Fifteen-year-old Meg raised her left hand to ask a question. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the other teenagers. Her right hand gripped a piece of pepperoni pizza.
In a quiet voice, she looked at Dr. McGreely and asked, “Is my grandma in heaven? She died three months ago, and I’m worried. She didn’t attend church.”
Pastor McGreely was a visiting speaker at our church. His church was the largest in our denomination in the entire state. In every sense of the phrase, he was a rock star.
This was an informal question-and-answer session with the church teenagers. Meg had never been to our church before.
McGreely turned and looked at her. He scrunched up his face and replied, “Well, if she didn’t go to church, she wasn’t a Christian. That means she’s in hell.”
He paused for a moment and asked, “Does anyone else have a question?”
Meg’s head dropped toward her chest. One of the girls reached over and patted her knee. I heard Meg sniffle as she fought back tears.
He had dropped a bomb into her life. Every teenager in the room felt the impact.
He could have said, “Only God makes decisions like that.” He could have said, “God knows her heart.”
But the preacher with the Bible on the table beside him had delivered his verdict.
Hell.
Meg’s grandmother was, at that very moment, burning forever in the Lake of Fire.
I thought I might throw up.
I stood in the back of the room and watched it happen. I knew I should say something. But I reminded myself that he was the professional and I was the amateur. This early in my career, openly disagreeing with one of our denomination’s most prominent preachers could be dangerous.
From the back of the room, I watched Meg’s head and shoulders curl forward. Her body shook with silent sobs.
And I just stood there.
I wanted to tell her that God loved her grandma. I should have told her that only God gets to make the heaven-or-hell decision. Only God knew her heart. I needed to tell her that going to church and loving God were two very different things.
But I stood there silently.
I was silent because I was afraid.
I hadn’t pronounced an eternity in hell upon Meg’s grandma. I hadn’t said the words. I wasn’t the one who had caused her to sob. I hadn’t dropped that bomb into her life.
But I didn’t challenge McGreely’s verdict.
My silence became part of the answer she received.
The next Sunday, I watched for her.
No Meg.
The following week, I searched the congregation again.
No Meg.
She never came back.
Over the years, I have often wondered what happened to her. I have carried the shame of that afternoon with me. I allowed fear of denominational displeasure to force me into silence.
For years, I tried to understand why I said nothing. Of course, I had plenty of excuses. But the real reason still bothers me.
I was protecting myself.
I didn’t want people to think I had disrespected the visiting preacher. I didn’t want my challenge to his theology to suggest that I didn’t understand the Bible.
So when Meg needed me, I chose silence.
Religious harm isn’t caused only by people who say cruel things in God’s name. Sometimes it is propped up by those of us who remain silent when we should speak.
We tell ourselves the time isn’t right.
We don’t want to create trouble.
We hope someone else will speak.
We may even convince ourselves that remaining quiet is the loving thing to do.
Sometimes silence is the wise choice. We don’t need to accept every invitation to a fight.
But silence is not always neutral.
Sometimes silence tells a frightened teenager that the cruel answer must be true.
Sometimes it tells an LGBTQ+ person that no one in the room will stand beside them.
Sometimes it tells a woman that her calling will always matter less than her gender.
Sometimes silence tells a person wounded by the church that protecting the institution is more important than protecting them.
I wish I could return to that room.
I wish I could stand beside Meg and say, “No one gets to place your grandma beyond the reach of God’s love.”
I can’t change what happened that day. It is too late to give Meg the answer I should have given her.
But I can refuse to remain silent now.
Maybe that is the difficult gift of regret. There are no do-overs. But we can decide that the next time someone needs a voice beside their own, we will speak.
I don’t know where Meg is today. But I hope she discovered that the answer she received in our church was not the only answer.
Maybe somewhere along the way, she found a God far more loving than the one we showed her.
This story comes from my upcoming memoir, A God Awful God: The God I Feared Wasn’t the God I Found. If you are questioning fear-based religion or searching for a more honest faith rooted in love, I invite you to join my book email list below. I’ll share occasional articles, book updates, and publication news.
Note: McGreely and Meg and pseudonyms to protect their identity.
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