My son was baptized today. Baptized into the fire-and-brimstone, you-must-be-saved-or-you-are-eternally-doomed kind of church I dislike most.

I went to support him. But hours later, my stomach is churning. The words repeated by the fiery-eyed preacher, a man nearly rabid in his beliefs and insistence, bounce around in my head: "Judgement," "Evangalize," "Salvation," "Hell," "Doom," "Damnation." And the phrases: "There can be no happiness without Jesus." "If salvation doesn't make you smile, I don't know what does." "Put your hand in the nail-scarred hand." "Death, agonizing death, for our sins."

My stomach churns at the idea that my beautiful boy believes he is not good enough the way he is, that he believes he must be baptized to be "saved," that he now a member of a church that preaches that those unlike him - those who are not saved - are hellbound. This rural church is a mini-version of the Bible-based mega-church he and I attended several months ago, the one from which I left saddened and discouraged, confused that so many people could believe they are only a heartbeat away from eternal damnation and that a loving God would condemn anyone to such a sentence

The idea of Robby's baptism and the actual ceremony came within only a few days of one another.

Robby has been with his dad and step-mom for many weekends in a row now as he completes a 10-week snowboarding class that has made it logistically impossible for him to be with me the usual three out of four weekends a month. He has been to church there, about which he had complained for months, week after week. Wednesday, the phone rang and my son's sweet voice came down the line.

"Hi Mom, this is Robby," he said. This was his standard phrase, one that made me smile each time.

"Hey sweetie, what's new?"

"Well, I'm gonna be baptized," he said.

In only a split second, I recovered enough to say, "Really? When?" in a tone that suggested a delight I did not feel.

It was Sunday, he said, and even though he hadn't asked me, I knew he wanted me to come.

I asked to speak to his father, who told me his wife had asked Robby earlier in the week if he'd like to be baptized with her. He had said 'yes,' and Zach had since decided he would be baptized, too. It had happened so quickly, Zach said, that he hadn't had time yet to tell me. He described the church as "sort of Baptist."

"Really, we just study the Bible," my ex said. "We've just fallen in love with this little church."

I reassured Robby I would be there, but my heart was sinking. Baptist churches preached salvation and damnation. Strict Bible followers believed the same. I asked my son only a few questions, not wanting him to feel I was in opposition, not wanting him to shut down.

I asked him why. "So I can be saved," he said.

"So, honey, do you want to do this because you love God or because you're afraid of what will happen if you don't?"

"God wants me to," he said. "God loves me."

"Of course he does," I said. "You are completely lovable."

My mind searched for reasons, and then one came to me. "Do you like the idea of believing you have answers rather than just not being sure?"

He hesitated, then said, "Yes."

"OK," I said, putting a smile in my voice. "I understand that. And you know I'll support you in anything you decide, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation this time.

We said goodbye, and I hung up feeling heavy hearted in two ways now. A child needs structure and assurances - that Mommy and Daddy will always be there, that school is a non-negotiable reality, that he will be tucked in and kissed on the forehead each and every night. But also, that after people die, they live on in a different kind of way, that there is a force greater than us that guides us on our way, that there is a reason - however mysterious to us - for every tragedy and loss.

I never had to struggle with not knowing. These "truths" were instilled in me from the day I was born. There was no question of their veracity, and those who believed otherwise, like the Lutherans down the street, were sadly misguided. It was only later, as a young adult, that the absolutes became suspect, and only then that I began to question.

For a child, believing these huge truths is like cuddling a teddy bear. It is comforting, soft and easy on the mind, ultimately reassuring.

As Robby's mother, I yearned to give him these answers, to offer him the reassurance I see now he needs. Part of me feels a monumental failure for my inability to provide that security.

But I cannot give him answers I don't have.

I believe that ever person - saved, unsaved, Muslim, Iraqi, gay, imprisoned or atheist - has equal value and while some may be irreprebaly twisted by life, that we are all born good. I believe we are here to make life better for one another, to find the joy in life, and when that's a shadowy, slippery illusion, to ease the pain. I believe our actions send shock waves to people and places we may never know. I believe some mysterious force set this magnificent world in motion. My heart sings with this truth at the miracle that is a flower; something so complex and beautiful cannot be an accident. I believe my brain is not capable of comprehending what that force is, that it is too big, too amazing, to understand.

I believe wars are started because of one group's fear that their beliefs will be taken away, or worse, that they are wrong, that horrendous battles are fought to keep that security blanket of religion tightly wrapped around people.

I believe that those who preach hell inspire more fear than joy, create more division than unity.

I do not want my son to be afraid.

I watched this morning as Robby's stepmother and father, dressed in loose, white cotton gowns, stepped into a half-filled hot tub in the church basement. Watched as the preacher asked if they had accepted Christ as their saviour, then guided their spines over his arm, arching them backward into the water, plunging them down, then bringing them face first back up.

"When we are in the water, we are buried with Jesus, dead like he was," he said. "When we come up back into the light, we are saved, we ascend with Jesus into eternal joy."

He saved my son for last, deliberately, I know. My boy, clad in a gown that looked more like a long, white T-shirt, stepped into the water next to the preacher. He looked like an angel, absurdly pure, brilliantly beautiful. I knew I was looking not simply through a mother's eyes; everyone saw this. My heart ached for a hopelessly knotted tangle of reasons.

"Have you accepted Jesus as your saviour?" he asked. Robby stared back into the preacher's eyes. "Yes," he said.

Robby plugged his nose and grabbed the preacher's wrist. My camera flashed. I missed seeing the plunge, my eyes refocusing in time to see my son's hands push back his hair, streams of water running down his face, off the gown.

He looked at me, and I smiled wide, giving a stunning performance.

Later, I hugged him tightly, asked him how he felt, ruffled his damp hair, told him I loved him, and said goodbye.

I could write him pages about what I believe, and how I feel about his decision. I also could lambast myself for my fear of losing control, for childishly panicking at the realization that my influence is not all that matters to him, for fear of losing my son to a world into which I cannot follow.

But if I respect him, this thoughtful child I created, I must do nothing. I must let him explore, confident in his intelligence. I must let him take the months and years he needs to ask his own questions and come to his own conclusions. I must let go of my son, and see him not as a child to be molded and shaped into a being who pleases me. I must see him instead as a person.