Mom, You Should Sit Down For This

One of the hardest moments of my life occurred on May 13, 2017.
It was the night before Mother’s Day, and my mom and I were having a nice chat in her East Texas kitchen when I was blindsided by the words “Tell me this: do you still have your faith?”
Her words pierced my heart like a dagger.
I breathed an internal sigh of relief as her worried eyes fixated on me.
On one hand, while her timing wasn’t ideal, I felt like the band-aid had finally been ripped off, the weight of the world slowing lifting off my shoulders. For months I had felt suffocated, unsure of how to dodge point-blank questions or approach such a delicate topic.
And now it was happening.
It felt surreal.
On the other hand, this is not how I wanted this conversation to begin, not because I wasn’t happy with my decision, but because she means the world to me, and I knew what followed would break her heart.
Even though she knew I hadn’t gone to church in years, I think she always hoped I was just searching for answers and would eventually see the error of my ways.
In that moment, it didn’t matter how carefully I chose my next words, because I might as well have shouted, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I’m an atheist.”
“No,” I answered, staying as tight-lipped as possible for both of our sakes.
She gave me a disapproving look and told me she sensed it for a while now.
I shared how relieved I was that I could talk about this with her, that I was certain I was headed to an early grave if the stress of hiding who I was continued to consume me.
But that vulnerable moment lasted about a minute.
I was then asked to answer a hypothetical question.
“If North Korea sent a missile to our location right now, would you change your mind?”
To her sheer horror, I replied, “What? No.”
I wanted to ask in what world Kim Jong-un would order a missile strike on a rural town in Texas, but I kept my unhelpful thoughts to myself.
My mom went on to tell a story about the time a Native American relative came to stay with her friends.
Each time they would leave the room, they would come back to find one specific kitchen plate in a different place each time, as if supernatural forces were at play. Her friends were certain said relative had brought a demon into the home.
Finally, when the spiritual leader of the house prayed the demon away, it fled, and they haven’t had that problem since.
I bit the inside of my lip and held back a chuckle.
I didn’t want to be disrespectful, but all I could picture was Satan assigning his minions their evil tasks for the day via the process of drawing straws, and Satan looking over at the demon who drew the short straw, saying to him, “This week, you’re going to randomly move a plate a few times, striking fear in the hearts of Christians everywhere.”
Thankfully, I again managed to keep my smartass comments to myself.
As the conversation drug on, I begin to notice a pattern: each story she told me was drenched in fear, a feeling I knew all too well.
Unbeknownst to her, I had visited Apostacon two years earlier, my first step towards loosening my death grip on Christianity.
I can still vividly remember walking through the doors of the DFW Marriott, convinced God would smite me. Or, at the very least, I’d get in a car accident on the way home.
To my surprise, I had a nice time and made it home safely.
Yes, I was still uncomfortable at times, but it was awesome to see Penn & Teller, and I even got a picture with Penn. Of course, it was a picture I could share with approximately no one. Penn & Teller were in town for one reason, and one reason only: Apostacon, “an annual event about atheism, freethought, humanism, secularism and skepticism in the United States.”
How I wish I could go back to that day, brush off the remnants of guilt and fear, and fully enjoy the experience.
Even though I’ve always had questions and doubts, it took me a long time to let go of the fear of hell.
But in 2016, after 20-plus years of Christianity telling me I was a sinner and therefore inadequate, unloveable, and unworthy, I finally freed myself from the confines of religion.
No more worrying after leaving the grocery store without sharing the gospel, stressing about how that person’s blood was on my hands if they died before accepting Christ.
I was no longer inhaling the noxious fumes of Christianity, and I felt like I could breathe again.
The machine-gun questioning and fear-based stories continued. I did my best to stay respectful, though I found myself growing more and more defensive.
I didn’t say it then, but here’s how I wanted to respond to the vitriol:
“Deciding to leave Christianity was a long, arduous process for me. I felt like someone close to me had died. I put a lot of time, effort, and heartache into my decision, and it wasn’t easy for me to leave a 25-year belief system.
So for you to sit here and belittle my decisions, thoughts, efforts, and beliefs, dismissing them because they don’t align with what you believe, is really shitty. And if that’s how you feel, we can’t have a productive conversation.”
But I couldn’t say that.
Until now.
The conversation ended with her asking me to reconsider once the Rapture comes.
Realizing our entire talk had been fruitless, I promised her that if the Rapture comes, I would give Christianity some serious consideration.
If you’re interested in my journey out of Christianity, this article is for you.
Can you relate to my story? I’d love to hear from you. Leave me a comment down below.
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