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Why Are You a Christian?

 

I got this question today.  Why are you a Christian?  For me, this is a rather complex question, and I believe that it may be just as difficult for most Christians.  The easiest answer for me to give is that I have been a Christian since before the Foundations of the World.  As true as this last statement is TO ME, as EASY as it is for me to see it, feel it, sense it, say it, it is rather difficult to explain it.  (This post is NOT a Ramble; this post is taking some HEAVY Taffy Pulling.)

When, where, how, under what circumstances was the question asked of me?  That is as important as the audience/questioner.  The questioner had just learned of my struggle with co-consciousness DID.  {Which seems to be 99% over.  I do not have a dark cloud of witness(es) hanging over me, invading my thoughts, tainting my actions.  It isn’t any more disturbing–that which I find in me which is less than PURPLE–than having to clean the cat litter box or driving behind people who, unlike back where I came from, insist upon driving 15mph UNDER the speed limit everywhere they go (and, apparently, NOT USING CRUISE CONTROL).  I don’t throw fits or fists, and I don’t throw my iPhones–anymore.  (Going through 7 of those before your upgrade date will cure anyone of that.)  It’s just a thing.  Like a paper cut.  Okay, it isn’t quite that bad.}

But why am I a Christian?  I don’t know.  GOD came to me and revealed HIMSELF to me.

I was an agnostic since I was 8 years old, I remember the day, I remember the person with whom I was speaking when I said, “I’m not going to believe in anything that the world says; I have to prove EVERYTHING to myself.  I don’t believe in GOD any longer.  HE has never done a stinking thing for me even if HE does exist.”

or so I thought

So I continued to do things MY way, always seeking TRUTH, listening and reading things that other people told me I should not.  “You’re too young to understand that.”  Yeah, stfu, lady, and give me my book back!  If I don’t understand it, I can see pretty pictures in the spaces between the words.  Leave me alone or I’ll bark at you.  Librarians do not like to be barked at by 8 year old know-it-all snots.

Seeking

Seeking

Seeking

“Why do you sit out here at lunch, all by yourself, and read Kant or Nietzsche or Star Trek or the Wall Street Journal?  None of this is for school work.”  Frankly, you’re welcome to sit next to me.  You have never thought a thought that interests me, but you’re welcome to the seat.  No, she’d rather not.  That’s okay.  I’m not missing out on anything by her absence–SHE IS.

They hated me, and I pitied them.  Okay, my pity could cross the line, from time to time, and be considered hatred.  But I was too arrogant to know the difference, back then.  They gave bitterness, but I gave it back, albeit in a different fashion.  Two sides of the same bitter coin.  (Kinda like the repugnantcon and demoncrap parties:  two sides of the same soiled sheet of toilet paper.  And the libertarian party is the hole in that toilet paper, and your soiled finger.  They all suck $hit.  But that’s enough politics.)

Bumbling, stumbling, seeking, listening, asking, learning, trying, failing, trying again, trying more, trying harder, failing, failing, failing.  Failing to find peace.  Failing to find healing from my existential wounds.  Listening, talking, debating, reading.

By 31 years old, I knew everything.  I was solidly RIGHT WING, solidly agnostic, and solidly HOMOSEXUAL.  But I wasn’t all that bitter, like most of the homosexuals that I knew.  Not, at least, toward other people and their ideas.  (Well, I was rather bitter toward the progressive politics of perversion, the festering, beach-ball sized, hypocrisy-filled hemorrhoid that progressivism is.  Blind, idiot followers of the demoncrap party, because they thought that they were gay and, well, gays just vote for demoncraps, I might get a little bitter in conversations with these people.  Politics, again.  I promise I’ll stop.  Soon.)

But, one-by-one, several dozen people with whom I worked began turning to GOD.  I found it fascinating, and I talked with these people A LOT!  They were quite gentle and kind and intelligent and articulate and patient and tolerant.  I was quite open about my homosexuality AND my agnosticism.  And they didn’t care about either.  They treated me like an equal.  Not the homosexuals–they hated me because I was a right-winger, and because I was as kind to Christians as they could only manage to be toward another bitter, progressive homosexual.

The left still calls this tolerance–celebrating perversity and denigrating anyone who doesn’t celebrate your particular perversity with as much BITTER vigor as they do.  Hypocrisy.  The modern American left, which it is a shame that they have stolen and soiled an honored tradition, stolen and soiled the words, stolen and soiled HISTORY….  I know I said I’d stop, but I can’t seem to help myselves.  Give me a Danial Patrick Moynihan, a Cynthia McKinney, a Thomas Jefferson, a Dennis Kucinich, now THESE people are worthy of the honor of being called Liberals.  There aren’t many left.  And the right only has Rand Paul and Justin Amash, for the most part.  And all libertarians are either anarchists or sold out cuckoo birds.  Like Bernie Sanders.  He’d have been great if he was the person that he tried to present himself to be.  But, like the Trumpeteer, he’s a liar and a sellout.

So I guess I got all the politics out of the way.

Back to my constant contact with all these FILTHY, HATE-FILLED, MEAN, OPPRESSIVE, BACKWARD, HYPOCRITICAL, EVIL XIANS, who only wanted to MURDER me because all of them, ALL OF THEM secretly desired to live like I did, diddling around with other people of the same sex, (or whatever else).  The homosexuals were wrong about these people.  They projected their own bitterness upon these people, and saw in these Christians the very things that they saw–and HATED–in themselves.  I found the Christians to be quite loving and, well really, the most human people that I had ever met.

And I’d go home every night to revel in a live, call-in, Christian talk show.  I was quite fond of this particular gentleman because he was a studious intellectual, and he was quite kind.  Oh, and he was rather “conservative” as well.  Oft times, homosexuals would call in just to try to get out a string of vile curse words before he could cut the audio feed–apparently the 15 second delay thing had not yet been incorporated into his studio.  THIS really annoyed me because, I believed at the time, these bitter homosexuals were making it difficult for those of us who weren’t quite so bitter.  But I was fooling myself.

Nearly all homosexuals are rather bitter.  Including the one who was about to pick up the phone and call the talk show and tell the man that I was gay, I was NOT Christian, I was NOT bitter, and I was at least as “conservative” as the host was.  I sat to gather my thoughts.  I was smarter than this man, and I knew it.  I was smarter than he was because I could see around that FALSE ideology of GOD-ness.  I stood to reach for the phone.  I was smart enough to walk this host from his ancient myt–

BAM!

I’m on the floor

GOD revealed HIMSELF to me, letting me know that HE was real

that I was wrong

that I wasn’t quite as smart as I thought I was

or quite as kind as I thought I was

and that I didn’t need to be chained by the unfulfilling world of sodomy

I was freed

O! GLORIOUS DAY!

never having sought HIM

seeking, indeed, to tear apart one of HIS servants

seeking to justify myself, prove myself

seeking

seeking

seeking

HE is a REWARDER of them who diligently seek HIM.  Seek the TRUTH, and you WILL end up at the CROSS!

So, why am I a Christian?

My response should always be, “Why do you ask?”

I told the questioner, “Peace, love, joy, healing, oh, and Salvation.”

We both chuckled.  Salvation.  This is what Christianity is supposed to offer.  I slipped it in there last.  Frankly, although I believe that Christianity is the only Spiritual Relationship that offers Salvation

and I’m rather fond of the idea of Salvation

grateful for it, indeed

I wasn’t looking for that.

I sought TRUTH; I sought ANSWERS; I sought peace, meaning, fulfillment.

And I got all that.

With Salvation thrown in for free

Well, it was FREE for ME

But it cost my SAVIOUR a great deal

Why am I a Christian?  Because HE sought ME in the deepest, darkest, filthiest, bitterest, most unfulfilling pit

HE met ME in that pit

HE lifted me out of that pit

and I hadn’t even spoken HIS NAME in more than two decades, had myself convinced that HE didn’t even exist.

In JESUS’ NAME

Amen

Rambling Remnants

aswe

This is an image of a collage that I have begun.  I am limited in my art supplies, right now, so I work with what I have.  It will appear rather juvenile, perhaps, but it will please me.  Then I’ll probably find a way to consume it with fire for an art video project to reveal the REAL one, the finished one, in OILS, behind it.  But I have to start by investing $1-2,ooo and by going through the Bob Ross series, most of which is available on Amazon Prime.  Hallelujah! I watch it, anyway, pretending that I’m painting my scenery.  Living the dream before it’s been completely realized.  Only there’s a bunch more PURPLE in my scenery.  Each of his is a masterpiece, finished in 1/2 hour.  In 64 years, I might be able to come up with some infantile PURPLE tree or something that satisfied me.  But I can’t start out with $65 worth of stuff from Walmart and be satisfied.  I have to go all the way.  Again.  And stick with it longer.  In Jesus’ Name, Amen

The pink paper has what others see as different colored inks used to inscribe crescents, or moons.  I’ve always looked where others don’t.  It’s been a character trait that has never drifted away.  I read the books.  But I saw the spaces between words.  I used those to draw rivers and mountains and trees (Bob Ross comes to mind, again) and, of course, other letters.  I would draw them in with pencil or, if the book were mine, and not an old book, with pens.  Text books, newspaper articles from the paper that my mother or father was holding up from across the room.  I couldn’t read the words, yet, but I could see pictures in the spaces between the words.

Here, too, in this pink paper, I am discarding the moons.  They are not what I see.  They do not fascinate me.  They’re common enough.  Other people see moons; other people are fascinated by moons.  What is it that they DON’T see?  That’s what I’m after.  Remember, I wrote in “Why am I here?” below, ‘What if they run out?  What if their coolness, their weirdness runs out?  What if they could no longer have their piece of this weirdness pie, filter their thoughts through this weirdness sieve, gleaning just the right amount of weirdness from that which NORMAL people discard?”  I see these funky shapes, these REMNANTS as art.  They are alive to me.  They tell me fun and interesting stories and Bible Studies and Pink Joy. In this first cutting, I see a praying robot, Singing Flowers 🌺 to GOD.

The Remnants.  The “Least of These.”  The shadow people, the recalcitrant reprobates, the rebels, the broken, the addicted, the homosexuals, the Goths/Emos, the cutters, the manics, the psychotics, the abused, AND the abusers.  These people drew me to them all my life.  I got a long, painful look at their worlds.  And now I got a GLORIOUSLY PURPLE LOVE from GOD that I long to use to REACH, TEACH, PREACH, LOVE, GIVE, ENCOURAGE the LEAST OF THESE.  

I don’t wear the filthy rags of guilt about having been where I have been.  It has become my Mission, and my Gifts shall be used to reach those who are lost on some of the same bumpy paths that I’ve traveled.  Praise GOD, I now wear the WHITE ROBE, cleansed in the BLOOD OF JESUS.  My ARMOR is nearly complete.  Amen

I don’t know JACK

JACK

WOW!  Again I ramble (mostly) blank.  Jack came to mind, and, of course, his image came to mind, so I wanted the photo.  I did not have a title, so, just this once, instead of leaving it temporarily blank, I wrote “I don’t know” in the title box at the user interface.  Then, as I sought the image in another tab, I began pondering what I should title the blog, and nothing seemed to stick, so I saved the photo and called it JACK.  GOD finished the title for me.

I really LOVED this movie, “Nightmare Before Christmas,” when it came out.  At over 6′ tall, and weighing between 124 and 140 my adult life, I kinda looked like him (Now I look more like the Mayor).  Powder, the character from the movie of the same name, he was another of my nicknames.  I REALLY looked like him, dressed like him, before that movie came out.  But back to “Nightmare…” I think that I knew the entire dialog the second time that I watched it.  The whole movie seemed to make complete sense to me, seemed to speak of my life, this tall, skinny guy who hung out in his dark castle, obsessed with Halloween (until we both turned to seeking CHRISTMAS), every day was Halloween, a song by Ministry.  Written from my head:

“(Everyday Is) Halloween
Well I live with snakes and lizards
And other things that go bump in the night
Cos to me everyday is Halloween
I have given up hiding and started to fight
I have started to fight

Well any time, any place, anywhere that I go
All the people seem to stop and stare
They say ‘why are you dressed like it’s Halloween?
You look so absurd, you look so obscene’

O, why can’t I live a life for me?
Why should I take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me
It’s the same, it’s the same in the whole wide world

Well I let their teeny minds think
That they’re dealing with someone who is over the brink
And I dress this way just to keep them at bay
Cos Halloween is everyday
It’s everyday

O, why can’t I live a life for me?
Why should I take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me
It’s the same, it’s the same in the whole wide world

O, why can’t I live a life for me?
Why should I take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me
I’m not the one that’s so absurd

Why hide it?
Why fight it?
Hurt feelings
Best to stop feeling hurt
From denials, reprisals
It’s the same it’s the same in the whole wide world

Took a break.  I was dancing.  Imagine that…. … … Sorry, I drifted off into PURPLE World, imagining myself dancing.  Like I did as a teen.  Both as a homosexual teen and as a heterosexual teen.  I mostly dreamed of BIG things in Dance from the homosexual parts, however.  They could imagine some REALLY BIG things.  Like Julliard, then touring the planet, then the stars, with my own Dance Troupe/Shakespearean Theatre.  Or, maybe I’d travel like Professor Marvel in the “Wizard of Oz,” in an old Gypsy Wagon that I made myself.  Naw, I’d probably have been more like a gayer version of James Franco’s character in “Oz the Great and Powerful,” lying, stealing, cheating, hoaxing, and engaging in unBiblical carnal activities like a temple prostitute.  That’s the me that was compared to Jack Skellington.

I don’t know JACK.

I know JESUS

Cross

The Thrill is GONE

The Thrill is GONE by BB King, whom I envision as a GRAND PRINCE in GOD’S HOLY ORCHESTRA, for when GOD calls upon Mr. King for that SWEET GUITAR and the MATCHLESS timber of his CHILD’S voice, all of HEAVEN rejoices!  With my parents, and Elvis Presley.  (And FAR more people than your legalists/Pharisees think are on the Big List.)

Anyway, I wanted to ramble about how I see this as my song to the adversary, whose names people often capitalize because it is common to do so for common names and in the illustrative euphemisms in poetic language.  But I prefer not to capitalize santa’s name.  I don’t let that red devil have any honor in my mind any longer.  santa’s name doesn’t even deserve capitalization at the beginning of a sentence.  I rarely use santa’s name.  To me, it’s as if santa doesn’t exist.  (Dyslexia?)

Besides, the RED BLOOD of JESUS the CHRIST cancels out the red that is associated with santa.  That red is supposed to represent flames, which thing people don’t really like, unless it’s under their control.  But associating that red devil with red was supposed to evoke FEAR, but the PERFECT LOVE OF THE CHRIST CASTETH OUT ALL FEAR!  So HIS BLOOD even took the COLOR RED back from santa, who canNOT intimidate those of us who have seen the LIGHT.  This LIGHT cannot be UNSEEN.

The Thrill is GONE, santa.  I’m done with you and your lies.  Every word in this song changes to something that speaks directly from my GODLY center.  From that image of the GOOD and KIND and GODLY and LOVING man that GOD implanted in me from a very young boy.  From my SEAT in the HEAVENLIES, my IT IS FINISHED moment.  THEN vengeance will be a brief undertaking.  REAL vengeance.  GOD’S JUSTICE, GOD’S VENGEANCE, against the adversary, santa, the only adversary we’ve ever really had.  THEN, Peace and Joy foreverafter.  Amen

}}Back to boiling cotton balls in homemade pigments.  I MUST find that EXACT shade for the Pink Taffy Clouds, the PURPLE Sky, the TREE trunks, the Chocolate River, the PURPLE Fruit on the TREE in the zen garden in my bathroom….{{

FATHER FATHER

FATHER FATHER,

It seems so very long

FATHER FATHER,

Show YOURSELF Strong!

I seek YOU in this trial, FATHER, REDEEMER, SAVIOUR

Show YOURSELF Strong in this servant’s Life

Show me YOUR Faithfulness, yet again

Help me, FATHER, as I cry at YOUR Mercy Seat; help me even in my momentary unbelief, Dearest FATHER

A beggar with NOTHING, who longs only to be YOUR slave, who seeks only to show forth all THY Marvelous Works, YOUR BELOVED seeks YOUR Face, seeks YOUR Grace

My eyes have become BLUE, FATHER, I plead the BLOOD of JESUS, that I may once again see through the PURPLE eyes that YOU gave me

FATHER, Comfort me in YOUR Strong Tower; shelter me Dearest

FATHER FATHER

(I envision the above performed as a CHRISTIAN PUNK ROCK song, the performer so drained at the end if it that he collapses.  In Prayer.  I’d kinda like to give it a try.)

Dang Me (Ramble, perhaps lengthy…

…because I couldn’t stay out of the Taffy, with GOD on this one, this tiny thought bubble that I knew was destined to become a blogpost, showing how GOD is working in my life.)

Dang Me, by Roger Miller

As a little boy, I hated the hell out of this song, and this singer.  I thought it too juvenile for ME to perform, much less a grown man.  I thought that, by the time that you get out of diapers, you should be talking like, I don’t know, Richard Nixon, maybe.  Certainly I was thinking and talking about the man by this age.  I gobbled up every word that he spoke on TV and, within a few years, in the newspaper.  Why were children my age much more like my younger brother was when he was 2?  Goo-goo and patty cake and tag, these things don’t interest me.  (Trying to discover the physics, the exact trajectory to throw the few dodge balls that I ever managed to get hold of so that it hit Superman in the face or the gonads.  It was all about the physics, you see.  And a little revenge.  He was my biggest tormentor, but we became comfortable with each other’s existence even before we graduated, so we’re cool.)  I didn’t have much time for playing like a child, I had the Constitution and the Founding Fathers to study.  I had Star Trek Dreams awake and asleep.

That boy, now, UNDER THE BLOOD, he SINGS him some SILLY Roger Miller.  I could NEVER tolerate childish silliness, as a child.  ‘GET A LIFE!’ would roll through my head.

********************

I took a break.  Okay, I had to dance.  To Zombie.  Long story, that.  How I can worship GOD while listening to Zombie.  Maybe the next post.  The pain is UNDER THE BLOOD.  That sums it up.  Forget telling anyone that your Gift of WORDS extends to lyrics, lyrics of this music that you sought out in pain, that you danced to in pain, these VERY songs have new, PURPLE words, born free, forever free of pain, filled with HIS LOVE.

The enemy’s very tool USED AGAINST HIM, with GOD’S Gifts of Words and Dance.  GOD’S Word is sharper than a two-edged sword.

And I’d like to learn this dang, silly song, because sillyness is now quite fun to me.  I don’t do it to attract others, to please others, as a rule.  I generally do it to please myself, in tribute to the JOY and FREEDOM that we have in CHRIST.  Like when I wear my Stovepipe Hat.  Covered in PURPLE glitter.  That’s for me, folks.

If I want to get your attention, I’ll insult your wife’s pickup.  No, just kidding.  But don’t be afraid to Pray or dance with a man wearing PURPLE, meandering the Mountains of the Pacific Northwest.  I’ve put away the things of a boy.  I’ve put away hating sillyness.  That thing served me as a boy.  Today, as a man, I get that sillyness back, as HIS Gift, to be used, ultimately, to SHOW FORTH ALL HIS GLORY!  Amen

STTOS Dreams that WILL Ramble

idic

Wow!  I’m on that edge of nervousness with nothing in my mind that I want to write. Where do I begin? STAR TREK helped to save my life.  And my sanity.  AND my insanity, which is now sanitized.  PRAISE THE LORD JESUS THE CHRIST FOR HIS PRECIOUS BLOOD!  I don’t know when or how I was first exposed to Star Trek, the series with Spock and Uhura.  (I happen to love me a marathon of 12 episodes of TNG, on occasion.  That’s 12 episodes per day.  Just kidding.  Or is he?)  Anyway, it seems to have ALWAYS been with me.  I wouldn’t have yet been 2 years old upon its initial airdate.  But it could NOT have been then, because my pops would not have allowed it to have been played in his house.  “GD COMMIES!” would have been in a slew of the invectives that you would have heard from Archie regarding anything so avant-garde.  Even the WORD avant-garde would have engendered a similar slew.

But back to Star Trek, I remember the decision to Spockify, back when I was 6 or 7, perhaps.  I became Spock-like to hide my rage.  Funny thing is, I was born with pointed ears.  I kid you not.  One of my nicknames, by this time, had already BECOME Spock.  They meant pain, I knew that they meant pain, I took it as a grand compliment, and confirmation that my dreams were true, and that I was actually only 1/4 Vulcan, because Spock had been stuck on Earth, in the past, during Pon farr, and, well, he was my father.  So I became my father, Spock.  To a functional level.  Few knew.  Oh, it was clear enough that I was a little “touched.”  Indeed.  I was relatively accepting of this most of the time.  Until a certain age, anyway.  Some of the other, harsher monikers that I endured, they weren’t quite so kind as the Spock one.  I’m sure you don’t want me to ramble about all that.  Besides, I’m over what is UNDER THE BLOOD!

That pained boy has THOUSANDS of LIVING SCIFI WORLDS with him at all times.  And GOD, SALVATION, RESURRECTION, REDEMPTION, and a whole lot of SCRIPTURE woven in like MAGIC!  I shall learn to represent this imagery that I see, and it will soon accompany the magical words that jump and dance and swirl around, visible to me, twirling like MULTIPLE psychedelic paisleys.  Which thing, by the way, I understand the origin of my early fascination with glitter and psychedelic colors and paisley.  But that may require longer than even my own interest span.  So, perhaps, later.

One PURPLE day at a time, spread HIS Love, SPEAK LIFE, and paint something PURPLE.

PRAISE GOD!