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/