I know that he died a tortured man, for he had once been a Christian, and not in name only, but a devout soul dedicated, with what little he understood, to taking the good news he had discovered—had experienced in flashes of perfect clarity—to those he felt needed hope and purpose in their lives. Yet, as with many of us, the winds and tides of life, and the shipwrecks which accompany such, brought my friend to spiritual ruin. His last words to me before he passed were “I trusted them, and they failed me.” Truthfully, those were his last words, for I was the only one with him when he exited this vale of tears and stepped into eternity and, I pray, into a place of purging for his doubts, his unbelief, and his leading others astray with his wild foolishness.
He had trusted everyone—his parents, his teachers at school, his pastors at church, even his friends—especially those but one or two years older than he. He trusted them all, and they all—every one—failed him. This angered him, for if one trustworthy soul could not be found, where was God after all? Yet Jesus called him home, but he would not answer, believing he had found an alternate path equally as good as the one we have received from the Apostles. And now he is gone.