We All Live as Functional Agnostics

We all live as functional agnostics.

I’m agnostic, and it’s strangely freeing to finally land somewhere that actually matches how I’ve been living for years.

This didn’t happen overnight. It’s probably been over a decade in the making.

For a long time, I questioned whether I really believed the Gospel because my life didn’t reflect the certainty I was supposed to have.

When I was younger, I had a habit with explicit material that consumed me. It came with a lot of shame, a lot of hiding, and eventually a lot of self-loathing.

It even got to the point where I wanted to take my life because I felt worthless for not being a “leader” or a “strong Christian.”

That’s hard to write. But it’s true.

Growing up in the kind of Christianity I did also inflated my ego in subtle ways. Even my name, Barnaby, became part of a story.

It’s a unique name, and early on the narrative was that I was born into Christianity, raised with principles, trained to be a leader.

There’s nothing wrong with my name. But it’s a heavy name if you take the story seriously. And I did.

I lived with constant pressure to perform, to prove I was exceptional, to justify the story.

So let me rephrase my introduction more honestly.

For years, I lived as a functional agnostic while calling myself a Christian.

I’m Barnaby Alkire. I live a life where I don’t have all the answers, and I understand that I don’t know how everything works.

The word for that is agnostic.

• The resurrection? I don’t know.

• The virgin birth? I don’t know.

• Judgment? I don’t know.

• Jesus’ miracles? I don’t know.

• God? I don’t know.

• The Holy Spirit? I don’t know.

• Death? I don’t know.

• Hell? I don’t know.

And with all that being said, I’m no longer willing to profess certainty about things I don’t actually know.

Here’s my challenge to Christian readers.

If you truly possess the truth and certainty about reality, why wouldn’t you share it? And not just occasionally, but constantly?

If you really know for sure that hell exists and people are headed there, why aren’t you warning everyone, all the time, that there is damnation for a life not submitted to Christ?

If you’re not doing that, what does your behavior say about what you actually believe?

I don’t say this as an insult. I say it as an observation. Most of us live like functional agnostics. We say “I know,” but we act like “I’m not sure.”

And then lately I’ve also been thinking about this whole Epstein thing, mostly because my algorithm seems determined to make sure I never forget he existed.

Was he a depraved human being? Yes.
Did he do horrific things, based on the evidence? Yes.

According to the Bible, he will be judged one day. We all will.

But what does that judgment actually look like?

I know this isn’t a standard biblical position, but here’s where I land right now.

If God is a Father, and if He created everyone, you, me, Epstein, even Hitler, is He really going to discard His own creation forever? Is the final word truly eternal disposal?

I don’t think so.

I believe there is judgment. I also believe there is restoration.

I imagine judgment not as God finally getting to torture the bad people, but as the full unveiling of truth. Being shown the real impact of what we’ve done. The real harm. The real pain. Not to crush us, but to heal what’s broken and twisted in us.

Yes, I know. Heretical.

But here’s the practical question people always ask next: if you believe that, can you just live however you want?

Not really.

It’s not in my nature to be Hitler or Epstein. And while I do share humanity with them, we all do, I also live in a body, a mind, and a social world where actions have real consequences. Harm is still harm. Responsibility is still responsibility. Even without eternal torture hanging over the equation.

My point isn’t to erase justice.

My point is to take away the fear-based version of it.
To take away hell as a threat.
To take away the idea that morality only works if terror is doing the motivating.

Fear didn’t make me honest.
Fear didn’t make me whole.
Fear made me perform, hide, and eventually collapse.

Living without pretending to have cosmic certainty feels more grounded. More human. More truthful.

I don’t know how the universe ultimately works.

I don’t know what ultimately exists. I don’t know how judgment works. I don’t know if God is personal, impersonal, or a cosmic prank. But my intuition leans toward restoration over annihilation, meaning over cruelty, coherence over absurdity.

And for the first time, I’m done pretending my uncertainty needs a costume.