This post contains spoilers from episodes 1–5 of Severance: Season 1. No spoilers from episodes 6–9 or from Season 2 are discussed.
A powerful organization with deep historical roots, founded by a charismatic leader, that demands unquestioning obedience from its members, restricts access to information, stokes fears of the world outside its walls, and inspires loyalty through sacred scripture, art, and music.
A church? A cult? A secret society, perhaps? It’s actually a description of Lumon, the corporation at the center of Apple TV’s Emmy award-winning series Severance. In the show’s first episode, we’re introduced to Mark, Helly, Irving, and Dylan — four employees who compose Lumon’s “Macrodata Refinement” (MDR) team. Each of them has voluntarily undergone the procedure known as “severance,” a surgical memory-split that prevents them from recalling their workdays once they exit Lumon’s doors, effectively creating two separate selves — an “innie” (work self) and an “outie” (home self). Why is this procedure necessary? What’s really happening at Lumon? No one seems to know. The work is “mysterious and important,” as MDR’s supervisors are fond of saying. And that explanation contents Severance’s protagonists… until the sudden disappearance of a coworker throws the entirety of their carefully curated world into question.
My wife and I recently finished season 2 of Severance, and we’re currently re-watching season 1 with friends. The show hooked us from the get-go with its complex characters, brilliant staging, haunting soundtrack, and mind-bending plot twists. Yet the show resonated with me for more than just aesthetic reasons. Something about its storyline felt eerily familiar, and it wasn’t long before I traced this uncanny vibe to its source: the collapse of my Christian faith. Not only is the show chock-full of religious symbolism, but it also helped me process my departure from the evangelical church in unexpected ways. So, without further ado, here are five things that Severance gets right about religious deconstruction.
#1. The Ones Who Disappear
Most stories begin with an inciting incident, and Severance is no exception. The series’ first episode revolves around the departure of Petey, the wisecracking former leader of MDR. Mark, Helly, Irving, and Dylan aren’t privy to the reasons behind Petey’s disappearance, and neither is the audience. Naturally, speculations abound. Was it misbehavior, illness, retirement, or something more sinister? Lumon’s higher-ups suggest that Petey was unfit for his job. However, this terse excuse is tough for MDR’s members to swallow — particularly Mark, who was close with Petey. Matters get worse when Petey reappears outside Lumon and visits outie Mark in secret (Mark doesn’t recognize him, of course). “Nothing down there is what they say,” Petey tells his former coworker across a diner table. “If something happens to me, the things I know need to stay known. I’d prefer it be by a friend.” Before he left Lumon, Petey sketched a map of Lumon’s lower floors, and innie Mark eventually finds this drawing inside the framed team photo on his desk. He hides it quickly. But he can’t stop thinking about it… or glancing at it when no one else is around.
Churches spend lots of time discussing those who leave the fold. For the sincere religious adherent, few things are more terrifying than apostasy — the choice to deny the faith of one’s upbringing. Within evangelical Christianity, for instance, the rejection of Jesus Christ is often labeled the “unpardonable sin” and a surefire ticket (no pun intended) to hell. Congregants regularly speak of ex-Christian friends and family members in hushed, bewildered, and sorrowful tones: What could have possessed them to leave? Don’t they know what they’re risking? Will they ever come back? A beloved brother’s or sister’s disavowal of religion sends shockwaves through the ranks of the faithful, and it leaves behind a massive crater that cries out for explanations — answers that pastors and parishioners are eager to provide: Maybe they never believed, or maybe dark powers manipulated them, or maybe the pleasures of secular life were simply too enticing…
Most churchgoers draw solace from these pre-packaged conclusions, but others find them far too neat and tidy. Many people begin deconstructing their beliefs because they know and love someone who walked away; because their church’s fearful, critical, or downright hostile response to this apostasy unsettled them; or because the cognitive dissonance caused by the departure — the struggle to grasp that someone whose faith seemed so alive and loving and genuine could leave it all behind — can’t be suppressed. Like Petey’s map, tucked behind the photograph on Mark’s desk, something whispers that the story isn’t as simple as it appears.
#2. Reading Up
The seeds of Mark’s doubts about Lumon are sowed by Petey, but they’re watered and fertilized by the arrival of a strange, sickeningly-colored self-help book in MDR’s office. The audience knows that this text was penned by Mark’s hippie brother-in-law, Ricken, stolen from outie Mark’s house by a Lumon employee, and accidentally left near MDR. Its contents are poorly written — comically so, in fact — and thoroughly harmless. But for innie Mark, they might as well be missile launch codes from enemy territory. Information from the outside world is forbidden on Lumon’s lower levels. Prior to Petey’s removal, Mark might’ve handed Ricken’s book over to his supervisors. Yet now he finds himself unable to resist its pages. He stows it in his desk drawer, sneaks it to the restroom when nobody’s looking, and — with bated breath and pounding heart — begins to read.
Religious orders like to portray themselves as well-informed, and many progressive churches fit the bill. Yet, for many congregants, access to outsider perspectives on their religion is often hindered. Sometimes, this looks like overt censorship, as with groups that compile lists of banned books (Roman Catholics, pre-1966), discourage their members from using the internet (Jehovah’s Witnesses), or protest the teaching of evolution in public schools (fundamentalist Christians). Other times, it’s more subtle.
Growing up in the evangelical church, I was taught that atheist authors were motivated by sinful pride, that professors at secular schools would try to squash my faith, that the entertainment industry was captive to a toxic LGBTQ+ agenda, and that the act of consuming certain forms of media would corrupt my mind and heart (looking at you, Harry Potter). I wasn’t forbidden from listening to such voices once I’d reached maturity, but I was certainly scared of doing so — scared enough that, when my doubts about the truth of my religion became unbearable, I spent a year studying nothing but Christian apologetics content before allowing myself to crack open texts by non-Christian writers. Once I started flipping pages in those secular books, I couldn’t stop. The realization that another world lay out there — a sea of diverse thought and belief that I’d been both wittingly and unwittingly blind to — was Severance levels of disorienting.
To outsiders, my reluctance to hear out those who disagreed with me might seem as silly as innie Mark’s fear of Ricken’s book. However, those raised in conservative religious households know what’s at stake in such choices. In a hostile world, where devils lurk around corners and souls are subjected to ceaseless assault, the simple act of reading can require immense courage — the courage to admit that, despite everything you’ve ever been told, you might be wrong about everything.
#3. Already in Hell
In the first few episodes of Severance, newcomer Helly is the sole critic of MDR’s setup. Rules and routines that her coworkers find completely normal — the prohibition of messages to upper floors, the perpetually cheerful aesthetic, and the dreaded “Break Room” where employees are sent after minor infractions — disturb her deeply. Nothing that Mark, Irving, or Dylan say can keep her from scurrying for nearby exits. When her demands to leave are finally (or seemingly?) granted in episode 4, she graces Mark with a rare but weary smile. “Well, boss. I guess this is the part where I should tell you to go to hell. Except you’re already here.”
Mark can’t help but take Helly’s jabs at Lumon personally, just as many religious folks do with the questions and critiques of would-be apostates. Isn’t such restlessness evidence of an inexplicable, irredeemable animosity toward one’s community? A bitter desire to “sever” ties and to strike out on one’s own, unencumbered by old relationships?
Perhaps this is true for some ex-religious people, but not for most. Those who have deconstructed know how excruciatingly painful, lonely, and unwelcome the process is. Sure, being mistreated or deceived by religious institutions can generate anger. Yet, as therapists regularly remind us, anger is a secondary emotion, not a root cause. Fear and sadness are the predominant emotions of those leaving behind the only worldview they’ve ever known. I often tell people that the prospect of abandoning my faith was my worst nightmare. Like Helly, I had no clue what life outside my church’s walls would mean, only a host of questions: What’s real? Who can I trust? Who am I without all this? Will I be punished for my decision to leave? Will I ever be whole again? The assumption that religious deconstruction is an act of rebellion — something akin to a child’s tantrum — is deeply misguided. Those who have experienced it know that it hurts like hell.
#4. “I’m Afraid You Don’t Mean It”
For most of us, the “break room” is a place we look forward to visiting — a sanctuary from the bustle and stress of our workdays, complete with drab wallpaper, days-old donuts, and a prehistoric coffee maker. For Lumon employees, its mere mention evokes visceral fear. In episode 3 of Severance, we learn what takes place there: Rule-breakers are forced to read a statement of guilt and apology over and over and over again. After each reading, a supervisor replies: “I’m afraid you don’t mean it. Again.” In a dark room, half-blinded by the luminous board on which their punishment is etched, the members of MDR learn — slowly and agonizingly — that any difficulties they face in adhering to Lumon’s code are their own fault.
I’ll never forget the final meeting that I had with the pastor of the last church I attended. After a long, anxiety-inducing effort to manage my rapidly ballooning doubts, I had decided to stop identifying myself as a Christian, and I had shared this hard news with my pastor. In a gentle voice, he informed me that God had revealed the root cause of my deconstruction to him: selfish pride. I had worshipped the false idol of worldly knowledge and had neglected my relationship with Jesus. These words hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. When I tried to reply, my throat closed, my hands shook, and tears sprang to my eyes. I wanted to plead my case, but somehow I knew that it wouldn’t help. No matter how fiercely I reiterated my love for Christ and the church, the countless ways that I’d tried to solicit God’s help, or my longing to do literally anything but leave, his judgement would stand. God had told him so.
For all their claims of open-mindedness, conservative religious groups cannot entertain the notion that a sincere spiritual seeker — one whose deepest desire is for truth, goodness, and communion with the divine — might find their quest leading them away from the church. Apostasy is always a moral failure, never the result of honest inquiry. This knee-jerk response might rub you the wrong way, but it makes a lot of sense. If a devout believer can fall away despite every effort to hold on, might not the same thing happen to anyone? And what would that imply about the religious authorities who condemn backsliders behind office doors?
#5. “Your Tribe is Bigger Than You Think”
Severance’s plot kicks into high gear once Mark, Helly, Irving, and Dylan each realize that they aren’t alone in their questions: Are there other departments than MDR? If so, how many? Who are those odd people in the hallways? And why aren’t we allowed to talk with them? The choice to divulge their doubts to one another doesn’t just offer comfort; it also sparks a plan of resistance that might finally provide answers… or spell disaster on an unimaginable scale. Nevertheless, one thing’s for sure: MDR’s members will face these challenges together.
For those navigating the wilderness of religious deconstruction, few things are as vital as finding community. This often involves signing up for therapy, but it also entails building relationships with folks who’ve traveled a similar road — a challenging but increasingly attainable goal. According to 2024 data by the Pew Research Center, 28% of U.S. adults now identify as atheists, agnostics, or religiously unaffiliated “nones.” This percentage has risen significantly in recent decades. As more and more of us make the difficult decision to “come out” as skeptics and nonbelievers, our ability to organize and to resist oppressive actions by religious groups grows. Community empowers hurting people to empower other hurting people.
When I left the Christian faith in 2022, I didn’t know a single person who had done likewise. The year leading up to this step was a profoundly lonely one. At times, I thought that the loneliness might never dissipate. But it did. Gradually, I discovered that the internet was brimming over with the testimonies of countless ordinary apostates like me. When I eventually worked up the courage to share my deconstruction story in a blog post, I was contacted by a bunch of friends whose stories mirrored mine — formerly devout Christians who I would never have expected to renounce their commitment to Christ. And just last month, I attended a retreat for ex-religious people near Charlottesville, Virginia, where I spent a weekend swapping stories, sharing meals, listening to lectures, and singing late-night karaoke with dozens of folks who had grasped my story of wrestling with religion immediately, because it was their story.
Like Mark, Helly, Irving, and Dylan, my fumbling attempts at honesty and vulnerability have forged new friendships with like-minded, open-hearted skeptics, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. Are you deconstructing your faith? You may feel alone, but you’re not. As author Leif Enger writes in his novel Virgil Wander, “Your tribe is always bigger than you think.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to watch some more Severance.
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Words for Wayfarers 