Calvary, c 1470/1480, oil on panel, Master of the Death of Saint Nicholas of Münster. National Gallery Collection, Washington DC [photo credit: David Martínez]
One evening, while watching a made for tv documentary on the Book of Revelations, I had an epiphany. I’d suddenly constructed an irrefutable argument for the existence of God. Simple yet cogent, I possessed the perfect proof. As I sat in the confines of my room, alone with the tv on, I felt a genuine sense of amazement. But who would I tell? The only person that came to mind was a friend and neighbor, Harold Wilson. Mr Wilson was an aerospace engineer for Lockheed and the first self-professed atheist I’d ever met. I was fifteen years old and naively assumed that no one before had endeavored to *prove* God’s existence. But I did! And I would tell Mr Wilson as soon as I could. As I turned in for the night, I went to sleep with a radiant smile on my face. However, when I awoke the next morning, I was shocked to realize that everything was gone! My proof was so compelling that it didn’t occur to me that I could lose it if I didn’t write it down. I felt despondent. Now, the world would have to somehow go on without my insight. Believers would have to rely on mere faith and unbelievers would have endure an empty life of unbelieving.