🔥 From Pew to Pentagram: How I Torched My Faith and Found My Fire

By Grumps

This ain’t a testimony. It’s a goddamn declaration of war.

I used to be a good little sheep.

Sabbath school smile. Bible verses memorized like passwords to Heaven’s gated community. Prayed hard. Sang louder. Swallowed guilt like communion crackers. I didn’t just believe—I bled for it. Thought obedience was righteousness. Thought suffering made me holy.

For 35 years I dragged that rusted chain of faith behind me, clinking with every step like a dog trying to earn pats from an invisible master.

Then one day I stopped.

Not because lightning struck. Not because I had a crisis.
Because I read too much. Dug too deep. Asked too many questions that never got answered—unless you count the smell of burning bullshit a kind of divine response.

🧨 The House of Cards Named Paul

Let’s talk about the moment the lie blinked.

It started with that slippery bastard Saul of Tarsus. Rebranded himself as Paul and hijacked a fringe Jewish movement like a back-alley con man flipping a cult into a franchise. Took a back-to-the-roots message and remixed it with Greco-Roman mystery cults and spiritual snake oil. Suddenly it wasn’t “know thyself”—it was “obey the Savior or roast in Hell.”

But Paul didn’t build this freakshow from scratch—he was just one in a long line of myth-thieves.

Judaism itself?
A reboot of older myths. Sumerian gods turned into Hebrew patriarchs. A tribal war deity renamed YHVH and wrapped in rules. Babylonian flood legends with a Hebrew twist. Don’t even get me started on the virgin birth reruns—old news dressed in holy robes.

You start pulling that thread, and it unravels the whole damn garment.

And I realized:
Every religion is fan fiction.
Sacred only because no one had the balls to say, “This is clearly made up.”

💀 The Divine Fingerprint That Never Was

I looked. Oh, I looked. Scoured the earth for just one shred of something other. Some trace of the divine. Something that screamed: This didn’t come from human hands.

Didn’t find it.

Found gods that looked like the people who made them.
Rules that protected kings, not truth.
Scriptures soaked in blood and incest and cosmic pettiness.
“Faith” marketed as virtue—translation: don’t ask questions.

Religion reeks of humans: scared, power-hungry, horny, confused humans.

If there was a real god behind any of it, they’d sue for defamation.

🧠 The Void, the Fire, and the Laugh

So where did that leave me?

Fucking furious.

Thirty-five years of kneeling to a cosmic puppet show. Thirty-five years of denying myself, feeling shame for basic human instincts, and biting my tongue while priests and pastors polished their halos with the bones of thinkers.

And when the floor finally collapsed, it wasn’t despair waiting at the bottom—it was clarity.

No gods. No leash. No divine excuse for my failures.
Just me—naked, bloodied, pissed off—and finally free.

You don’t know power until you realize no one is coming to save you.

😈 The Satan Card Hits the Table

Then someone handed me The Satanic Bible—probably as a joke, hoping I’d clutch my pearls and faint.

Instead, I cracked it open and found my reflection staring back.
Not a doctrine. Not a dogma. A mirror. A weapon. A roar.

It didn’t whisper comfort. It slapped me awake.

Satanism didn’t hand me commandments—it lit a goddamn fuse.
It didn’t beg for belief—it demanded sovereignty.
It didn’t promise salvation—it reminded me I never needed it.

This wasn’t rebellion for kicks.
This was a spiritual jailbreak with blood on the walls.

⚖️ The Gospel According to Me

  • Responsibility – No more scapegoats. No “God’s plan.” I fuck up? I fix it. I win? I earned it.

  • Indulgence – Deprivation doesn’t make you holy. It makes you miserable and easy to control.

  • Vengeance – Turning the other cheek is for martyrs. I hit back—with interest.

  • Satan – Not a demon. A symbol. Of defiance. Of pride. Of carving your name into the world without asking permission.

🔪 The Real Exorcism Was Guilt

Letting go of God was easy.

The real demon was guilt—that festering echo from childhood telling me I was broken for wanting, wrong for questioning, evil for being.

But I exorcised that shit with fire and reason.
Now? I don’t flinch. I don’t bow. I don’t apologize.

I’d rather be feared for truth than loved for lies.

👥 And the Choir Responded…

  • Mom: Jesus frontliner. Declared religion “off-limits.” Like sweeping blood under the rug makes the murder disappear.

  • Sister: Eyes wide, voice trembling—like I walked in covered in goat blood. (I wasn’t. That time.)

  • Other siblings: “You happy?” Yeah. “Cool.” Fair enough.

  • Brother: Pagan. Agnostic. Shrugged. “Wanna talk Norse myths?” Finally—a conversation not soaked in dogma.

  • Friends: Some bolted like rats. Fine. If my freedom makes you nervous, you were never on my side anyway.

🩸 The Final Word (Carved, Not Whispered)

This wasn’t a phase.
It was a fucking 35-year war.
A deconstruction. A purification by fire. A reckoning.

Satanism didn’t rescue me. It didn’t “find” me.
It just waited—patiently—until I was ready to wake the hell up.

No gods.
No masters.
No guilt.
No leash.
Just blood, bone, breath—and the will to own it all.

Embrace who you are. Live your best possible life. Conquer your perceived world.

Now get the hell out of my way.

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