I had 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.
But then a strange thing happened. During one of our lunch time outings, my mum asked me questions about my teenage years and I struggled to answer them with God omitted. It wasn’t that I felt the need to tell her about God, in fact quite the opposite, I wanted to leave him out, but he was so weaved into my story that it just couldn’t be done. It didn’t throw me though. If anything, it only intensified my anger at the non-existent God. During my month of atheism, I told more people about my experiences of God than I had ever done as a Christian. I prayed more, albeit prayers of “I hate you! And you’re not even real!”
I was wary of who I told about my new found atheism; I had seen people’s reactions to my doubts in previous months and didn’t want to be preached at by a load of squirming, awkward, self-righteous nutters who feared for my salvation. I kept going to church, leading groups, life as normal. I was on a church internship, and I really didn’t want to end without finishing my foundation degree in youth work, so I decided that I would leave the church in September.
It was an intensely emotional time for me, and I think that pushed me to reconsider everything I believed. I absolutely did not just want to ‘have faith;’ if I was going to keep going with God when all this was over, I needed to know He was real. I spent hours searching the internet for people like me; I found that there are plenty of stories of people finding God, but not so many about those losing Him. This frustrated me; I needed someone to talk to, someone who could relate, someone who would accept how I was feeling and not freak out on me.
But who could do that? I was about to realise just how much I had underestimated the people around me.