One Has to Try Hard to Go to Hell. People Leave Religion Because of Religious People. Dr Shabir Choudhry,

 One Has to Try Hard to Go to Hell.

People Leave Religion Because of Religious People. 

Dr Shabir Choudhry, May 2026, London

A friend once told me about a young boy who was playing football when he suddenly realised it was time to go to the mosque for his religious lesson.

Without going home to change, he ran straight to the mosque wearing his football kit.

The Imam looked at him with anger and shouted:

“Is this how you come to the house of Allah? If you come dressed like this again, Allah will send you to hell!”

The boy lowered his head in humiliation and quietly walked away.

When he reached home, his mother noticed the sadness on his face and asked what had happened.

With tearful eyes, he replied:

“The Imam Sahib said Allah will send me to hell because I went to the mosque in my football clothes.”

The mother remained silent for a few moments. Then she gently placed her hand on her son’s head and said:

“My son, Allah does not look for excuses to throw people into hell. Allah is Most Merciful. Human beings are the best of His creation.”

She continued:

“Tell the Imam Sahib tomorrow that children are not sent to hell for wearing football clothes. To go to hell, a person has to work very hard.”

Then she explained what truly hardens the human heart:

• Killing innocent people
• Abusing girls and boys who come to mosques to learn Islam
• Deceiving people, especially in the name of religion
• Spreading lies and hatred
• Denying people their rights
• Stealing from the weak and the poor
• Seizing the property of orphans
• Creating division, extremism, and violence
• Treating neighbours with cruelty
• Using religion to humiliate and control others

And then she said something even more powerful:

“Even after committing terrible sins, if a person sincerely repents, Allah may still forgive him. His mercy is greater than our sins.”

That mother understood Islam better than many who preach it.

A few years ago, another incident deeply moved me.

It was a Thursday evening. After Maghrib prayers, there was to be a religious lecture at the local mosque. A well-known scholar from the city had been invited to speak.

That same evening, my friend’s husband received a phone call from their son, Ahad.

Months had passed since they had last heard from him properly.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Abu…”

There was hesitation in his voice.

His father immediately sat upright.

“Wa Alaikum Assalam, son. Is everything alright?”

After a few moments of silence, Ahad quietly asked:

“If I come with you tonight to listen to the lecture… would that be okay?”

His mother later said she began to cry in the kitchen the moment she heard those words.

For years, Ahad had drifted away from religion and religious people.

He had long hair, and tattoos covered parts of his arms. Also, a small stud shone in his ear.

Late-night gatherings, motorbikes, reckless company — and behind all of it, a deep emptiness that nobody seemed willing to understand.

People in the neighbourhood had already labelled him:

“A spoiled boy.”

Whenever he passed near the mosque, some people would look at him with contempt.

“Look at today’s youth…”

“Astaghfirullah, just look at his appearance…”

But the truth was very different.

Inside, he was a soft-hearted young man who had simply lost his way.

His father warmly replied:

“Come, son. Come exactly as you are.”

Then Ahad asked a question that broke his parents’ hearts.

“What should I wear?”

It was not really a question about clothes.

It was a question born from fear. A fear of rejection.

A fear of humiliation. A fear of being told that he did not belong in the house of Allah.

His father replied softly:

“Come as you are. You do not need to become an angel before turning towards Allah.”

That night, when Ahad arrived, his mother noticed something painful.

Despite the warm weather, he was wearing a full-sleeved shirt.

He was trying to hide his tattoos.

Not from Allah.

From religious people.

During the drive to the mosque, silence filled the car.

Then Ahad quietly asked:

“Abu… what if people stare at me?”

His father paused before replying:

“My son, when someone comes to the house of Allah, it is Allah who looks at him first — not people.”

When they reached the mosque courtyard, people sat in groups talking while waiting for the lecture to begin.

Ahad sat beside an elderly man named Haris Sahib, a member of the mosque committee. He had a white beard and simple clothes. But a heart large enough to see pain beyond appearances.

A few minutes later, Haris Sahib noticed part of Ahad’s tattoo visible beneath his sleeve.

His father became nervous because he expected criticism, perhaps an unwelcome lecture. Perhaps humiliation, which was not required.

Instead, Haris Sahib smiled gently and asked:

“Did you design these yourself?”

Ahad looked surprised. “Yes”, he replied.

“You must be an artist,” Haris Sahib said warmly. “Allah has given you talent.”

That was all. Just one sentence, but sometimes a single kind sentence can bring a person back from very far away.

For the first time in years, Ahad’s father saw innocence return to his son’s face.

Then the lecture began. During the speech, the scholar suddenly said:

“Sometimes the person closest to Allah is the very person whom society considers the greatest sinner.”

Ahad slowly lifted his head and listened carefully.

Then the scholar added:

“If a broken person has finally gathered the courage to take one step towards Allah, do not push him away. Perhaps it took him years to reach this door.”

That night, Ahad quietly cried.

After the gathering ended, he sat silently in the mosque courtyard for a long time.

Then he asked his father:

“Abu… does Allah really forgive people like me?”

His father’s eyes filled with tears. He replied:

“My son, sins do not take people far away from Allah as much as hopelessness does.”

That night teaches us an important lesson.

Many people move away from religion not because they hate Allah, but because the behaviour of religious people wounds them.

A harsh word can push someone away from faith for years.

A kind word can bring someone back to Allah.

If a broken person comes towards the mosque, do not judge:

• His hair,
• Her clothes,
• Their past,
• Their tattoos,
• Or their mistakes.

Because perhaps his mother has spent years crying in Tahajjud for his guidance.

And perhaps Allah loves that struggling soul more than those who sit in judgment over others.

Guidance enters hearts more through compassion than condemnation.

Religion without mercy becomes a prison.

But faith combined with kindness becomes a path back to Allah.