I had struggled with the question of whether people who didn’t believe in God went to Hell for years, but now it seemed more important than ever.
As a child I believed in Santa, who decided who got presents based on their behaviour (though one year Santa forgot me – that was the year I decided he didn’t exist); I could easily accept a Santa-like God. But a God who bases your salvation on whether you believe in him or not? That sounds like a really clever way of getting your followers to make recruits. Not unlike chain-mail; those really annoying texts that say if you don’t pass it on something bad will happen; fear is inspirational, and can motivate people to do things they wouldn’t normally have done in their right minds. Like believe in a God that allows suffering.
And if God was going to allow my mum to go to Hell, a place of eternal suffering, then I didn’t want to be his friend. The more I read my Bible, the greater a jerk he seemed to be. I could not wrap my head around how Christians believed this God to be loving and caring.
I couldn’t stand the pressure of ‘saving my mum,’ and decided that if God was going to force that upon me, then I didn’t want to serve him any longer. I grew so incredibly angry with God. These could be my mum’s final days and I couldn’t enjoy them with her because I was constantly worried whether I was being a good enough witness.
Following the advice of my friend, I prayed one night whilst she was in the hospital, she would be put on a ward with a Christian who would lead her to God. When I visited the next day, I found my prayer had been answered. During the night, a Christian lady had been moved into my mum’s ward and they had stayed up discussing the possibility of the existence of God. Unfortunately, instead of my mum becoming a Christian, the Christian had become an Athiest.
I decided that God could not be both all-loving and all-powerful, and therefore was not real. I was now free to enjoy these last days with my mum, unburdened by the need to witness at her.