The Arms of Jesus

Both of my kids participate in the my local county soccer association. This results in my sometimes mingling with other soccer parents that I'd probably never meet otherwise.

One parent happened to be a semi-pro soccer player himself and (to me) seemed quite fit and active. His son looked like he may very well be on the same path to becoming quite adept with a soccer ball.

This gentleman that I just described recently experienced a serious heart condition that was obviously lurking for some time; however, it's manifestation was sudden and surprising. He ended up staying in the hospital for weeks.

I finally saw him at one of the games recently. I didn't recognize anything about him except his voice. He was frail and he couldn't walk due to atrophy, so he was going to watch the game from the passenger side of the parked, family van. He called my name as I was making my way out to the field to watch my son play; I was unwittingly passing by where he sat.

He talked about how he was totally caught off guard by his turn in health. He talked about all the tubes he endured-- even feeding tubes-- and all the lost weight. He talked about his sense of helplessness and his newfound dependency upon others for simple things such as getting a decent shave.

He strongly alluded to also having a near death experience. He described how he had a feeling that he was leaving this world when his heart condition finally came to the surface so suddenly.

He began to cry as he continued to describe how he thought he was going to die, but then he seemed to be in a warm place. He felt as though he was wrapped in an electric blanket. He became calm and felt safe.

He said that he didn't want to leave because he realized he was in the arms of Jesus.

I never had a near death experience, but I suspect that I'm slightly familiar with the feelings he described because of my exposure to Pentecostalism. I remember many such warm feelings during worship and praise. I have known moments of ecstasy where I totally lost my sense of where I was. I think I could identify with some of the feelings he described.

But, then he spoke of how he saw his wife and children. He thought of them and realized that he couldn't leave them. So, he chose to come back despite the beaconing warmth of Jesus' arms.

He was still crying as he talked. But, I became curious. Was he crying because he was so overjoyed to have felt the arms of Jesus, or was he crying because he almost died and could only barely hold on to life because he didn't want to abandon his family?

I wondered this because he spoke of the fear of never seeing his family again with a sense of agony. He talked about how his children have reacted to his being gone from home for so long. I do think he was very afraid-- but I cannot know his deepest thoughts.

He admonished me to trust in Jesus because now he's certain that he's real. He already assumes I'm a Christian-- and he already believed in Christ. But, he just couldn't help but be sure to mention how real Jesus has become to him now that he's had such an experience.

I was very much like that after I had spoken in tongues for the first time. I remember it quite well.

His appeal was emotional and certainly compelling. But, I also know that such feelings can come from totally within ourselves.

I didn't debate him. That was not the time for such a conversation. I'm just glad he survived his life-threatening aliments and remained in the land of the living.

But, I'm still not convinced his tears were of joy for being in the arms of Jesus. I believe he was simply afraid for it all to end so suddenly-- without any warning.

Again, I cannot know how he truly felt. I can only speculate and impose my own bias thinking upon his words.

Besides-- even if he did cry because of fear (and not joy), I certainly cannot say that I blame him for his tears. I'd probably cry just the same.

Why I Still Can't Bring Myself to Believe Again

Much was brewing in my head, but I had no time to pour it out.

But now the time has come.

A frequent commenter here at this blog, Tandi, recommended reading an article: Why I believe again.

Tandi is a Christian who holds on to her faith. She also hopes that perhaps one day I will consider returning to the faith. Despite our present differences, I have high respect for her and I can understand her desire to win back the apostates of Christianity.

And since I have respect for her, I try to follow up on her reading recommendations.

So, I read the article that she suggested.

I will expound upon my feelings concerning the article in a "round about" and verbose way.

I wanted to keep it short, but I just don't know how. I was dreaming when I wrote this, so sue me if . . .

Ah, never mind.

If it helps, read my post in small chunks or parts.

Or I suppose you'd save more time by not reading my post at all, huh?

Um, let's not go there.

Well if you do stick around, I will start with an event that happened a week ago from this post.

I went to church Easter Sunday. Yeah, me. I went to church. Really.

Don't get too excited, though. I did it for my mom. My brother usually drops her off at church on Sundays but lately he is, er . . . incapacitated. So, I took my mom and my kids. My wife went the previous Sunday with my mom, so she refused to visit church this Sunday-- and forget about it being Easter.

Gee, Easter could have even been part of the reason for why she didn't want to go to church.

All in all, I guess it was finally my turn.

The church visit wasn't what I had expected; why, Church was actually quite pleasant!

I didn't realize that I had missed all the familiar faces. I also had to acknowledge that I missed worship and praise (just a little). The running around, the jumping and the hollering of praise at the top of one's lungs! Spontaneously running laps around the sanctuary-- people trying to keep a lid on their exuberance, yet they can't help themselves.

What a rush! I remembered when I was like that.

And the singing was beautiful. I was reminded of songs that I used to love and cherish.

I even sang along with some of the songs.

At service, we sang a favorite hymn of mine: Because He Lives. In the past, I was so convinced when I sang that song . . .

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, all fear is gone.
Because I know, He holds the future.
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

But this time when I sang along, I wasn't so sure.

And I wasn't so sure when the preacher kept repeating himself while trying to retell the Resurrection story. He was trying to give the Gospel accounts more life, but his message to me fell quite flat.

Sitting through the sermon was the worst of it. So, that is to say the church visit wasn't all that bad. I can forgive a bad sermon. I've sat through plenty in my life. One more would not hurt.

When it was all over, I walked away wondering why I had a nice time. Maybe it was time to go back to church again. Maybe turning to atheism was too rash of a decision.

Decision? Can belief (non-belief) be a decision?

Anyways . . .

I thought hard about my Easter Sunday experience for the next few days.

I reflected on how I could have ran around and jumped up and down like everyone else did. I felt that same energy I felt as though I was still a believer. But I didn't participate because I know that in my heart I didn't believe as I once did; I didn't want to be sacrilegious. To express that kind of praise and spirit-filled exuberance while still holding on to an atheistic mindset would be something of a mockery to their worship experience. I didn't want to do that out of respect.

And, I didn't want anyone to think that I had made new commitments to church again.

That realization reaffirmed that I was only a spectator.

I also noticed something else. I only enjoyed church because it was a welcomed distraction from the uncertainties I'm currently dealing with in my life. The running, the shouting, the songs of certainty all causes one to feel better.

I found myself thinking of my church visit in the context of the daunting personal problems which have recently started staring me in the face.

Life springs up fortune and misfortune. Blessings and catastrophe. Opportunity and famine. Life and death.

So then, certainty and uncertainty becomes the backdrop in which I reflect on my church visit. I noticed how in church, Christ is certain to have been raised from the dead, he is certain to return for his church, and his followers are certain to rise again through the same resurrection power of Christ-- unless while living they should look skyward and witness his return upon the clouds.

I am certain of death. I've seen it. I've seen my loved ones go the way of all the earth. I slowly and reluctantly trod the same path of my father and uncles while drawn by the same inexorable pull. I see my mother closer and closer to death, daily. She, following her husband. Me following my mom with my wife by my side. And our kids are not too far behind. We all are shackled together while being pulled to the grave-- like a line of inmates chained together so as to prevent any escape from incarceration.

Yes, I'm certain of death. But, I remain uncertain about what will happen to me after I die. Let alone, what will happen to me (and other loved ones) while I (and they) still live.

And now, I am beginning to think that religion is simply an anesthetic for the guaranteed pain and uncertainty of a life that must end in death.

In and of itself, using religion as an anesthetic is fine. But if that's the case, religion isn't the only worthwhile brand of anesthetic available in life. And I've come to terms with accepting the fact that life is indeed uncertain, fragile, volatile, and defined in the context of certain death.

Somehow though, I personally feel that I am better informed and more self aware after acknowledging that this life might be all that I get. I can stare back at the face of life and respect it-- daunting problems and all.

So when I read the online article in the New Statesman, the author seemed only to say that belief in Christ answers all uncertainty and is therefore the truth. The whole of life is best enjoyed when one believes in a creator and is therefore the truth.

I disagree on both points. Christ does not answer all of my uncertainties. He answers all questions, but I am not convinced of his answers. So, such answers are of no help to me personally.

And I find that I enjoy music, arts, and the nighttime sky perhaps more now than as a past theist. I love my favorite music and enjoy it all the more because I don't feel condemnation for listening to it any longer! (if it wasn't gospel music, it was ungodly in my former belief system. And sometimes certain gospel songs weren't even holy enough!). And for me, not knowing how the universe began and how the stars fell in place makes the nighttime view more magical to me. How fascinating that we may exist only because matter was simply doing it's thing! A billion-to-one chance out of billions upon billions of planets!

I also don't look down on creation as I once did as a believer. This is not to say all believers had this perspective. But, I know that I certainly did once. I looked at the world as the sinful leftovers of a fallen universe because Adam, Eve (Lilith?), and the serpent introduced iniquity into existence.

I see now that this universe may very well be all we have. We had better cherish it and enjoy it. Trusting in a next life, I found myself severely restricting myself in what could probably be the only life I will get to have. That is the mistake that I was personally making. I can only speak for myself and of my own Christian experiences.

Your millage may vary.

Some people do not want to face this uncertainty. And I suspect religion numbs this painful, unpredictable embrace between life and death.

That's fine with me. Nothing is ignoble or backwards about being attracted to religion for this reason. Just don't force your beliefs on others*. Share your beliefs-- but don't force them.

* Among those who have commented on my blog so far, I am not accusing anyone of this. I'm only trying to underscore my overall gripe towards fundamentalism of any sort.

Religion is a better anesthetic than hurting others and hurting oneself. But when it comes to dealing with life's uncertainties, being hurtful isn't the only option to practicing religion.

As for me, I numb the pain with enjoying my life while I can, assigning purpose to my life, loving my family, and doing the best I can to leave something behind for my kids.

I also numb the pain with coffee abuse, blogging, and good reading.

That "laughter stuff" is a good antiseptic, too. A very occasional drink helps me out. A fun movie. Even the routine drudgery of work. No matter how much I complain, I do like my job.

And there are some other things that I won't mention here. You know. I don't wanna be accused of TMI and all that.

So at this point in my life, I still can't bring myself to believe again. Religion doesn't help me with my uncertainties because I'm still uncertain about what the ancient religious texts assert.

In light of all this, I'd rather just face the uncertainties of life head on. Even death.

But I do appreciate reading the article in the New Statesman. While I do not agree with the author, I still respect his point of view.

Belief works for him. Non-belief works for me.

Perhaps my feelings about his article could be summed up as simple as that.

Murdered?

Be forewarned. This post was hard for me to write. In turn, this post may be hard for you to read.

Before my dad passed away, he "crashed" the night before. He was already in the hospital. We received "the phone call" and rushed to his bedside.

So many of us were there. We circled around his bed and prayed.

He finally woke up and looked around. He wondered why we were all there praying. Why all the hubbub? After all, in his mind he had only fallen off to sleep.

I never noticed it, but my wife says tears started streaming down his cheeks; the reason for our presence finally dawned on him.

He realized now that he had almost died.

The doctors placed an oxygen mask over his face; this was a change from the thin, plastic oxygen tube that was customarily under his nose.

As the night went on, his breathing grew laborious. He developed an unquenchable thirst and wanted to remove the mask to drink some water. The nurse insisted that he didn't do that.

The staff would only allow him quick sips of water, but forbade any prolonged removal of his mask. In fact, they would only push the mask to the side or pull it up in order to insert a straw into his mouth from time to time.

He complained more and more about that mask.

Finally, I approached a nurse in private.

"My dad wants to take his mask off. Why can't he?" I accosted. He's really uncomfortable with it on".

"If your dad takes that mask off, he will die," the nurse tersely replied. Then, she walked away.

What can one say to that?

So, I found myself doing all I could to make sure that mask stayed on his face. But knowing that the mask was a discomfort, I tried to compensate by asking him for anything he might need.

The next day, my dad's situation grew worse. Breathing seemed like it was more trouble than it was worth for him. And he didn't seem coherent any more.

At that point, he was probably already gone. Maybe not. But I just couldn't get through to him any more. He wouldn't speak clearly. He couldn't write anything that made sense. He only motioned and pointed, yet he never seemed to point at anything in particular.

Though oddly, he never stopped fidgeting with his mask.

I sat with him for a while. The I decided I'd go home for just a bit and come back later that on to visit with him. I turned and waved "bye" to him in the doorway. He waved back.

That seemed to be the only coherent connection I made with him that day.

After I left-- when no one was looking-- he took off his mask.

******

Though this was hard for me to write, today will not be a sad day for me. So please, try not to be sad yourself if you actually read through all of that.

I can't help thinking of my dad after hearing that Eluana Englaro, has passed away-- the poor lady in Italy who was preserved in a vegetative state for 17 years.

Sad news, yes, but I'm sure her father can start seeking closure now.
And Eluana can finally rest in peace.

While the Italian government was attempting to pass an emergency measure to block the euthanasia of Eluana, doctors had already removed her feeding tube and administered medicines to keep her comfortable as she passed away.

People are calling her death a murder despite the fact that her vegetative state seemed permanent.

So, was Eluana murdered? Was her death a "tragic execution"?

I think murder and execution are strong words.

I'd rather use the words cruel and inhumane.

But that's for wanting to keep her alive until she passed "naturally".

And now I think back to my dad. If I had the power to keep him alive, I certainly would have done so. If I could have kept that mask on his face, I would have.

But that isn't what my dad wanted.

Today, I respect that.

Hope For Tomorrow

Many people seem to look to religion for hope. Hope for tomorrow. Hope for the afterlife.

People cling to religion to cushion the blow of our mortality.

If that helps, that's fine with me.

But religion often perpetuates the very fear we want to escape as we practice religion.

I don't like the idea of dying. But, I hate the idea of dying and going to hell even worse. I'm not too excited about the idea of heaven either.

Regardless of how euphoric god's presence would be, what autonomy will you have in heaven?

Maybe that's why the sinner can't go to heaven; The sinner isn't ready to surrender self.

That's sort of like dying, too, though. But, the priests get to stay in control though.

Death worries me some, still. But not like when I was Christian.

I've come to accept that in the end all people are terminally ill. We all have a disease called mortality.

But I have hope for tomorrow. I enjoy life and I look forward to tomorrow. This life now is precious. This is all I know until I pass on.

An Unfortunate Anniversary

Eight years ago, on the day of this blog post, my dad died.

While we weren't very close, we cared for each other and we had respect for each other. We had a connectedness that seems to exist between all fathers and sons, regardless of the quality of the relationship.

His death was hard at first, indeed. But over time, dealing with it has gotten much better.

I smile when I think of him now. At first, it wasn't always that way.

I cannot say that his death was the cause of my slide into non-belief of my former Christan faith nor did this event single-handedly cause me to tread down the path towards atheism.

Years would go by before I'd reach the point where I am now. But no doubt, his death was a catalyst to my slide. I think this is where it all really began.

Here's the story:

My dad came over to visit us (my parents were separated) and we noticed he didn't look so good. He told us that, too. He thought it was just terrible gas, but said he would go see a doctor.

He never really got out of the hospital after that.

He made a downhill progression in his heath because of lung cancer.

Funny thing is, a few months before my dad's illness manifested, I determined in my heart that I would start praying for him every night.

And I did. I usually neglected praying for my dad because he was estranged. But, I decided I would stop being so negligent. I was passing judgment on him by thinking praying for him would do no good towards seeing him saved.

So, I started praying earnestly for his soul's salvation.

The timing of his illness was such that I started to wonder if my payers brought some curse upon him. At this odd coincidence, I stopped praying for everyone -- in fear someone else would fall ill like my dad. My spiritual life was paralyzed.

As my dad's condition worsened, I would visit him in the hospital from time to time. Other relatives and loved would come to visit. Some came way from other states. We knew in our hearts that time was running out for him. But . . . being believers . . . we hoped for a miracle.

Just in case. You never know what God might do.

But, if God didn't do anything, I knew my dad was going to die. And that was that.

An evangelist in our family said that she had received an inspiring "word" from the Lord. She said that God asked her concerning my dad, "why do you worry as though there was no hope"?

There was innuendo in this question. Why are you worried, oh ye, or little faith? I can heal your dad. Didn't you get the memo?

I can save him at any time. Why are you concerned?

And some people in my family that heard those words, took those words to heart.

My dad got baptized before all his strength failed him. But, to my knowledge, he never had the all important speaking in tongues experience that Pentecostals expect from someone who is truly saved. Without this experience, you cannot be saved in the view of many Pentecostals. Especially the type I was and the type that my dad started to hang around after he became sick.

He never got better. He never spoke in tongues. After a few short years passed, so did he.

But at the funeral, the other Pentecostal relatives rejoiced because they claimed God saved him.

But God broke one of his own rules if he truly saved my dad!

Well . . . he's God. He does what he wants.

In reality, a prophesy was made and everyone had to save face. God said there was hope. He insinuated that my dad would be saved according to the evangelist months ago.

So, God must have saved him somehow, since he didn't heal him.

I never bought into that "prophesy". I fully expected my dad to pass. Just not so soon I suppose.

So, there were no hard feelings towards the evangelist who uttered the words. Not from me, anyhow.

But, I was confused and this was the beginning of my problem.

How could someone speak for God and say something that was wrong or untrue? Either God made a mistake, we misunderstood what God was trying to say, or the minister speaking for God was wrong.

Well, if we misunderstood what God said, then God isn't that great of a communicator.

If the evangelist truly heard from God, then God was wrong. (or lied??) Why? Because my dad did not fulfill the criteria for being saved according to the very God who made the prophesy! Only my close family (and family friends) felt my dad was saved. Everyone else at the church would initially show sympathy when they learned my dad had died. Inevitably, members would ask if he spoke in tongues before he died.

When I told them "no" or that I wasn't sure, their silent regret shown upon their faces. That was all I needed to see. They felt sorry for me. In their minds, I had to deal with the hardship of my dad spending eternity in hell.

I was forced to witness a contradiction for the first time. I had to see people who speak for God say wrong things.

I didn't lose my faith at that point. But, I became very angry at God over the next few years. And worse, people at church seemed very insensitive. I began to feel like a person in a swimming pool crowded with people. As I start to drown, I flail and panic. I cry out and splash. I thrash around. But no one in the crown sees or hears me.

Staying at that church felt like staying in that swimming pool.

So, I got out.

But, I still believed in God and in the Christian faith. I just needed to find a better place to practice my beliefs. But first, I had to stop being angry at God.

I hoped I could find a place that could help me understand why God didn't save my dad after I made an effort to pray for him. The timing was so awful for everything.

For a while, I felt like I was the one that killed him because I decided to pray for him.

Talk about classical conditioning. My "prayer life" suffered greatly after that. I started to develop a phobia of prayer.

Eventually, I remembered the verse in the Bible that says, "It is appointed that all men die, and then judgment."

That made me feel better. Everyone has to face that journey. All life experiences that transition.

From that idea, I began to accept the thought that God didn't let my dad die out of cruelty or meanness. Dying is the taint from sin that we all have to deal with (that's what I told myself, at least).

But, why did he not save him after I prayed so fervently? Doesn't God want to save everyone?

And how come we can just bend the rules of salvation like that? We say people are saved when it's convenient. But, we're preached to with strict fervor and admonition that there is only one way to be saved.

I was puzzled.

And so it began. The seed was planted.

From then on, I started to ask myself if there was something wrong with what I believed.

People tend to use religion to comfort themselves when their loved ones die. That didn't happen for me. Religion made the passing of my dad worse in more ways than I can go into on a blog post.

Now without religion -- I feel much better about the passing of my dad.

Without religion, I can know that my dad will truly rest in peace.