Swallow

Original post
April 15 2019

            I have come to the conclusion that most religious people pick and choose what scriptures they will follow. Theologians call this behaviour “selective literalization.” It occurs when someone ignores, or does not even recognize, one part of scripture yet recognizes another. It’s all about the pick and choose. Specifically with Christianity, followers of the Bible believe that it is “without error or fault in all its teaching”; or, at least, that “Scripture in the original manuscripts does not affirm anything that is contrary to fact.” All the while, they fail to see the trap that selectively literalizing is. They believe they follow the Law and the Covenant but they do so from the safety of an imaginary editing room. It seems that Christians (like with other religions) take what they want from God and tend to forget about anything that might specifically apply to them. They spend so much energy attacking and judging other people for their lack of loyalty to scripture that they do not realize they themselves are breaking commandments, ignoring the rules and, for the most part, condemning other people rather than pointing the finger at themselves. Sometimes the reason people ignore difficult events in scripture is because it would be to hard to acknowledge the truth yet remain faithful to any deity of choice. For many Christians, the Second Vatican Council of the Catholic Church made clear the doctrine of the inerrancy of scripture, as “the books of Scripture must be acknowledged as teaching solidly, faithfully and without error that truth which God wanted put into sacred writings for the sake of salvation.” If all scripture is valid and true, then I would like someone to explain to me why such strange and often weird parts of the Bible are ‘left on the cutting room floor.’ We take what we want and ignore the rest. We condemn others as we refuse to acknowledge we too are bound to doom by the infallibility of it. Some pills are hard to swallow.

            I once sat through a Pentecostal fundraiser where shrimp was served as a part of the appetizer. It was fun watching sinner after sinner suck the cocktail sauce off each. They popped them down like they were candy. I’m not sure that they realized how unclean the entire process really was. It was right there in scripture yet they disregarded the rule completely (Leviticus 11:9-12). Apparently, not one of them stopped to think about the implications. A few years ago, I met Desmond Tutu at a function for one of my charities. The gentleman who sat across from me at our table claimed to follow Jesus in that scary born again way. His loyalty was right in your face. During the evening, I observed him showing another guest his tattoos, including the one “that was still fresh.” He was a good Christian boy, to be sure, as he attempted to evangelize even more from his vantage point. I don’t think he recognized just how ironic his claims of obedience were, considering. I guess they sat all the abominations together at one table for easier judgments. It was nice to have the company. As my tattooed comrade made clear, he did not believe his state of Grace had been compromised by anything, as the ink dried on his arm  (Leviticus 19:28). 

            Whether it’s angels fucking women (Genesis 6:1-4), or the giant offspring that resulted, there are just some parts of the Bible which come across like some  X-rated children’s story. Angels with a penis seem rather anthropomorphic, if you ask me, which nobody has. This may be why so many die-hard followers exclude anything inappropriate. It can be a difficult thing locating a just God amidst all the curses and judgments, so many religious people disregard anything that may be construed as contradictory, strange or fictitious, in order to avoid more confusion. If the event does not relate to the sinner at hand, then there is no reason to pay it heed. Most Christians fail to mention one thing after another because there is no real explanation other than the obvious. Instructions on how to handle serpents (Mark 16:18) is rarely tossed about as an option but it is still there, as valid any other divine notion would be. Quite often you can read about this pastor or that pastor dying from the deadly bite of the Lord. Each one only did what he believed was commanded, they followed the instructions. They say this ritual reveals God’s judgment on the bearer, noting that you may just get what you asked for. We are to instructed to believe in every word of the “good book” but each one of us decide what to listen to and what to focus on. We only pay attention to what we see as important, as revealed in God’s message to us. Follow the leader gets an entirely new definition. Somewhere within the pages, you can always find an excuse. Spiritual deflection tends to be the norm. It would be best to remember that just because Jesus walked on water doesn’t mean that we could.
            I had no idea that Noah once got drunk and passed out, only to be raped by his son Ham (Genesis 9: 20-27). All the while, his brothers watched. The Old Testament can turn rather kinky rather quickly. It never occurred to me that Lot would rather whore out his daughters than face the wrath of God (Genesis 19:6-8). The very idea that angels need saving, in exchange for mere women, seems rather moot to me. In fact, the God of the Bible can be a sexist pig. Presuming there is something obscene in a woman’s menstrual cycle also presumes that once a month or so every woman becomes unclean. Being ritually unclean for seven days is, apparently, a curse that comes with a transferable condition (Leviticus 15:19-21).  Objects and people who interact with said woman must maintain ritual purity. Men of the cloth must avoid her, everyone should. Even to touch her, to touch where she sleeps, or even upon the chair where she sits, is impurity. The very natural act of purging becomes the very judgment of God. You can’t even masturbate when you want to, at least not without divine consequence. You can’t even pull out without the threat of death and destruction. You shall not waste your seed (Genesis 38:8-10). God, so they say, finds masturbation a very “wicked” thing, punishable by death. Talk about anti-climactic. This gives an entirely new meaning to “If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire.” (Matthew 18:8, NIV). It is not just a metaphor when instructed to cut off your hand if it causes you to sin. I can hear billions of men groaning in disapproval. The implications regarding what that scripture really means leaves me imagining the worst. Cut the bloom off and you can never grow seeds.

            There are two versions of the creation story contained in the first book of the Bible. The account from Genesis 1 differs from the account contained in Genesis 2. The two tales even seem to contradict each other. Rather than some infallible template, we see clearly the reality of the human condition. It stinks of man and goes directly to motive. There is even more to note. Apparently, dinosaurs roamed the planet at the time of Job (40:15-20). The price you pay for hitting below the belt is harsh and will take the hand that did it (Deuteronomy 25:11-12). If you are a fornicator, idolater or an adulterer, you are not welcome in the Kingdom of God. If you’re a homosexual or a prostitute, you are not welcome in the Kingdom of God. Whether a thief, an alcoholic or an abuser, you are not welcome in the Kingdom of God (1 Corinthians 6:9-10). Hell is full of the unworthy, evil wrongdoers at the mercy of a judgmental God. Some men will abuse women thinking she is property, which, literally, she is. Laws demanding that women should stay silent in church do not reflect well against the modern women’s movement. Women are forbidden to speak in temple and must submit to their husband.  If they have a question, they are to ask their husband at home. For a woman to speak in the church is “disgraceful” (1 Corinthians 14: 35- 36). Like with their Islamic neighbours, Christian women should cover their heads (1 Corinthians 11:6). It is here that we encounter the sublime. The peaceful Jesus, the one we all think of in terms of goodness and gentleness and compassion becomes twisted and angry and the bringer of chaos. Heaven opens and Jesus appears on a white horse. The apocalypse rages all about but Jesus is here to make his very own war. His eyes are like fire and his clothing drips with blood. Out of the mouth of the Saviour a sharp sword appears, with which he “shall strike the nations.” He will rule with a “rod of iron” (Revelation 17:8-12, 19:11-16). Somehow they forgot to mention this warrior in Sunday School class. I don’t believe that religious people actually think about their belief system. In the Abrahamic tradition, the enemy that men battle is considered very real and quite monstrous. Christians don’t realize that at some point, their loving God actually sat down and created a monster from light. Throughout scripture, God seems to need somebody to blame for his mistakes. Most of the injustice in the world, all this chaos and pain, stems from religion, to one degree or another. Satan becomes evil manifested. He is a cherub, enormous in size and in power and in strength. His wing span is over 8 feet. He is beautiful, a bright and powerful morning star. He held greatness but was cast out when his rebellion failed. I love the way God bestows such mightiness upon such a vile creature, like Americans did with Donald Trump. In fact, Satan may well be God’s most powerful creation (Ezekiel 10:8).

            Long before my enlightenment, I was introduced to the ideology that Jesus was about return to us and bring with him the End of Days. I was taught to believe that the Apocalypse would free the righteous and sentence the rest. At one point, I was given a copy of The Late, Great Planet Earth (1970) by Hal Lindsey. This piece of work only reaffirmed that the end was near. Almost 40 years later, and I am still waiting. The Second Coming is taking longer than Jesus’ Second Coming. The Christ that I knew as a child is long gone from my thinking. There is no bringer of peace, he has only made things worse. There is no just God, no loving God, just a warrior hell bent on the destruction of anyone who does not necessarily agree with his rule. Everyone forgets to mention that Jesus made it clear who he was talking to, and it most certainly was not just modern man (Mark 13:30). I always thought Jesus was the Prince of Peace, but I was wrong. He wasn’t sent to this planet to help us, he was sent to destroy us, well noting, “Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword” (Matthew 10:34, NIV). This is not just some internal dialogue between the Sons of Darkness and the Sons of Light. To the Christian, this is the pinnacle of all the teachings of the New Testament. Unfortunately, warrior Jesus is rarely mentioned. I grew up believing god was love but sometimes that definition can seem repugnant, considering the facts. God is love, but only if you do as you are told (John 6:38-40). Sometimes, the God revealed in scripture is as vile as any creature who He may have sentenced to dwell below (Exodus 11:4-6). Still, there is always hope, regardless of our sins and folly. In the end, there is no end. All this talk about the End Times and the Second Coming seem irrelevant. The prophetic horror of Armageddon is lost in the final act. Their truth be told, a truth so many fail to mention. The Seven Seals, the Anti-Christ, even the Lake of Fire all fall away in the last moments of the testament. It is here that the truth is revealed, even if along the way so many failed to mention it. It is here we see “a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away’” (Revelation 21:1-4, NIV).

           Either god hates everyone or god loves everyone. there is no other option. Since we all are equal sinners in His eyes, then the measure of his mercy is not strained. This is such a hard pill to swallow for many. If one is denied, then all shall be denied. If one is taken in, then all receive the same mercy. We all deserve God’s love and acceptance, even if He tosses us off to hell just for good measure. Unlike most religious people, god does not selectively literalize anything, particularly the scriptures he purportedly wrote through inspiration. Picking and choosing scripture is like God’s love. It is either there or it isn’t, one does not get to edit based on mass appeal or personal favouritism. Selectively literalizing scripture is like swimming in an empty pool. The only thing you really get is concrete. The very foundation of the things we follow and do not follow is determined by the level of aware we get, in spite of all the nothing. People base entire relationships on scripture, nothing else matters. Who to and not to listen to becomes more a lifestyle than a moral judgment. We skip this rule but we pay attention to that rule. There is little left for notions like tolerance, humbleness and God’s Grace. I am reminded that I too am a consequence of all my years of “religious training.” I do not see such people as weak or lacking intelligence. I think we all find safety in how we choose to believe and pick what to believe in. We are all human, after all.

Photo

https://www.romancatholicman.com/jefferson-bible-catholicism-awakens-in-our-times/

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biblical_inerrancy

http://www1.cbn.com/biblestudy/the-nephilim-children-of-demons

https://www.bibleodyssey.org/en/passages/related-articles/two-creations-in-genesis

Funny Boner

Feet grow as you get older.”
“I wish everything did.”
(The Big Chill, 1981)

             There is always some moron you have to deal with and you find yourself saying and doing things you never thought you would. You compartmentalize and you try to be kind despite having no reason. You have to balance and establish what is most important. I always thought getting older made you wiser but that is not always the case. Sometimes age defines us and sometimes we are more than our age. Regardless, it can be a struggle to get through each minute, let alone a day or a week or forever. I find there is a cure. No matter where I go or what I experience, it has been laughter that has seen me through. Apparently, laughing can make you live longer.

“An old man was sitting on the examining table in the doctor’s office having his hearing checked. The doctor poked his light scope in the old man’s ear and said, ‘Hey, you have a suppository in your ear!’ ‘Rats,’ said the old man. ‘Now I know where my hearing aid went.’”

            If laughter is the best medicine, I will take an I.V. drip. Laughter has tremendous benefits, particularly when it comes to health. When we laugh, “our physiology shifts.” Our blood pressure adjusts. Our body “releases endorphins”, elevating our mood. It also “reduces adrenaline and cortisol production.” With each snicker, our blood vessels relax, improving circulation. There is an incontrovertible relationship between laughter and the immune system, as well as the brain itself. Laughter “triggers the immune system, decreasing stress-related hormones and increasing resistant antibodies which help fight off disease.” Interestingly, “humour has the same influence on our sense of well-being as exercise does.” A good, hearty laugh relieves “physical tension and stress, leaving your muscles relaxed for up to 45 minutes.” It reduces anxiety yet increases energy. A humorous perspective creates “psychological distance”, which can help you avoid feeling overwhelmed as well as diffusing negativity and conflict. Laughing can even relieve pain, through the release of those endorphins. I guess it is all in your head.

"What do you call a hooker with a runny nose?"

"Full." 

            Research shows that ”laughing burns calories.” It’s not a replacement for exercise but one study found that “laughing for 10 to 15 minutes a day can burn approximately 40 calories.” I guess a good laugh can help you live longer. There is a study out of Norway that found that “people with a strong sense of humour outlived those who don’t laugh as much.” There are many health benefits to a good sense of humour. Laughter “boosts immunity, lowers stress hormones, decreases pain, relaxes muscle, helps to prevent heart disease,” and has significant mental health care implications. It’s hard to maintain your panic while laughing out loud. It’s no joke. To laugh reduces anxiety and tension, improves mood and can strengthen one’s resilience. Often, life is not so funny. More often, I just laugh and laugh and laugh. Humour is a survival skill. It allows one to disengage from the less happy parts of your life. Laughter is more important than sex. I don’t know anyone who can go a week without laughing.

“While taking a clinical history from an elderly patient, I asked, ‘How’s your love life?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask my wife.’ He got up, walked into the hallway where his wife was sitting, and shouted, ‘Hey, the doctor wants to know if we still have sex.’ His wife shouted back, ‘No, the only thing we have is Medicare and Blue Cross.’”

            I have to admit I am a bit of a curmudgeon. I’m not much for public displays of affection and for me, that includes smiling. Hell, I am not comfortable laughing in public. You would think that I have no sense of humour but you would be wrong. Almost everything that comes out of my mouth is sarcastic or sardonic or simply fun. At least my sense of humour is fun for me. In general, people just don’t get it. This makes it even more enjoyable. I have to admit I love it when people can’t figure out what the hell I mean. The question of whether I am horsing around or serious is the point of it all. It is part of my charm. Inside, I’m cantankerous, quite distinctly but quiet as a mouse. As I have gotten older, I find the world around me so charming yet many people that I run into I find rather disgusting. I don’t know who to trust or even if I should. Laughter is my escape. It just comes naturally. To laugh is to live but I’ll live in private. 

“Two old guys, Fred and Sam went to the movies. A few minutes after it started, Fred heard Sam rustling around and he seemed to be searching on the floor under his seat.  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Fred. Sam, a little grumpy by this time, replied, ‘I had a caramel in my mouth and it dropped out. I can't find it.’ Fred told him to forget it because it would be too dirty by now. ‘But I've got to,’ said Sam. ‘My teeth are in it!’”

            The older I get, the more I resent young people. Let’s be clear, I mean 16-24 years of age. They seem to think they have earned the right to laugh when in reality, this is far from the truth. Age, it gives me away. I do not believe for one second that my, or another,  generation acted the way the millennials seem to. They all seem self-entitled. They think the world owes them. You can see it in the way they react and throughout their daily schedule. Somewhere along the way someone told each and every one of them that they do not need to worry, life will be kind to them and supply their every need. If you wanna get a good chuckle going, try to have a conversation with one (outside of social media). It won’t happen. Somehow they have all lost their sense of humour. It can be frustrating to spend time with one of them. Rather than taking it personally, I just laugh. Then I laugh some more. They have so much to learn and little time, little time. It’s enough to leave me with the giggles. I’m always surprised at what I find funny.

“I'm bald - well, balding. I like to say ‘balding’ because it sounds more productive. And I don’t like to say I’m losing my hair, because that makes it sound like had I been more responsible, this wouldn’t have happened. ‘Where's your hair?’ ‘I lost it. You know me. Where are my keys?’”

            I don’t think rape is funny but I think rapists getting raped is. Poverty is not funny but white trash at Wal-Mart always brings a smile to my face. I loved Joan Rivers but have yet to fill the void. My favourite comedy film is Tootsie starring Dustin Hoffman. When it came out the entire “drag” thing just flew over my head. Will & Grace is without a doubt my favourite comedy program ever. I re-watch it over and over every year. I never laugh as hard as when I’m indulging in Karen or Jack. Beverley Leslie is a hoot, every time. Funny is a guarantee. I preferred Johnny Carson to Letterman or Leno and Fallon is so much better than that Colbert guy. I find Kimmel droll and whimsical but in a very dry way. When I was growing up, my brothers exposed me to George Carlin and Mclean and Mclean. The irony of the song “I’ve Seen Pubic Hair” (1976) was lost on me until a little bit later. I thought my Mom was hilarious and I loved to listen to her tell a joke or a funny story from her past. One of the things I miss the most about her is sitting and laughing. She never failed to do that for me. My Dad was the same way. Like folklore, his tales did much more than just amuse me. 

You should see what I caught on video.

“The sight of my mother cleaning her dentures fascinated my young son. He sat riveted as she carefully took them out, brushed and rinsed them, and then popped them back in. ‘Cool, Grandma!’ he said. ‘Now take off your arm.’”

            People see me and they think I am unhappy. I rarely smile anywhere, let alone in public. I’m laughing on the inside. Age has made things a hell of a lot clearer when it comes to humour. To be frank, there is no limit for me theses days. There is no line that can’t be crossed. I prefer a rogue to a mama’s boy. When I was younger, laughter was always an external factor that resulted in specific actions. Over the years, I have come to understand that humour is an internal mechanism resulting in emotional gratification. My view on funny has changed. It is no longer just a tactile experience. I think my definition started to alter as I approached 50. Somehow, crossing over into the later part of life struck me as bizarre in the most comical way. I tend to snicker rather than guffaw. I find life amusing in a way I did not before. I have somehow, in spite of it all, found my funny bone, although you wouldn’t know it.

‘Poor Old fool,’ thought the well-dressed gentleman as he watched an old man fish in a puddle outside a pub. So he invited the old man inside for a drink. As they sipped their whiskeys, the gentleman thought he’d humour the old man and asked, ‘So how many have you caught today?’ The old man replied, ‘You’re the eighth.’”

           You’re either laughing or disgusted by the very thought of me. To be honest, I am not sure which one I would like more. I think laughter is a subjective matter which should expand as we get older and as we become more aware. I’m not cynical about becoming aware but good luck with that. I cannot imagine a world without laughter. Even in my darkest hour, humour rescued me. I have had to learn to laugh all over again. I am not surprised at how few people are in on the joke. Some people need a big dose of laughing gas. I prefer a more natural approach. Unfortunately, if you’re looking for obvious signs of merry, you will need to keep looking. I am not a demonstrative person.

“An elderly man visits the doctor for a check-up. ‘Mr. Smith, you’re in great shape,’ says the doctor afterward. ‘How do you do it?’ ‘Well,’ says Mr. Smith, ‘I don't drink, I don't smoke, and the good Lord looks out for me. For weeks now, every time I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he turns the light on for me.’ Concerned, the doctor finds Mrs. Smith in the waiting room and tells her what her husband said. ‘I don't think that's anything to worry about,’ she says. ‘And on the bright side, it does explain who’s been peeing in the fridge.’”

Things change and they often change quickly. The world around us is in constant flux, ironically, this life can be nothing if not consistent. You have to laugh at it, you need to learn to do just that. While grieving the loss of a loved one can be heartbreaking eventually the sun comes out and not every memory hurts to feel. You learn to laugh again, you even smile once in awhile. The greatest relief for me during the last six months has been just that. Like they say in that movie, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." Sometimes you have to grin and bare it. Then again, sometimes something awful is the funnies thing of all.

 

 

Photos

 

https://www.etsy.com/no-en/listing/695636680/suicide-squad-joker-hahaha-ha-ha-ha

 

https://digest.bps.org.uk/2018/01/24/theres-an-evolutionary-explanation-for-why-were-surprisingly-bad-at-recognising-each-others-laughter/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sources

 

https://www.rd.com/jokes/old-age/

 

https://www.helpguide.org/articles/mental-health/laughter-is-the-best-medicine.htm

Resurrect

Originally Posted
April 8th, 2018

Updated
April 9th, 2023

“Well today I found myself

After searching all these years

And the man that I saw

He wasn’t at all who I thought he’d be

I was lost when You found me here

I was broken beyond repair

Then You came along

And You sang Your song over me”

(Born Again, Third Day 2008)

            I have always felt that God hates me. Early on, I recognized my place in the greater scheme of things. I paid attention to what my elders said about God. I paid attention during each church sermon and had great interest in what the Bible had to say about many things. Long before puberty, I believed I was hell bound, and with good reason. I lied, I shoplifted, I took the Lord’s name in vain. God never once answered my sincerity. Never once was a prayer served or a need met. There was a pain within me even back then, a pain I believed only God could end. I remember sitting alone crying because I could not find a way to make God love me. You could argue that I was sensitive to religious ideas so I naturally battled against Christian brainwashing tactics. I had a loyalty to Jesus, nonetheless. One might argue I still do. The way I viewed divinity then is so much more innocent than my view now. I believed in a personal God who cared specifically about me. I have always sensed something calling for me but my ideas on what that might be have changed over time. I have grown up carrying Jesus with me and the weight has often been quite heavy. It is hard to move past something when it constantly reappears to remind you that it is missing. No matter what I do, how I evolve, what I believe, I am flooded by ideas that have been conditioned for me. I feel guilty and rather dammed to hell for no longer believing in the Christian account of God’s interaction with us mortals. Somehow in all the fables, all the high myth, I still believe there is something far greater than myself, even if it lies out in the ether. It’s like an other land that one can access. The truth be told, I still hold on to the hope that there is more to this world than we know.

“For the sake of never making waves

I kept my secrets to myself

And no one ever really knew the

Darker shadows of my heart

But I will be a witness

That there’s nothing in me dark enough

The power of forgiveness

Cannot rescue from the deep”

(Out in the Open, Amy Grant 2003)

            I do not believe yet somehow I still do. No matter how far away from my religious upbringing I wander, I always come back to the state I once had as a child. The idea of God, in particular Jesus, always moved me. Whether in a church service or standing in front of the Christmas Tree, for me, God was more a feeling than an ideology. You grow up, you move past childish ways and God becomes a moral and intellectual challenge rather than the movement of something deep within us. I am often drawn and quartered. My experience has pulled me one way and my conditioning and training pull me in another. I suppose it really is true that you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t. According to the Christian scriptures, either way I am screwed. For years, I fought my sexuality. I didn’t want to be gay, not that I knew what that label even meant at the time. I was in denial and quite often hid behind more heterosexual rites of passage. It wasn’t social shame that held my tongue in its place. I was terrified what the Christian God would do to me. I was brainwashed into thinking that my proclivity guaranteed me a spot in hell. If I was gay, I would not be welcome in the Kingdom. Unfortunately, several attempts to purge myself of the sin did nothing but convince me that I was unusable, unforgivable and shit out of luck. There came a point where enough was enough. How often could I face the threat of eternal damnation should I practice my sin? Therein lies the rub. No matter how I tried to rid myself of the abomination, I remained homosexual. It never went away in all those years and all those attempts. Many argue homosexuals choose to engage in such acts but I know it goes much deeper than just some choice. Regardless of whether The Lord would rather I was dead, I cannot be something I am not nor should I have to be. If I was born this way, then I was cast aside by God from my beginning. I am, have always been and will continue to be a gay man, a practicing gay man. It’s who I am and I’m just sorry that’s not good enough for Jesus.

“Help me to move

Help me to see

Help me to do whatever You would ask of me

Help me to go

God help me to stay

I’m feeling so alone here

And I know that You're faithful

But I can barely breathe

God help me”

(God Help Me, Plumb 2018)

            My Father and I were extremely close. Since the death of my mother our relationship evolved.. We talked almost every day. There was an openness between us, without boundaries and little in the way of editing. We became much more than mere Dad and son. We became friends,  in spite of the enormous gulf between our religious views. He was a proud conservative Christian and I am the professed heathen of the family. He read the Bible, I question it from cover to cover. Our ideas on the universe, Jesus and the existence of heaven and hell stood radically different. You would be surprised how well we got along. We discussed, we did not presume. We respected each other’s opinion even if we thought it was wrong. We could tell each other almost anything without judgment or bias. For me, my Father was the epidemy of a good Christian. He did not view me as separate because of sin, rather I was just like the rest, drenched in it. We are all equal in our failure. My Father tried hard not to judge so it was easy to be myself without fear of condemnation. He even apologized for views he once held. My Father was a very stoic man long before the death of his wife. His actions and attitude made it clear over the years that family was the most important thing to him. Before Mom's passing, he was at a distance of sorts. My Mother ruled the roost. Her death changed my father. He maintained his belief system, reading the Bible every day to commune with what he considered Holy. Yes, he viewed the world through Christian eyes. It never managed to get in the way. In the end, he put away those books and tried to forget about all those words. He stopped talking about Jesus. He rarely mentioned God at all. When I inquired regarding his new approach all he had to say was, "let it go." Never once did my father cast me to hell. The flaws of his fellow man were no longer his concern. Never once, in his last few years, did he put God above his family. You gotta know your priorities.

“This is what we’re here for
To show the world how You love it
This is what we’re made for
To lay it all down like You did
When we feel useless, You still use us
Help us not forget
This is what we're here for”

(What We’re Here For, The Afters 2003)

            My relationship with Jesus is not just broken. I could never go back to the kind of interaction I once had with Him. I see Jesus in an alternative manner to how I viewed him in my past. I was brought up to believe in the full gamut of Christianity but I have ended up abandoning it altogether. It’s the only way I could actually believe I have a chance to get where I am supposed to be going. I am constantly questioning, what if I am wrong? I have to remind myself that I am not welcome. My very existence means death, both figuratively and literally, depending on the country of choice. My entire life is expendable because of my sin. I am forced to remember that the Abrahamic God hates me, no matter what lovely words someone else may have to say about Him. You can spout great claims and preach on the love of the Lord but you cannot get past the truth of the matter. I am unwelcome, unwanted and unusable, at least that is how scripture makes me feel. It’s not a hard thing to discard a God who considers you an abomination. All you really need is the basic ability to read.

Ivy After

Originally posted            
March 19, 2015

            Since her husband Malcolm's death seven months before, Edwina Talbot made it a priority to visit his grave once a week. When the stone went up marking his place, she groomed the garden around it, shaping it into a quaint refuge for beetles and small rodents and toads. Like clockwork, every Saturday morning you could find her kneeling before it, clippers in hand, all the while trimming and moulding the very last thing she was able to do for him. After forty-eight years of marriage, this was all that was left. The blank space reserved for her name on the headstone was nothing but a reminder of her hoped for reunion. As if caring for a child, her commitment was without fail. She planted the Boston ivy at the granite base, hoping to cover the unsightly thing. Every week she pruned it, not allowing it to overgrow. This became her passion, her testimony to the love she had lost. Tucked into line, sitting with row after row, she trimmed the space where she would one day herself reside.

She found solace in this waiting.

            She was not a frail woman. She was unaffected by the age which had brought with it few challenges. She was thin but in a healthy way. Her long gray hair was forever pulled back, tied with a bobby pin just above her neckline. Her attire was always conservative, based in earth tones and delicate patterns. She never wore slacks. Each morning before her visitation, she would lay out her dress very carefully, pressing any wrinkles from it. She put on makeup, teased her appearance, always wanting to look good for her husband. With her tools in her satchel, she would take the city bus to the gates of the enormous cemetery. Slowly, she paced herself while climbing the formidable hill just inside the entrance. She walked from one end of the huge graveyard to the other, seeking a glimpse of that stone as she drew nearer. Exhausted from the distance travelled, she would plop a towel down onto the grass just in front of her testament. Once a week or so, she would almost always pause to rest before taking to the task at hand.
            She always started with the ivy, desperately trying to form it around the support base of the marker. She moved onto the flowers and the ground covers, trimming each in a soft pose. The rock border that entwined the garden sprung grass and weeds, each blade, each invader, plucked from a crevice with precision and dismissal. Each cut was carefully placed in a plastic shopping bag, for easy disposal on her way back out. Seven months turned into seven more but she never missed a date. Through all the proverbial rain and snow, she made her way without fail. In the winter, she struggled through drift after drift just to clear his nameplate. Come spring and the transformation began. As time passed, the garden became full and dense. Old flowers were replaced with new flowers and the ivy was pruned like a rose bush should be. Her time spent here had tricked her. She had convinced herself that there was no other way. Her friends implored her to just let go, or at least to let them drive her on her weekly quest. She knew there would be no reprieve from this journey, not for her. She didn't want one anyway. During the week she sat, still waiting, as the world passed her by. She lived only for those moments with him.

In a way, he was almost alive with her there.

            She concluded her pilgrimage one weekend morning, after walking all that way. She had almost reached him. Today had been a struggle for her to make it. She was not a bunch of ivy growing stronger with time. Finally, she thought to herself, it is almost done. The years of constant mourning had revealed themselves on her face. As she spotted the peak of his headstone poking just above the others, she had to stop and catch her breath. From the road to Malcolm was a good hundred feet. As she paced herself among the other stones, she noticed immediately that something was different. Somehow in only seven short days, the ivy had grown with such vigour that it covered the entire area where her name would go. This could not be possible. She had trimmed it just last week. She double-checked to make sure she was in the right place. Angrily, she pulled the new growth back with one yank. She clipped it off at its base, determined to stop it in its tracks. There remained her Malcolm, carved into black slate, always beside the empty space she longed to fill. Soon, she thought, soon.  

            She sat down flat, resting fully on the grass for the first time in her history here. To her right, she eyed a rather tall gentleman kneeling before a headstone. As she rested, she watched him work his magic. It seemed to her that he also cared for the ground as she did. He noticed her noticing him, and nodded in the most friendly way. As Edwina began to clean up her making, he wandered over and bid her a good morning. As they parted, she thought to herself that Frank Reed was a faithful husband to care for his loved one's garden in such a manner. She crossed the grassy knoll with ease compared to the time before. From her distance, she could see. Again, ivy had grown all over the right half of the gravestone, covering the blank area and up towards the top. The increase had inconveniently doubled compared to her last encounter. She removed it all immediately, squashing it with one thrust into her plastic bag.  Once again, as she passed the other monuments, she could see. The ivy was so overgrown that it had begun to swallow the back of the marker. Unable to remove it with her hands, she used shears to keep the beast at bay. Determined to vanquish the pest, she pruned it all away, right down to the root. She cursed it as she tucked it away in the garbage.
            She crossed the path which she always took. Just before Malcolm, she noticed a bouquet of dead flowers, laying in the center of her way. With a swift gesture, she whipped right down and picked them up, squishing them into her faithful plastic bag. It only distracted her for a minute. She could see it and she was stunned. Since her last visit, the vine had fully grown back and then some. She tugged at it, snipping each growth like it was her enemy. She crammed the entire thing down in the plastic bag along with the flowers. She crossed the grassy knoll. As she approached Malcolm's final resting place, she spied a bouquet of flowers, exactly in the same spot she had discovered some the time before. When she picked them up, she could barely comprehend. The wilted flowers were exactly the same flowers, the colourful purple wrap was exactly the same purple wrap. She dropped them when she noticed the stone. From the base, over the top and down behind, the entire monument was covered in ivy.

She could not believe her eyes.

            The vine was tough and hard to release from the granite. It had wrapped itself around the rock so that she could not see her Malcolm waiting in stone. She stopped and looked about herself, something felt so different, so out of place. As the final layer of the stubborn tracheophyte fell to the ground, her world stopped turning. She felt frozen, disabled for some reason. She rubbed her eyes in further disbelief. She put on her glasses for a better look. Chiseled in the stone, right there beside him, was her name carved into history. She was flabbergasted and more than a little confused. As she rose, the sun beamed right into her eyes. It had not moved since her arrival that day. It was the same sun in the very same place it had been at the start. She looked upon herself, then realized she was wearing the very same dress she had worn the week before. In flashes, she recalled every week that she walked from the roadway, past the other headstones until she rested with her love. Always the same dress, the same shoes, the same everything but that ivy. Then she remembered the stranger and how nice he had been to her. She turned and walked towards the grave he had tended. In fact, his wife was buried here but his name was also on the marker. She almost fainted when she noticed the date. This man had died two years before her Malcolm.

 

 

 

 

            Edwina was a pretty bride when she married Malcolm all those years ago.  Their wedding was the beginning of a wonderful dance, a dance which now cascaded before her tearstained eyes. She saw her husband, her children, her life move past in a constant flow. She saw the roadside, and the day she could not catch her breath. She saw the ambulance, the paramedics working on her, and them covering her face in defeat. She witnessed her granddaughter placing a bouquet of pretty flowers, all wrapped up in purple, at the front of the grave. The sky began to darken. Clouds churned in the air. She looked over towards her husband's place and saw what appeared to be a newer grave there. It did not strike her as a place of rest, rather like an unplanted bed of sunken soil and gravel. It had aged, there was no question. It seemed like furrow, from a rotated field on her father's farm. There was growth on it, patches of grass and a few stray weeds sprung from the soil and the rocks. It looked like a garden made of stone. There were flowers, slowly dying, left in front of their place. She walked back to Malcolm, pushed the flowers aside and drifted softly onto the ground and against the headstone. In her fear, she sought solace by hugging it and she began to weep at the truth.

From a distance, she thought she could hear his voice.

            She turned towards the sound of him, pushing herself up with none of the discomfort which had greeted her on other visits. She noticed her hand, it was not the familiar appendage she had grown accustomed to over the years of her aging. It was youthful, the skin was tight and the brown spots which had covered it had disappeared like the stiffness in her joints. She rose, her printed dress replaced with the white gown she had worn on her wedding day. It hung about her and she trembled at the thought of it. Like anyone would, she carefully twisted to the sound of her name. He stood there, smiling, holding out his hand for her. This was not the Malcolm she had laid to rest but the husband she had married so many years before. He was tall and oh so handsome. His hair was no longer gray but the deep black it had been for so long. His double breasted wool suit matched the one he wore on the day they wed. It was dark and fit him to a tee. It was like he had not changed at all.

"Edwina," he whispered.

             Frank Reed walked over the grassy knoll like he did every sojourn. The sun hung high in the sky, just like it did every other morning when he would come to see her. As he approached, he could see it. From the base of their monument, up the right hand side, the ivy remained grown over the stone, just as he left it. He thought it was pretty. Out of love he had, once again, he came to care for her garden. He missed her as much on this day as he did on any other. He longed to see her face again. He silently prayed for someday soon. He tended the garden as he always did. First, the roses met his favour. He pruned them in a delicate way. Any weed or blade of grass that protruded from the ground was snatched from its spot and discarded into the metal bucket he brought with him. When he was done, and order had returned to the area, he kissed her stone goodbye and whispered an endearment. He knew he would be back. Again, like every time he came to see her, he refused to clear the ivy from his future nameplate. Like before, he left it to grow.

"I'm going to have to get to you the next time I visit,"  he said to the vine.