I was reading an article (I can't remember where) about the healing properties of herbs, recently, and the entry for onions (which I absolutely love, but only if the spiciness is cooked out) mentioned that they were sometimes used for "magical protection" from enemies.
I laughed aloud, thinking of the greatest "enemy" in my life, my Uncle 'Phobe. Onions are probably the only thing, other than maybe the Chicago Cubs (the "scumbags," I don't know why), that he hates even more than (his own) homosexuality! They would certainly protect me from him!
Ever since I was very small, I have heard the words, "I hate onions!" or "I can't believe they put onions in this! I told them not to!" literally every time I have been at a restaurant with him or one of my aunts. Every. Single. Time.
I honestly think that he and my aunt, his sister, are allergic to onions. But that doesn't excuse the way they act about them. They live in a pro-onion world, but are not understanding about it at all. The amount of disgust and vehemence they save for onions, and any mention of onions, is truly ugly. They consider it a great personal insult if the waiter forgets that they said, "No onions. I can't stand them!" in a busy, noisy restaurant while pressed for time. Uncle 'Phobe says that he can taste the onions in the pizza crust even after picking them out (and he makes sure you know what he thinks about that!).
My aunt actually sends food back, if it has onions in it, in a quite blunt way. I don't like eating with her, because I'm afraid they will think I am like her, and I don't want my food spit in. She once said, "No guacamole. It often has onions, and I hate onions. I can't stand them at all," rather quietly, in a noisy restaurant, while the waiter was busy and pressed for time. He obviously heard "No guacamole," while writing down her order, and got that right, but then she got offended when the food had onions, and sent it back.
I don't know where she stands on LGBT issues. She has been homophobic before, but more recently made rather neutral comments about my kind gay Christian friend ("I don't care if he's gay."), so I don't know. It might be different if she finds out that someone in her own family (me) is gay (or in my case, bisexual but "mostly" lesbian).
And ironically, my grandparents' house, the place where my Uncle 'Phobe lives, and where most family gatherings take place, is abundantly blessed with wild onions, growing all over the place! So I have a wonderful opportunity here.
I love digging them up, and I wonder if I can make a nice necklace out of them, daisy-chain style. Even if onions are not "magical," they would certainly act as a subconscious repellent, if those two saw me wearing onions, or subconsciously smelled it on my skin. They would not want to mess with me, probably even if I disagreed with them. I guess this herb really does provide protection!
And my uncle and my aunt are the two people in my family that I am most afraid of being both homophobic, and very angry. I have always been afraid of their anger, especially his, which almost got violent once, when I was small and called him the devil for physically picking on me.
What is also interesting, at least to me, is that my grandfather ("Papa"), loves to eat raw onions. I remember once I hugged him, when saying goodbye, and his breath stank. I turned my head away. He laughed and said, "You smell my onion?" and I laughed too.
And he is the one that I most fear grieving, and worrying, if I end up coming out in the course of disagreeing with someone. I can't live my life for him, or hide my wonderful, beautiful rainbow light under a bushel--but I hope if this happens, I have the chance to address any concerns he has and reassure him, somehow. And I also hope that he isn't "put off" by me, after seeing me in a certain (straight) light for so long.
Hopefully, the onion will repel whom it's supposed to--and make me palatable to the person or people it's supposed to.
I also am very fond of onions, particularly tiny wild onions, because of a fond memory of my late "heart-cat," Feezl. She was a very active cat, and she once found a dried wild onion, from my grandparent's house, that I had dropped on the floor. She started playing with it, attacking it as if it was a feather. Then she realized that I was sitting on my bed, and jumped up to come see me. I started petting her, then started laughing, because she had my Papa's onion breath! It was truly awful, and that was what made it so endearing. I love onions even more now.
I once "prayed" to Feezl, asking her to come home, when she was missing. The next day another cat, who had been missing for six days, returned, to our great surprise. She did not come back, herself; perhaps because she was dead. But it was as if she sent Sebastian home, even if she couldn't come back herself. Ever since then, I have been so grateful to her, and I have the feeling that she is watching out for me. She cared about me in life, a great deal, and it seems that that has not changed. Perhaps I can wear wild onions for my patron Saint, and she will look out for me as much as she can.
I went to a metaphysical bookstore, last week, with my mother, because I wanted to look at their herbs. I also bought some small, beautiful amethysts that I absolutely fell in love with. They are also my birthstone.
"I don't think they're magic," I remarked to my mom as we left, "but I love them so much!"
"If they make you happy, aren't they magic?" she asked.
I had never thought of it that way! If something makes me happy, or it has a "placebo effect," then isn't it "magic"? And if it has a placebo effect, then weren't those healing or psychological potentials within me all along? Perhaps some people are right, when they say that certain things "channel one's energy," or have energy, themselves.
Onions mean so much to me, in so many ways. If any herb is magical, for me, then this is it. With the onions, I can banish the bigots and bring on the blessings--and then eat them. :)
Showing posts with label My Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Family. Show all posts
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
LGBT Issues: God Is Not Saying It, You Are
Sometimes when I see a conservative Christian arguing in a comment section or forum with one or more atheists or progressive Christians (whether that includes me as well--I'm not sure what I am, sometimes--or if I'm just watching), they will seem perfectly friendly and reasonable (if a little mistaken, in my opinion), until they whip out a variant of this line:
"Don't look at me; God said it, so take it up with Him."
I have been bullied with that line before. A person I was afraid of for many years used to say this line, whenever I disagreed with him. And, whether online or in real life, I mostly remember hearing it said with regard to one issue very dear to my heart: homosexuality.
My heart aches for people who are treated as if they are defective, suspiciously prone to sin, or second-class citizens in their own church or ministry (even if that wasn't the intention, because oppression is never "about" oppressing people). My heart aches for people who have to have their basic human rights be hugely controversial, for people who have to choose between three sub-par options: A lifetime of loneliness, marrying someone they do not find attractive and cannot love in a sexual way, or an eternity in hell.
The last few years I was a Christian, I heavily questioned the notion that God would ask some people to give up almost all love and happiness for Him, when they were supposed to be His children. Even when I believed God did do that, I was uneasy about it. I had a huge problem with this notion, and still do.
Then there were a few years when I didn't know what I was, but I definitely knew what I was not: I was not a Christian, I was not an evangelical, and I definitely was NOT anti-gay!
The thing that got me questioning this doctrine of intolerance and "sin" was hearing stories of people who tried repeatedly to change but could not, who hated themselves and prayed endlessly that God would change them, but He did not.
And then there were the extreme cases (though sadly, not particularly rare) of teens and even adults who took their own lives or attempted to, all because Christians could not tolerate "sin."
Jesus said that one would know somebody by their "fruits." I can't help but apply that to doctrine, too: If a doctrine is making many millions of people hate themselves, kill themselves, be cut off from their families (or have to cut their families off, because they are being hurt or rejected by them), then there is something very, very wrong with that doctrine. No matter how hard Christians try to lovingly apply it, it just isn't a very loving doctrine. It just doesn't seem to fit with the notion of all-loving God.
Do people really think that the hypocrites of Jesus's day (Pharisees and teachers of the law) never believed that God was behind them, too? Do people really believe that the Pharisees never used God in that way, never believed that they were doing the Lord's work (especially because they obeyed the Lord's commands, and those of scripture)?
Jesus spoke twice, and very critically too, of those who put heavy burdens on people, and didn't lift a finger to carry those burdens themselves. And the people who put those burdens on others, most assuredly thought that they were doing God's work. They thought that God was the one laying the burden on others, not them.
I remember, almost ten years ago, being on the receiving end of that phrase ("Don't look at me, God said it"), and wanting to scream. I was a Christian myself at the time, but couldn't agree with what a family member was saying. I don't remember the exact issue, though I think it had something to do with either LGBT people or wifely submission. (Note: Whenever I mention a family member, I do not mean either of my parents, who always have been willing to at least entertain possibilities of other viewpoints; in fact I have always had fun speculating with my mother, and she believes like I do.)
I still remember it to this day, and how he tried to use it as a trump card against me. I had never encountered such a phrase before, and was young and inexperienced in arguing effectively for my viewpoints. I think what bothered me most was that he had the nerve to speak for God.
I have had a long time to think about how I feel about the phrase, and so here is a message to those who would like to use it:
First of all, I am looking at you, and I will continue looking at you, because you are saying it too. Unless you want to disagree morally with God, you are in agreement with whatever doctrine you are espousing. So yes, you get to face the consequences of what you are saying, like an adult.
Second, either stand behind your words, or retract them. Don't hide behind God. I am not arguing with God, and I am not going to take up the argument with God (or rather, your version of God), since s/he is not in the habit of answering me back. You can either continue arguing your point, standing on your own two feet, or agree to disagree with me.
Third, you do not speak for God. You do not have a direct line to God. If I was God, I think I would be insulted that someone would try to speak for me (of course, I would want to speak directly to my creation, but that's a different issue). If you believe that God speaks directly or indirectly to us in any way, why couldn't he or she speak to me just as easily?
I have to go back to my beliefs about God (if God is real), whenever others try to be my high priest and stand between me and God. I spent so much of my life not trusting myself, and my own heart, especially about God, and I'm not making that mistake again. And I'm certainly not letting anyone else speak for God, to me. That's not allowed. That's the height of hypocrisy, and it's not allowed in my life.
I don't use this phrase on others. I'm not cowardly; I stand by what I say, even if I think God backs me up. And I expect those who wish to converse with me to do the same.
"Don't look at me; God said it, so take it up with Him."
I have been bullied with that line before. A person I was afraid of for many years used to say this line, whenever I disagreed with him. And, whether online or in real life, I mostly remember hearing it said with regard to one issue very dear to my heart: homosexuality.
My heart aches for people who are treated as if they are defective, suspiciously prone to sin, or second-class citizens in their own church or ministry (even if that wasn't the intention, because oppression is never "about" oppressing people). My heart aches for people who have to have their basic human rights be hugely controversial, for people who have to choose between three sub-par options: A lifetime of loneliness, marrying someone they do not find attractive and cannot love in a sexual way, or an eternity in hell.
The last few years I was a Christian, I heavily questioned the notion that God would ask some people to give up almost all love and happiness for Him, when they were supposed to be His children. Even when I believed God did do that, I was uneasy about it. I had a huge problem with this notion, and still do.
Then there were a few years when I didn't know what I was, but I definitely knew what I was not: I was not a Christian, I was not an evangelical, and I definitely was NOT anti-gay!
The thing that got me questioning this doctrine of intolerance and "sin" was hearing stories of people who tried repeatedly to change but could not, who hated themselves and prayed endlessly that God would change them, but He did not.
And then there were the extreme cases (though sadly, not particularly rare) of teens and even adults who took their own lives or attempted to, all because Christians could not tolerate "sin."
Jesus said that one would know somebody by their "fruits." I can't help but apply that to doctrine, too: If a doctrine is making many millions of people hate themselves, kill themselves, be cut off from their families (or have to cut their families off, because they are being hurt or rejected by them), then there is something very, very wrong with that doctrine. No matter how hard Christians try to lovingly apply it, it just isn't a very loving doctrine. It just doesn't seem to fit with the notion of all-loving God.
Do people really think that the hypocrites of Jesus's day (Pharisees and teachers of the law) never believed that God was behind them, too? Do people really believe that the Pharisees never used God in that way, never believed that they were doing the Lord's work (especially because they obeyed the Lord's commands, and those of scripture)?
Jesus spoke twice, and very critically too, of those who put heavy burdens on people, and didn't lift a finger to carry those burdens themselves. And the people who put those burdens on others, most assuredly thought that they were doing God's work. They thought that God was the one laying the burden on others, not them.
I remember, almost ten years ago, being on the receiving end of that phrase ("Don't look at me, God said it"), and wanting to scream. I was a Christian myself at the time, but couldn't agree with what a family member was saying. I don't remember the exact issue, though I think it had something to do with either LGBT people or wifely submission. (Note: Whenever I mention a family member, I do not mean either of my parents, who always have been willing to at least entertain possibilities of other viewpoints; in fact I have always had fun speculating with my mother, and she believes like I do.)
I still remember it to this day, and how he tried to use it as a trump card against me. I had never encountered such a phrase before, and was young and inexperienced in arguing effectively for my viewpoints. I think what bothered me most was that he had the nerve to speak for God.
I have had a long time to think about how I feel about the phrase, and so here is a message to those who would like to use it:
First of all, I am looking at you, and I will continue looking at you, because you are saying it too. Unless you want to disagree morally with God, you are in agreement with whatever doctrine you are espousing. So yes, you get to face the consequences of what you are saying, like an adult.
Second, either stand behind your words, or retract them. Don't hide behind God. I am not arguing with God, and I am not going to take up the argument with God (or rather, your version of God), since s/he is not in the habit of answering me back. You can either continue arguing your point, standing on your own two feet, or agree to disagree with me.
Third, you do not speak for God. You do not have a direct line to God. If I was God, I think I would be insulted that someone would try to speak for me (of course, I would want to speak directly to my creation, but that's a different issue). If you believe that God speaks directly or indirectly to us in any way, why couldn't he or she speak to me just as easily?
I have to go back to my beliefs about God (if God is real), whenever others try to be my high priest and stand between me and God. I spent so much of my life not trusting myself, and my own heart, especially about God, and I'm not making that mistake again. And I'm certainly not letting anyone else speak for God, to me. That's not allowed. That's the height of hypocrisy, and it's not allowed in my life.
I don't use this phrase on others. I'm not cowardly; I stand by what I say, even if I think God backs me up. And I expect those who wish to converse with me to do the same.
Fifty Foggots Down
I had a very vivid dream one night, in which I had to explain to my Uncle 'Phobe exactly why the word "faggot" bothered me (but I don't remember him actually ever using the word in real life, interestingly enough). I explained its origin, that it originally referred to a stick to be burned, and that it referenced burning at the stake. Basically, when you call someone that, you say that they should be burned alive.
"A faggot is a measurement," he said. "Like in the ocean--fifty faggots down."
"I think those are fathoms," I said, trying to be patient and non-confrontational. "Fifty fathoms down."
He also made reference to ships, which turned out to be frigates.
"Oh. I don't know," he shrugged; then we started talking about '80s movies (his area of expertise), before I woke up. Mercifully, I think I was spared his Caddyshack quotations, which are even more repetitive than the Saturday Night Live ones (which are basically all about vans and rivers; he's got one line).
Then the Westboro Baptist Church ("God Hates Fags" people) decided to protest the National Weather Service last October for not giving enough glory to God.
I went to Umpqua Community College at the time of the shooting (last October), and our Gay-Straight Alliance club had been preparing to meet them when they announced that they would be attending memorial services for the victims, though Westboro did not show up. I think my tweet to them ("The Umpqua Community College Gay-Straight Alliance Club is ready for you.") scared them off. I'm very intimidating! :)
I was almost a little hurt, actually, that Roseburg, Oregon was not "wicked" enough to warrant their attention, but apparently, the National Weather Service was. Their rude names are getting rather lame, too, as "Weather Reporting Rebels" is kind of a mouthful.
But the question that really burns me up is this: Why would they miss this golden opportunity to call people Foggots? They're off their game, lately. I guess they don't want to be any more of a parody of themselves than they already are.
"A faggot is a measurement," he said. "Like in the ocean--fifty faggots down."
"I think those are fathoms," I said, trying to be patient and non-confrontational. "Fifty fathoms down."
He also made reference to ships, which turned out to be frigates.
"Oh. I don't know," he shrugged; then we started talking about '80s movies (his area of expertise), before I woke up. Mercifully, I think I was spared his Caddyshack quotations, which are even more repetitive than the Saturday Night Live ones (which are basically all about vans and rivers; he's got one line).
Then the Westboro Baptist Church ("God Hates Fags" people) decided to protest the National Weather Service last October for not giving enough glory to God.
I went to Umpqua Community College at the time of the shooting (last October), and our Gay-Straight Alliance club had been preparing to meet them when they announced that they would be attending memorial services for the victims, though Westboro did not show up. I think my tweet to them ("The Umpqua Community College Gay-Straight Alliance Club is ready for you.") scared them off. I'm very intimidating! :)
I was almost a little hurt, actually, that Roseburg, Oregon was not "wicked" enough to warrant their attention, but apparently, the National Weather Service was. Their rude names are getting rather lame, too, as "Weather Reporting Rebels" is kind of a mouthful.
But the question that really burns me up is this: Why would they miss this golden opportunity to call people Foggots? They're off their game, lately. I guess they don't want to be any more of a parody of themselves than they already are.
Monday, March 7, 2016
When The Bullies Come Along, Just Shake Your Head
There are few people who can bother me nearly as much as my Uncle 'Phobe. Since I was a small child, I have been afraid of him physically. He bullied my cousins and me relentlessly (when he was an adult, older than my own mother), and once lost his temper so intensely that my aunt rushed all of us children out of the room, while I was terrified for my mother's safety. Though no one got physically hurt, I still am affected by that memory to this day.
I think the reason that he bothers me so much is the physical fear of him. Which I still have. He has not been physically threatening in years, decades almost--but he doesn't have to be. The threat is almost there, in the back of my mind, whenever I have to see him. The threat is implied in any situation in which we disagree--whether he means it to be or not.
I don't know how threatening he really is, now, but I know one thing, for certain: I can't completely trust him. If he said tomorrow that he would never harm anybody, I wouldn't completely believe him. I can't afford to, after what I've been through and what I've seen. If somebody can be "pushed" into something that they wouldn't normally do, then they are not in control of themselves, and therefore can't be trusted to make an accurate assessment of themselves.
My grandfather likes to use the phrase, "forgive and forget," but I can't forget something which threatens my physical or emotional safety. I don't use the word "forgive," either, because even God doesn't forgive people unless they actually apologize for their sins and stop doing them. Are we to be better than God?
This physical fear has made it especially difficult to be myself around him, when my self is something that he vehemently dislikes. I am bisexual, but even years before I knew it, I was for gay rights--or wanted to be, but thought that God would throw me in hell for it.
And I'm sure you can guess why I refer to him as my Uncle 'Phobe.
I have to think about what I will say, before every single family gathering, if he should say some snide little remark about LGBTQ people once again (which has happened considerably often since I have started wearing rainbow pride pins--which was, incidentally, in response to a homophobic comment he had made about how gays should stay in the closet).
I have spent countless hours obsessing over it, because I'm stuck between my desire to be totally honest about who I am and what I believe, and my intense fears, which are not so bad when he's actually around, but which return in force when I have just seen him or am about to see him.
I want to say so many things. I want to be so outspoken. I used to think that I wanted to argue with him, insult him, and win, but now I just want to be completely myself, and say, "I disagree with that," and if I feel like it, "...and here's why..."
I cuss him out, I am bold, when thinking about what to say, but it's quite a different matter when the family gathering draws closer, or when I'm actually there.
I feel like shit when I have to be quiet and deny who I am, and implicitly agree with him or let him get away with saying it and pretending that everyone agrees. He seems to expect to be able to "make" others agree with him, with the implied threat of physical force. Might is right, in his worldview, at least when it comes to others. He wants to be the official spokesman or prophet for the entire family, it seems. And I cannot assume that he will not resort to any means necessary to keep that power over people, especially the "kids" of the family (though they are all over 18).
I had that problem the other night. It felt so good to say the stuff I imagined myself saying, but then I realized that I probably would have trouble saying at least some of it. It was not even that insulting, as far as insults go. ("You don't know what you're talking about," when it came to progressive, pro-gay Christianity, which I don't have a problem with and which I almost feel is my belief sometimes--though my practical side doesn't want to believe in something just because I sometimes like it.)
But I was afraid to say something too confrontational, so I just shook my head. And shook it and shook it and shook it. It felt good, to clear the negativity out of my mind. And it was something I imagined that I could do.
I don't know what I can and can't do in the moment. But communication is not all verbal. It took a lot of courage to wear those pins, at first, but now I do it with only a little nervousness. And when it comes to something I can do, the simpler the better. I don't know if he will listen to even the briefest explanations of why I believe as I do, and I don't know if I can utter them without getting flustered.
But a simple gesture, maybe with a soft, "No...no...no..." is something that I can practice more, and that I can use to help myself gain more confidence eventually for the future.
I don't have to explain things to or convince the bullies. All I have to do is shake my head.
And I've got a lot of shaking to do right now.
I think the reason that he bothers me so much is the physical fear of him. Which I still have. He has not been physically threatening in years, decades almost--but he doesn't have to be. The threat is almost there, in the back of my mind, whenever I have to see him. The threat is implied in any situation in which we disagree--whether he means it to be or not.
I don't know how threatening he really is, now, but I know one thing, for certain: I can't completely trust him. If he said tomorrow that he would never harm anybody, I wouldn't completely believe him. I can't afford to, after what I've been through and what I've seen. If somebody can be "pushed" into something that they wouldn't normally do, then they are not in control of themselves, and therefore can't be trusted to make an accurate assessment of themselves.
My grandfather likes to use the phrase, "forgive and forget," but I can't forget something which threatens my physical or emotional safety. I don't use the word "forgive," either, because even God doesn't forgive people unless they actually apologize for their sins and stop doing them. Are we to be better than God?
This physical fear has made it especially difficult to be myself around him, when my self is something that he vehemently dislikes. I am bisexual, but even years before I knew it, I was for gay rights--or wanted to be, but thought that God would throw me in hell for it.
And I'm sure you can guess why I refer to him as my Uncle 'Phobe.
I have to think about what I will say, before every single family gathering, if he should say some snide little remark about LGBTQ people once again (which has happened considerably often since I have started wearing rainbow pride pins--which was, incidentally, in response to a homophobic comment he had made about how gays should stay in the closet).
I have spent countless hours obsessing over it, because I'm stuck between my desire to be totally honest about who I am and what I believe, and my intense fears, which are not so bad when he's actually around, but which return in force when I have just seen him or am about to see him.
I want to say so many things. I want to be so outspoken. I used to think that I wanted to argue with him, insult him, and win, but now I just want to be completely myself, and say, "I disagree with that," and if I feel like it, "...and here's why..."
I cuss him out, I am bold, when thinking about what to say, but it's quite a different matter when the family gathering draws closer, or when I'm actually there.
I feel like shit when I have to be quiet and deny who I am, and implicitly agree with him or let him get away with saying it and pretending that everyone agrees. He seems to expect to be able to "make" others agree with him, with the implied threat of physical force. Might is right, in his worldview, at least when it comes to others. He wants to be the official spokesman or prophet for the entire family, it seems. And I cannot assume that he will not resort to any means necessary to keep that power over people, especially the "kids" of the family (though they are all over 18).
I had that problem the other night. It felt so good to say the stuff I imagined myself saying, but then I realized that I probably would have trouble saying at least some of it. It was not even that insulting, as far as insults go. ("You don't know what you're talking about," when it came to progressive, pro-gay Christianity, which I don't have a problem with and which I almost feel is my belief sometimes--though my practical side doesn't want to believe in something just because I sometimes like it.)
But I was afraid to say something too confrontational, so I just shook my head. And shook it and shook it and shook it. It felt good, to clear the negativity out of my mind. And it was something I imagined that I could do.
I don't know what I can and can't do in the moment. But communication is not all verbal. It took a lot of courage to wear those pins, at first, but now I do it with only a little nervousness. And when it comes to something I can do, the simpler the better. I don't know if he will listen to even the briefest explanations of why I believe as I do, and I don't know if I can utter them without getting flustered.
But a simple gesture, maybe with a soft, "No...no...no..." is something that I can practice more, and that I can use to help myself gain more confidence eventually for the future.
I don't have to explain things to or convince the bullies. All I have to do is shake my head.
And I've got a lot of shaking to do right now.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Thank God I Lost My Faith
A lot of gay Christians talk about their years-long struggles with themselves, and how they beg God to change them, but it does nothing. I had a similar experience, long before I knew I was bisexual, except that my experience involved the struggle to get close to God, and not feeling close at all.
Have you ever had the experience of trying to tackle a very difficult project, and finally, you feel so frustrated, that you just give up for good? Now imagine if you are afraid to give up, or even to ease up on your efforts, because you're afraid that you will burn in hell for eternity if you do!
I continued at that same level of frustration (and constant stress!) for years, and the struggle to get close to God and to please him continued literally every second that I wasn't distracted or sleeping. And I thought it was all my fault, that I didn't consistently feel close to God, because God could never be wrong, and it was blasphemy to criticize him or be even a little upset with him.
Later I realized that some Christians thought you could get mad at God, and not be sinning, but it always seemed that it had to end on a positive note; you always had to "come back" to God, or else it was being bitter and sinning. So it was less than useless, pretending to be "over" something when you weren't.
I was either constantly failing to think Christian thoughts, in my own mind, or else trying to make up for them with Christian thoughts. I read my bible and prayed even when I was tired, and tired of it, but the most difficult, and stressful, part was trying to be in constant communication with God, and being painfully aware that God was watching when any sexual, angry, or blasphemous thoughts popped into my head, seemingly of their own volition. I couldn't relax, and had so much trouble getting to sleep, because I had to be constantly vigilant.
I finally got so emotionally numb that I just couldn't do any of it anymore. My faith was "broken," like the bruised reed that was not supposed to be broken. My misery and stress in this life finally overcame my terror of the next one, the stress was so great.
And the worst part was that I still had the great fear of hell, of not being a real Christian, and I still had the feeling that it was all my fault that I couldn't get close to God. And, even worse, it was all my fault that I couldn't be a Christian, and it was all my fault that I would go to hell.
But I see people in my family, and sometimes my life, who never, to my knowledge, went through all that. It doesn't seem easy for them, but they seem to be cramming their feelings down, putting on a happy smile, going to church, and judging all of the people that they're told to judge. And I think they have an easier time doing this than I did, because they didn't go through other things that I went through. My family raised the neighbor's baby, and when I was fifteen, we went through the father's custody battle along with him. I was so terrified that the baby would go to his neglectful, meth-addicted mother. And there were stories in the newspaper, at that time, of mother's boyfriends molesting, abusing, and even killing babies and small children. She had a lot of boyfriends, unsavory characters all.
I'm not exactly sure what combination of things led to my faith being broken, though. And I wonder, if I hadn't gone through all that, how I would be now? Would I still be homophobic? Would I know that I was bisexual? Would I know, and not like myself? Would I still be trying, so, so hard, and ruining my health and my mental health, and my life, because of it?
I would be so unhappy and depressed, if I was still my thirteen-year-old self. And I wouldn't even be allowed to acknowledge that I was unhappy, miserable, and depressed. I grieve for what I went through, and I am still recovering from it all, emotionally and physically, but I wonder if I would be worse off today, if I hadn't gone through that.
I remember an acquaintance, Ruth, who is twenty years old and almost exactly like I was, at thirteen. I sense her ambivalence, that she's torn between two worlds, but I distance myself from her, because it's too painful to see it, what I used to be. And for all I know, she could come through this time in her life even more homophobic and anti-equality, and I don't want to be around or be friends with someone like that, no matter how "nice" the oppressors are. It would only make me miserable, and life's much too short.
If there was one thing that would have made my life easier, back then, it would have been not trying at all to be "good." I spent so much energy trying to be "good": a "good" Christian, "good" daughter, "good" kid. I was scared to death of being "bad," and since one little thought could be a sin, I was "bad" constantly. That really does a number on your self-esteem, and your life in general. I was depressed, and couldn't see my life ever getting any better. I didn't like myself, either. Not one little bit; I couldn't stand myself.
When I learned to love myself, it wasn't because I was a child of God or something, it was in spite of the damage of the church's teachings. And they certainly didn't intend to inflict that kind of damage; they were "kind," "gentle," "loving" and all of the other self-congratulatory cliches. There were a few years where I had to just purge all mention of religion or Christianity from my life, and ignore it as much as I could. I'm glad I did, too. I desperately needed a long break from it.
I've learned so much over the years, and I wouldn't trade what I know now for anything. I learned to trust myself, where before I had been so focused on my relationship with God, that I had no relationship with myself. At first, I had been totally lost for how to fill my hours, my thoughts, and my life, if God was gone from it. I didn't know how to function, with all of that stress suddenly gone. But I knew I couldn't bear to do anything "Christian" ever again, even if I had such fear of hell. My misery in this life was greater, though the fear and self-hatred were still very much there.
I learned what kind of music I really liked, not having to worry about always listening to Christian music. I learned how to fill my spare hours in ways that I liked. I learned to cuss, which was fucking awesome! The biggest shock was my mind being seemingly empty, though, after constant prayer and vigilance every second. I literally didn't know how to think for myself! :)
But I learned, and I like my life now. I like myself, now.
I don't know if I would be so well-off today, if all of that hadn't happened to me. I'm still recovering from everything I've been through, but I'm so grateful that I'm here. I can't imagine how miserable my life would still be, in so many ways, if I hadn't lost my faith.
Maybe losing my faith was a gift from God. It certainly is a blessing, of some sort, even if I become a devout Christian again. (Which I don't think is likely, because I'm not putting any effort into being "devout" ever again! I already paid my dues, and I'm not fucking up my one guaranteed life for a theoretical afterlife!)
Maybe my life would be better, in some ways, if I had not been through such painful experiences. But, though I would not go through it all again, I shudder to think what would have happened if I had had the energy to keep trying to be a Christian.
Have you ever had the experience of trying to tackle a very difficult project, and finally, you feel so frustrated, that you just give up for good? Now imagine if you are afraid to give up, or even to ease up on your efforts, because you're afraid that you will burn in hell for eternity if you do!
I continued at that same level of frustration (and constant stress!) for years, and the struggle to get close to God and to please him continued literally every second that I wasn't distracted or sleeping. And I thought it was all my fault, that I didn't consistently feel close to God, because God could never be wrong, and it was blasphemy to criticize him or be even a little upset with him.
Later I realized that some Christians thought you could get mad at God, and not be sinning, but it always seemed that it had to end on a positive note; you always had to "come back" to God, or else it was being bitter and sinning. So it was less than useless, pretending to be "over" something when you weren't.
I was either constantly failing to think Christian thoughts, in my own mind, or else trying to make up for them with Christian thoughts. I read my bible and prayed even when I was tired, and tired of it, but the most difficult, and stressful, part was trying to be in constant communication with God, and being painfully aware that God was watching when any sexual, angry, or blasphemous thoughts popped into my head, seemingly of their own volition. I couldn't relax, and had so much trouble getting to sleep, because I had to be constantly vigilant.
I finally got so emotionally numb that I just couldn't do any of it anymore. My faith was "broken," like the bruised reed that was not supposed to be broken. My misery and stress in this life finally overcame my terror of the next one, the stress was so great.
And the worst part was that I still had the great fear of hell, of not being a real Christian, and I still had the feeling that it was all my fault that I couldn't get close to God. And, even worse, it was all my fault that I couldn't be a Christian, and it was all my fault that I would go to hell.
But I see people in my family, and sometimes my life, who never, to my knowledge, went through all that. It doesn't seem easy for them, but they seem to be cramming their feelings down, putting on a happy smile, going to church, and judging all of the people that they're told to judge. And I think they have an easier time doing this than I did, because they didn't go through other things that I went through. My family raised the neighbor's baby, and when I was fifteen, we went through the father's custody battle along with him. I was so terrified that the baby would go to his neglectful, meth-addicted mother. And there were stories in the newspaper, at that time, of mother's boyfriends molesting, abusing, and even killing babies and small children. She had a lot of boyfriends, unsavory characters all.
I'm not exactly sure what combination of things led to my faith being broken, though. And I wonder, if I hadn't gone through all that, how I would be now? Would I still be homophobic? Would I know that I was bisexual? Would I know, and not like myself? Would I still be trying, so, so hard, and ruining my health and my mental health, and my life, because of it?
I would be so unhappy and depressed, if I was still my thirteen-year-old self. And I wouldn't even be allowed to acknowledge that I was unhappy, miserable, and depressed. I grieve for what I went through, and I am still recovering from it all, emotionally and physically, but I wonder if I would be worse off today, if I hadn't gone through that.
I remember an acquaintance, Ruth, who is twenty years old and almost exactly like I was, at thirteen. I sense her ambivalence, that she's torn between two worlds, but I distance myself from her, because it's too painful to see it, what I used to be. And for all I know, she could come through this time in her life even more homophobic and anti-equality, and I don't want to be around or be friends with someone like that, no matter how "nice" the oppressors are. It would only make me miserable, and life's much too short.
If there was one thing that would have made my life easier, back then, it would have been not trying at all to be "good." I spent so much energy trying to be "good": a "good" Christian, "good" daughter, "good" kid. I was scared to death of being "bad," and since one little thought could be a sin, I was "bad" constantly. That really does a number on your self-esteem, and your life in general. I was depressed, and couldn't see my life ever getting any better. I didn't like myself, either. Not one little bit; I couldn't stand myself.
When I learned to love myself, it wasn't because I was a child of God or something, it was in spite of the damage of the church's teachings. And they certainly didn't intend to inflict that kind of damage; they were "kind," "gentle," "loving" and all of the other self-congratulatory cliches. There were a few years where I had to just purge all mention of religion or Christianity from my life, and ignore it as much as I could. I'm glad I did, too. I desperately needed a long break from it.
I've learned so much over the years, and I wouldn't trade what I know now for anything. I learned to trust myself, where before I had been so focused on my relationship with God, that I had no relationship with myself. At first, I had been totally lost for how to fill my hours, my thoughts, and my life, if God was gone from it. I didn't know how to function, with all of that stress suddenly gone. But I knew I couldn't bear to do anything "Christian" ever again, even if I had such fear of hell. My misery in this life was greater, though the fear and self-hatred were still very much there.
I learned what kind of music I really liked, not having to worry about always listening to Christian music. I learned how to fill my spare hours in ways that I liked. I learned to cuss, which was fucking awesome! The biggest shock was my mind being seemingly empty, though, after constant prayer and vigilance every second. I literally didn't know how to think for myself! :)
But I learned, and I like my life now. I like myself, now.
I don't know if I would be so well-off today, if all of that hadn't happened to me. I'm still recovering from everything I've been through, but I'm so grateful that I'm here. I can't imagine how miserable my life would still be, in so many ways, if I hadn't lost my faith.
Maybe losing my faith was a gift from God. It certainly is a blessing, of some sort, even if I become a devout Christian again. (Which I don't think is likely, because I'm not putting any effort into being "devout" ever again! I already paid my dues, and I'm not fucking up my one guaranteed life for a theoretical afterlife!)
Maybe my life would be better, in some ways, if I had not been through such painful experiences. But, though I would not go through it all again, I shudder to think what would have happened if I had had the energy to keep trying to be a Christian.
Keeping Up With The Christians
My grandfather talks about how "poor" they were when he was a kid, though my mother says that she learned from another relative that they were actually rather rich farmers, before moving from Arkansas to California. Whatever the case, my grandfather worked in the local wood mill for almost fifty years, while supporting a family of six, with only a sixth-grade education. I'm very proud of him for that fact. But even though he had a very good union job, my mother and her siblings always heard him speak of how "poor" they were, and how they "couldn't afford that." (Whatever "that" happened to be.) I talked recently of how almost everyone in my extended family has bought a brand-new, upper-middle-price-range car, and how most of them are on their second or third one.
My Uncle 'Phobe once got a job with the local school district, with good benefits, while complaining to my mom, "I'm just a janitor!" He had looked down on the janitors at his high school, so his self-esteem was affected when he took that relatively lucrative position.
One aunt and uncle went crazy for Thomas Kincaid paintings, when he was a big deal. Those fuckers were expensive! And they had three or four, at least, in ornate light-up frames. (Thomas Kincaid "paintings" were mostly a scam, too, paint thrown over prints.) Their house has always had top-of-the-line everything, and if possible, top-of-the-line Christian everything. It was almost as if they had something to prove, financially and otherwise. I was always fascinated by their house, but so afraid I would break something, when I was child. Their house still looks like an "inspirational" Christian bookstore. "Aren't you glad Christians live here?" my mom snarked to me once, nodding towards the two-foot cross on their stoop.
My mother grew up in the same environment of deprivation that her siblings did, and yet she has totally different financial values than them. I can't help feeling that they're trying to get away from my grandfather's "poorness," like it was a shameful thing.
My grandmother grew up actually poor, as far as I can tell. She had to have a new sports car, about twenty years ago, when her two sisters got new cars, and she had to have a new car about two years ago, when everyone else in the family seemed to get new cars. She has also always loved to shop, a lot of shopping, ever since I could remember. (Though I'm very grateful now that she makes my grandfather get out of the house every day and run errands with her!)
My cousin Blue-Butt (he ate blue birthday cake as a baby and shitted out a Smurf) once dated a young lady whose family was rather wealthy. My grandmother saw the girl's mom's car and exclaimed to me, "Ooh! Her family has money!" in a rather odd voice, a mixture of envy and mocking. She pointed out the expensive tires and rims to me, in particular. I also noticed that, when BB started dating this girl, my aunt, BB's mom, started looking for and bought a nice new car.
Why is being "poor," or even poor, such a shameful thing? Why would people sadly run up tens of thousands of dollars in debt, just to prove that they're not poor, or not poor anymore? What kinds of characteristics do we ascribe to those who have more than us, who are well off--especially so that we try to emulate them and sometimes even fit in with their crowd?
Why must we pretend, to them, that we've always been like them? Are they perceived to be particularly good friends, particularly warm-hearted, especially witty? Why do we want these people, in particular, for our friends? Not that they are bad people, necessarily, but--why these people? Why are they sometimes perceived to be more worthwhile to be around and emulate, just because of their privilege?
I understand the feeling of wanting to be accepted, of wanting to be as privileged as someone else, but I believe we must ask ourselves these questions.
After all, if for some reason we are not accepted by higher socioeconomic classes than our own, it doesn't necessarily reflect badly on our character. How does having more money or privilege mean that one is a better person (one that we wish to become), or mean that they are a great friend, or that they are a great judge of character?
And how does having nice things make one feel financially secure, especially if they have to make themselves financially insecure to do it? How does having nice things mean that you are worthy of nice things? No one can get everything they deserve, after all.
I'm not saying it's bad to have nice things. But I do think it's bad to have nice things, and not examine exactly why we want them. And I especially think it's bad for people to try to get into an in-crowd, without examining why they want to be around those people in the first place.
My in-crowd was the board of directors for the local PFLAG (Parents, Family, and Friends of Lesbians And Gays). I got in, even though I felt like I was bluffing my way through it (I told myself I WAS worthy of it, and there was no reason I couldn't be on that board!). And then, when I went to the first meeting, I sat at the same table as people I admired--the African-American lady who taught the LGBTQ-ally workshop I had attended (bucking the stereotype that black people are homophobic); the only out teacher at a tiny local high school, who had had to divorce his wife and start all over again at midlife, to be honest with himself; a man who had helped to start the first Queer student group at his southern college, way back in the sixties, and who had had rocks thrown at him and his friends for it; the ultra-modest, feminist, outspoken Christian who was eager to help me start my atheist group at my community college; among others. And we were all planning how we were going to change the world! I loved it! It was amazing!
I can't imagine ever having that totally amazing experience, one of the best in my life, if I had tried to make friends with them, or be like them, because of their cars, toys, clothes, houses, or jobs. Or even because they went to my church. And I didn't have to pretend, with them, either, because most of them had a closet in their past, anyway, and they didn't care where I came from.
That's how it should be. And that's how it will never be, if we admire people because we envy their possessions.
My Uncle 'Phobe once got a job with the local school district, with good benefits, while complaining to my mom, "I'm just a janitor!" He had looked down on the janitors at his high school, so his self-esteem was affected when he took that relatively lucrative position.
One aunt and uncle went crazy for Thomas Kincaid paintings, when he was a big deal. Those fuckers were expensive! And they had three or four, at least, in ornate light-up frames. (Thomas Kincaid "paintings" were mostly a scam, too, paint thrown over prints.) Their house has always had top-of-the-line everything, and if possible, top-of-the-line Christian everything. It was almost as if they had something to prove, financially and otherwise. I was always fascinated by their house, but so afraid I would break something, when I was child. Their house still looks like an "inspirational" Christian bookstore. "Aren't you glad Christians live here?" my mom snarked to me once, nodding towards the two-foot cross on their stoop.
My mother grew up in the same environment of deprivation that her siblings did, and yet she has totally different financial values than them. I can't help feeling that they're trying to get away from my grandfather's "poorness," like it was a shameful thing.
My grandmother grew up actually poor, as far as I can tell. She had to have a new sports car, about twenty years ago, when her two sisters got new cars, and she had to have a new car about two years ago, when everyone else in the family seemed to get new cars. She has also always loved to shop, a lot of shopping, ever since I could remember. (Though I'm very grateful now that she makes my grandfather get out of the house every day and run errands with her!)
My cousin Blue-Butt (he ate blue birthday cake as a baby and shitted out a Smurf) once dated a young lady whose family was rather wealthy. My grandmother saw the girl's mom's car and exclaimed to me, "Ooh! Her family has money!" in a rather odd voice, a mixture of envy and mocking. She pointed out the expensive tires and rims to me, in particular. I also noticed that, when BB started dating this girl, my aunt, BB's mom, started looking for and bought a nice new car.
Why is being "poor," or even poor, such a shameful thing? Why would people sadly run up tens of thousands of dollars in debt, just to prove that they're not poor, or not poor anymore? What kinds of characteristics do we ascribe to those who have more than us, who are well off--especially so that we try to emulate them and sometimes even fit in with their crowd?
Why must we pretend, to them, that we've always been like them? Are they perceived to be particularly good friends, particularly warm-hearted, especially witty? Why do we want these people, in particular, for our friends? Not that they are bad people, necessarily, but--why these people? Why are they sometimes perceived to be more worthwhile to be around and emulate, just because of their privilege?
I understand the feeling of wanting to be accepted, of wanting to be as privileged as someone else, but I believe we must ask ourselves these questions.
After all, if for some reason we are not accepted by higher socioeconomic classes than our own, it doesn't necessarily reflect badly on our character. How does having more money or privilege mean that one is a better person (one that we wish to become), or mean that they are a great friend, or that they are a great judge of character?
And how does having nice things make one feel financially secure, especially if they have to make themselves financially insecure to do it? How does having nice things mean that you are worthy of nice things? No one can get everything they deserve, after all.
I'm not saying it's bad to have nice things. But I do think it's bad to have nice things, and not examine exactly why we want them. And I especially think it's bad for people to try to get into an in-crowd, without examining why they want to be around those people in the first place.
My in-crowd was the board of directors for the local PFLAG (Parents, Family, and Friends of Lesbians And Gays). I got in, even though I felt like I was bluffing my way through it (I told myself I WAS worthy of it, and there was no reason I couldn't be on that board!). And then, when I went to the first meeting, I sat at the same table as people I admired--the African-American lady who taught the LGBTQ-ally workshop I had attended (bucking the stereotype that black people are homophobic); the only out teacher at a tiny local high school, who had had to divorce his wife and start all over again at midlife, to be honest with himself; a man who had helped to start the first Queer student group at his southern college, way back in the sixties, and who had had rocks thrown at him and his friends for it; the ultra-modest, feminist, outspoken Christian who was eager to help me start my atheist group at my community college; among others. And we were all planning how we were going to change the world! I loved it! It was amazing!
I can't imagine ever having that totally amazing experience, one of the best in my life, if I had tried to make friends with them, or be like them, because of their cars, toys, clothes, houses, or jobs. Or even because they went to my church. And I didn't have to pretend, with them, either, because most of them had a closet in their past, anyway, and they didn't care where I came from.
That's how it should be. And that's how it will never be, if we admire people because we envy their possessions.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Cars Are For Transportation, NOT Decoration!
I love my family, but they will tell you themselves that they are "really good Christians."
I'm not sure exactly how to explain why I think this is so problematic, even among people who aren't hypocrites or judgmental at all (and hypocrites never really KNOW that they're hypocrites, do they?). But I think it comes down to this: If it's just that "easy" to be a good person, then where's the humility, the awareness that you're not perfect? Not just lip service to the idea that you're not perfect, but actually seeing and acknowledging your flaws and mistakes, and trying to do better? If you think you're already on top of the mountain, then you're going to get lazy.
I'm not trying to guilt anyone, and I hate when pastors and others try to do that, but I wanted to point out that just because you go through the bible studies and programs at your church, or even just because you read the bible, doesn't mean that you got your life together. Or that you're making the right decisions for you--or your money, for that matter.
I once observed that it seems to me that, the more conservative the church, the more expensive the cars in the parking lot become!
Except for my mom, who shares my automotive values, one couple who share a brand-new car, and my younger cousins, who are just starting out in life and can only afford used cars (though I have a feeling that my cousin Red might be thrifty like me), every single person in my mother's family, other than me, has a car or truck that they bought new. Every. Single. Person. Most are on their second or third new vehicle, or looking for the next one.
That is insanity!
A car has one, and only one, purpose: To get you, your passengers, and your stuff from here to there, from there to here, safely and reliably. There is no way that a car can provide $12,000 or more worth of happiness; there's no way that that money could not be spent in more meaningful and fun ways!
(I'm not even talking about their new vehicle purchases, and I'm using a purposefully "low" figure; they tend to buy the upper-middle level of new car, in terms of price and "status." I would estimate about $35,000 or more is not uncommon, just judging from what these cars go for typically.)
A car is a tool, nothing more. You can feel good for MUCH less than $35,000 or more.
I'm not sure exactly how to explain why I think this is so problematic, even among people who aren't hypocrites or judgmental at all (and hypocrites never really KNOW that they're hypocrites, do they?). But I think it comes down to this: If it's just that "easy" to be a good person, then where's the humility, the awareness that you're not perfect? Not just lip service to the idea that you're not perfect, but actually seeing and acknowledging your flaws and mistakes, and trying to do better? If you think you're already on top of the mountain, then you're going to get lazy.
I'm not trying to guilt anyone, and I hate when pastors and others try to do that, but I wanted to point out that just because you go through the bible studies and programs at your church, or even just because you read the bible, doesn't mean that you got your life together. Or that you're making the right decisions for you--or your money, for that matter.
I once observed that it seems to me that, the more conservative the church, the more expensive the cars in the parking lot become!
Except for my mom, who shares my automotive values, one couple who share a brand-new car, and my younger cousins, who are just starting out in life and can only afford used cars (though I have a feeling that my cousin Red might be thrifty like me), every single person in my mother's family, other than me, has a car or truck that they bought new. Every. Single. Person. Most are on their second or third new vehicle, or looking for the next one.
That is insanity!
A car has one, and only one, purpose: To get you, your passengers, and your stuff from here to there, from there to here, safely and reliably. There is no way that a car can provide $12,000 or more worth of happiness; there's no way that that money could not be spent in more meaningful and fun ways!
(I'm not even talking about their new vehicle purchases, and I'm using a purposefully "low" figure; they tend to buy the upper-middle level of new car, in terms of price and "status." I would estimate about $35,000 or more is not uncommon, just judging from what these cars go for typically.)
A car is a tool, nothing more. You can feel good for MUCH less than $35,000 or more.
This is why I never want to go to an affluent church, if I were to attend church, because my old car sitting next to their new cars would just drive home the huge differences in personal values and lifestyle.
(My car is a hand-me-down from my mom, when she got her twenty-year-old van. She was so thrilled about that van, and still is, and she loved that car, too, for many years. It has history, that way, which is why I love it so much!)
(My car is a hand-me-down from my mom, when she got her twenty-year-old van. She was so thrilled about that van, and still is, and she loved that car, too, for many years. It has history, that way, which is why I love it so much!)
I believe that the reason my family is so obsessed with new, shiny cars, is because of the church most of them attend. It is rather affluent, and has many of the important people in the community (or rather, people who think they're important in the community). My family fellowships "up," as far as wealth and so-called status, not across or even down. I don't fellowship with anyone, myself, but I certainly would never fellowship "up." (Though if the affirming churches recommended by my gay Christian friends had evening services, I might try them out, if they weren't too religious. Or too affluent--I don't approve of that lifestyle!)
When one person in the family got a new car, everyone else had to catch up, and did so within a year or two. They left my mother and me in the dust.
But our extended family is not that affluent. We can't afford to pay cash for these things, and if we did, it would be our life savings, or at least a very good part of it.
It makes me sick, how much money Americans waste. I am pretty silent and polite when being shown a relative's new car, or am told that they are looking for one, because I actually lose respect for people who have newer cars; I don't gain it. I especially lose respect for people who are wealthy enough to actually afford them; even if it's "small," compared to what you have, it's still a HUGE waste of money and resources! How many people could have been helped, with that money? How much garbage could be cleaned up from the oceans, with that money?
Luxury car companies should not even exist. I am not for only one option of car (like a communist), or saying that no new cars should be made, but I believe a price cap on cars would certainly help make them more practical, even if it's $100,000. Let the rich make their own customized improvements after purchasing, if they must be "better" than others, somehow.
At the very least, if one wants to have a "luxury" car, a vintage car would be much easier to maintain and replace parts in, and would keep its value, maybe even become more valuable over time. It might even be much cheaper than a new or late-model car. And you wouldn't be manipulated by the car companies and the culture to believe that a want is actually a need. Or manipulated by your church to think that something inducing that much debt is a "blessing." (My mom recalls that even at her old church--a relatively non-affluent one--when my parents were borrowing my paternal grandmother's car, which was relatively new at the time, everyone gathered around them in the parking lot and said, "Congratulations!" as if they had just a baby other than me!)
I believe frugality is a virtue, an all-too-rare virtue, nowadays. And I also believe that if you need a brand-new upper-middle level car to feel good, then you actually need to get therapy and self-help books, and pocket the difference. You would actually be able to afford a much more luxurious lifestyle, that way, or at least be free of a whole lot of debt.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Umpqua: "AJ Would Have Been Martyred!"
This is embarrassing, because I hit the "Publish" button by accident, before I had actually written this post. Sorry for any confusion.
I went to a family reunion recently, or as I morbidly call it, my "Look everyone, I'm not dead!" tour.
I attend Umpqua Community College, and I had talked to my grandparents that very day to tell them that I was okay. But when my grandmother greeted me with a hug yesterday (our family custom), she said, rather emotionally, "I haven't seen you since all this happened! I am so glad you are all right!" I thought she was making too big a deal out of it, but, well, it was a mass murder, and I certainly am grateful that I'm alive. They probably didn't know that I had my class in the afternoon, either, with the shooting in the morning.
My mom tells me that at one point, my "Uncle 'Phobe" remarked, intensely, "Just think, if AJ had been there, she would have been shot, because she would have said, 'Yes, I am a Christian!'"
Supposedly, the gunman targeted Christians, though I have learned that that was not exactly the case.
I'm not sure my uncle should have said such a thing to my mother, either. The thought of losing a child has to be a parent's worst fear.
And as for what he said, you can probably tell that most of my family does not know that I am kind of, well...not. Sometimes I'm not even sure that the word "atheist" accurately describes me either. I don't really know what I am, but I know very well what I'm not.
As my mom told me this story on the way home, she said, "And I thought, no, she wouldn't have!"
The tone in her voice almost sounded as if she were saying, "You BETTER not!"
A few days after the shooting, as we were talking about it, she had said, "You remember this: I would rather have a live coward than a dead hero!" And when she said it, I felt...loved.
I am rather surprised that my Uncle 'Phobe thought that I would say that. I had assumed that he thought I wasn't a "real" Christian anyway, after disagreeing with him about gay rights. Apparently he thinks that one can be saved, and also be "wrong" about things. That was a pleasant surprise.
I used to be bothered about not being able to express my doubts in front of my family, or even call myself an atheist to my family, but after learning about all of the shit that LGBTQ people have to go through, I rather identify with them, as a bisexual person and an ally, more than I identify with atheists. Whether one believes in God or not is really of no consequence to me now; what matters is how people treat one another. And yes, I did think that religion led to bad treatment, until I met a lot of good-hearted gay and allied Christians.
But I do think it's ironic that if my extended family knew that I would say the right words to save my life, they would worry about me so much more, not less. And that saving my own life becomes a wicked act, when I don't even do it at other people's expense. And even for most of my gay Christian friends, I can't imagine them denying Christ.
What I can imagine, however, is an all-loving Christ being perfectly understanding about things like this. My own mother would rather have me say that I hated her, and live, than to say that I loved her, and die. I know--I asked. And she feels this way, well, because she cares about me.
I wonder what that says about some people's conception of God...
I went to a family reunion recently, or as I morbidly call it, my "Look everyone, I'm not dead!" tour.
I attend Umpqua Community College, and I had talked to my grandparents that very day to tell them that I was okay. But when my grandmother greeted me with a hug yesterday (our family custom), she said, rather emotionally, "I haven't seen you since all this happened! I am so glad you are all right!" I thought she was making too big a deal out of it, but, well, it was a mass murder, and I certainly am grateful that I'm alive. They probably didn't know that I had my class in the afternoon, either, with the shooting in the morning.
My mom tells me that at one point, my "Uncle 'Phobe" remarked, intensely, "Just think, if AJ had been there, she would have been shot, because she would have said, 'Yes, I am a Christian!'"
Supposedly, the gunman targeted Christians, though I have learned that that was not exactly the case.
I'm not sure my uncle should have said such a thing to my mother, either. The thought of losing a child has to be a parent's worst fear.
And as for what he said, you can probably tell that most of my family does not know that I am kind of, well...not. Sometimes I'm not even sure that the word "atheist" accurately describes me either. I don't really know what I am, but I know very well what I'm not.
As my mom told me this story on the way home, she said, "And I thought, no, she wouldn't have!"
The tone in her voice almost sounded as if she were saying, "You BETTER not!"
A few days after the shooting, as we were talking about it, she had said, "You remember this: I would rather have a live coward than a dead hero!" And when she said it, I felt...loved.
I am rather surprised that my Uncle 'Phobe thought that I would say that. I had assumed that he thought I wasn't a "real" Christian anyway, after disagreeing with him about gay rights. Apparently he thinks that one can be saved, and also be "wrong" about things. That was a pleasant surprise.
I used to be bothered about not being able to express my doubts in front of my family, or even call myself an atheist to my family, but after learning about all of the shit that LGBTQ people have to go through, I rather identify with them, as a bisexual person and an ally, more than I identify with atheists. Whether one believes in God or not is really of no consequence to me now; what matters is how people treat one another. And yes, I did think that religion led to bad treatment, until I met a lot of good-hearted gay and allied Christians.
But I do think it's ironic that if my extended family knew that I would say the right words to save my life, they would worry about me so much more, not less. And that saving my own life becomes a wicked act, when I don't even do it at other people's expense. And even for most of my gay Christian friends, I can't imagine them denying Christ.
What I can imagine, however, is an all-loving Christ being perfectly understanding about things like this. My own mother would rather have me say that I hated her, and live, than to say that I loved her, and die. I know--I asked. And she feels this way, well, because she cares about me.
I wonder what that says about some people's conception of God...
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Closeted Clues
"You want to see my brother's homosexual car?" my mom smiled at my dad as we pulled into my grandparents' driveway.
When my dad saw the red Volkswagen convertible, he cracked a huge, genuine smile. "Oh..." he shook his head, and I could tell he was belly laughing, because when he really, truly laughs, he is completely silent, like me.
We went in, and after hugging everyone, I sat on the couch, picking up a book from the coffee table and skimming through it. The book was a Christian book, all about renewing one's mind. I looked at the table of contents, wondering if it would mention homosexuality by name, though I couldn't find any mention of it specifically. It did overtly say, however, that one could change some very significant, "sinful" things about oneself.
Later, my Uncle 'Phobe came in, and started talking to my mom. He was telling her all about the "great book" that he was reading, specifically mentioning that it was about renewing one's mind. He used his dramatic, reverent voice, so I could tell that he really bought into it and invested a lot of emotion into what this book promised him.
I thought of all of the ladies he was dating lately, and how none of them seemed good enough to get past a few dates with him. One's child didn't like him, which my mom said was a very trivial reason. Another was too chubby, and he didn't even ask her out, though I met her and she was very funny and good-looking, like my mom told him (I've also met him, and he is bald).
A few weeks ago, he was eager to tell my mom about yet another date, where "we just had fun and joked around, like you and me do. That was the most fun I had on a date in a long time!"
Anyone can joke around, I thought later. Even a sister, or someone like a sister.
"He likes tall, athletic-looking women," my mom remarked once.
He has had two divorces.
And there's a reason that I call him "Uncle 'Phobe." There's also a reason that my blog is anonymous.
I have never seen someone so emotionally invested in an anti-gay stance. My mom says that in high school, he got really upset and angry at the thought that someone would think that he and his friend were gay, when they palled around together. She says he was very self-conscious about the possibility, though she doesn't know where he got the idea that that could happen.
He absolutely loves the movie Rocky Horror Picture Show, though, as he says, "The plot just disgusted me!"
(I've recently thought of a catch-all response to sentiments such as that: "If that's how you feel, what are going to do when I come out?" He might ask if I'm a cross-dresser or something, and I'll say, "I can't tell you--that would spoil the surprise!")
He has said before that he's with "Fred," his pastor friend: "If you're going to be gay, stay in the closet!" (Again, "What are you going to do when I come out?")
I know that people get very mad when they work very hard for something they feel is their duty, and it seems to them that other people are shirking their duties entirely, like the story of Mary and Martha in the New Testament.
He is not a very happy person. He becomes angry very easily. Occasionally, he gets mad at God. The rest of the time, he is super-spiritual, as if it's an act for both us and himself (I've done that act before too, though not anymore, and I can spot it a mile away).
One time a few years ago he told my mother about going to get a prostate exam. (Yeah, he really did--in my family, nothing is too personal, as far as medical information. I remember my grandfather once complaining to my mother over lunch, "Oh, Tea Pumpkin, I just can't push nothin' out!" He talked about his fecal failure while we were all eating lunch.)
My Uncle 'Phobe said, of his prostate, "The doctor laughed and said, 'Well, 'Phobe, you're not gay!'"
My mom later informed me that in order to examine the prostate, the doctor must cup the balls in one hand and stick a finger of the other hand up the butt. Then the patient coughs.
I remember being on a panel, in the local newspaper, for teens, when I was in (homeschool) high school. One of the questions we were assigned was, "What do you think about the news of Dumbledore being gay?"
I usually went over the word limit, sometimes very much so, but this time, I didn't know what to say. I had not allowed myself to read Harry Potter books, when they came out, because though my parents would have let me, both I and my mother thought they were demonic. I was very conflicted about my Christianity, where I stood on issues like homosexuality (caught between where I "had" to stand and where I really, really wanted to stand), and wanting to be a Christian, of some kind, but knowing that I seemed to be a heathen, no matter how hard I tried not to be. And I knew my very evangelical, conservative family would all be reading whatever I wrote.
My response was this: "I don't know who Dumbledore is, but if he's gay and happy with himself, more power to him! His lifestyle doesn't affect my life, so why should I worry about it?"
That was the tiniest response I had ever written. And it was as neutral as I dared to be (I couldn't even imagine having the courage to be affirming, much less being partly gay--bisexual--myself).
I didn't know what to say when I was asked about it later at a family gathering. My mom explained, "She didn't need to seem like she was gay-bashing."
One of my other uncles gently teased me, "Hate the sin, love the sinner!" I wasn't quite sure that it was a sin, though I didn't dare say that aloud.
My Uncle 'Phobe laughed and said, "Go, baby, go!" I was deeply humiliated that he was cheering me on for something that I would never do.
He has said stuff like, "You can't get around the fact that the bible says it's an abomination--I'm just saying!" (I later learned that the bible calls shrimp an abomination four times more than it does homosexual sex. I've also learned more about the New Testament, and I think the issue is murky at best--I will talk about it more later.)
Based on myself, I know that the gay runs in my family, though it might be partly or wholly on my father's side.
And these are just a few interesting things that I could think of, off the top of my head.
"You know, he would be so much happier if he was gay," my dad said on the way home from our visit. "He'd be more of a catch, too, with how close he is with his mother."
"Maybe in our small town, though not in San Francisco," I joked.
"Well, yeah, where the men are scarce. He's not ready for the big leagues," he answered.
There's a stereotype that the most raging homophobes are vehemently fighting their own feelings for other men or women. I don't know how true that is--how can one even begin to know, when all kinds of people are often in the closet even to themselves?
I do know one thing, though: If it is true, then it would make things so much simpler, in life. And my dad is right--it would make my Uncle 'Phobe a whole lot happier.
When my dad saw the red Volkswagen convertible, he cracked a huge, genuine smile. "Oh..." he shook his head, and I could tell he was belly laughing, because when he really, truly laughs, he is completely silent, like me.
We went in, and after hugging everyone, I sat on the couch, picking up a book from the coffee table and skimming through it. The book was a Christian book, all about renewing one's mind. I looked at the table of contents, wondering if it would mention homosexuality by name, though I couldn't find any mention of it specifically. It did overtly say, however, that one could change some very significant, "sinful" things about oneself.
Later, my Uncle 'Phobe came in, and started talking to my mom. He was telling her all about the "great book" that he was reading, specifically mentioning that it was about renewing one's mind. He used his dramatic, reverent voice, so I could tell that he really bought into it and invested a lot of emotion into what this book promised him.
I thought of all of the ladies he was dating lately, and how none of them seemed good enough to get past a few dates with him. One's child didn't like him, which my mom said was a very trivial reason. Another was too chubby, and he didn't even ask her out, though I met her and she was very funny and good-looking, like my mom told him (I've also met him, and he is bald).
A few weeks ago, he was eager to tell my mom about yet another date, where "we just had fun and joked around, like you and me do. That was the most fun I had on a date in a long time!"
Anyone can joke around, I thought later. Even a sister, or someone like a sister.
"He likes tall, athletic-looking women," my mom remarked once.
He has had two divorces.
And there's a reason that I call him "Uncle 'Phobe." There's also a reason that my blog is anonymous.
I have never seen someone so emotionally invested in an anti-gay stance. My mom says that in high school, he got really upset and angry at the thought that someone would think that he and his friend were gay, when they palled around together. She says he was very self-conscious about the possibility, though she doesn't know where he got the idea that that could happen.
He absolutely loves the movie Rocky Horror Picture Show, though, as he says, "The plot just disgusted me!"
(I've recently thought of a catch-all response to sentiments such as that: "If that's how you feel, what are going to do when I come out?" He might ask if I'm a cross-dresser or something, and I'll say, "I can't tell you--that would spoil the surprise!")
He has said before that he's with "Fred," his pastor friend: "If you're going to be gay, stay in the closet!" (Again, "What are you going to do when I come out?")
I know that people get very mad when they work very hard for something they feel is their duty, and it seems to them that other people are shirking their duties entirely, like the story of Mary and Martha in the New Testament.
He is not a very happy person. He becomes angry very easily. Occasionally, he gets mad at God. The rest of the time, he is super-spiritual, as if it's an act for both us and himself (I've done that act before too, though not anymore, and I can spot it a mile away).
One time a few years ago he told my mother about going to get a prostate exam. (Yeah, he really did--in my family, nothing is too personal, as far as medical information. I remember my grandfather once complaining to my mother over lunch, "Oh, Tea Pumpkin, I just can't push nothin' out!" He talked about his fecal failure while we were all eating lunch.)
My Uncle 'Phobe said, of his prostate, "The doctor laughed and said, 'Well, 'Phobe, you're not gay!'"
My mom later informed me that in order to examine the prostate, the doctor must cup the balls in one hand and stick a finger of the other hand up the butt. Then the patient coughs.
I remember being on a panel, in the local newspaper, for teens, when I was in (homeschool) high school. One of the questions we were assigned was, "What do you think about the news of Dumbledore being gay?"
I usually went over the word limit, sometimes very much so, but this time, I didn't know what to say. I had not allowed myself to read Harry Potter books, when they came out, because though my parents would have let me, both I and my mother thought they were demonic. I was very conflicted about my Christianity, where I stood on issues like homosexuality (caught between where I "had" to stand and where I really, really wanted to stand), and wanting to be a Christian, of some kind, but knowing that I seemed to be a heathen, no matter how hard I tried not to be. And I knew my very evangelical, conservative family would all be reading whatever I wrote.
My response was this: "I don't know who Dumbledore is, but if he's gay and happy with himself, more power to him! His lifestyle doesn't affect my life, so why should I worry about it?"
That was the tiniest response I had ever written. And it was as neutral as I dared to be (I couldn't even imagine having the courage to be affirming, much less being partly gay--bisexual--myself).
I didn't know what to say when I was asked about it later at a family gathering. My mom explained, "She didn't need to seem like she was gay-bashing."
One of my other uncles gently teased me, "Hate the sin, love the sinner!" I wasn't quite sure that it was a sin, though I didn't dare say that aloud.
My Uncle 'Phobe laughed and said, "Go, baby, go!" I was deeply humiliated that he was cheering me on for something that I would never do.
He has said stuff like, "You can't get around the fact that the bible says it's an abomination--I'm just saying!" (I later learned that the bible calls shrimp an abomination four times more than it does homosexual sex. I've also learned more about the New Testament, and I think the issue is murky at best--I will talk about it more later.)
Based on myself, I know that the gay runs in my family, though it might be partly or wholly on my father's side.
And these are just a few interesting things that I could think of, off the top of my head.
"You know, he would be so much happier if he was gay," my dad said on the way home from our visit. "He'd be more of a catch, too, with how close he is with his mother."
"Maybe in our small town, though not in San Francisco," I joked.
"Well, yeah, where the men are scarce. He's not ready for the big leagues," he answered.
There's a stereotype that the most raging homophobes are vehemently fighting their own feelings for other men or women. I don't know how true that is--how can one even begin to know, when all kinds of people are often in the closet even to themselves?
I do know one thing, though: If it is true, then it would make things so much simpler, in life. And my dad is right--it would make my Uncle 'Phobe a whole lot happier.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
"What Are You Going To Do When I Come Out?"
I posted recently about the problem I had with an evangelical friend, because she reminded me of my evangelical family--namely, my extremely judgmental, probably closeted, Uncle 'Phobe.
I wasn't sure what the exact solution was, though I knew that what I wanted was to be more open to my family about who I was. I want to able to talk about being bisexual, just as my bully of an uncle gets to talk about being straight.
I wear rainbow flag and bisexual flag pins, though lately that does not seem like enough. I doubt that anyone in my family even would recognize the bisexual flag, anyway. Most of them probably wouldn't know that there was one.
My rainbow pins may be the exact reason why he always manages to work in one snide comment about LGBT people per family visit. No one has commented on them, though I've worn them for a while. He was the exact reason I got them, in fact--because he said that gay people should "stay in the closet," and was laughing about it.
But he doesn't have to be in the closet, presuming that he is straight (he always seems very eager to provide evidence of being straight, after all...).
It was hard to think of something to say, that was actually easy to say around him. He was abusive and bullying to my cousins and me when we were children and he was older than my mom, and since then I have always feared him physically, though some times are worse than others.
I finally thought of something that might work: joking about it. Since he often jokes about his homophobia or anti-gay sentiments, maybe I should joke about being the opposite way.
The next family gathering is a long way off, and I don't know for sure what the mood will call for, but I finally found some way that I feel much more comfortable about bringing up the subject: When he makes his inevitable homophobic comments, I will crack a smile, and ask, "What are you going to do when I come out?"
If it shocks him, and makes him ask in surprise if I am a lesbian (because I don't expect he will immediately think of bisexuality), I might say, "I can't tell you that; I'm not out yet!"
If he tells me that I better not come out, I can say, "Don't worry, Uncle 'Phobe; I will NEVER tell you that I'm bisexual!"
If he wants to condemn me, I will simply say, "I have done my research, and come to a different conclusion as a Christian than you have. I don't condemn you, so you don't condemn me."
(Though I am not technically a Christian anymore, because of my doubts that God even exists, I don't feel like I'm lying there, because I know that a good god would never condemn people for the way that she made them.)
Yes, I think a lot about what he might say, based on the things that he has said, before. It's hard not to try to anticipate everything, when a small part of you is still physically afraid of someone (so much so that you bought pepper spray just to make yourself feel better about being around him).
I can't anticipate everything, no, but this is a start. By joking, I reclaim my power, in a way. I have the power, and he doesn't have the power over me. By making a joke of it, his condemnation doesn't matter.
And I don't know if my family will side with him against me (though it will probably be behind my back), or if they will buy into common stereotypes such as that LGBT people are promiscuous. But there's not much this twenty-four-year-old virgin can do about that, is there?
And trying to explain too much could bore them or make them suspicious of the very things that I'm trying to disprove. No one likes someone who so obviously has something to prove, as Uncle 'Phobe has unwittingly proven to me so many times.
So I think if I have to, I'll just explain it as, "I think both guys and girls are great--even romantically!" with a big confident smile. Why should Uncle 'Phobe's misconceptions bring me down, after all? He doesn't even know my life.
I would love to get to the point where I can simply say, "Yeah, class is going good, my animals are so funny, no cute guys or girls in my life right now, and I'm in this new play!" (because I hope to eventually get a part in a local play--if it's actually a good one, that is).
I don't know for sure if this will work, or if I will even use this new coming-out technique (though I think I will), but coming up with the idea made me feel a whole lot better. And I wanted to share it here, before I forgot to, in case someone else could use it, too.
I wasn't sure what the exact solution was, though I knew that what I wanted was to be more open to my family about who I was. I want to able to talk about being bisexual, just as my bully of an uncle gets to talk about being straight.
I wear rainbow flag and bisexual flag pins, though lately that does not seem like enough. I doubt that anyone in my family even would recognize the bisexual flag, anyway. Most of them probably wouldn't know that there was one.
My rainbow pins may be the exact reason why he always manages to work in one snide comment about LGBT people per family visit. No one has commented on them, though I've worn them for a while. He was the exact reason I got them, in fact--because he said that gay people should "stay in the closet," and was laughing about it.
But he doesn't have to be in the closet, presuming that he is straight (he always seems very eager to provide evidence of being straight, after all...).
It was hard to think of something to say, that was actually easy to say around him. He was abusive and bullying to my cousins and me when we were children and he was older than my mom, and since then I have always feared him physically, though some times are worse than others.
I finally thought of something that might work: joking about it. Since he often jokes about his homophobia or anti-gay sentiments, maybe I should joke about being the opposite way.
The next family gathering is a long way off, and I don't know for sure what the mood will call for, but I finally found some way that I feel much more comfortable about bringing up the subject: When he makes his inevitable homophobic comments, I will crack a smile, and ask, "What are you going to do when I come out?"
If it shocks him, and makes him ask in surprise if I am a lesbian (because I don't expect he will immediately think of bisexuality), I might say, "I can't tell you that; I'm not out yet!"
If he tells me that I better not come out, I can say, "Don't worry, Uncle 'Phobe; I will NEVER tell you that I'm bisexual!"
If he wants to condemn me, I will simply say, "I have done my research, and come to a different conclusion as a Christian than you have. I don't condemn you, so you don't condemn me."
(Though I am not technically a Christian anymore, because of my doubts that God even exists, I don't feel like I'm lying there, because I know that a good god would never condemn people for the way that she made them.)
Yes, I think a lot about what he might say, based on the things that he has said, before. It's hard not to try to anticipate everything, when a small part of you is still physically afraid of someone (so much so that you bought pepper spray just to make yourself feel better about being around him).
I can't anticipate everything, no, but this is a start. By joking, I reclaim my power, in a way. I have the power, and he doesn't have the power over me. By making a joke of it, his condemnation doesn't matter.
And I don't know if my family will side with him against me (though it will probably be behind my back), or if they will buy into common stereotypes such as that LGBT people are promiscuous. But there's not much this twenty-four-year-old virgin can do about that, is there?
And trying to explain too much could bore them or make them suspicious of the very things that I'm trying to disprove. No one likes someone who so obviously has something to prove, as Uncle 'Phobe has unwittingly proven to me so many times.
So I think if I have to, I'll just explain it as, "I think both guys and girls are great--even romantically!" with a big confident smile. Why should Uncle 'Phobe's misconceptions bring me down, after all? He doesn't even know my life.
I would love to get to the point where I can simply say, "Yeah, class is going good, my animals are so funny, no cute guys or girls in my life right now, and I'm in this new play!" (because I hope to eventually get a part in a local play--if it's actually a good one, that is).
I don't know for sure if this will work, or if I will even use this new coming-out technique (though I think I will), but coming up with the idea made me feel a whole lot better. And I wanted to share it here, before I forgot to, in case someone else could use it, too.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
My Late, Great Aunt's Planet Earth
My favorite great-aunt on my grandfather's side died rather recently. She was my grandfather's last surviving sibling.
I was always amused that her Arkansas accent was just as thick as ever, after decades of living in California. My Papa has pretty much lost his accent after so long, though it depends on the circumstances.
I only saw her when she visited from out of state, maybe once every few years, but I liked her. She was a nice lady.
One thing, though, that I wished I could change about her, for her sake and mine, was her obsession with the End Times. It always inevitably got around to that, when I was around her.
She was such an upbeat, optimistic, energetic person--but curiously, she was convinced that things were going to get worse and worse. Her voice and posture were almost not affected at all as she talked about the things that scared her and wondered aloud what the world was coming to. I don't know if it wasn't "real" to her, or if she was just totally convinced of the imminent Rapture. (I'm not convinced of it, even if the bible is true, since it is only implied in a few verses, and those verses also talk about dead bodies and vultures and such.)
My mom says that she told her not to bother graduating high school, since the Rapture was going to happen any time now anyway. This was in the late eighties. Hers was a world filled with happiness and dreadful omens, doom but not gloom.
And then after solemnly (for her) declaring that things were going to get worse and worse, she easily switched into lighter, happier topics, such as what various relatives were up to, her exercise routine (two miles every morning) or her bedtime schedule ("I go to bed about nine o'clock--first I read my bible, then I go to bed about nine o'clock," she was say proudly.)
Both her and my grandfather are very good at not questioning anything, never seeming to ever have doubts at all. It's just a fact, to them, that God is real and exactly as evangelical Christians believe him to be. In a way, I admire their abilities, since I tried in vain to silence my doubts, but I also think that is a bit unhealthy, in a way. It is not healthy to not question anything (and their worship of authority goes beyond God or church), in my mind, and what if they are merely afraid to question it?
She never said anything homophobic, to my knowledge, so I wasn't really bothered by her beliefs (though hearing her talk about the end times was a bit scary, even for an atheist, though apparently not for her). I didn't really see any reason to tell her of my own doubts, and I thought that would only worry her, and she was only visiting for a while, so I let it slide.
I am also amazed that she apparently did everything "right" in trying to take care of herself, and died before my grandfather, who doesn't seem to do anything beyond what my aunt and grandmother make him do (he does walk with them every morning, I hear, though certainly not two miles, and takes the supplements they give him). She took initiative with her health, and still died before someone who doesn't. She never smoked, to my knowledge, while her brother did, until a few decades ago. She was mostly positive, happy, and upbeat, while my grandfather often feels hopeless about his health and complains of being a lot of pain (though it is getting better lately--hopefully he is feeling better).
Yes, I miss her, and it's too bad that she died, but it doesn't affect me as much as it would if my grandfather passed away.
My mother has said that she didn't think he would be around in five years--ten years ago and more. I seem to know a good many people whose latest visit to the hospital always seems like their last, who seem to have bad health, just barely hanging on, for decades on end. My mom says that my papa has always been old, always told her and her siblings that he was old. It seems now that his health has improved at least a little. Though after what happened to my aunt, I'm a little worried that that's what will kill him...
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I was always amused that her Arkansas accent was just as thick as ever, after decades of living in California. My Papa has pretty much lost his accent after so long, though it depends on the circumstances.
I only saw her when she visited from out of state, maybe once every few years, but I liked her. She was a nice lady.
One thing, though, that I wished I could change about her, for her sake and mine, was her obsession with the End Times. It always inevitably got around to that, when I was around her.
She was such an upbeat, optimistic, energetic person--but curiously, she was convinced that things were going to get worse and worse. Her voice and posture were almost not affected at all as she talked about the things that scared her and wondered aloud what the world was coming to. I don't know if it wasn't "real" to her, or if she was just totally convinced of the imminent Rapture. (I'm not convinced of it, even if the bible is true, since it is only implied in a few verses, and those verses also talk about dead bodies and vultures and such.)
My mom says that she told her not to bother graduating high school, since the Rapture was going to happen any time now anyway. This was in the late eighties. Hers was a world filled with happiness and dreadful omens, doom but not gloom.
And then after solemnly (for her) declaring that things were going to get worse and worse, she easily switched into lighter, happier topics, such as what various relatives were up to, her exercise routine (two miles every morning) or her bedtime schedule ("I go to bed about nine o'clock--first I read my bible, then I go to bed about nine o'clock," she was say proudly.)
Both her and my grandfather are very good at not questioning anything, never seeming to ever have doubts at all. It's just a fact, to them, that God is real and exactly as evangelical Christians believe him to be. In a way, I admire their abilities, since I tried in vain to silence my doubts, but I also think that is a bit unhealthy, in a way. It is not healthy to not question anything (and their worship of authority goes beyond God or church), in my mind, and what if they are merely afraid to question it?
She never said anything homophobic, to my knowledge, so I wasn't really bothered by her beliefs (though hearing her talk about the end times was a bit scary, even for an atheist, though apparently not for her). I didn't really see any reason to tell her of my own doubts, and I thought that would only worry her, and she was only visiting for a while, so I let it slide.
I am also amazed that she apparently did everything "right" in trying to take care of herself, and died before my grandfather, who doesn't seem to do anything beyond what my aunt and grandmother make him do (he does walk with them every morning, I hear, though certainly not two miles, and takes the supplements they give him). She took initiative with her health, and still died before someone who doesn't. She never smoked, to my knowledge, while her brother did, until a few decades ago. She was mostly positive, happy, and upbeat, while my grandfather often feels hopeless about his health and complains of being a lot of pain (though it is getting better lately--hopefully he is feeling better).
Yes, I miss her, and it's too bad that she died, but it doesn't affect me as much as it would if my grandfather passed away.
My mother has said that she didn't think he would be around in five years--ten years ago and more. I seem to know a good many people whose latest visit to the hospital always seems like their last, who seem to have bad health, just barely hanging on, for decades on end. My mom says that my papa has always been old, always told her and her siblings that he was old. It seems now that his health has improved at least a little. Though after what happened to my aunt, I'm a little worried that that's what will kill him...
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Wednesday, July 15, 2015
The Silliest Question Christians Can Ask
My mother once related having breakfast with my grandparents, when my grandfather asked her, once again, to come to church with them. She said that she was busy, to spare his feelings, though really she does not care for their church.
It was before breakfast, and rather late in the morning, so my grandfather was apparently feeling crabby. "What are you going to say to your Maker on Judgment Day?" he asked.
"The bible doesn't say that Christians have to go to church for salvation," she said. She was probably nicer than I would have been, though I love my grandparents as much as I love my animals, and that's saying something.
But then I wondered, what does one say to an omniscient god? Wouldn't literally anything one could say be redundant?
"Well, God, I was a Christian for a long time..." I would begin.
"Yes, I know."
"And I tried really hard to get close to you and to please you..."
"I know."
"...but it just seemed like nothing ever worked..."
"I'm aware of that. I was there and I read your mind."
"So I finally started thinking that maybe the reason I couldn't get close to you, wasn't that I couldn't figure out what my sin was, and it wasn't that I wasn't spending enough time in prayer and bible study, and wasn't that my childhood toys were an idol, but was that you weren't there at all."
"But I was there."
"Then why didn't you say anything?!"
When theists, usually Christians (in my experience), ask what nonbelievers will say on judgement day, they don't really expect an answer. And if God really is all-knowing, any answer I can give would just be repeating something that God already knows I will say.
When theists ask this question, what they are really doing is clearly issuing a threat. What they are really saying is, "God's going to get you!" And they wouldn't be arrogant enough to issue this threat if they actually had any "fear of God," and understood that they didn't have the authority to say or predict who would go to heaven, and who would go to hell. (My standard reply when someone tries to threaten people with hell is, "God? Is that you? No one else has the authority to say that, so maybe you DO exist!" I especially get upvoted when I post it as "Atheist Journeys.")
But if they can be so assured of their own salvation, then I can be assured of mine (if there is anything to actually be saved from, that is). I see many atheists defeat the Pascal's Wager argument with simple logic ("What if another god is real, instead of the Christian god?"), but the main reason I don't go for the Wager is simpler than that: I already have been a sincere, devout Christian.
Most modern evangelical Christians would subscribe to the "once saved, always saved" doctrine, though interestingly enough, it seems to be a relatively recent fad in church history--in the 1678 Christian morality play, Pilgrim's Progress, the protagonist actually loses his salvation (symbolized by a scroll, to be presented at heaven's gates after crossing the River of Death) at one point, and has to retrace part of his faith-journey. There is also plenty of evidence from both the Old and New Testaments of the bible that Christians can lose their salvation, and it is not entirely clear on when names are written in the Book of Life found in Revelation (whether when one "gets saved," or when one dies as a Christian, or before one is born, or some other time). I'm not sure what that means for my own potential salvation, but I also don't believe that there's anything to be saved from.
I believe that most Christians subscribe to the "once saved, always saved" doctrine in order to make themselves feel better, when they hear about atheists being former Christians. They can't lose their faith and therefore their salvation, because they're true Christians, while the atheists never were true Christians, never were sincere.
Except that I know I was sincere. Many of us know that we were sincere.
When I related a short version of my story recently, to someone that I was debating online, he asked me if I was a Catholic. That's Protestant-speak for, "Did you try to earn your way to heaven with works?" (or possibly "Did you commit idolatry by praying to Mary or other saints?"). I answered that no, I had not tried to earn my way to heaven with works. (It amazes me that so many Christians I have encountered seem to think that atheists simply forgot to recite a form of the Sinner's Prayer and mean it.)
I am glad that I did not go with my mom that day, because I probably would have been somewhat crabby before breakfast too. "I'll say, 'Thank you very much,' because He will have said, 'Well done!'" I would have been tempted to say, though that might have been a little arrogant, and unintentionally deceitful, since it makes it sound as if I'm a Christian too.
If I was pressed, though, for a nicer, "real" answer, I would say that at least I know that I sought the truth, whatever it was, and (especially when it came to LGBTQ issues, which is how this silly question often comes up for me), at least I know that I loved, and that I tried to make things better for people in the one life that I knew we did have.
But then, my Maker would have already known that--and would know that now.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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It was before breakfast, and rather late in the morning, so my grandfather was apparently feeling crabby. "What are you going to say to your Maker on Judgment Day?" he asked.
"The bible doesn't say that Christians have to go to church for salvation," she said. She was probably nicer than I would have been, though I love my grandparents as much as I love my animals, and that's saying something.
But then I wondered, what does one say to an omniscient god? Wouldn't literally anything one could say be redundant?
"Well, God, I was a Christian for a long time..." I would begin.
"Yes, I know."
"And I tried really hard to get close to you and to please you..."
"I know."
"...but it just seemed like nothing ever worked..."
"I'm aware of that. I was there and I read your mind."
"So I finally started thinking that maybe the reason I couldn't get close to you, wasn't that I couldn't figure out what my sin was, and it wasn't that I wasn't spending enough time in prayer and bible study, and wasn't that my childhood toys were an idol, but was that you weren't there at all."
"But I was there."
"Then why didn't you say anything?!"
When theists, usually Christians (in my experience), ask what nonbelievers will say on judgement day, they don't really expect an answer. And if God really is all-knowing, any answer I can give would just be repeating something that God already knows I will say.
When theists ask this question, what they are really doing is clearly issuing a threat. What they are really saying is, "God's going to get you!" And they wouldn't be arrogant enough to issue this threat if they actually had any "fear of God," and understood that they didn't have the authority to say or predict who would go to heaven, and who would go to hell. (My standard reply when someone tries to threaten people with hell is, "God? Is that you? No one else has the authority to say that, so maybe you DO exist!" I especially get upvoted when I post it as "Atheist Journeys.")
But if they can be so assured of their own salvation, then I can be assured of mine (if there is anything to actually be saved from, that is). I see many atheists defeat the Pascal's Wager argument with simple logic ("What if another god is real, instead of the Christian god?"), but the main reason I don't go for the Wager is simpler than that: I already have been a sincere, devout Christian.
Most modern evangelical Christians would subscribe to the "once saved, always saved" doctrine, though interestingly enough, it seems to be a relatively recent fad in church history--in the 1678 Christian morality play, Pilgrim's Progress, the protagonist actually loses his salvation (symbolized by a scroll, to be presented at heaven's gates after crossing the River of Death) at one point, and has to retrace part of his faith-journey. There is also plenty of evidence from both the Old and New Testaments of the bible that Christians can lose their salvation, and it is not entirely clear on when names are written in the Book of Life found in Revelation (whether when one "gets saved," or when one dies as a Christian, or before one is born, or some other time). I'm not sure what that means for my own potential salvation, but I also don't believe that there's anything to be saved from.
I believe that most Christians subscribe to the "once saved, always saved" doctrine in order to make themselves feel better, when they hear about atheists being former Christians. They can't lose their faith and therefore their salvation, because they're true Christians, while the atheists never were true Christians, never were sincere.
Except that I know I was sincere. Many of us know that we were sincere.
When I related a short version of my story recently, to someone that I was debating online, he asked me if I was a Catholic. That's Protestant-speak for, "Did you try to earn your way to heaven with works?" (or possibly "Did you commit idolatry by praying to Mary or other saints?"). I answered that no, I had not tried to earn my way to heaven with works. (It amazes me that so many Christians I have encountered seem to think that atheists simply forgot to recite a form of the Sinner's Prayer and mean it.)
I am glad that I did not go with my mom that day, because I probably would have been somewhat crabby before breakfast too. "I'll say, 'Thank you very much,' because He will have said, 'Well done!'" I would have been tempted to say, though that might have been a little arrogant, and unintentionally deceitful, since it makes it sound as if I'm a Christian too.
If I was pressed, though, for a nicer, "real" answer, I would say that at least I know that I sought the truth, whatever it was, and (especially when it came to LGBTQ issues, which is how this silly question often comes up for me), at least I know that I loved, and that I tried to make things better for people in the one life that I knew we did have.
But then, my Maker would have already known that--and would know that now.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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Monday, June 29, 2015
Gaying Up A "Duck Dynasty" T-Shirt On The Hood Of My Homophobic Uncle's Gay Car
I was going to my grandparents' house Sunday for our belated family birthday/Father's Day celebration. They are very conservative, especially one certain relative, so I cheered myself up beforehand by painting my nails:
My mom and I had discussed, extensively, the possibility that one of them would bring up the recent Supreme Court ruling on (and in favor of) gay marriage. My mom planned to say, "How is it hurting you?" and "Oh, what was that country that just got wiped off the map for supporting gay marriage? Oh yeah, Canada!"
The "label" that comes closest to describing my feelings and attractions is bisexual, so I wanted to say, "Well, I love it! Now I'm not a second-class citizen anymore," and officially come out to them. (Though I have been wearing two gay rights pins and a bisexual flag pin for a while now, I don't think they would know the bisexual flag.)
"I don't care, I love my rainbow girl!" My mom said, the night before.
"Yeah, I know," I sighed, for that was old news to me. Later I would decide to paint my nails and actually be a rainbow girl.
No one brought the subject up, per se, to my or my mother's knowledge. But I also had other plans for that day...
I had been given a hand-me-down shirt by one of my mother's friends, something that her daughter didn't want. It was already the gayest shirt I had ever seen (which was hilarious, given the homophobes that it was depicting!) and it looked like this:
It is light pink, and the term "beard" refers to a gay person's opposite-sex boyfriend or girlfriend, that they date so that they can stay in the closet.
I had always wanted to buy some fabric paint and "gay it up" even more, possibly wearing it around our family. Then I thought, "Why can't I buy some paint tomorrow, and paint it on their lawn, in front of everyone?"
I didn't plan to tell everyone what I was doing, just letting them see it, if they were outside. But everyone wanted to stay in the house and keep cool. Besides, I thought of other mischief to do, and so while everyone was opening birthday presents (multiple birthdays), I snuck out and started spray-painting it.
The dog was out and would surely get in my way, if the shirt was on the grass, so I put the finishing touches on it, on the hood of my homophobic relative's (I'll call him an uncle to simplify things) newly-bought 1988 Volkswagen Cabriolet.
My mom says, "That's a gay car," because she says that gay men love this style of Volkswagen. Kind of creepy, when you think about it, since Volkswagens were invented by the Nazis, who put gay men in death camps.
The bottles of paint were tiny (in cheap plastic squirt bottles), I was holding them literally an inch above the shirt, and I had put a thick piece of corrugated cardboard between the layers of the shirt, so I wasn't worried at all about getting any paint on his car. He will never know, until I choose to tell him, in a few years, and since I didn't damage the car at all, he can't call the police.
What he does and says, and did to my cousins and me as he bullied us as children, hurts a little less when I think about the "terrible" secret I'm now holding over him. Those are two of his biggest fears--gays and people not showing the proper reverence to his cars.
I later gave it more coats of paint, to make the letters stand out. So far, it looks like this:
Eventually, it will be obvious that it says, "Love Rules," though it takes many coats, and I may have to add a heart or something above the "L". I want to make stencils and put an American flag on one shoulder, and a rainbow flag on the other. I'm going to color in their beards. I also want to write in permanent marker, on the back, "In The Closet:" with a list of homophobic celebrities, and possibly relatives too.
So after desecrating a holy relic on his car, I stashed the shirt in my mom's old van and went back inside. In the living room I saw my cousin Blue-Butt, who last Christmas had tried to physically intimidate me in an argument, but quickly backed down when I wouldn't back down. It had been one of my proudest moments, though I was conflicted at the time.
"Hey, Blue," I asked casually, "can I see your tattoo?"
He got a very scared look on his face. "Shhhh!" he said softly, putting a finger to his lips. He reminded me faintly of an adult cautioning a child, and I wondered if he saw me that way, though I am three years older than him.
"Oh." I nodded and sat down at the table in the dining room. He had been sitting next to my grandfather, who worries almost constantly, especially about hell, but who is also very hard of hearing. All the other people in the living room seemed, to me, to be engrossed in loud conversations with each other.
After about a minute, Blue walked past me into the kitchen. "AJ!" he said, just loud enough. When I looked up, he gestured for me to follow him.
"I didn't want to say anything in front of everyone," he explained.
I followed him into the deserted laundry room. "I'm sorry, I thought everyone knew," I shrugged. I knew that Uncle 'Phobe had been self-righteous and upset with him, and that our grandfather had worried (of course!), but I thought that it had all blown over by now, given that it didn't seem to be awkward between him and these people.
"They don't know I have it." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal an inspirational quote: "Whoever cannot face Death without fear, is not worthy of Life."
"Oh, cool," I murmured, for I did like the old-fashioned script.
"When I told them I was getting it, they got really upset. Uncle 'Phobe was really mad, and they wouldn't talk to me for about a month and a half," he explained dramatically.
"That's crap!" I said. "It's not like it's 'Hail Satan 666.'" (To answer your question, yes, maybe someday...)
"I know, right?" he agreed as he left the kitchen. His brother, Red-Butt, was passing through and apparently heard, so I guess Red knew and could keep a secret.
"Green's dogs are just so cute," I smiled when I returned to the table. "I just love them." I was referring to Blue's girlfriend; every time Blue visits from college, he inundates us with pictures of her dogs on his cellphone. I had so far been spared the Dog Show, but I knew he had new ones.
I later thought about that quote, and wondered if he feared their disapproval more than he feared death.
Later I joined my mother and my Uncle 'Phobe outside, for the house was getting stuffy and crowded. He inevitably (as he always does) managed to turn the conversation onto his favorite topic, which is: How We're All Fucked.
"Obamacare is designed to kill people--I believe that!" he said. Then the usual stuff about Obama's inevitable martial law; the End Times; and how he knew that God was in control and that this stuff was inevitable, but that it still scared him. He brought up a new argument he had recently heard, about the penal system.
"'We have to keep track of criminals', 'We have to keep track of pets.,'" he said, patting the same dog that had witnessed me committing blasphemy against the Robertsons on his car, "Pretty soon, we'll have to keep track of everyone...except the gay couple down the street," he added bitterly. (Don't know if he was referring to an actual couple.)
I could not believe my ears. He thinks that gay people will not be compelled to take the mark of the beast!
Does that mean that gay people will be the only ones to go to heaven? Or that (straight, homophobic) Christians will say that they are gay in order to avoid it? It's not exactly denying Christ, after all, just blending in (and I've even seen movies where believers make fake marks, which could possibly be construed as denying Christ).
I would think that he would think gay people would be the first ones to want to take it. And how does it damn people if they're forced against their will--without even the option of execution? Or if they don't know what it is, when they take it? That seems greatly unjust and unfair of God to me.
I can argue against moral arguments (and I would be arguing for myself, because I wanted to, more than for him), but how could I possibly argue with someone's fear? Especially if I can't even follow his line of reasoning, and if he selects what to believe based upon his fears, which I believe he is doing.
I'm still figuring out how to deal with my very fearful and trembling family, but at least I got a few good stories out of it.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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I also have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Atheist-Journeys/1543588489197291?
 |
| "Relentlessly Gay" |
My mom and I had discussed, extensively, the possibility that one of them would bring up the recent Supreme Court ruling on (and in favor of) gay marriage. My mom planned to say, "How is it hurting you?" and "Oh, what was that country that just got wiped off the map for supporting gay marriage? Oh yeah, Canada!"
The "label" that comes closest to describing my feelings and attractions is bisexual, so I wanted to say, "Well, I love it! Now I'm not a second-class citizen anymore," and officially come out to them. (Though I have been wearing two gay rights pins and a bisexual flag pin for a while now, I don't think they would know the bisexual flag.)
"I don't care, I love my rainbow girl!" My mom said, the night before.
"Yeah, I know," I sighed, for that was old news to me. Later I would decide to paint my nails and actually be a rainbow girl.
No one brought the subject up, per se, to my or my mother's knowledge. But I also had other plans for that day...
I had been given a hand-me-down shirt by one of my mother's friends, something that her daughter didn't want. It was already the gayest shirt I had ever seen (which was hilarious, given the homophobes that it was depicting!) and it looked like this:
It is light pink, and the term "beard" refers to a gay person's opposite-sex boyfriend or girlfriend, that they date so that they can stay in the closet.
I had always wanted to buy some fabric paint and "gay it up" even more, possibly wearing it around our family. Then I thought, "Why can't I buy some paint tomorrow, and paint it on their lawn, in front of everyone?"
I didn't plan to tell everyone what I was doing, just letting them see it, if they were outside. But everyone wanted to stay in the house and keep cool. Besides, I thought of other mischief to do, and so while everyone was opening birthday presents (multiple birthdays), I snuck out and started spray-painting it.
The dog was out and would surely get in my way, if the shirt was on the grass, so I put the finishing touches on it, on the hood of my homophobic relative's (I'll call him an uncle to simplify things) newly-bought 1988 Volkswagen Cabriolet.
My mom says, "That's a gay car," because she says that gay men love this style of Volkswagen. Kind of creepy, when you think about it, since Volkswagens were invented by the Nazis, who put gay men in death camps.
The bottles of paint were tiny (in cheap plastic squirt bottles), I was holding them literally an inch above the shirt, and I had put a thick piece of corrugated cardboard between the layers of the shirt, so I wasn't worried at all about getting any paint on his car. He will never know, until I choose to tell him, in a few years, and since I didn't damage the car at all, he can't call the police.
What he does and says, and did to my cousins and me as he bullied us as children, hurts a little less when I think about the "terrible" secret I'm now holding over him. Those are two of his biggest fears--gays and people not showing the proper reverence to his cars.
I later gave it more coats of paint, to make the letters stand out. So far, it looks like this:
Eventually, it will be obvious that it says, "Love Rules," though it takes many coats, and I may have to add a heart or something above the "L". I want to make stencils and put an American flag on one shoulder, and a rainbow flag on the other. I'm going to color in their beards. I also want to write in permanent marker, on the back, "In The Closet:" with a list of homophobic celebrities, and possibly relatives too.
So after desecrating a holy relic on his car, I stashed the shirt in my mom's old van and went back inside. In the living room I saw my cousin Blue-Butt, who last Christmas had tried to physically intimidate me in an argument, but quickly backed down when I wouldn't back down. It had been one of my proudest moments, though I was conflicted at the time.
"Hey, Blue," I asked casually, "can I see your tattoo?"
He got a very scared look on his face. "Shhhh!" he said softly, putting a finger to his lips. He reminded me faintly of an adult cautioning a child, and I wondered if he saw me that way, though I am three years older than him.
"Oh." I nodded and sat down at the table in the dining room. He had been sitting next to my grandfather, who worries almost constantly, especially about hell, but who is also very hard of hearing. All the other people in the living room seemed, to me, to be engrossed in loud conversations with each other.
After about a minute, Blue walked past me into the kitchen. "AJ!" he said, just loud enough. When I looked up, he gestured for me to follow him.
"I didn't want to say anything in front of everyone," he explained.
I followed him into the deserted laundry room. "I'm sorry, I thought everyone knew," I shrugged. I knew that Uncle 'Phobe had been self-righteous and upset with him, and that our grandfather had worried (of course!), but I thought that it had all blown over by now, given that it didn't seem to be awkward between him and these people.
"They don't know I have it." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal an inspirational quote: "Whoever cannot face Death without fear, is not worthy of Life."
"Oh, cool," I murmured, for I did like the old-fashioned script.
"When I told them I was getting it, they got really upset. Uncle 'Phobe was really mad, and they wouldn't talk to me for about a month and a half," he explained dramatically.
"That's crap!" I said. "It's not like it's 'Hail Satan 666.'" (To answer your question, yes, maybe someday...)
"I know, right?" he agreed as he left the kitchen. His brother, Red-Butt, was passing through and apparently heard, so I guess Red knew and could keep a secret.
"Green's dogs are just so cute," I smiled when I returned to the table. "I just love them." I was referring to Blue's girlfriend; every time Blue visits from college, he inundates us with pictures of her dogs on his cellphone. I had so far been spared the Dog Show, but I knew he had new ones.
I later thought about that quote, and wondered if he feared their disapproval more than he feared death.
Later I joined my mother and my Uncle 'Phobe outside, for the house was getting stuffy and crowded. He inevitably (as he always does) managed to turn the conversation onto his favorite topic, which is: How We're All Fucked.
"Obamacare is designed to kill people--I believe that!" he said. Then the usual stuff about Obama's inevitable martial law; the End Times; and how he knew that God was in control and that this stuff was inevitable, but that it still scared him. He brought up a new argument he had recently heard, about the penal system.
"'We have to keep track of criminals', 'We have to keep track of pets.,'" he said, patting the same dog that had witnessed me committing blasphemy against the Robertsons on his car, "Pretty soon, we'll have to keep track of everyone...except the gay couple down the street," he added bitterly. (Don't know if he was referring to an actual couple.)
I could not believe my ears. He thinks that gay people will not be compelled to take the mark of the beast!
Does that mean that gay people will be the only ones to go to heaven? Or that (straight, homophobic) Christians will say that they are gay in order to avoid it? It's not exactly denying Christ, after all, just blending in (and I've even seen movies where believers make fake marks, which could possibly be construed as denying Christ).
I would think that he would think gay people would be the first ones to want to take it. And how does it damn people if they're forced against their will--without even the option of execution? Or if they don't know what it is, when they take it? That seems greatly unjust and unfair of God to me.
I can argue against moral arguments (and I would be arguing for myself, because I wanted to, more than for him), but how could I possibly argue with someone's fear? Especially if I can't even follow his line of reasoning, and if he selects what to believe based upon his fears, which I believe he is doing.
I'm still figuring out how to deal with my very fearful and trembling family, but at least I got a few good stories out of it.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I also have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Atheist-Journeys/1543588489197291?
Sunday, June 14, 2015
If My Child Were An Evangelical
I decided to call this post, "If My Child Were An Evangelical," rather than, "If My Child Were A Christian." I used to be more anti-theist, but I've met some wonderful pro-LGBTQ, feminist, universalist, and science-friendly Christians in the past year, and I know now that it's possible to be a happy and decent person, and still be a Christian (for some, at least).
I came across an old book recently, called "Letters From A Skeptic," (1994) by Dr. Gregory A. Boyd and his father, Edward K. Boyd. Since perusing it, I can't stop thinking about what I would do, if I were in the (then) skeptical father's position.
The father, Edward, makes a big mistake, that I see a lot of atheists make, in that he decides what he thinks about a theoretical "God" based on what others--his son--tells him about God. Even if his son convinces him that God exists, it still only proves a deist or theist position. It doesn't prove Christianity, and certainly not evangelical Christianity, at all.
I have a "buddy" online who is a Christian universalist. He believes that God will show Himself to everybody eventually, and that since God is love, "No one will be able to resist Him!"
I'm sure that my buddy thinks that I am merely in my pre-Christian (or post-Christian, pre-Christian), stage, but it doesn't really bother me. He lives his life, I live mine, and maybe God will show up for me one day. If he's right, it won't be unpleasant for me, and I'll be okay, either way.
He doesn't have to convince me of anything, or make me do or pray anything. And I don't have to convince him of anything. It's one of the perks of being a universalist and a non-anti-theist (except evangelicalism/fundamentalism).
This man's son, however, does believe in hell. So he feels compelled to convince his father of a slew of evangelical beliefs, not the least of which is that God is actually good for, or in spite of, sending or allowing people to go to hell. A tall order, especially if one is compelled to do it, or know that their loved ones will be tortured for eternity with no hope of rescue.
So in the (non-fiction) book, the son, a bible scholar and apologist, writes his dad a letter and tells him that he wants to correspond about the subject of Christianity. His dad agrees, and opens the floor with the question, "Why has Christianity done so much harm?"
In addition to assuming that "Christianity" means his son's particular brand of evangelical Christianity, that his son knows more about a potential god than he does, and that any transcendent being would have to be all-powerful in this realm, his first mistake was opening the floor, in my opinion. I argue with Christians online all the time (usually, in fact, on behalf of Christians); I don't want to argue with my loved ones. If my child really wanted to debate me, I would have to say, "You first," and let them pick the topic.
But first I would want to sit them down and ask them about their obvious beliefs in hell. What makes them think that I'm in danger, when I've been a Christian, tried sincerely to get close to God, and still sincerely seek the truth? Why wouldn't God know that, and deal with/judge me accordingly?
I had a similar conversation once, when I was about twelve or thirteen, with my paternal grandmother. She told me her beliefs about God, which were more of spiritual than an evangelical nature, and then asked, "So now do you feel better about this?"
I said yes, because I wanted to please her and didn't want to make her mad or hurt her feelings, but I really was bothered by her "wishy-washy" beliefs.
So I would want to make sure that my child could tell me how they really feel. I don't want them to feel that they can't confide in me, or that I would try to make them feel guilty or manipulate them, or that I only accept one answer.
If they really felt I was going to hell, I would try to reassure them that I sincerely wanted to find the truth, if there was a truth to be found, and I might even pray with them, that we would both find the truth, whatever it was. I think if it was for my child, I wouldn't be bothered by prayer. Even if no one else heard it, it would make my kid feel better.
But I would also challenge their notions of hell. Or rather, of how they think people go about avoiding it. Do I have to say that I believe in God and Jesus, when I don't? Do I have to "profess Christ," and thereby lie about what I think is likely to be true?
And then, do I have to go to a church I can't stand, that preaches things I don't agree with morally or intellectually? Read as fully divine a bible that I think was at least influenced by fallible human beings? Pray, when I don't think there is likely anyone there to hear me? Talk about and think about God as if "He" actually existed, when I think it's more likely that God doesn't exist? Convince others of something I don't that even believe myself?
In other words, do I have to pretend to believe everything they believe, and do everything they do because of those beliefs, or burn in hell for eternity? Do I have be their intellectual clones in order to please their version of God?
Am I going to hell if I'm not conservative and don't vote Republican? What if I don't believe in the Rapture? What if I don't believe in hell, or don't believe that sending or allowing someone to go to hell is morally right at all? What if I'm not a young-earth creationist? What if I identify as a feminist--and am pro-choice too? What if I don't submit to my husband? What if I have a wife instead--because since discovering that I was bisexual, that's a very real possibility if I ever get married.
It's a lot more complicated than Jack Chick would have everyone believe.
I already have family who seems to think that the only "saved" Christians are their intellectual clones. Doing research about religion, for some of them, seems to consist of listening to not one, but TWO(!) evangelical radio preachers! They don't even like to do research about other views within Christianity. I hope to raise my child better than that, if I ever adopt one (because I could never waste my own eggs when so many children need homes, and the earth is overpopulated already), though it's ultimately their responsibility where they end up.
I can't stop thinking about what I would do if I had a child who was truly convinced I was going to hell. I know it's a reality for a lot of people, and I'm not sure how to comfort my potential kid (or little brother who is like a kid to me in a lot of ways), while still being honest. I know that I would have to be honest, both for myself and to set an example for them. Even if it hurts them.
I do know one thing, though: The most important thing that I could teach my evangelical child is that they are loved--if not by God, then most certainly by me.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I also have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Atheist-Journeys/1543588489197291?
I came across an old book recently, called "Letters From A Skeptic," (1994) by Dr. Gregory A. Boyd and his father, Edward K. Boyd. Since perusing it, I can't stop thinking about what I would do, if I were in the (then) skeptical father's position.
The father, Edward, makes a big mistake, that I see a lot of atheists make, in that he decides what he thinks about a theoretical "God" based on what others--his son--tells him about God. Even if his son convinces him that God exists, it still only proves a deist or theist position. It doesn't prove Christianity, and certainly not evangelical Christianity, at all.
I have a "buddy" online who is a Christian universalist. He believes that God will show Himself to everybody eventually, and that since God is love, "No one will be able to resist Him!"
I'm sure that my buddy thinks that I am merely in my pre-Christian (or post-Christian, pre-Christian), stage, but it doesn't really bother me. He lives his life, I live mine, and maybe God will show up for me one day. If he's right, it won't be unpleasant for me, and I'll be okay, either way.
He doesn't have to convince me of anything, or make me do or pray anything. And I don't have to convince him of anything. It's one of the perks of being a universalist and a non-anti-theist (except evangelicalism/fundamentalism).
This man's son, however, does believe in hell. So he feels compelled to convince his father of a slew of evangelical beliefs, not the least of which is that God is actually good for, or in spite of, sending or allowing people to go to hell. A tall order, especially if one is compelled to do it, or know that their loved ones will be tortured for eternity with no hope of rescue.
So in the (non-fiction) book, the son, a bible scholar and apologist, writes his dad a letter and tells him that he wants to correspond about the subject of Christianity. His dad agrees, and opens the floor with the question, "Why has Christianity done so much harm?"
In addition to assuming that "Christianity" means his son's particular brand of evangelical Christianity, that his son knows more about a potential god than he does, and that any transcendent being would have to be all-powerful in this realm, his first mistake was opening the floor, in my opinion. I argue with Christians online all the time (usually, in fact, on behalf of Christians); I don't want to argue with my loved ones. If my child really wanted to debate me, I would have to say, "You first," and let them pick the topic.
But first I would want to sit them down and ask them about their obvious beliefs in hell. What makes them think that I'm in danger, when I've been a Christian, tried sincerely to get close to God, and still sincerely seek the truth? Why wouldn't God know that, and deal with/judge me accordingly?
I had a similar conversation once, when I was about twelve or thirteen, with my paternal grandmother. She told me her beliefs about God, which were more of spiritual than an evangelical nature, and then asked, "So now do you feel better about this?"
I said yes, because I wanted to please her and didn't want to make her mad or hurt her feelings, but I really was bothered by her "wishy-washy" beliefs.
So I would want to make sure that my child could tell me how they really feel. I don't want them to feel that they can't confide in me, or that I would try to make them feel guilty or manipulate them, or that I only accept one answer.
If they really felt I was going to hell, I would try to reassure them that I sincerely wanted to find the truth, if there was a truth to be found, and I might even pray with them, that we would both find the truth, whatever it was. I think if it was for my child, I wouldn't be bothered by prayer. Even if no one else heard it, it would make my kid feel better.
But I would also challenge their notions of hell. Or rather, of how they think people go about avoiding it. Do I have to say that I believe in God and Jesus, when I don't? Do I have to "profess Christ," and thereby lie about what I think is likely to be true?
And then, do I have to go to a church I can't stand, that preaches things I don't agree with morally or intellectually? Read as fully divine a bible that I think was at least influenced by fallible human beings? Pray, when I don't think there is likely anyone there to hear me? Talk about and think about God as if "He" actually existed, when I think it's more likely that God doesn't exist? Convince others of something I don't that even believe myself?
In other words, do I have to pretend to believe everything they believe, and do everything they do because of those beliefs, or burn in hell for eternity? Do I have be their intellectual clones in order to please their version of God?
Am I going to hell if I'm not conservative and don't vote Republican? What if I don't believe in the Rapture? What if I don't believe in hell, or don't believe that sending or allowing someone to go to hell is morally right at all? What if I'm not a young-earth creationist? What if I identify as a feminist--and am pro-choice too? What if I don't submit to my husband? What if I have a wife instead--because since discovering that I was bisexual, that's a very real possibility if I ever get married.
It's a lot more complicated than Jack Chick would have everyone believe.
I already have family who seems to think that the only "saved" Christians are their intellectual clones. Doing research about religion, for some of them, seems to consist of listening to not one, but TWO(!) evangelical radio preachers! They don't even like to do research about other views within Christianity. I hope to raise my child better than that, if I ever adopt one (because I could never waste my own eggs when so many children need homes, and the earth is overpopulated already), though it's ultimately their responsibility where they end up.
I can't stop thinking about what I would do if I had a child who was truly convinced I was going to hell. I know it's a reality for a lot of people, and I'm not sure how to comfort my potential kid (or little brother who is like a kid to me in a lot of ways), while still being honest. I know that I would have to be honest, both for myself and to set an example for them. Even if it hurts them.
I do know one thing, though: The most important thing that I could teach my evangelical child is that they are loved--if not by God, then most certainly by me.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I also have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Atheist-Journeys/1543588489197291?
Friday, June 12, 2015
Christian Desperation
I recently came across a post on the atheist blog "Love, Joy, Feminism," entitled, "When Demons Are Real, and it brought back some painful memories for me. Author Libby Ann says that as a child, she was raised to believe that demons were real, and all around her, battling unseen with God's forces. That's pretty much how I saw it, too, as a child but especially as a young teenager.
Yet the teachings about demons were only one more thing that I desperately grasped at in an attempt to finally feel like I was getting close to God. I remember the year I was thirteen (when I was only a couple of years out of Christian school, and homeschooling through materials sold to my family and graded by that same school, and helping to raise the neighbor's baby) as particularly rough, though I had a hard time of it throughout my teen years. There was so much of my life at the time that was very stressful, though I didn't recognize it then, and feeling like a bad Christian just aggravated everything tenfold.
My mother and I were watching a lot of Christian television, where it seemed everyone on TV claimed to basically have audible, or nearly audible, conversations with God. They would ask him a question, and he would answer. They used phrases like "And God told me..." "and the Lord said..." and "I sensed God's message..."
Which all made me wonder, why wasn't God talking to me this way? Was there something wrong with me, or the way I prayed, that he couldn't, or wouldn't, answer me?
Perhaps it was that I wasn't spending enough time with God. So I spent much time praying, reading the bible, and "listening" for God's voice, trying to silence my own thoughts. I even fasted for a few hours or most of a day at a time. Sometimes I would even lay down under my bed, trying to pray all night. I hated that tactic, though I still did it, thinking that God would like it.
I read that other people had "prayer closets," so I shut myself into my tiny closet with my bible, kneeling and praying in the dark. I even wrote out lists of people to pray for and taped them up inside the closet door, though I could barely see them in the dark.
I tried to be a "prayer warrior," though it was mind-numbing. I read many Christian books, and decided to only read the King James bible. I heard somebody say, on a Christian music station, that their son listened to it 24-7, constantly, so I tried that. It lasted about a day, because I just wanted some peace and quiet.
My mother and I tried to worship to Christian music stations in the car. A lot of the time, it felt like I was trying to force something that wasn't there.
We prayed, on our knees, late at night, speaking in tongues and crying out to God. That didn't work either.
I tried to just "rest in the Lord" and not try so hard, but it did nothing. There was no feeling of God's presence, at least not one that I knew of definitively (though I would have told you I did know definitively, if challenged).
Speaking of conversation, I constantly talked about God, as if trying to prove something to myself. Even when God wasn't the subject, I tried to force him into the conversation. I thought I was being a good Christian and a good witness that way.
(Even writing this post makes me feel weary, remembering how I used to feel while trying so hard, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and time-wise too.)
Probably the hardest part of it was the constant conversation with God, that I thought I had, and had to have, in my head. Everyone knows how awkward and exhausting it is to try to keep up a conversation with someone who is very quiet and doesn't talk much. Imagine if this person was there constantly, and didn't talk at all.
I couldn't just have a thought, because every thought was like a message to God, or at least God was listening in on it, so I had to have the proper amount of politeness and respect for him, even in spontaneous thoughts.
Today, I have many negative thoughts about the people I love, as well as many positive thoughts about them. But it's one thing to think something negative, another to decide if it's important enough to say something to the person. Imagine if every negative thought, every internal criticism or judgment, every little thing, was known to the person you were thinking about. How often would you feel compelled to explain yourself, apologize, or mention their good qualities? That was what it was like with God. It was exhausting, and that's not even talking about the embarrassing sexual or gross thoughts, or what I thought about other people.
I think I had undiagnosed depression for a long time. I had poor health, and couldn't get to sleep, because I just couldn't relax, for fear saying something bad in my thoughts. Sometimes I think I still have that problem, in a way.
When we were discussing something similar recently, my mom commented to me, "I think you were the victim of spiritual abuse."
I think we both were. Everything I went through, in those years, my mom went through with me.
I was afraid, for a time, that everything I had was demonic. When I was about twelve or thirteen, I got rid of my favorite childhood toys because I thought they were an idol. I enjoyed them, and the characters they represented, more than I enjoyed prayer and bible study, so they had to go. I was so unhappy, but I thought this would finally please God. I was so desperate, that I was giving up the things I loved and wasn't being myself. No one is worth that much.
Fortunately for me, I later found out that my mom had saved them, unable to part with the memories they represented.
"I hope you're not mad," she said to me about a year or two later, as we discussed how overboard and out-of-balance we were before, "but I saved your Toy Story toys."
Mad? I was ecstatic! She had even saved them in their Barney bag!
I am grateful for that to this day. I don't know what I would do without Woody and Buzz. At least with toys, I always knew where I stood with them.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I also have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Atheist-Journeys/1543588489197291?
Yet the teachings about demons were only one more thing that I desperately grasped at in an attempt to finally feel like I was getting close to God. I remember the year I was thirteen (when I was only a couple of years out of Christian school, and homeschooling through materials sold to my family and graded by that same school, and helping to raise the neighbor's baby) as particularly rough, though I had a hard time of it throughout my teen years. There was so much of my life at the time that was very stressful, though I didn't recognize it then, and feeling like a bad Christian just aggravated everything tenfold.
My mother and I were watching a lot of Christian television, where it seemed everyone on TV claimed to basically have audible, or nearly audible, conversations with God. They would ask him a question, and he would answer. They used phrases like "And God told me..." "and the Lord said..." and "I sensed God's message..."
Which all made me wonder, why wasn't God talking to me this way? Was there something wrong with me, or the way I prayed, that he couldn't, or wouldn't, answer me?
Perhaps it was that I wasn't spending enough time with God. So I spent much time praying, reading the bible, and "listening" for God's voice, trying to silence my own thoughts. I even fasted for a few hours or most of a day at a time. Sometimes I would even lay down under my bed, trying to pray all night. I hated that tactic, though I still did it, thinking that God would like it.
I read that other people had "prayer closets," so I shut myself into my tiny closet with my bible, kneeling and praying in the dark. I even wrote out lists of people to pray for and taped them up inside the closet door, though I could barely see them in the dark.
I tried to be a "prayer warrior," though it was mind-numbing. I read many Christian books, and decided to only read the King James bible. I heard somebody say, on a Christian music station, that their son listened to it 24-7, constantly, so I tried that. It lasted about a day, because I just wanted some peace and quiet.
My mother and I tried to worship to Christian music stations in the car. A lot of the time, it felt like I was trying to force something that wasn't there.
We prayed, on our knees, late at night, speaking in tongues and crying out to God. That didn't work either.
I tried to just "rest in the Lord" and not try so hard, but it did nothing. There was no feeling of God's presence, at least not one that I knew of definitively (though I would have told you I did know definitively, if challenged).
Speaking of conversation, I constantly talked about God, as if trying to prove something to myself. Even when God wasn't the subject, I tried to force him into the conversation. I thought I was being a good Christian and a good witness that way.
(Even writing this post makes me feel weary, remembering how I used to feel while trying so hard, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and time-wise too.)
Probably the hardest part of it was the constant conversation with God, that I thought I had, and had to have, in my head. Everyone knows how awkward and exhausting it is to try to keep up a conversation with someone who is very quiet and doesn't talk much. Imagine if this person was there constantly, and didn't talk at all.
I couldn't just have a thought, because every thought was like a message to God, or at least God was listening in on it, so I had to have the proper amount of politeness and respect for him, even in spontaneous thoughts.
Today, I have many negative thoughts about the people I love, as well as many positive thoughts about them. But it's one thing to think something negative, another to decide if it's important enough to say something to the person. Imagine if every negative thought, every internal criticism or judgment, every little thing, was known to the person you were thinking about. How often would you feel compelled to explain yourself, apologize, or mention their good qualities? That was what it was like with God. It was exhausting, and that's not even talking about the embarrassing sexual or gross thoughts, or what I thought about other people.
I think I had undiagnosed depression for a long time. I had poor health, and couldn't get to sleep, because I just couldn't relax, for fear saying something bad in my thoughts. Sometimes I think I still have that problem, in a way.
When we were discussing something similar recently, my mom commented to me, "I think you were the victim of spiritual abuse."
I think we both were. Everything I went through, in those years, my mom went through with me.
I was afraid, for a time, that everything I had was demonic. When I was about twelve or thirteen, I got rid of my favorite childhood toys because I thought they were an idol. I enjoyed them, and the characters they represented, more than I enjoyed prayer and bible study, so they had to go. I was so unhappy, but I thought this would finally please God. I was so desperate, that I was giving up the things I loved and wasn't being myself. No one is worth that much.
Fortunately for me, I later found out that my mom had saved them, unable to part with the memories they represented.
"I hope you're not mad," she said to me about a year or two later, as we discussed how overboard and out-of-balance we were before, "but I saved your Toy Story toys."
Mad? I was ecstatic! She had even saved them in their Barney bag!
I am grateful for that to this day. I don't know what I would do without Woody and Buzz. At least with toys, I always knew where I stood with them.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I also have a Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Atheist-Journeys/1543588489197291?
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