they go to hell,” he responded.
“You know me,” I continued. “I’m not a bad person. I’m honest. If I walk out of this restaurant and get killed by a truck, will I go straight to hell?” They didn’t want to answer that question, squirming in their seats. “Well, do you believe the bible?” I pressed.
“Of course,” Myrna said.
“Then will I go to hell?”
“Yes,” they finally answered, but not without a great deal of discomfort. Perhaps it was not the best lunch topic or the most diplomatic way to treat friends, but I wanted to make the brutality of Christianity real to them. I knew it would be hard for them to imagine their God punishing someone like me. I later heard that they were perturbed with me for having coerced them to say I was going to hell. It forced them to acknowledge that, as much as we wanted to be friends, their religion considers me the enemy.
The letters I received and the conversations that followed my “coming out” displayed love, hatred, and everything in between. Many friendships were lost, others transformed, and still others strengthened. Of all of the attempts to get me back in the fold, not a single one had any intellectual impact. Although I was saddened at having discontinued some relationships, I found I did not miss them. I didn’t think I was smarter than these people were; we just chose different priorities and grew apart. I suppose it was somewhat like a divorce—even though there were good times and happy memories, once it’s over, it’s over.
I’ll tell you, this is a great way to test your friendships. Imagine doing this yourself. If you are an atheist, try telling your friends that you have become a born-again preacher. If you are a lifelong Republican, announce that you have switched parties. How many of your “friends” would stay your friends? Some undoubtedly would, because your friendship is a true horizontal peer relationship of unconditional admiration and enjoyment of each other’s person. But some of them would not, because you (and they) would learn that the arrangement was contingent on something external to the relationship, such as belonging to the same club, faction, philosophy or religion. As soon as that external link disappears, so does the artificial bond that brings you together. That’s when the friendship loses its point. But this is good, because then you know who your friends are. If they were true friends, they would have gladly accommodated your freedom of choice even if it made them uncomfortable. You can’t lose something that was not there in the first place.
Few of the letters offered any defense of bible contradictions. No one presented any documentary evidences from the first century or offered a single rational argument for the existence of a god beyond the where-did-we-come-from garden variety. (I know there are stronger arguments, and I’ll deal with them later.) Most of the negative responses centered on things like humility, shame, attitude, prayer—in short, “spiritual” intimidation.
I never heard from Rev. Milton Barfoot, the pastor at Glengrove Assembly of God, but my brother, Darrell, told me he had spoken briefly with him about me, and all he could say was, “But isn’t Dan afraid of hell?” That’s it. Of all the things this learned, ordained minister could utter in response to honest intellectual searching, the first thing he thought of was hell. Oh, gosh, now I see it! I should stop questioning and just be afraid.
Dave Gustaveson’s challenge to “cry out to God” was nothing less than intellectual dishonesty. One of my friends asked me simply to “pretend that Jesus is real and he will make himself real to you.” Had either of them ever “cried out to Buddha” or “pretended that Allah is real” as an acid test of their existence? These people were asking me to lie to myself. They should have known better. They should have known that I had already
“You know me,” I continued. “I’m not a bad person. I’m honest. If I walk out of this restaurant and get killed by a truck, will I go straight to hell?” They didn’t want to answer that question, squirming in their seats. “Well, do you believe the bible?” I pressed.
“Of course,” Myrna said.
“Then will I go to hell?”
“Yes,” they finally answered, but not without a great deal of discomfort. Perhaps it was not the best lunch topic or the most diplomatic way to treat friends, but I wanted to make the brutality of Christianity real to them. I knew it would be hard for them to imagine their God punishing someone like me. I later heard that they were perturbed with me for having coerced them to say I was going to hell. It forced them to acknowledge that, as much as we wanted to be friends, their religion considers me the enemy.
The letters I received and the conversations that followed my “coming out” displayed love, hatred, and everything in between. Many friendships were lost, others transformed, and still others strengthened. Of all of the attempts to get me back in the fold, not a single one had any intellectual impact. Although I was saddened at having discontinued some relationships, I found I did not miss them. I didn’t think I was smarter than these people were; we just chose different priorities and grew apart. I suppose it was somewhat like a divorce—even though there were good times and happy memories, once it’s over, it’s over.
I’ll tell you, this is a great way to test your friendships. Imagine doing this yourself. If you are an atheist, try telling your friends that you have become a born-again preacher. If you are a lifelong Republican, announce that you have switched parties. How many of your “friends” would stay your friends? Some undoubtedly would, because your friendship is a true horizontal peer relationship of unconditional admiration and enjoyment of each other’s person. But some of them would not, because you (and they) would learn that the arrangement was contingent on something external to the relationship, such as belonging to the same club, faction, philosophy or religion. As soon as that external link disappears, so does the artificial bond that brings you together. That’s when the friendship loses its point. But this is good, because then you know who your friends are. If they were true friends, they would have gladly accommodated your freedom of choice even if it made them uncomfortable. You can’t lose something that was not there in the first place.
Few of the letters offered any defense of bible contradictions. No one presented any documentary evidences from the first century or offered a single rational argument for the existence of a god beyond the where-did-we-come-from garden variety. (I know there are stronger arguments, and I’ll deal with them later.) Most of the negative responses centered on things like humility, shame, attitude, prayer—in short, “spiritual” intimidation.
I never heard from Rev. Milton Barfoot, the pastor at Glengrove Assembly of God, but my brother, Darrell, told me he had spoken briefly with him about me, and all he could say was, “But isn’t Dan afraid of hell?” That’s it. Of all the things this learned, ordained minister could utter in response to honest intellectual searching, the first thing he thought of was hell. Oh, gosh, now I see it! I should stop questioning and just be afraid.
Dave Gustaveson’s challenge to “cry out to God” was nothing less than intellectual dishonesty. One of my friends asked me simply to “pretend that Jesus is real and he will make himself real to you.” Had either of them ever “cried out to Buddha” or “pretended that Allah is real” as an acid test of their existence? These people were asking me to lie to myself. They should have known better. They should have known that I had already
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