I didn’t grow up with religion in my house, but Trenton did; I really think those different experiences fundamentally shaped our respective attitudes about religion generally and Christianity in particular.

Trenton was barely a teenager when he starting questioning what the adults were telling him in church. Up to that point, he and his parents had been going to a Baptist church every Sunday, sometimes on Wednesdays and Saturdays too.

Even after his parents gave up and stopped forcing him (sometimes physically) to go to church every week, his faith hung on for awhile.

This was the truth his parents and all the other trustworthy adults in his life had been feeding to him; how could there be a different reality? He wanted to believe. As his interest in science began to develop and mature, though, he started questioning more of the supernatural claims about Christianity. If God is everywhere all the time, how can He be here in my room and also downstairs with my parents? Can He really listen to all of our thoughts? Is Grandma really watching me from the sky?

Imagine being a 14 year old boy lying in bed, looking at the ceiling, jacking off, wondering if your dead grandma was watching.

The doubt start carving out a deeper and deeper gap as Trenton got older, and as his faith in Christianity receded, a profound anger took its place.

It is precisely that anger that separates his experience from mine. Betrayal.

It goes beyond the lie, because surely parents believe the lie themselves. What it is instead, I think, is the long-lasting, deep-seated guilt and terror of sin and hell. Children learn about the nature of the world and themselves through their parents. To be told that your very existence is inadequate and that you run the risk of spending an eternity on fire is pretty heavy for a grade-schooler.

The more I learned, the less it made sense. I had more evidence to say “this doesn’t add up.”

That last shred of faith hung on for more than a year.