It’s one of the strangest and most fascinating chapters in the Big Book. Written in 1939, it was Bill W.’s attempt to talk about God without sounding like a preacher. He knew that if he pushed religion too hard, half his readers would slam the book shut. So he titled it we, not you. Instead of pointing a finger at doubters, he cast himself in the same boat, admitting that this struggle with God belonged to all of them. That choice alone gave the chapter a kind of authenticity that still holds up.
The text itself argues that self-reliance and morality are not enough. Bill insists that codes of ethics and philosophy never kept anyone sober, and that only a power greater than ourselves could prevent the first drink. To soften the blow, he reaches for analogies that made sense in 1939: we trust electricity though we can’t see it; we accept that steel girders are really whirling electrons; we believe in voices carried through the air on radio waves. If we can believe in these unseen forces, why not God? He closes with Fitz Mayo’s story of sudden conversion—the thunderbolt moment when a defiant skeptic drops to his knees and feels the presence of God.
It’s not hard to see what worked. Bill named the problem openly: alcoholics resist religion. He tried to be inclusive by giving each person permission to have their own conception of God. He captured a truth that hasn’t aged: self-knowledge and willpower by themselves don’t save us. Something beyond solitary reason is required, whether you call it God, community, or grace. And in choosing “we,” he gave doubt dignity—it was no longer a shameful obstacle but part of the shared journey.
But the cracks are obvious now. The analogies are antiques. Nobody marvels at radios anymore. The persuasion can feel manipulative, as though disbelief is just stubbornness waiting to be cracked. And the assumption that resistance is about pride doesn’t fit our time. For many people today, disbelief isn’t arrogance—it’s outrage or trauma. They don’t say “I can’t believe.” They say, “I won’t hand my life to a God who let these things happen.” That pain doesn’t get a hearing in the chapter.
There’s also the blunt claim that belief in God is the only way to stay sober. Bill believed this with his whole being, but history has proven otherwise. Millions have stayed sober through a wide range of spiritual frameworks, some theistic, some not. The elasticity of “God as we understood Him” cracked the door open, but the constant “Him” reminds readers how limited Bill’s imagination was. For women, queer folks, or anyone outside his Protestant frame, the inclusivity doesn’t always land.
Still, it’s hard to dismiss the chapter entirely. That phrase—“as we understood Him”—gave enough permission for generations to wedge their foot in the door of recovery. And the core insight—that no matter how clever, educated, or moral we may be, self-reliance alone can’t stop us from drinking—remains true in 2025.
A full critique of We Agnostics could fill a book, and plenty have already been written. But in broad strokes: Bill did something brave in admitting the problem of unbelief, but his answers were shaped by his time, his culture, and his fears. The challenge now is not to prove God’s existence with outdated science, but to invite people—whether atheist, agnostic, religious, or wounded by religion—into a path where they can borrow strength from something beyond themselves. Call it God, call it community, call it the stubborn love of other drunks who keep showing up. Whatever you call it, the point is the same: none of us do this alone.
Next: We Agnostics (Reimagined) ⇢
This post is part of a larger project, A Fearless Inventory, where I walk through AA’s Big Book chapter by chapter. Along the way, I try to honor the spirit of the original while also offering critique, context, and a re-framing that speaks to our time. My hope is to open a conversation — not just about how recovery looked in 1938, but how it can be lived today.