interesting ways you can see that fake news doesn't even have to originate from the source of the news."

Though Moore was initially "extremely shocked" at the reponse to his post, he says that on reflection he is "pretty proud". 

"I'm glad that other people, even the powers that be, found it an appropriate phrase to use," he says. "I also think social media is often denigrated as a source of evil and bad things in the world, but on occasion I think it can be used for very positive things. I think the vast majority of people who shared my post and liked my post have actually found the phrase and the sentiment useful to them, so I think we have to give social media a fair judgement at times and respect the fact it can be a source for good."

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.