Quagmire

            I would love to be an Atheist, to rid my life of the complication that comes with Faith. At times, I feel like I am only a step away from this reality. It would then be easier to take responsibility for my past, and my present, rather than using something divine as an easy go-to in deflection. I would have to actually face life rather than using God as an excuse for my non-participation. I would be forced to hold myself fully accountable for my actions. There would be no room for “What ifs?” or “Is it all true?” No fate, no predestination, and no angels or demons would exist to sway me. There would merely be the path I have chosen and my feet to lead the way. It is attractive, the idea of being this way. Unfortunately, my experiences, my spirit, and most importantly my mind, cannot abandon all I have come to understand. I recognize there is more to this world than I know but it seems that I cannot find a trace of it. Somehow I manage to still believe, even if I have nothing to really believe in. I continue to engage, to try. No matter what has come to be, I just can’t shake Jesus.

“They are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts.”

(Ephesians 4:18, NIV)

            I am not a Christian. I used to be but I gave it up for Lent. I do not believe Jesus was God incarnate. I do not believe in the tenets of the Faith, nor do I believe Christianity is an exclusive club of people elected to heaven because of their religious association with the Christ. I do not believe the Bible is an infallible transcript of the Word of God.  I do believe that scripture contains something more than mere words. It is more a guide than an instruction manual. While not necessarily a map to our salvation, it can assist us if we use it correctly. I suppose it is how one applies scripture that will determine whether the essence of its teachings are being followed. It is rather important that one does not practice what one preaches, but rather preaches what one practices. Regardless of the truths I have acknowledged in the Judeo-Christian tradition, the security, the guarantees promised to the fold of the Christian Messiah never really took root in my adult sensibilities. Frankly, I've never really been sure what to believe. I know I believe in God. I have sensed Him in Spirit and I have tried to see Him in the Light. Even in the tunnel, He turned me away. Despite everything I have learned, and all I realize I am unable to know, I cannot ignore my own witness. No matter how I have struggled to put such things as this behind me, they seem inescapable. The further I try to walk away, the louder they call out to me. I see no vision, no ghostly expression, it is all within my mind and soul. I know it is real, for me. It is an emotional state, a feeling I get, not just some  observation or rational conclusion. There is a connection that, so far, has no end.

            I tend to view Jesus as an archetype, the original foundation which Christian history, and dogma, views as authoritative. He is a Divine reference point for those who were born in a certain place and a certain time. As with Buddha, or Mohammed, mankind seems to need a figurehead to look towards for guidance. It is usually a projection of the way we already think, or at least have been told to. Most of the time we are so lacking, unable to do anything but follow blindly. We need someone to think for us and to act for us. We then have no responsibility for what we have done ourselves. A god is created in an “image” in order to clarify, to validate and to moderate us. Mankind, of course, has never been afraid to follow something that holds promise, despite any realization of the damage it can and will do. There is something off-putting about it. I’m not much for religion. One of the few things God hates is religion. While I will concede it does good for many, I will also argue it does many no good. Often the very centre of religious thought can drive a person to insanity. Sometimes great men of God, born-again and bubbly, will take to arms, striking down their supposed enemy in some personal, or esoteric, pseudo-Jihad. So many people have fallen in the name of god that it can be hard to believe He is there at all, let alone listening, responding and interacting with the human race. I can’t help but wonder if He ever cared at all, considering His “from a distance” approach to mankind. Historical proof of Jesus aside, is He with us at all?

            There have been many times I have failed to understand any need I have to keep Jesus in my life. I often wish He would just go away. I have never comprehended why I just can’t move on completely. I want to and He hates me so I don’t get why I allow myself to linger in this misery. He is etched in my make-up, at least it would seem so. He is carved in stone. I have fallen away from any proposed dogma and contrived exegesis regarding my Lord but I have not given up completely. I carry Him around like a key, dangling with all the others on a ring made of absurdities. My faith is warped but I still own it. I do not believe I have a choice. I am His servant, having been born to a Christian experience rather than a Jewish one, or a Sikh one. It is almost as if I am supposed to trust that God placed me in my reality, versus another, and it is against this setting that my life is measured. How does one measure? How can one be sure there is something more? How can one confirm that God is working in the life they lead? Is there a way to affirm all this praying, and doing, means anything at all? Is this all just hyperbole? Are we out of our minds? Why do we, as a people, continue to question and continue to ponder despite silence from heaven above? How can we be sure? For this labelled sinner, the answer is simple. The proof is in the pudding.

“A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.  Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop, a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.”
(Matthew 13: 3b-8, NIV)

            In June of 1995, approximately 5 months after my suicide attempt in the frozen Stratford cemetery, I was contacted by the Catholic Diocese of London, Ontario regarding the event. From what I understood, one of the health care workers from my time of recuperation had contacted the Church in order to share my story of survival. A Priest contacted me and asked for an interview regarding what had happened. He was primarily interested in the phenomena I experienced and the lack of affect to my physical shell. I have to admit I was more than interested in this turn of events. I myself wished greater understanding, and clarity, and agreed to meet in the hopes I would finally have a few answers and some spiritual resolution. He was miracle hunting. There was never any question that something strange had happened to me. No matter how anyone tried to rationalize, or minimize, the event, I just could not find their conclusions acceptable. So much from that night is unexplained. Not one person, in all these years, has been able to explicate the events, or lack thereof. While I have learned there are some things we are not meant to understand, still, when science can tell us the age of a maggot on a corpse and therefore conclude time of death, one would assume it should be more than able to define my experience or, minimally, confirm what did or did not happen to me that night and into the next day.

            The Priest started with the physical evidence. I told him about the Valium and how I made sure to take them on an empty stomach. I explained how I dropped all 100 x 10 mg little blue buttons as if they were Tic Tacs. We discussed the 15 hours I spent in the cold. From 9 p.m. on Sunday, the 19th of February, until around noon the next day, I laid in the snow, exposed to the winter and -7 degrees Celsius. I noted the lack of covering I took with me into the dark. He questioned me with great interest, focusing on the absence of consequence to me physically. No frostbite, not even a little frost burn was found upon my body at its discovery, or later at the hospital. Although it took me two days to wake up, no evidence of any other side effect, from the Valium or the act, could be found. It was almost as if I had done nothing at all. We talked about the tunnel and we talked about the light. I explained the two figures cloaked in the bright. I explained how my late partner, or something resembling him, had left his place, and the other frame, and took me to safety. He seemed unsurprised when I revealed Doug’s words to me. He told me how common they were in these phenomena. I watched him write it down word for word: “You cannot come, it is not your time.” At the time, I had no idea about the Near Death Experience, but I learned quickly that these types of occurrences happen with great frequency. He informed me that my experience, including what he called “interference healing”, were not uncommon throughout history and our modern world.

            Although I later decided not to continue with this exploration, the initial investigation did act as a catalyst for my decisive study of Christianity. While that Priest passed away in 2007, and despite never seeing him again, that initial meeting helped to change my way of critical thinking. He revealed to me a great opportunity. He told me that my example could stand for others to gain strength from, and like with the second figure in my NDE, most often it is not about the who, or how, but rather the why. Anything else would be up to me. He offered me not one single answer. He never led me to one place or another in my searching. The only thing he laid claim to was that if God was not a part of what had happened, then why did it seem He was? He made it clear to me that although I may never be sure, perhaps I was supposed to believe it was Jesus. Maybe all my questions had already been answered. Maybe it was Him.

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8, NIV)

            Most days I feel like I’m swimming in a quagmire. For me, the only proof I need of something more is my continuing existence. I should have been dead years ago, but I continue to thrive. I am a testament that there are actual zombies, in one form or another. I am the walking dead. I am painfully aware of my human imperfection. I am still all I have ever been, but I am not buried in who I am not. I still get angry, I still screw up. I still doubt and question and, many days, even curse God in heaven. Jesus, most often, pisses me off. I get incensed when He seems to ignore what His followers are saying and doing to those not included in His kingdom. In all my years, I have never witnessed any form of Divine Justice. I look around and see how Christianity, and almost all forms of religion, cause more conflicts than they solve. I do not understand why something so powerful as a god, doesn’t just simply fix the problem instead of letting it linger, century after century. Scripture claims that God is with us but His actions seem rather lacking, if you ask me. Should not a personal God actually interact with people rather than resorting to ambiguous condescension? This raises a very revealing question, where is God when you need Him the most?

            For years, I went looking for answers in many other directions. I believed that in trying to get away from Jesus, and all that Christianity entails, would lead me to a better place, a more Holy space. In the end, I did not need to abandon everything I had been taught. Jesus’ example, the essence of His message, was underlying in almost every other faith or belief system that I encountered. They all say the same things, just from a very  different point of view. The universal truths contained therein are wrapped in cultural perspective, but they contain the same substance. It really comes down to the Golden Rule. The Priest was correct. I did not need to go looking elsewhere when the answers were right in front of me. Why would anyone beg on a street corner if they have money in the bank? Why would anyone buy a dozen roses if they have 12 bushes blooming in their very own front yard? I was stuck in needless suffering. All the time, what I was looking for, I had already found. It is this example and His true message I cannot escape. These simple ideas represent the epitome of grace and mercy. It is because of when and where I was born that He is my concierge, even though so many other faiths, at base, teach the same things. It is so simple, just like God’s love for us. It is not conditioned. It does not hold favour. There is no in-crowd and it has nothing to do with religion.

            Jesus came to abolish religion. He came to set us free, not restrict us, regardless of His statements to the contrary (Matthew 5:17). Just because someone goes to Church, or claims they are born again, or even that they read the Bible, doesn’t make them a Christian or a child of the one true god. Just because someone believes they see does not mean they have seen the whole picture. Believing you have vision does not always make it so. People should know you are a child of God by your actions, your “fruit of the spirit”, not by your claims or labels or formulas (Galatians 5:22-23). Just because you bought a leather jacket on the weekend does not automatically make you a member of the Hell’s Angels. Religion can be destructive. Religion is often dubious. It tends to feed those it merits as saved, while the sinner goes hungry. It is exclusive. It does not preach what it practices. Religion is like trying to put makeup on someone who has been cremated; there is not a lot to work with. You have to go with what makes sense rather than trying to make sense as you go. Find your otherland.

“So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets” (Matthew 7:12, NIV).

            Every day that I wake up, I recognize how fortunate I am to have this life, thorns and all. Who knew a zombie could have such soul within? I still sin. I still hurt. I am still just some lost soul trying desperately to make his way. The manner, in my mind, through which I achieved a relationship with God was by letting go of religion, in all its forms, and embracing the only message that qualifies as legitimately from a loving, benevolent God. He is not a reward for the worthy, but rather He is hope for the unworthy. We all, most certainly, are that. I have come around full circle. I have quality and substance throughout my life. My relationship with Jesus may have greatly changed but it seems more intact now than it has ever been. I don’t give heed to all the commentary about Him any more than I do to the weight of a feather. I have a relationship, even if it is one-sided. I recognize my experience is set in my reality and within my ability to understand. I was put here, in this place and time. All I need to worry about, regardless of all the words men of God toss about, is to love God and others (John 13:34). The rest is all commentary. While I am certain most things will pass, I am often still stuck in quicksand. The fact that I continue to trudge on is proof worth consumption. I do not worry that I may have lost my way. I am not a Christian, but then again, neither was Jesus.

Photo

https://www.deviantart.com/a-020/art/Nepgear-in-Quicksand-07-679159073

Sources

https://survivinggod.blogspot.com/2012/04/pudding.html

The Back of the Room

         

            I have found that the most successful way to deal with the struggles of life is to forget them. While I don’t necessarily mean no longer recognizing their impact, I do mean moving past them. The only way I have found to be free from the emotional baggage of life is to detach from it. Freeze up. Do not let it bother you. Yes, this can be easier said than done but I have found that with practice and enough pain, detachment is a viable solution for the broken soul.

            I was on my way home from a weekend working in Toronto when he climbed the side of the flour mill and jumped from 9 stories up. The snow did not catch him. He landed on his back and died instantly. I can still see the icy remains and his brain pooling out like a frozen pizza. There are times, still, when this fragment of my life plays over like a bad 80s song. After 24 years, I still miss him. I wish things had been different but all these years later and I am still here. I made it through. At first, this was not the case. I was much more than just damaged goods. I was empty and fractured and lost. My grief became a physical thing. I would cry out and scream, calling for my partner. I was being eaten alive by the very thought of him. After a forced consultation with a psychiatrist and several months under the care of a minister, you would have thought I had a reason to be better but I did not. For almost a year, I was crippled. I couldn’t work, I barely ate and my lachrymose acted more like acid than wet to wash things away. The longer the separation, the worse I got. I spent my first summer without him, all the while shooting up morphine in my parents’ basement.

            When I came out of that fiasco, I realized I had a serious problem. It was obvious to me I could not continue to hold on to him. I had to let him go. I forced myself to go out with my friends on the weekend. I started to spend time with my family. I started to be social. I also stopped fixating on the consequences of his fatal decision. I stopped talking to people who were part of my life when this happened. I completely detached from the life that I knew. I stopped going to the cemetery once a week. I stopped driving past his childhood home. I put away all the things that might have reminded me of the way things used to be. I had to push every part of him to the back of the room. The first Christmas I knew without him found me giving away any belongings that might have acted as a catalyst to my grief. I gave away all our yuletide decorations. I spread all his baseball cards around. Clothing, pictures, even comic books were placed into the care of those who I felt, at the time, could be trusted to hold to them and cherish them because of who they once belonged to. To be frank, I was mostly disappointed. Only my nephew Matt seems to have kept safe what I gave him. Not one other person held anything that might have been considered borrowed goods. I made a conscious choice to move on with my life. I could not go on with things the way they were, I had to become uninvolved with that part of my past in order to have some semblance of a future. As I look back, I recognize how important it was for me to detach from the situation. It was a healthy thing. These days, I am not haunted by the ghosts of that time and that place. I am a safe distance from the pain, the hurt and the empty. I can picture it all now, without it destroying me. To look back on these events does nothing but remind me how strong of will I am. I no longer need the separation.  

            Just before my 18^th birthday, John McDonald dumped me for a girl. At least, that is the version of the story that he himself told to me. I couldn’t believe that the 3 months we had been copulating meant nothing to him. I was sure it was deflection. We met during our high school’s production of Teahouse of the August Moon (Daniel Mann, 1956). At the closing night party, one thing led to another and we ended up screwing for weeks and weeks. I used to sneak him into my parents’ home and he would spend the night. I thought things were good. I never imagined something would steal him away. I remember near the end when we were fighting and his father injected a fair quantity of homophobia. While I sat at the kitchen table with them, dear old Dad angrily asked, “What are you, a fag?” Things never returned to the closeness I had imagined. Just days and nights before my doom, we had spent camping. Everything seemed to be fine. What happened made no sense to me. After the weekend together, Monday brought bad news. He told me over the phone he was in love with Jenny and that our affair was over. I was full-blown untreated and new in my crazy skin. I fucking lost it. By the end of the first night, I found myself in hospital with chunks out of my wrist and hypomanic beyond manic. I sat up for most of the night praying and rehashing everything that had happened. It was maddening not being able to control how I felt. I was at the mercy of an unknown (then) monster, who stole me away then left me to clean up my own mess. These times are some of my darkest. The things my mania enabled me to do can still affect my state of well-being if I focus on them long enough.

            My only salvation was to turn off. I detached myself from my feelings. It all got stuffed to the back of the room. The ice cube that I tend to be today was poured and frozen on that hospital ward where I was convalescent. When I got home, I rid my life of any remnant from my time with John. All the pieces of those moments got tossed in the trash or simply set out on the curb. I moved on without him because I did not have a choice but I choose to keep going in spite of it all. Even as a small boy, I could make myself feel nothing. Granted, I had limited control later on, all thanks to my Bipolar disorder. When I was intact, you could not touch me with a feeling. I was a child in the desert not looking for a drink. In a sense, as an adult, I became more like the actual desert than a man on the prowl hunting down a cup of some water. John McDonald was a springboard for me. My experience with him taught me that I could control my feelings by not having any. I have always been able to detach. It is part of my make-up and it continues to be a productive tool for my well-being. There is no betrayal in shutting off to survive. Sometimes you just have to let things go.

            My partner and I met a woman named France shortly after we moved to Kitchener from Brantford, Ontario. She worked at Crystal Cleaners, a laundromat we used for the first few months of our indoctrination. The longer we used the service, the closer I got to her. We became fast friends. Our relationship spilled over into real life. We started spending a good quantity together and a fair quality began to take form. We got along despite her ill-gained ideas about religion and her very Catholic God. She was French through and through but was a product of Quebec, not the country she bore the name of. Her accent was heavy and I still can duplicate it. In her early 60s at the time, she was a tall woman, at least compared to the other girls from my life. She was lanky and always looked like she needed a Quarter Pounder or three. She tried to be funny but never quite rose to the occasion. She tried to be deep but it always came across as if she was making it all up. In spite of it all, I included her in my life for almost half a decade. My involvement with her got more and more complicated as things moved along. The two of us had a very good run. For 5 years almost, we befriended each other. The relationship might have lasted longer if not for the decline. It all began to end with her talking about how she did not sin. When I pointed it out to her that the scriptures she follows make it clear that she does (Romans 3:23), a wedge started to form between us.

            For weeks, I sat back and watched her behaviour more closely. My disdain raised slowly, in crescendo, until it reached the boiling point. I had come from my doctor with some bad news. My sore throat, my body aches, my exhaustion could all be a part of strep throat. When I told France on the Friday, she immediately said that she had strep throat as well. I must have given it to her. Come Monday morning and the straw finally broke the camel’s back. There was no strep throat. The doctor’s warnings were presumptive but false. If France did have the strep then it was not me who gave it to her. I would hear no more, involve myself no more. I decided that our friendship was over and I detached myself from her completely. No contact, no communication of any sort occurred between us ever again. She got dismissed to the back of the room. I just walked away, never to return. I never spoke to her again. Whether in person, on social media or through other people, I had enough and no longer wanted to know her. I don’t believe I ever pointed out to her just why. A few weeks ago, France died. I was at a loss for how to feel. There was sadness at her passing but any loyalty I had was left in the past were it belonged. Still, I hope her death was peaceful and I hope she found the happiness we all deserve. I just wish the obituary had noted cause of death but it did not. I have no idea what happened. Maybe it was the strep throat.

            Imagine spending your entire life engaging with someone only to come to realize later on that they were never really there. All those years I was talking to a ghost, Holy or not. This is how I feel about the Christian Jesus. I believe He existed and I believe He manifested a version of what men consider sacred. He was the son of man, not the son of god. He was mortal regardless of His standing in the afterlife. I am not really sure that God would want to come down here. At least, that’s how I see it. I don’t have a problem with His essential teachings. I don’t even have issue with a miracle or two. There is more to this world than we know. I do not believe we are to ignore Jesus’ humanity because He was incarnate nor do I believe for one second that He was.

            I don’t imagine anything is at all what it seems. We are not to know, not really. There came a time when I had to censure the Christian Jesus and send Him to the back of the room. His theology and scriptural foundation do not leave a good taste in my mouth. In order to ensure I did not become an Atheist, I had to escape my religious conditioning and restructure my faith into something more appropriate and much less monstrous. I did not write the Bible so I was given little choice but to detach. It has been many years since I let go of my Christian upbringing and moved into the world of agnosticism. Although I occasionally “feel” a flicker of Jesus, he remains, very much, at the back of the room. I still believe in God. I even respect and heed what Jesus had to say but I am no longer bound to follow any preset dogma. I do not believe in all the things that they told me. I did not wish to follow so I stopped.

Photo

https://mirrorcracked.com/2009/03/05/i-ignominy/

Of Pigs and Pearls

“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” (Matthew 7:6, NIV)

            I don’t get why well-meaning Christians feel it is necessary to “save everyone.” Granted, the Holy Scriptures they adhere to claim it is a follower’s responsibility to spread the truth about Jesus (Mark 16:15). This validates their evangelical approach. There is a huge difference between enlightening another and ramming what you believe is correct down their throats for good measure. There has to come a point where the good news of the Gospel runs its course. There are way more non-believers than there are believers. I am sure that over five billion non-Christians can’t all be wrong. According to Christianity, they are just that. There is only one way into heaven and Jesus is that way (John 14:6). There is no arguing, no dissent, only the semantics contained in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. The body of Christ can be a relentless protagonist. It can hunt you down even after you have completely walked away. Christians are supposed to share the gospel but when it becomes apparent that the Word and Jesus are not welcome, they are supposed to move on. Take another step closer to heaven and depart. Share the good news all you want but do not assume that everyone will react well to it. Been there, I’ve done that and I’d rather not go back. My critics would claim that I do not recognize all the Lord has to offer. I’ve been asking since age eight exactly what it is that He extends to me, or anyone at all. I got nothing. I don’t know why they keep wasting their time on me. If they knew me better, they might hesitate from preaching even though most Christians that I come across these days are usually found on Facebook or some street corner praising the Lord. I guess I just don’t revere their jewellery.

            Of course, it is clear that I am not appreciating Jesus and all He has done for me.

There is no sense in casting your pearls before this swine. I am one of the dogs in the yard. There is no value to the believer when wasting time on someone who clearly rolls around in the mud or pisses all over the flowers. Most people, in general, are unappreciative and they tend to be in this world while claiming they are not of it. They toss around the truth and actually expect someone might listen. To the righteous, there is no debate. It is a requirement that Christians evangelize, regardless of the culture and upbringing of all us monsters. Most beasts will eat anything that is put before them to consume, it does not matter to them if it is presented on an altar or in the garbage can. They rarely notice the treasure that lies before them. A string of pearls is only that treasure when viewed as such. To someone who knows nothing of this world’s riches, it is so easy to simply ignore their truth and trample that necklace down into the mud. Jesus tells us that when faced with this dilemma, simply go elsewhere, just walk away. Christians are supposed to spread the Gospel but when it is apparent that that Jesus is not welcome, they are supposed to move on (Matthew 10:11-14). They are responsible to share the good news; but they are not responsible for people’s response to it. Someone else might actually need to purchase what they are selling and they would be better served setting up shop with them. Jesus refused to allow His efforts to be wasted on those who had little interest in His mission and His Divine purpose. Truth be told, He abandons us because we do not fit into His vision. Most of us are not welcome in His Kingdom, whether we pay attention to the lesson or not (1 Corinthians 6:9-10).

“Faith is being sure of what we hope for

And certain of what we do not see

Faith is being sure of what we hope for

And anyone is welcome to believe”

(Faith, Amy Grant 2013)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFCmIjDupfA

            Every Thursday, without fail, I grocery shop for the week. It is never a day off for me. I start with Dollarama and move on to Walmart. For almost 3 years, I visited the St Jacobs, Ontario franchise, usually around the same time each week. It’s important for me to have structure and balance. My type 1 Bipolar disorder can be harsh when my life is volatile and unpredictable. I tend to have the same patterns, day after day, regardless of my mood or circumstance. It can be a challenge to keep things on the level. Every time I go into that Walmart, I am greeted in the most friendly of ways. They know me by name. It’s a welcoming avenue, and I am fond of many that I have become “friends” with. I have talked to Becky ever since I first met her at the checkout several years ago. She has always been nice as pie to me. We are hospitable to each other, conversing over family and fun and the simple things this life can bring. We stand and we chat, but only if the coast is clear. She is approximately 30 years old, short with a long back ponytail and extra large-sized outfits. Recently, the management moved her from checkout to customer service. She called out to me as I passed her way. I was surprised to see her in her new position. One thing led to another and our familiar rapport found us, once again, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I can’t remember why but religion got brought up. She seemed sincerely disappointed at my position and quickly tried to cover her point. When asked, she readily identified herself as a Christian. When I questioned her as to why she had never tried to convert me, she made it clear she was not supposed to put pearls before swine. I chuckled at the idea and snorted like a pig as I walked away. Sometimes, when someone presumes and judges you, the best thing to do is simply carry on without them. Jesus always had great ideas to learn from. I won’t cast my wisdom on someone who has just rebuked me or called me a pig.  The Christian’s position can seem like the shit that hogs are most comfortable ruminating in.

“Should a reasonable person not demand that philosophy should not be foolishly purveyed before people incompetent to see the point of it, as pearls before swine? ...:  philosophy is only for the healthy and whole-minded, the sick it has always only made even sicker. By means of philosophy they dig themselves even deeper into their pathetic delusions.” (Kenny Smith, American professional basketball player)

            If for some reason I was given the choice to be a pig or a dog, if I was forced to be one animal or the other, I would pick a dog. They are man’s best friend, they hold much purpose in the life of their master. They may be a beast but they rarely are a burden. Pigs do nothing but lie around in the mud all day, moving only when it is time for them to eat again. They contribute nothing to the farm until they die. They frolic in their own mess, their own filth is their pillow. A dog has many faults but, at least, it is not a pig. Jesus warns his followers (Matthew 7:6) about offering the sacred or things of value to those who really couldn’t care less. Doing so contaminates the truth and usually ends up with good Christian men rebuffed or attacked for their beliefs. To be frank, it works both ways. The follower of the Christ is not the only bearer of good news. Why should men of a different God express themselves to the Christian when all they get is verbatim? There is no other way into heaven. Jesus is the only way. You must be reborn and fall in line with their truth. Why would anyone waste their time and energy honouring those who only care about whether one is serving their Lord? Jesus freaks are not the only creatures who carry pretty jewels on their person. The Hindi, Buddhist, even an Atheist may hold great lessons to be shared. Should we share them with those who are not open to this light? Why do Christians think non-Christians are pigs while they themselves roll around in their own crapulence? The Greek word emprothen means to present something to someone else. Why do the Christians think they hold a market on the truth and anything else has no value? Pearls are hard to obtain, they are rare, valuable and precious. So too is the truth. No religion should hold itself higher than another. Most religious groups have always felt they held a monopoly on the truth. A pig will just take and take some more. They eat it all up but then they just want even more. They never think about where all that food came from, how it is delivered or what was required to produce it. They are mindless feeding machines. Tossing about pearls of wisdom can seem like a complete waste of time and we should remember that no pig is afraid to eat those beads. Wrap them up in the garbage and watch them disappear.

“Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,

Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve;

Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.”

(Bringing in the Sheaves, The Mills Brothers 1964)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_rW2jFME4A&list=RD1_rW2jFME4A&start_radio=1

            I have to admit I was not very stable during my years at high school, at Strathroy District Collegiate Institute. I had not yet been diagnosed with type 1 Bipolar disorder nor did I have a clue that my erratic and impulsive behaviour was out of my control. For years, I blamed myself for my actions. While I have always taken responsibility for them, rarely has anyone suggested that I had input into how they manifested. I was an asshole to some and a dink to the rest. In the latter part of my tenure, I discovered a safe hiding place in the Strathroy Pentecostal Church. I was born again so often that I had diaper rash throughout my grade 11 term. During my salvation, my friend Haydn invited me to a presentation on the campus of the University of Western Ontario. The Great White Brotherhood sounded more like a racist cult than a path into the light. I went along because I had a crush on Haydn but it turned into a rather eye-opening event. The primary source of enlightenment, at least to the group, was set in experiences with a greater power. This was not a Christian movement, not in the least. I sat and I listened and tried to understand what my friend saw in this revelation. I just could not believe he could sit and in all seriousness give them any credit. A cult is a cult is a cult. When we headed out to his car, he asked me what I thought of the presentation. I immediately and impulsively broke out into the predictable Christian song and dance. I condemned them all for their views and chastised him for giving them time and donations. I was not impressed in the least and I let him know just that. Haydn never spoke to me again. My failure to respect his choices led to the demise of our friendship. Years later, I was flipping through profiles on Facebook when I came across Haydn.  To my surprise, he claimed fellowship with a right-wing conservative Christian organization. He was saved and proud of it. It’s ironic, I suppose. All those years of rejecting me and he ended up right where I told him he should be. Back when the event took place, my minister told me that I should not be going around trying to recruit other people for Jesus. I should not have put my pearls before swine. How the tables have turned. I wonder if Haydn has even considered this incongruity. His profile was filled with scripture and words meant to entice those searching for answers. I can’t imagine that there is anything new his position has to offer. For years, I felt ashamed of myself for trying to convince him that Jesus was the way. Apparently, he was meant to discover it all on his own.

            I would like to know why Christians, Muslims and other religious groups feel it is their job to point us out as pigs, then cover themselves with a very biased, one-sided truth. Of course, only their truth is the truth. The rest of us are just fat hogs not worthy of their treasure. Perhaps the threat of another reality drives them to a secure place in their minds and mostly their heart. Weak people tend to have problems thinking for themselves. They talk about a great love for mankind but it is limited and only for those willing to join in on their cause. Love is, apparently, conditional. This condition is that you worship the way, think the way and feel the way they do. It’s like a country club for only the closed-minded. It’s like a refrigerator stocked with bottles of blood. We are to drink it or we will surely perish. The cost can be too much. These days I tend to let my work speak for me. If you want to believe that purple tulips are magic fountains of sunshine then you should go for it. If it hurts no one, what does it hurt?

“This little piggy went to market.

This little piggy stayed home.

This little piggy had roast beef.

But this little piggy had none.

And this little piggy went

‘Wee, wee, wee’

All the way home!”

(Nursery Rhyme circa 1728)

Photos

https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/267753140320761144/?lp=true

https://kingsenglish.info/2011/08/05/pearls-before-swine/

Sources

https://www.gotquestions.org/pearls-before-swine.html

http://www.bible.ca/ef/expository-matthew-7-6.htm

http://www.relevantbibleteaching.com/site/cpage.asp?cpage_id=140023918&sec_id=140001239

http://www.rhymes.org.uk/this_little_piggy.htm

40 mg

“To save a man’s life against his will is the same as killing him.”

(Horace, Roman Poet circa 65-8 BCE)

            I met James on the campus of the University of Western Ontario in London, Ontario, Canada in 1986. The event was support for a cure to a new disease and the victims of the recently discovered AIDS virus. Although I was still a closeted gay man, I felt I should attend. We met in support, standing beside each other chanting our slogan. One handshake and we connected enough to try friendship. It always seemed to work. I wanted nothing from him and he wanted nothing from me. Our common ground was our sexuality. Although we never slept together, for whatever reason, we lasted as friends right up to this very time. He wasn’t my best friend yet the initial distance of success drove a wedge between whatever closeness existed between us. In 1990, James took a position with a law firm in San Francisco and headed off to find love and fortune. He only ever really found the one. He was loaded. The love part was chaotic for him, at least that’s how it looked from a distance. Over a twenty-five year period, he went through more boyfriends than bathwater with little to show for it but wrinkles. He was handsome, and rich, but not very lucky at love. He knew it was his own fault but some secrets are never to be revealed. After his relocation, we rarely spoke at all but with the onset of the internet, we managed to stay as close as we would have had our friendship been more in person. It was using the brand new cyber network that allowed us to stay friends. Regardless of how, at least once a week I sat down with him and our friendship flourished. I vacationed with James and his then-partner at Big Sur in California. We met in Toronto several times over the years. He always included me when he would visit. He did not visit often. Like with many gay men, his family was not very supportive of his sexual identity. As a matter of fact, the father was down right homophobic. His parents still live in London, Ontario. His sister lives anywhere else. He stayed in hotels when he graced us with his presence. I liked him. I loved him. He was my friend. The news was not good. James was working out at his gym when he had the stroke. They tell me he dropped right down onto the floor as if he had died. The second stroke is what really did the damage. James left his life in sunny California behind him and returned to his childhood home. The after-effects were harsh and limiting. He could no longer work, not even do research. He was crippled and in need of considerable assistance. He left his old life behind him to return to his other old life. He was not happy about having to do so.

            Our friend Brian and I made sure to keep in touch with him. At first, our social interactions were exactly the same. As the damage took over, the time I got to spend with him was spotty at best. His decline was rapid and his body fell victim. With little to go on but hope, I watched as hope was dashed against the proverbial rocks. Slowly he got weaker and weaker. He had trouble maintaining a healthy weight and he started to look frail and emaciated. Over the course, he was ravaged. I had never experienced such a noticeable decline in someone before. My maternal grandfather died of stroke-related symptoms but I did not view him over the course of his time. It was awful to see the descent into hell that my friend had to go through. I hope in the end he did not needlessly suffer but I very much doubt it. In late 2018, James fell into a coma and barely regained consciousness again. His DNR limited any mercy we could give and the father made sure no one would take him off life support. For months James laid in that bed, deep in the heart of Toronto. St. Michael’s did a wonderful job. Every time I saw James he got frailer and thinner. He was wasting away and he didn’t even have AIDS.  The irony was not lost on me. When the family decided to leave him on all those tubes and whistles, I decided to say something. I made it clear that James and I had discussed his passing years before and he did not want any special measure done to save his life. Unfortunately, he neglected to remove a clause from his DNR stating that if he still had brain activity, he was to be left to chance. I was not impressed and I made it clear to the father that this position was merciless. He had me banned from James’ hospital room. For over six weeks, my friend lied in some strange bed and faded into nothing. At eighty-one pounds, it was time for him to go. I got a call from Brian that they decided to finally remove him from the machines. I stood there watching as some nurse turned everything off, then we waited. We waited some more. About a half-hour later, he still hung on. Some doctor came in and pumped him down with 40 mg of morphine. The end finally came and I turned to walk away. His father grazed me as he walked out of the room. Tough guy. He walked to the water fountain and tried to suck the life out of it too. I headed in his direction. I wasn’t sure if I should say something but I am never sure, I just say it. I told him that James made sure we knew how awful a father he was to his son in life and that he was an even worse father throughout his death. I then congratulated him on a job well done. I won’t have to see or hear from him again, so it really doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’d like to think that what I said might somehow find him guilty and that his guilt will remain as consequence for such actions. Yes, I am bitter. It was all just so unfair. There is nothing more repugnant to me than needless suffering.

“We lack the moral authority to endorse them (acts of euthanasia). What we do instead is what you have just seen. We commend the dying to Saint Hubert and tie them to a pillar in order to prolong and intensify their suffering.” (Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Colombian poet 1994)

            My maternal grandfather was more asshole than anything else. From the time I was a little boy, he was a miserable and often nasty piece of work. He abused my mother when she was younger. Among many other things, he would lock her in the outhouse for hours and hours so that she could not leave his property or, apparently, his control. He even stole my mother’s firstborn in order to avoid any shame or association with the – literal – bastard. In later years, he started to attack others and brought the Law down upon himself. Anything good that he did, any reasonable charity, appeared to come from the guilt over what he had done to his children. It could be confusing. One moment he was a Grinch and the next he was giving us kids rides to school. I never understood him. Once I found out what he had done to my mother, I didn’t give a shit enough to try. I was not happy, nor rewarded, when he had his stroke in 1994. He was shovelling snow when he collapsed. He failed to finish with the end of the driveway. When my first partner died in 1995, I was distracted from the plight of good old grandpa. By the time I got to a less complicated place, he had fallen into ill repair. He just laid there, curled up in a ball, feeble, emaciated and, in fact, he looked more like a Jewish concentration camp survivor than the monster I had imagined in my head. I did not like my grandfather. I never really did. I suppose one could argue that he and I were two alpha males rubbing each other the wrong way. I have never tried to run a child over with a lawnmower so I would argue that, in essence, he got what he paid for. The end was near. My mother asked me to go with her for support. This would be the last day, the one day where I felt sorry for him rather than embracing my hate for him. He just laid there, looking more like a dead man as each moment passed. I sat in that room, Bible in hand, and I watched my mother and grandmother begin the process of letting go. When he started to fade for good, you could sense his essence leave his body like a loud wheeze. My grandmother did not react well. Over and over, every time he went to pass, she would scream his name and you could tell the soul of him returned to his body. It was a somber and maddening sight. It was suffering and it was needless but who am I to judge how another person deals with such things? Still, it felt wrong to me. 

            I wasn’t sure, exactly, why my Mom asked me to come witness the departing. Once I found out about him stealing my long lost brother, I stopped associating with him and his wife altogether. I still have trouble moving past the abuse, even though they have both been dead for two decades or more. I was there, obviously, for emotional support, but I was sure she did not really need me. Her strength was legendary, at least it was in my mind. She looked at me, over and over, as if she wanted me to tell her what to do. Every time my grandmother screamed out “Joe, Joe,” Mom would recoil at the sight of it. It went on and on for almost an hour. There were no visible tubes, no indication of his coma, other than the waif he had become. I was surprised he lasted as long as he did. He might as well have not been there at all. Allowing a human being, regardless of the life they have lived, to needlessly suffer in such a manner struck me as more than curious. The irony that such a man should falter and fall into great physical descent has often found me more aware of karma and sure that I was right about him. Grandma Norah just kept calling him back. The nurse took my grandmother out into the hallway and discussed the options with her. In a few minutes, a doctor came in and explained what they were about to do. His breathing was weak, his pulse even weaker, but he refused to leave. The 40 mg of morphine they gave him seems to have done what he could not. The medical team all left me, my Mother and her, waiting for his end. When my Mom looked at me, I could tell her conflict. I got up and I walked over to her. In her ear, quiet as a mouse, I told her. It was the only thing I dare muster for her, considering I felt like egging him on rather than begging him to stay. Despite who he was, it was difficult to observe. I sat back down and I watched it all unfold. My Mom stood  up and leaned over the body. She dropped to his ear and she told him that it was okay for him to go. Often, people need permission to finalize the transaction. Sitting there, he looked more like a fish dying out of water than a man holding on. You could see the life leave his body. I wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or granted permission but the spirit left him with one final rush. Mercifully, it would be the last time he did anything but rot. I have never understood why people give greater mercy to their pets than they do each other. Not one person I know would let their cat, or dog, languish in misery for over a year. We hold on to people, disregarding the damage that has been done to them.  Our inaction is the cause of much pain and strife. We would rather that someone we love languish in needless suffering than say goodbye.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” (Matthew 5:7, NIV)

            We spend our entire lives going on and on about the rewards of salvation. We have such grand things to claim about heaven and eternity and the new body we will have once we leave behind our mortal coil. We ignore our own words and instead, we hoard the afflicted. We don’t want for them to go so we do anything we can think of to avoid the reality. We would rather they writhe in agony, even if we can’t tell that they are. We put so much time and energy holding on to this life that we forget the promise of the new life the dying are about to encounter. We are selfish when we do so. If the person might as well be dead then you are only interfering. The inevitable will always come, whether we want it to or not. Mercy occurs when we place another before we place ourselves. Empathy and compassion should far outweigh grief and decay. I miss my friend James. I miss our weekly Skype chats and I miss his sense of humour. It is a lesser world without him in it. My grandfather’s death is a different story for me. It remains a better world without him in it. Regardless of where they are now, both of these men passing affirmed, then reaffirmed, my affinity for  doctor-assisted suicide and euthanasia. I just wish we could avoid all the pain by administering the solution before they become a slug, capitulating only at the last moment, often with no voice or choice. We have to be their voice for them. I will say that having a medical team administer 40 mg of morphine to both so they could pass strikes me as serendipitous. It really allows me a clearer view of the issue, a well-rounded tale to be told. Life begins with life and death comes with death. It’s how we treat each other in the middle part than defines who we are.

Photo

https://dailytimes.com.pk/261370/the-emerging-debate-on-euthanasia/

Saviour Self

            For him, there seemed to be something very physical about his encounters with the Holy Spirit. It was a tactile experience. Whenever he was graced with the Presence, it made him feel justified. It made him self-assured. He rested easy in his conviction and felt that if the Spirit was so alive within him then he must be doing something right. In terms of social protocol, he was a deliberate man. God flowed so great within that he took it upon himself to act as a messenger, not just of scripture from the Bible but of the very will of God. He was a prophet to some, a bigot to others and a xenophobe going all the way back. He somehow convinced himself, that how he was, was okay, because God didn’t stop him from doing so. He was filled with this sense of power, it flowed through him. He was a child of the One true God and this feeling was his reward for belief. Faith has a payoff.  When he made his pronouncements, a crowd always seemed to gather round to listen. He spoke of God’s eternal love. He talked about his experience with the Holy Ghost. He covered almost every base you can imagine, all the while demanding submission to the only true King. He claimed that God wanted all his listeners to be obedient, not to him but to the Lord through him. All the years of his exchanges with the Holy Spirit and he had never heard a voice or been shown something divine. What he had was organic, containing a literal ebb and flow. He was righteous by his own thinking. He was rewarded in his own mind. He stands as a representation of all that religion has to offer. After all, he is only speaking the truth, which is exactly why I never gave what he said a moment’s validation. He always made it feel that he wasn’t serving God, he was serving himself. He may have considered himself a man of God but to me, he was nothing but a man, his substance so transparent. It all was “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” (Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 25–28).

“When you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”

(Matthew 6:6, NIV)

           

            Every morning, she gets up around 5 AM and starts her day off with coffee and a few spiritual exercises. They always help her fill the loneliness that she has made for herself. She grabs the traffic and weather just before she walks to the bus stop just down the street from where she roosts. At least she always has Jesus. She tripped ever so slightly as she boarded like she always does. She noticed him almost immediately. Their eyes met, their pulses became rapid, the kismet was strong and almost floated in the air. She was a simple girl, with simple looks and she dressed the same. He was more timid than rugged, more boy than man. He too was plain and simple, both by nature and appearance. They were by no means ugly, just humble and quiet. They both swooned at each other as he shifted from the aisle seat to the window seat, leaving her a place beside him. She had to react quickly, as the bus filled up behind her. She gave providence a chance, took fate by the hand and she sat down. Every part of her just wanted to run but she recognized what God was doing. At first, it was very awkward. They exchanged first names and gently shook each other’s hand. Neither one of them knew the destination of the other but it didn’t seem to matter. They started talking and talking turned into communication and communication turned into hope. Both went by their stop, unaware  and unconcerned. There was a magic somewhere in all the jumble, you could feel it, you could see it. They talked about their  jobs, they talked about their pets. They discovered much common ground between them. For a moment, she paused and thanked God for giving her this chance. As if a dense fog had taken hold, she turned to him and she did it. It came right out of nowhere and gave him great pause. “Do you know Jesus as your Lord and Saviour?” she asked.  Like a rocket, he sprang from the seat and rushed to the rear entrance. He said nothing and left the bus. Every morning she gets up around 5 AM and starts her day off with coffee and a few spiritual exercises. They always help her fill the loneliness that she has made for herself.

“If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.”

(Romans 10:9-10, NIV)

            It was his 16^th birthday that saw it all happen. He had kept the secret for as long as he could, but he had been discovered. Always erase your browser history, unless you’re looking for trouble. Trouble was what he got. He had gone out with a few friends after school and came in slightly late for dinner. The only thing being served was his head upon a platter. The pornography was not the primary issue. It was the homosexual content that waged this condemnation. They could not believe he was doing this in spite of all they had given to him. “What about Jesus?” they asked over and over again. He had been right to keep the secret, a fool for leaving evidence behind. He knew this would happen. When the initial anger had been tossed about, they forced him to sit down at the dining room table. They didn’t talk to him, they lectured him. They didn’t even bother to tell him that they loved him in spite of his newly revealed sin. They were elders in the Church, friends with the Pastor and fervent Pentecostals. It was as if they had encountered the very devil himself. From the outside looking in, just who the devil really was stood very strong and clear. He just sat there, silent, terrified to be free. One judgment met another and eventually he was instructed that “if this was the time of Jesus, you would be taken out and stoned to death.” This was the last straw, the straw that broke the camel’s back. He was not tall for all his 16 years. He wasn’t anything special but he always considered himself a child of the One true God. His parents demonstrated just how wrong he had been.  He started screaming and could not help himself. He demanded the love that God ordered he should be given. It was when he called them both pawns of Satan that the shit hit the fan. The father walked down the hallway, entered the boy’s room and grabbed a pile of clothing from the closet. It was a quick trip to the front door. “Out,” the Christian ordered, “and if you’re going to choose this kind of lifestyle, then don’t come back.” He left it all sitting there, the front lawn covered with the only thing in the world that he had left. He didn’t even bother to pick anything up, he just walked away, tossing his keys into the sea of fabric that lay before him. The clock struck 7 and they both gathered their things and headed out for Bible study. Dear old dad checked every window, every door to make sure the heathen could not get inside. They drove away and left his destruction in the wake. You want to relate that everything turned out just fine. You want to confirm that good came from all this misery. I cannot. I will not go into detail but it did not end well. Sometimes it’s not about the end of the rope but what comes once you let go of it.

“Let love and faithfulness never leave you;

bind them around your neck,

write them on the tablet of your heart.

Then you will win favour and a good name

in the sight of God and man”

(Proverbs 3: 3-7, NIV)

            He had been trained to serve Jesus. It seemed the entirety of his life fell squarely on Christianity and the commitment to it he was required to make. Through all the sermons, Bible study and social engagements, he found himself bowing on knee in surrender to the Lord. Over and over, he dedicated his life to the path. He spent years trying to please God. Everything he did, every time he prayed, he believed that he was talking to the One true King. He had a relationship, a kinship with the Trinity. It was the perfect lifestyle for him, a blessed assurance that always seemed to carry him through. Life has a funny way of letting you down, no matter who you are or the reality you have created for yourself. Something always comes along to test the most fervent of believers. The sanctuary of the Church was full every Wednesday evening for Bible study and overflowed for the two services on Sunday morning. He sat like he always does, tucked into a pew waiting for Jesus. He never, ever took the time to think outside his box. Jesus is the only thing he would remember. After a few hymns and the opening praise, he settled down in the pew as scripture after scripture rang from the front of the room. It got around rather quickly that she had cheated on her husband. She was cheating on Jesus, just as much. As the performance proceeded, the Pastor stopped dead in his tracks. It was clear that the minister had planned this ahead of time. It was drama and tragedy and very effective. He called her by name right out front of everyone in the space. She sat there, her mouth wide open and shame written all over her face. He called her an adulterer, he called her immoral, then urged the congregation to shun her. They tossed her away. She ran out of Church in tears and they all praised Jesus with a “Glory Hallelujah.” He was not impressed. What they did to that poor woman may have been scripture based but so too is not eating lobster or engaging a whore. His entire Christian life danced before him. He could not imagine that the Jesus he knew would condone such a thing. It was unfair. It was just plain mean and the Saviour he knew would have nothing to do with this kind of justification. He tried to sit through the rest of the service. He tried to forget what had been done to her, but he could not. As the clergy went on with the execution, something changed. He realized that just because you say you follow Jesus doesn’t make you the judge and jury for everyone else. He was nauseated at the thought of remaining among them. Mid-sermon, he rose and began to shuffle down the pew, disrupting the process. Heads turned and he tried to walk away without event. He stopped when the Pastor called him by name. He turned around, walked up to the platform and asked, “Do you know who she had the affair with? Well you do now.” It wasn’t really him that had done the deed but it was effective nonetheless. They shunned him just the same. No matter, he didn’t need them to know Jesus.

“You must not associate with anyone who claims to be a brother or sister but is sexually immoral or greedy, an idolater or slanderer, a drunkard or swindler. Do not even eat with such people.” (1 Corinthians 5:11, NIV)

            I did not leave Christianity because of Jesus. As a matter of fact, the reason I lasted so long in the land of the Lord was because of how I interpreted the Christ and His place in my life. I left my birth religion because of the legacy it has left and the lasting hypocrisy one has to deal with when interacting with many of His tribe. Most often, Christians will kill your buzz every time. I do believe that all religious people, including my onetime sect, are nothing but fully human, regardless of the deity they have chosen to emulate. To condemn another, no matter the sin, when we do the very same things is folly. To imagine that someone, anyone could truly rise above their morality and decay, is laughable. There is not one person on this planet, including me, that is not imperfect, flawed, and very much an ongoing, sometimes secret, sinner. I don’t care if you are the Dalai Lama, Tom Selleck or Ted Bundy, we all sin, we all fall short. Pretending to be more spiritual, more dogmatic does not erase that fact that, like for the rest of us, if “their” God came down right now, we would all be sent off to burn forever and ever. Some men dream of fame and fortune and turn to God when the world doesn’t want them. Some people put God before anything and end up with almost nothing. Some people use God as a reason to hate. Jesus becomes the excuse for behaving badly. Some men get so lost in the whimsy that they forget God is not necessarily a positive force. I suppose when all is said and done, there is something to be said for how you handle your truth. Just because you claim to be on the right path means nothing if you don’t act like it. The Christian ideology is pretty much like any other religion. It is not so much the mythos that matters but rather the primary reason for religion is to give hope that all will be better one day. It’s too bad you have to die to ever experience this.

“But whoever looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues in it - not forgetting what they have heard, but doing it - they will be blessed in what they do.

Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” (James 1:25-27, NIV)

Photo

https://www.desiringgod.org/interviews/should-we-raise-our-hands-in-worship

Apostasy Me

            When my Mom died in 2010, I once again started to question the purpose of living and all that entails. It is not that I had failed to question such notions in my past, I simply believed that who we are and where we are going is determined by the scars we build on the journey we take. I believed there had to be some intent on the part of living, there has to be some greater meaning other than to just live and die. Mom experienced such pain and much misery throughout her life yet there she lay, dead and gone. It made little sense. There was no purpose in her passing. It taught no lesson, except the futility of living. Nothing that she went through, the strength she gained through calamity seemed pointless and rather useless considering the cremation and the reality of ashes to ashes. While she was alive, I always felt the things that she went through were instruction for a reason, each lesson a way to tap into a better design for her life. I was wrong. Not one tragedy, not one experience met resolution by rational thought as she laid on that cold metal slab. It was like all the things that happened to her meant nothing in the greater scheme of things. I initially grieved but then came the anger. I got right mad at God for all her needless suffering. If nothing from her life was meant to instruct her, then there was no need for her to go through what she went through. It served no purpose. God appeared to be playing a game and He apparently changed the rules with little to zero notification. The entire death thing really changed the way I view the life I have lived. I used to believe all the things that happened to me over 50 years were like a book filled with the answers. There are no answers, there isn’t even a book. The things we go though are random. There is no predestination or hands of fate. Things are not planned or devised by some greater being. Shit happens. We live, we suffer and then we die. The rest is just commentary. What happens next is the big question. If God is hands off, if there is no fate, no answers, what the hell do I need Him for?

“Make it count, leave a mark,

Build a name for yourself

Dream your dreams, chase your heart,

Above all else

Make a name the world remembers”

            I have chosen to be a better person. Nothing about my relationship with God helped me form the positive identity I embrace these days. I do not seek compensation though the act of kindness or compassion. I do not help others to secure myself a place in heaven. I do not take orders well but all is well with my soul. I prefer to act on my nature rather than some embedded fear. It is not God that grants wisdom and understanding. We are alone in our folly, alone in our prayers. I do not believe for one minute that God can intervene or interfere with the lives of men, no more than He favours white people over starving children in Africa. It is not that I have abandoned my spiritual self. It is strong and very much a prominent part of me. I just don’t believe all the press, all the reporting over the last two centuries. I’m not sure that it all isn’t just fake news. I am not sure we have gotten the entire story and perhaps, we only have our own version of it. We create it all on our own. There must be a reason that God seems so far away, even when we try to be close to Him. There must be some hint as to why He doesn’t answer, why He doesn’t help. Yes, millions of religious folk could make claims that He does answer, He does try to help. It appears we have all just convinced ourselves. I argue that if God could, He would. He does not because He cannot. He would not allow us to suffer if he had anything to say about it. He would not sit up on high and allow one child to endure. No one would know pain. There might not be justice, but mercy would overflow. One would imagine a loving God, who could change the course of a person’s life with intercession, would do so for one and not all of us. It’s not about fairness. It’s not even about favouritism. When God seems far away, you have to ask yourself, “Who moved?” Apparently, it wasn’t me. I doubt He was ever really there in the first place. I stand firm in my conviction that God is unavailable for comment, not because He has nothing to say but rather reality would collapse in on itself if He did. The very laws of nature command silence on His part. If there is a God up in the heavens, then He is bound by the very laws He inconveniently created for this universe. It is not that God is not there, it is just that He can’t be, whether we expect Him to be or not.

“All an empty world can sell is empty dreams

I got lost in the lie that it was up to me

To make a name the world remembers

But Jesus is the only name to remember”

            I get so tired of Christians who try to ram their ideology and theology down my throat. The rub is if you do the same to them, they scream “sinner” and run away. Only their point of view is full of Grace while any other is evil, a work of the devil, a lie on top of a lie. I find it frustrating that I end up in the same old story as I always have. When I least expect it, someone tries to stuff Jesus down my throat with little concern for the God that I worship. It’s all just a constant reminder of how I failed Christianity, I failed the Saviour and, in so doing, I failed myself (or at least that’s what “they” tell me). My partner did not have a good 2018. So far, 2019 has not fared much better. Within a year’s time, his sister died, several aunts passed and so did a few long-time friends. He didn’t take his sister’s death well. It was the first significantly personal death he had known as an adult. Yes, when he was younger he had this grandparent die and that grandparent die but his sister really struck a chord. He still grieves in a private way. Just before Christmas, his once best friend passed away in an unclear manner. Was it the drugs that caused it? Did he do it on purpose? The kicker was his discovery. After a few days missing, his family went over to check on his safety. He had been lying there for almost a week. Reportedly, the cats were eating him when they opened the door. Just a few weeks ago, Ben’s Aunt Joyce passed away. I never met her but I knew her name. The funeral was standard and so was the funeral home we grieved in. Although it was not a Church, a gold cross hung high over the coffin and the body below. As the eulogy began, it was clear this was to be a Christian service. Unfortunately for us, the eulogy turned into a very lengthy sermon on salvation and “The Way and the Truth and The Life.” I kept thinking how tacky it is to evangelize during a memorial service. After all, this was a chapel in a funeral home, not St. Paul’s Cathedral or some Pentecostal roost. Baptists always think they are right. For the record, just because I’m in your audience doesn’t give you the right to alienate and deliberately offend me. The pastor was a little bit of a bore until he started quoting scripture on how to get into heaven. I am not a Christian, even though I once played one on my TV. It wasn’t so much his statements that irked me, rather he did it in a public forum where anyone from any other position might have sat. This was supposed to be a funeral, not high mass. He may think he was just doing his job. He may have actually been commissioned to spread the gospel to the whole world. I don’t care. I wonder how he would like it if his wife died and a Muslim cleric used the service to preach the glory of Allah and Shariah law. I wonder just how much he could have taken from an atheist preaching the wonders of science and the death of his religion. The entire event left a bad taste in my mouth, and I didn’t even have to transubstantiate.  In contrast, another aunt passed away relatively on top of the other. There was no fanfare when Jean went her own way. Her wishes were followed just the way that she wanted. Although her family gathered together in her memory, it was more like a surprise party but Jean never showed. There was no sermon, no preaching at the dimming of her day. It was a quiet, serene experience. Not one person tried to use Jean’s death as a vehicle for evangelization. From the outside looking in, one would imagine that the mourners were all atheists or, at least, heavily secular. There was no sound or fury and no one said anything at all but that.   

“I don’t want to leave a legacy

I don’t care if they remember me

Only Jesus

I’ve only got one life to live

I’ll let every second point to Him

Only Jesus”

            I have not gone to Church in over 15 years. I have not taken communion for the same amount of time. I attended several wedding ceremonies over the years, a few took place in one Church or another. I am not sure these celebrations count when it comes to attendance but they count for me all the same. I take what I can when I can. I am an apostate, in the truest meaning of the word. I have fallen away, and apparently I am never to return. I’m not sure that I could if I wanted to. Despite my schism, I don’t have an issue with any part of the scriptural record that professes the uniqueness of Jesus. I don’t have an issue with the resurrection or the miracles or even the directives given to His followers. I have a problem with the duality of a merciful yet condemning God. I have a problem with being told “I love you” as I am propelled into the pit of eternal damnation. I have a problem with God instructing me to be this way or that way as He does exactly the same things that imprison me. I have great issue with a God who acts more human than us humans. I have great issue with a God who commands peace and mercy while declaring war and destruction. I have a problem with anything that claims Love as it hates me and instructs followers to kill me because of my sin (Leviticus 20:13). I don’t think I should be sent to death when my sins are supposed to be equal to everyone else’s. If you’re going to make grand expectations, at least hold yourself to the same standards. Who knew the Christian God was such a hypocrite? You get offered toilet paper while He shits on your head. You either love me, or you hate me. You cannot possibly expect that holding to both would be the best resolution. I may be an apostate, I may even be a heretic, but all I ever needed from God was one simple morsel to sustain me. I got nothing. I never have. One night, as I wandered about Omaha, Nebraska, I thought I encountered something Holy. This would be the only time I ever felt that God was actually helping me. I was dead broke as I waited for the bus to re-board, I was walking through an abandoned lot when I found $20 just lying in the weeds. Only minutes before I had begged God to help me. At the time, I thought that He just did but I am now betting it was more the doings of some guy who dropped a twenty than some divine intervention. If God has the power to enter this reality and place a twenty dollar bill at my feet, or cause someone to drop it, then why can’t he interfere and help some woman with 5 children get some food? I used to think God was fair, now all I think is, “Where is their morsel?” So many questions with so few answers. I tend to ruminate in my apostasy. I guess I should be glad I’m not a Muslim.

“All the kingdoms built, all the trophies won

Will crumble into dust

When it’s said and done

‘Cause all that really matters

Did I live the truth to the ones I love?

Was my life the proof that there is only One

Whose name will last forever?”

            I have made many mistakes with my life. I lost my first partner to suicide so I tried to end myself, myself. I never should have left him alone. He is not the only thing that I have abandoned. I walked away from religion rather than using it to guide me. I began to question my own story and the things that I believed were meant to make me, to shape me, to teach me how to live. I had trusted that experience was a means to affect character and the things that fell before me were directly for me. I no longer believe that any experience I have had, or event that has taken place in my life, was determined or affected by some old man sitting in the clouds keeping track of all my impertinence. What happens to us is just that. It is all about us and the road we travel. I lost my way somewhere along the path. I have stopped presuming that the only thing that works in making for a happy life is surrender to the God of the Christian Bible. 5 billion other seekers can’t be wrong. The Bible makes it very clear that as a Christian, one is to spread the gospel to everyone yet somehow thinking that another’s salvation is our business seems to be the point. The Great Commission is flawed in so much as it dictates thinking one is correct, assuming your way is the right way, which goes against everything more open-minded people believe. Electivism and predestined salvation just don’t strike me as something a loving and fair God would validate. Something is wrong in heaven and it seems to come from the top down. Religious figures tend to be demagogues, orators who appeal to the passions and all the prejudices of the audience. It is difficult to believe in a god without falling back on the conditioning that a lifetime of religion can induce. As much as I still wish things could be more ecumenical between us, Jesus doesn’t consider me anymore. He no longer knows me.

“And I, I don’t want to leave a legacy

I don’t care if they remember me

Only Jesus

And I, I’ve only got one life to live

I’ll let every second point to Him

Only Jesus”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eQd3K2Fxp4

Photo

http://thecripplegate.com/the-tragedy-of-apostasy/