How I Learned To Love The Lord
How I Learned to Love the Lord
What follows will be the most honest attempt to date to explore a particular period in my religious history, specifically the period of time where I could be described as an Evangelical Christian.
At the current time, I am a sincere agnostic. I have no idea whether God or any gods or goddesses or supernatural beings exist. Like many people do, when the chips are down and shit is looking bad, I might beseech whatever gods may be out of desperation. I do however have a lingering suspicion that our ultimate reality is spiritual rather than material.
I was raised to be a Catholic. I’ve been to confession. I’ve taken communion. I often got tapped to read from the scriptures at Mass because my voice was clear and deep. I was never confirmed though. On paper, I’m still Catholic. I went through school with largely the same group of kids from kindergarten through about the 9th grade. See, in the 9th grade, shit got a little crazy. I did something I should not have done. To this very day, I don’t really know why the fuck I did it. The best answer I can give you is boredom. You also don’t think too deeply about the consequences of your actions when you’re a teenager. I mean, how the hell can you? I’m told the brain is still developing at that age. Anyway, I wrote up a few bomb threats and emailed them to various students and the principal of the school. I got in a world of trouble. I was suspended and then basically expelled from my school and my teenaged ass ended up getting charged with a Class B felony. This was back in 1999. This pretty much ruined my freshman year of high school. No Catholic institution would let me enroll because of this incident. They did not want to take the chance that I was the next school shooter. You also have to keep in mind that the infamous Columbine High School massacre occurred while my case was making its way through the juvenile court system.
So, there I was. I was a scrawny 16 year old kid who had just been exiled from everyone I’d pretty much ever known. It felt like my fucking world had ended. I was pretty sure I had ruined my fucking life forever because I was a dumb teenage kid who had no perspective. When the time came for my parents to stick me in another school, they found me a small, private school that was run by a local Baptist church. I wanted no part of it. I had seen TBN. I had a pretty good idea of what went on there. This type of religion seemed utterly brain dead to me.
I went. I barely fit in. This was a strange place, man. Nobody ever used profanity. There was no social dancing. Every single textbook was published by a company called Abeka which meant theology snuck into pretty much every subject. The theory of evolution was an Anti-Christian hoax inspired by Satan and man clung to it out of sinful pride. When other regions of the world were discussed, it had to be spelled out in black and white that the dominant religions there were false if that religion happened to be anything other than so-called biblical Christianity. There was also a really right-wing bent to the history we studied. Nelson Mandela was a terrorist and a communist. The Great Depression was greatly exaggerated by communist propagandists like John Steinbeck. It was like going to school in an alternate universe.
I looked around and it seemed like there was a lot of genuine love between people. These people seemed to care about one another.
I’d been in Catholic school my entire life and I saw so much cruelty there. I didn’t see much of that at all among these people. They had something and I wanted it. Holy shit. This seems like the narration for an episode of The 700 Club where a former stripper is about to convert but it’s accurate.
I was a kid. I had made the biggest mistake of my life. It was a mistake that had sent me away from every friend I’d ever made. I hated myself. It was easy for me to accept that there was a darkness inside of me that had driven my actions. Maybe it was my sinful nature. Yeah, it was my sinful nature. I gradually came to believe that Jesus Christ was the answer.
I can recall getting on my knees one night in my bedroom. I asked God for forgiveness and accepted Jesus. I can remember feeling my eyeballs heat up and being aware of a really bright light. I can also recall my ears buzzing. It scared me shitless. I believed I had been saved.
Skip forward in time to today. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect upon what happened. My conversion happened during a personal crisis. The thing about crises is that they eventually pass. What “saves” you in a crisis might not be what you need after it’s all over. Truths that seem iron clad in a crisis might not be so iron clad when you have time to catch your breath and think a little.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
Saturday and some stuff and things
The words written the night before (See post entitled “What the fuck do I call this?” I think that’s what I called it.) were what they were. That was an experiment. If you surmised that those words were the product of an altered state, you are correct. It’s fair to say that I do have a relationship with cannabis. It’s been an off and on thing for about 3 years but mostly on. I despise a lot of the culture around this drug. A lot of it makes me cringe. That said, I do find it a valuable exercise at times to write while under the influence of it.
That can be easier said than done. The temptation is to just chill and listen to some music until I just get drowsy or to play some Rocket League. Rocket League while high can be quite the trippy, beautiful experience. That’s often when I can enter ‘the zone’ when it comes to that game. I know when to challenge for the ball, I somehow make decisions that seem to make sense without really thinking, I seem to react automatically and I’m okay trying something crazy to see if it works and it seems like I learn how to make “crazy” work.
A soccer game with rocket powered cars while stoned as fuck is only so satisfying so at some point I’ve got to pry myself away and look at the page. I’ve got to ride the green dragon and take it where I want to go.
I’m less judgmental of my thoughts. The flow is easier. There is a danger there. If you’re high as fuck, you can be really satisfied with mediocre or lazy ideas so you find yourself in the position of trying to figure out whether you are onto something or if you are just being silly. If you can tell the difference (even sort of) then you are getting to be dangerous.
I get stoned enough, I'm honest. Smart honest. The kinda honest I can live with.
Maybe that's what I tell myself.
This is me writing garbage ain't nobody gonna hold me accountable for.
I don't know how to be. There ain't no fucking manual. Bring me a pizza every once in awhile and I'm good. Pizza and a whiff of sex. I'm good.
Nah. Shit. Maybe I sound like the Internet equivalent of that homeless dude rambling about some shit that makes no sense while he waits for a bus he doesn't have money for. That could be you. That could be me. Maybe your wits and your good looks and your talent and all that shit ain't gonna save you cuz you're just you. Look. I'm just me. It's aight. I love you. Okay. Maybe I won't say that again. Yo. We gotta believe a better world is possible.
Fuck. I'm getting sick of this. 10:29 PM Pacific Standard Time.
I feel lazy.
This is art, yo.
This is sugar.
This is late night truth.
This is finding the one true god again.
This is bullshit but it had its moments.
Should I read this again in the morning?
My world is nothing but mundane. I work. I worry about screwing up at work. Sometimes I study for an exam that baffles me and interests me little. I slouch at my desk and look busy. I anticipate terror that often times never comes.
Sometimes I manage to focus enough to read. I finished Understanding Power by Noam Chomsky. I e-mailed the man. He wrote me back. He didn’t say much but I appreciate that he acknowledged an anonymous nobody like me. I learned a lot from that book. It did something to me.
I came very close to angrily declaring to my therapist that communism will win. That was really the first time that I expressed candidly the role living in such a fucked up society has on the psyche. That is a huge part of this. This. What I’m doing here. What makes me cry. What fucks me against my will. What turns me into a homely yet charming robot who is programmed to provide you with excellent customer service today. What makes me do this. Trying to express without asking you for a credit card number first.
That’s a huge part of the project.
What do you do in the world when you just can’t shake something?
Checking in
I’m checking in cuz I got nothing better to do. It’s Friday night and I got nowhere to go and no one to see. I’m down here in the room I rent. I’m down here in the only sanctuary I got from the outside world. It’s pretty bare and it’s got nearly everything I own in it. I’m very well aware of the fact that the world could be fucking me in the ass a lot harder than it currently is. I’m thankful that it isn’t fucking me all that hard.
I’m the office’s computer guy and I live in mortal fear of the technical issue that will make me just fucking quit. I’m okay at computers. I don’t live for ‘em. I think I’ve said before that this computer thing is the only skill I’ve managed to figure out how to monetize.
I live with strangers. I see one of my roommates nearly every day. It’s usually right when I walk in the door. He’s a young guy in his late 20s. He wears a beard. He’s an auto technician. He’s a fan of the Houston Astros. He always says hi to me. He’s okay.
Survived a stressful period. Shit felt like the Odyssey but that’s bullshit. It was terrifying but it wasn’t all that interesting. It’s one of those mundane things that fucking terrifies you.
I’m just writing. I’m not trying to make anything pretty. Just felt the need or maybe I tell myself I feel the need so I can feel fucking special. I’m not special. Some day I’m going to be okay with that or maybe I fucking won’t.
My diet has been so incredibly shitty my entire life that I’m genuinely shocked that I’m still alive.
I barely know how to wipe my own ass.
Do I pat myself on the back for making the effort?
My attention span is piss poor. I wish it wasn’t.
Fucking porn bots like and follow me. That shit is depressing. Porn bots are sad. You think, a kindred spirit but no it’s “Veronica” wanting to introduce you to all her kinky friends.
So yeah. I’m 36 years old and I left my parent’s house for the 2nd time. It ain’t paradise but I feel just fine about it. No Trump propaganda to try not to hear. That makes a world of difference. That shit is poison for the soul.
That’s all I got.
Why I’m Not a Good Writer
It’s tempting as hell to just half-ass this and say that at least I tried today.
This is one of those days where I feel like I have absolutely nothing to say. In fact, I don’t know that I ever have anything to say. I think to myself sometimes that I will run out of things to say.
It’s not the end of the world if I do. It’s not like I’m needing to do this to pay the bills. I do need to do this though. It seems to make life a little more bearable. I feel more present. I feel like I’ve done something with my day. My head feels a little less foggy.
At this point, this is little more than a bit of self-help.
My pledge is this: Write even if my head feels dull and even if I feel no hate, love or any fucking thing at all. Just have to do it. It will probably be shit but even in the midst of the shit, there have to be moments of perfection, right?
So, I’m not a terrible writer. I know I’m not. I’m not a particularly good writer either. Why? I’m gonna tell you.
I don’t do a ton other than work, play some games and sleep. I don’t have a ton of mileage on me. I haven’t done a ton with my life. I’m short on experiences. Sometimes I think maybe I should just go to bars and talk to people, anybody and see what the fuck happens. A friend of mine told me he is driving across this fucked up country of ours just for the hell of it. I need to do that but the thought of doing something like that scares the shit out of me. I got serious social anxiety. I’ve never quite been at peace with the fact that I’m a human being. Is it as weird for you as it is for me? Probably not in the exact same way.
I’ve already mentioned I’m deficient as hell when it comes to focus and self-discipline. Finishing a book is a near impossible feat for me these days. In fact, the other day, I thought maybe I’d read Umberto Eco’s essay Ur-Fascism which I guess is about the qualities of eternal fascism. Fascism is ultra relevant these days. So many countries on this earth seem to be lurching towards it. I’ve tried getting through the essay twice but without success. My just wanders. I need to read more. What should I be reading? Not real sure but I’m almost positive that I should be reading more.
I don’t know a lot. I’ve got a vague idea about a lot of things but there is not a single subject on the face of this earth that I can call myself an expert on. You can see that in my screed entitled ‘What I See.’ Most of that flowed from emotion. I was talking about the real world so I feel that perhaps I needed to show my work a bit more and maybe cite sources like I was back in school or something.
I get these ideas for creative pursuits and then I just abandon them. I’ve started two short-lived podcasts. One was a political show that I began in the wake of Trump’s election and another was just me talking about random things or.. something. Who the fuck knows what I was doing with the second one? I don’t follow through. I’m a flaky son of a bitch.
I’m lazy and I don’t put in work.
There are probably other reasons why I’m not a particularly good writer but those are the most fatal symptoms in my estimation.
In the back of my mind, I have to wonder if this is just filler to put off going into the stuff that really makes me look like a god damn loser.
We’ll get there though.
Maybe I'll try bearing my soul on this fucking blog to strangers who might happen by cuz that's how lonely I really am.
Aight. So, I’m gonna blow away the dust. Blow the dust off my soul. Gonna awaken from my comatose state.
That’s what life is, kids.
It’s a series of awakenings.
It’s staring at cave drawings.
The f-f-flicker of fire’s light against the cold stone.
The stick figures the aliens left us to tell us who are god(s) were.
The warmth of the burning bush
feels like the home you can never remember
The voice that comes from it sounds like
FRED MCFEELY ROGERS
it tells you it’s a lie
and that you shouldn’t be afraid
and that you’ll go home some day
but until then
you carry the medicine.
I’ve been trying to read more. The journalist Seymour Hersh was on an episode Intercepted (By the way, if you listen to podcasts and you do not listen to Intercepted, you need to be listening to it.) and he said that before you write, you need to read. Of course, Sy Hersh was talking about journalism but it applies even if you aren’t a journalist.
I’ve been struggling with reading for a few years. One thing that has helped is reducing subvocalization when I’m silently reading. No, I’m not becoming some kind of freak who is obsessed with speed reading but it makes things flow a lot more smoothly if I am not reading shit to myself in my head. It never occurred to me to try and cut that out. It’s something that I’ve done since I was a kid but no, I don’t need to do that. I can just sort of look at the words and fit everything together. Almost feels like a superpower actually. It’s weird. I’m re-discovering a love for reading, I think.
I randomly bought a poetry collection to expose myself to verse. It’s garbage.
Porn bots keep following me like it's cool.
