f2PointEight

One of the most interesting conversations I had after leaving Christianity took place not in anger, or debate, but in grief.

I had named my departure publicly in a Facebook post accompanied by an essay I titled, And Thus Man Created God in His Image. It was not written to provoke, but to tell the truth as I then understood it. The conversation that followed was with an elder from the church I had attended, someone I respected deeply, and whose faith I never doubted was sincere.

When we spoke, he did not challenge my reasoning or argue doctrine. Instead, he told me about his brother. His brother was dying. A Muslim. And in the final days of his life, my conversation partner had pleaded with him to accept Christ, to renounce Islam, to say the right words before it was too late. He loved his brother. He was afraid. He could not bear the thought that his brother might go to hell.

There was no triumphalism in his telling. No cruelty. Only urgency. The kind that tightens the chest and strips away nuance. When death approaches, theology stops being abstract. It becomes personal, immediate, irreversible.

The fear itself was sincere enough. What lingered was the structure it rested on. A series of conditions stacked carefully together. If God is real. If the Bible is true. If hell exists. If the consequences are eternal. If there is still time. Then surely, surely, it would be madness not to act.

Continued on Substack. Click here to read the rest…