The God I Know

I did some time in Sunday school when I was seven or eight years old, in a flaky, New Age Christian church of some kind. I’m told I connected Jesus Christ to black widow spiders by some no doubt tenuous thread, but I don’t recall that. I do, however, remember the “teacher” asking us to draw a picture of the most powerful weapon. Bam! Mushroom cloud. Atomic bomb. Nailed it (don’t bring up nails around Jesus…) Right? Wrong. Trick question. The dude said the most powerful weapon was love.

Depending on how he or possibly she worded it, I think that is a terrible analogy. The question was probably what weapon eliminates all enemies (or at least I hope it was), but that and my mother getting remarried are the only childhood memories I have of church. I steadfastly rejected religion through my teen years and into my twenties, when I began attending services here and there at different churches.

My girlfriend took me to a predominantly black Baptist service, and I enjoyed that because they played their music live and loud. The drummer was just getting down. Once it came time to hug strangers and tell them how much they are loved, my social anxiety sky-rocketed well past heaven. Another time I found myself sitting alone in back of a service listening to the guest speaker, who also painted beautiful pictures of angels as light and color. She seemed to be speaking directly to me—every statement applied directly to my struggles and resonated deeply with me. I’ve always been embarrassed by public displays of grief, yet I cried uncontrollably through the entire service. I went to a handful of funerals, one of which disgusted me completely, steering me back toward my anti-religious path.

I consumed myriad kinds of hallucinogens, in sometimes dangerous amounts. These experiences definitely broadened my mind, but they never answered the God questions for me: Is there one or more? If so, does it or they give a fuck about us?

In 2016 I joined the Satanic Temple—a non-theistic “religion” that combats the oppression of people by Christians using the very tools employed by the church. The Satanic Temple views Satan, as I understand it anyway, as a literary figure symbolizing the eternal rebel. Well, all that was right up my alley, but I don’t think that stuff has anything to do with my beliefs concerning actual deities. Taoism and Buddhism were/are also attractive to me because of their lack of Gods.

Strung out, heart-broken, and damn near ready to give up, I had the good fortune to be invited to a traditional church that was totally foreign to me as well as illegal for me to attend. During the first service I experienced a presence FAR greater than myself that I can only describe as divine. Every element of that service was complexly sacred, resonating with my spirit and my life on innumerable levels. It was beyond comprehension. Afterward I felt reborn. I knew no fear. My heart had been healed. I had communed with divinity and been blessed by its touch. I’ve been allowed to attend three such services, and every one connected me to that divinity and left me feeling rejuvenated in spirit, mind, and body. The only church in which I’ve ever seen God is illegal for me to attend in a country that prides itself on its religious tolerance and freedom. Really though, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

See Which One Fills Up Faster

I remember the very moment I fell in love with writing. I was young, not quite a teenager, and my imagination was splitting the seams of my skull. I could alleviate this pressure somewhat, as well as occupy my time alone (and I was a lonely child), by conducting large scale battles between tiny, imaginary soldiers. I don’t remember what these soldiers were—no doubt gargoyles, ninja-vampires, and beasties of that nature—but I remember seeing them vividly. I picked up on language quickly, and soon enough was able to manifest some of that experience that had been previously confined to my head.

The first thing I remember writing that I liked was about a wizard strolling into an encampment and making warriors drop their swords because the hilts had grown red hot with a wizardly flourish. Pretty cliché stuff, yes, but not to me, not at the time. To me writing about that magic was a magic in itself. It was pure joy. I was delighted. The possibilities were fucking intoxicating. I could create anything I could imagine, and my imagination was snorting and virile as a young bull.

That love affair with writing has been a difficult one, however. I remember someone in high school saying to me, with a hint of jealousy, that writing came so easily to me. Oh, how wrong that person was. Because I had a knack for it, I felt responsible for developing it as much as possible. And I don’t care who you are: learning to write well is hard. If you don’t think it is, I’d wager you’re not pushing yourself. In fact, at times I was so focused on trying to write well that I lost the joy of it. This magical pastime that I thought I loved because it gave me such delight was suddenly a maddening burden. I have always felt compelled to write, though I have not always written. This state is one of discord—I feel guilty about spending my time engaged in non-writing activities. My angst builds, I berate myself for being lazy instead of just getting to work and that spiral adds to my other spirals. Once I discovered the sweet oblivion of alcohol it was a wrap.

I’ve always considered myself a writer, even when I wasn’t writing. Kind of like a non-practicing Christian or something I guess. When I am writing, especially when I’m writing in a disciplined and frequent manner, I feel like I’m utilizing my time the best I can. When I’m not writing, I feel like I am wasting valuable time. As I approach my mid-forties, I realize how limited that time really is, and I regret how much of it I have squandered on hangovers and recovering from psychotic drug binges. Regret is useless, and I don’t engage in it often, but when I do it’s because I’ve lost time with my children or my writing.

I have recently renewed my commitment to the art of writing, which had become very difficult. So difficult I felt I’d lost the ability to do it well, and the joy that stems from that. Watching your dreams die is bleak indeed. However, I haven’t given up yet. I kept writing whatever I could, sometimes just a few chicken-scratch repetitive thoughts in a journal. If I couldn’t rub two thoughts together enough to write due to black depression or apathy then I’d read. Reading is brain food for writers. Eventually, I started building stories again. Parts of them anyway.

Tonight that persistence has rewarded me. I caught a creative wave rolling out of the ether and rode that bitch with the almost-forgotten childhood joy of imagining. I’m as happy and fulfilled in this moment as I am when I spend time with my children. And bothers and sisters, it is a god damn refreshing breath from that wasteland sensation of inevitable failure. I wish each and every human being the experience of absolute joy in whatever endeavor he or she engages in (provided you’re not hurting anyone in the process—if you are I hope the world around you corrects your error and quickly). I think the planet could definitely benefit from a little more happiness, and a little less suffering. But you know, wish in one hand, shit in the other…..