When I was six, I had a shocking realization: many of my friends and family were going to Hell. During a drive to Glasgow, my dad told me my grandma wasn’t a Christian. I asked, “Doesn’t that mean she’s going to Hell?” My heart raced at the thought.
To my young mind, Heaven and Hell were as real as the car we were in. At church, I learned that if you weren’t a Christian, a life of torment awaited you after death. It didn’t seem fair. According to my church, everyone was a sinner deserving of Hell, no matter how good they were. Only by accepting Jesus could anyone escape such a fate.
Church was meant to be fun, filled with upbeat music and community spirit. We attended weekly services and home meetings, but the underlying message was serious. I often found myself reflecting on the dark implications for my loved ones. My grandma, friends, and even strangers were at risk of eternal suffering. It overwhelmed me.
My church was part of a conservative group called Newfrontiers, which adhered closely to biblical teachings. Women couldn’t lead, and same-sex relationships were deemed sinful. We were encouraged to spread this “good news” to everyone. But I couldn’t reconcile that message with the idea of family and friends facing ruin.
From 1991 to 2001, my church gathered for the Stoneleigh Bible Week, a large event that attracted thousands. I remember the smell of the cattle sheds and the soggy fields where we camped. We participated in songs and discussions, often touching on sensitive topics like sexual purity. There was an electricity in the air from people who seemed to be filled with the Holy Spirit. I felt out of place, rarely experiencing those powerful moments that others had.
As I grew older, questions began to pile up. I wondered about dinosaurs and how they fit into the biblical timeline. How could the theory of evolution coexist with the idea of a created world? My curiosity led me down a path of doubt, and by my teenage years, I devoured books trying to justify my beliefs. Each answer seemed to bring more questions.
When I was 14, I was baptized, but I felt more awkward than joyful. I wanted to prove my faith even though my inner thoughts conflicted. By the time I turned 17, a deep sense of relief washed over me when I decided to leave Christianity behind. I could think freely and explore ideas without fear of punishment.
After my father passed away in 2018, I had to face my spirituality. During my grief, I felt the pull of something deeper, something I hadn’t acknowledged for a long time. It opened my eyes to the complexity of existence, beyond what I had been taught.
In my new book, “The Spirituality Gap,” I explore various practices that have become popular in today’s world—everything from astrology to modern-day spiritual retreats. I wanted to see what these practices offered and if they could help me understand the mysterious aspects of life.
While not every practice resonated with me—some felt too far removed from reason—I was intrigued by many methods. I found running, for instance, to be a spiritual practice. The rhythm of my feet on the pavement allowed me to escape the chaos of thoughts and find clarity. I spoke with a Buddhist teacher about “still running,” a form of meditation in motion where you simply focus on the experience of running.
I also explored ayahuasca retreats, known for their transformative potential. These experiences were daunting but offered insights into my fears and deeper emotions. While the challenges were intense, they brought a surprising peace afterward.
Now, years later, I identify as agnostic. I have embraced spiritual practices that bypass dogmas, such as meditation and mindfulness. Many of us are seeking something deeper, crafting our own beliefs and understandings of life’s mysteries.
Not everyone will resonate with the same practices, but that’s the beauty of this journey. We’re all on our own paths, searching for meaning that makes sense to us.
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