I Get It — Get Wet

January 31, 2011

Cheyenne Christian Center, Cheyenne, Wyo.

9:20 to 9:59

Chosen because…mobility

I was sick to my stomach Sunday morning so after much deliberation (and chunky vomit) I decided to stay home.

Lucky for me, divine intervention flew down the morning before. Saturday, my dad and I went to breakfast. As we were leaving the place that likely gave me food poisoning, I found the Cheyenne Christian Center “2 Church Ordinances — Water Baptism & Communion” CD in a newspaper bin. What are the odds?

Head on pillow, I pop that baby into my computer and, according to iTunes, prepared to listen to “Uber Die Aufgaben Des Schriftstellers in Unserer Zeit” on the “Wirkliche Leben in Verlorenen Landern” disc. Poorly translated this means, “On the Tasks of the Writer in Our Time” in “Real Life Lost Countries.” Interesting.

Disc intro includes heavy breathing and a few “amens.” I think, “Damn, this is a cover for some sort of soft core German porn. How will I relate muffled foreign slang to Sunday service?”

The Mystery of the Dunking Unveiled

The sermon is not about porn, it’s about Passover, a time for Jews to celebrate their freedom from Egyptian bondage. Although Passover is a few months off, this is a timely discussion since there’s a minor tiff occurring in Egypt and Syria.

According to the pastor, Passover and baptisms, which I fear, go hand in hand. Thank God for that because it answers a question no one has answered. That is, why do baptisms require submersion? Answer: Symbolism.

Apparently the dipping is a choice. It symbolizes faith in Christ; receiving the sacraments of grace; turning into a new person; and walking with the privileges of the covenant. The water is celebratory. These are the details I need to jump over some of my Biblical stumbling blocks.

I have an answer to baptisms, but I still don’t know why people writhe on the ground and speak in tongues to demonstrate their connection to the Holy Spirit. I also don’t know why pastors discuss the number of people in the Bible saved by baptism, but gloss over the number of those God killed.

Remission

The pastor plants a new idea in my head — Remission and forgiveness are not the same.

“Remission is stronger and means to send away. It signifies the release of bondage or imprisonment, a sending away and forgiveness is an added quality of canceling out judgment, punishment, obligation or debt.”

And Jesus’ blood allows for remission. This makes me reconsider the blood and body of Christ…

He says resurrection is a timeout, a “hey, despite the stuff we talk about every week, it all comes back to the foundation of sacrifice.”

I think about this. I have an epiphany. I thought my inability to sacrifice was my greatest weaknesses but, I’ve sacrificed happiness for selfishness and broken my own heart. That’s gotta count.

The pastor says, “We do things out of habit rather than out of understanding and worship.”

Makes me think about “I love you” as automation, not emotion.

Take Away

Sermon via iTunes is a bad way to worship. It’s too distracting and impersonal. Looking forward to getting my butt back in a pew.

*Next week’s Bible entry may come from this CD or an on-line service. I want to diversify my church selection but I’ll be en route to Abu Dhabi Friday and since most religious services are held Friday (Christians included), I may improvise. Men, I may hit you up for some background information regarding sports

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Down and Out in Arkansas

January 26, 2011

Ohio Club, Hot Springs, Ark.

5 p.m. to 7 p.m.

Notable Matter: Prominent photo of Al Capone, to bathroom says “Grandpa’s Workshop”

I fell in love with Arkansas the moment I crossed the state line and saw a man with a Jason mask four wheeling along the shoulder of the highway against the flow of traffic.

I drove from Tennessee to Hot Springs, Ark. to salve my wounded soul and aching body, which had, more or less, been in a car for two weeks.

Hot Springs, Ark. is known for its eight bathhouses however, the women at the tourism office and the guy at the hotel had no idea when the city’s major attractions closed. Arkansas.

The Ohio Club

I go to the Ohio Club after soaking in the baths. I’m wrong. It isn’t a dive. I ask for directions to a dive bar. They are withheld. Strangers are more concerned with my safety than I am. I stay.

I love this bar. It was gangster hangout and I love gangsters. Al Capone, Bugs Moran and Owney Madden loved the springs and gambled, drank and philandered at the Ohio Club during prohibition.

Despite the great atmosphere — 1920s décor, mahogany bar, mezzanine level perfect for stripping — and the club’s sordid history, I can’t talk to anyone. I’m depressed, have to think about some stuff. Mind goes back to the bathhouse.

Bill, Boob, B…

Every state lays claim to something — world’s largest prairie dog, largest ball of twine, etc. Hot Springs, Ark. is the hometown of Bill Clinton, the country’s most publically excitable president. It is also home to the world’s largest natural breast. I know. I saw it.

I walk into the bathhouse. Four pools, varying temperatures. Pass on the middle pool, which is behind a full length, glass display wall. Pass on the left pool, too cold. Three fat, hairy old men in the right pool, a couple sucking face in the upper pool. I choose the old guys. Don’t need love in my face.

Notice a group of large women sitting in chairs, watch them, listen to their accents. Watch in horror as one woman’s swimming suit gradually succumbs to the weight of her left breast. She notices when the suit hits mid-nipple. I tell myself I’ll be OK. I’ve been to nude beaches, seen other breasts. I will recover.

But then…a middle-aged woman who is au natural walks into my bath. Until she sits, her curls and my eyes parallel. I want to flee. Don’t want to be rude. She talks. I think of germs.

I relax. She’s cool. Traveling to Arizona with her partner for an RV festival. Partner’s  Each has a daughter. One on each coast. I want to join them. Don’t ask. Have to tend to a minor task called figuring out my life.

The Ohio

Thinking about the bathhouse pulls me out of my funk. Put away pad, pull hair back. Ask owner to recommend a Baptist church. She looks at me funny. Asks man at the end of the bar, request passes every mouth.

Woman: “Honey what are you writing?”

I tell her about the project, make it known I’m not a Baptist.

“Honey, I’m Pentecostal you can go to church with me.”

Man laughs.

“I was thinking Baptist would be good since I’m in the south.”

“Oh you’re in Baptist country. They’re crazy you know.”

Man: “Don’t tell them you don’t believe.”

Woman: “Oh God no.”

“Why?”

“They’ll make you go to the front of the church so they can convert you and you’ll probably have to stay up there and sing.”

“Seriously?”

Woman: “Don’t listen to him.”

They say 90 percent of the community “goes to church,” which means they think they’ll be saved if they show up a few times a year. The woman yells down the bar that I don’t believe. The only atheist in town comes over. We talk about science, his experience with the Church of Christ, the reason he stopped believing.

Lesbians and atheists in Arkansas. Interesting.

Suck Me in and Spit Me Out

January 24, 2011

Grand Avenue Baptist Church, Hot Springs, Ark.

11 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Parking Lot Sign: “You are now entering your mission field.”

Chosen because…”You’re in Baptist country honey.”

For the majority of my eight-hour drive from Tennessee to Arkansas, I fantasize about this church experience. Small Baptist church in a field of sunshine. Large black women in robes singing in the choir. As the only white person, I stick out and after service, the women embrace me, invite me to a picnic. The pastor’s wife asks me to stay at their house for undetermined amount of time. I ask them about racism, get it on film documentary style. I’ve seen too many movies.

Woke up early. Asked white desk clerk how to get to the church. Said he didn’t have a phonebook (?!). I should ask the black bellhop. Awkward, did it anyway. Old white maid gave me directions.

“Is this OK to wear to a Baptist church?” Concerned about jeans and tennis shoes.

“Honey, as long as your dressed I don’t think they’ll give a damn.”

Suck Me In

Church is in large part about community and I loved this community. Over perfumed women walk to my pew, squeeze my shoulders, cup my hands, talk to me in those darling southern accents. Swoon.

No one looks at my shoes but then again, the man next to me has a Band-Aid in the middle of his forehead. I’m second tier entertainment.

First up, a baptism. Dressed in white, the pastor ascends to a spotlighted platform six feet above the choir and dunks a teenager. Creepy. Too much power. The pastor magically disrobes, descends, sits with kids on the stairs like Mr. Rogers and says, “Committing yourself to Christ means you’re willing to do something just a little bit weird.”

Asks those needing prayer to raise their hand. I want to raise both hands and legs, but I’m writing. Pastor invites people to pray at his feet. Men join him and they cry. Heaving shoulders. I cannot stand seeing grown men cry, especially if I’m the source of the pain. I want to hold them but they’re burly and I know I can’t assuage their pain so I cry.

Emotional pain manifests itself physically. When I start to cry, my left calf cramps. I lean down to rub it and smash my forehead on the pew back in front of me. This gets some attention. I turn red.

Spit Me Out

Then the sermon: “The Invisible War, Spiritual Warfare.”

The pastor talks about using prayer as a weapon against evil we can’t see — devils, warlocks, etc. The next eight weeks are devoted to this topic. Not only does he use the Bible and prayer as a weapon and religion as warfare, as he speaks his face changes, it’s almost demonic and every time he wants the congregation to “mm hm,” “amen” or laugh, he cups a hand to his ear.

One of the men in my pew sees me taking notes and gives me “The Invisible War: What Every Believer Needs to Know about Satan, Demons, and Spiritual Warfare” by Chip Ingram.

“Here, you can take your notes in here. There’s plenty of room for note taking.”

Though I’m a heathen, I respect my elders. I take it so as not to hurt his feelings.

Take Away

I’ll go to a Southern Baptist bakeoff or chili cook off for community but faith by fear is not cool.

If the pastor wants views faith as war against the spiritual world fine. That’s his opinion. I can accept that. But would he accept mine? Unlikely.

Late MLK Break

January 19, 2011

I’m taking a late MLK break to deal with some family matters but will be posting again next week.

I did find a great bar in Avoca, Iowa and a traveling buddy for my 2011 trucker trek. More Monday/Wednesday.

Note: I apologize if this blog is subpar. I’m in hellhole Nebraska, kid behind me needs a spanking. I didn’t sleep last night, GPS broken, no atlas, headed into a storm, 14 hours to go.

Mountain View Community Church, Ft. Collins, Colo.

10 a.m. to 11: 30 a.m.

Chosen because…it’s small, my mom considered buying it years ago and I spent many a night jumping off the roof of a neighboring house to hang from a rope swing. Genius, I know.

Warmup

Getting out the door is rough. Mom straightening my clothes, touching my hair, thinks I’ve never dressed myself. Feels like the first day of school. Notice six-inch rip in upper thigh of my leggings. Don’t want to get in a tête-à-tête with mom regarding how hemline dictates whether an outfit requires leggings or tights. Instead, I change my outfit and get in the car. Harvey Danger’s “Flagpole Sitter” playing. I consider feeling bad for agreeing with the following verse, which I love.

“Been around the world and found that only stupid people are breeding.”

I think better of it, continue thinking of stupid people breeding, figure church will help. Drive up. Sigh of relief. Young couples, families and teenagers walking up the steps. Fine with meeting my neighbor who is young, cool, interesting and sweet.

The Message

I like the message. Condemnation. Conviction. Cleansation (pastor admits to creating this word). We condemn ourselves when we do something wrong, feel unworthy of God’s love or, for us non-believers, the love of others. Rather than confessing, we cover it up or blame someone else.

I feel good. I don’t have an issue with condemnation or conviction. I do not blame others for my issues and confess everything to everyone. I think for a second, realize this is good for me but problematic for others. It damages relationships and, thanks to keypad confessions, has me looking into international journalism law, specifically defamation of character.

The pastor says “confession brings hope.”

I disagree and have another thought. Do I confess my sins to the entire blogosphere because I’m honest or do I do it because it takes the weight of sin off my shoulders and dumps it on someone else? For me, does confession bring hope? No. It begets relief. Something to think about. Hard.

I lose the pastor during cleansation. This is the point where belief collides with lack thereof. Cleansation requires faith in God or Christ. I don’t have it.

The Pews, My God the Pews

Next week I’m strapping a body pillow around my chest and wearing three layers of Depends to prevent pew pain. The pastor mentioned removing ourselves from our flesh. I have difficulty doing this anyway and sitting in a pew with a tense back, bra clasp digging into my spin, butt bones on fire, does not help.

Churchgoers: Why are pews so miserable?

Take Away

I would go back to this church. I liked the people, the size and the message. No donation platters. Pastor referred to judgmental believers as the “so called religious.” Loved that. Was uncomfortable with the baptism of two high school girls who were dunked in a waterhole hidden behind a wooden door. The Baptism, not the church, made me uncomfortable.

I felt better after church and thanks to some divine radio intervention that put Bob Marley in my head, I stopped thinking about stupid people breeding and thought about sunshine, snowboarding and enjoying life.

As BM says:

Most people think great God will come from the skies, take away everything and make everybody feel high. But if you know what life is worth, you will look for yours on earth; and now you see the light.”

Yes, there was an attitude shift after church experience No. 1 but I don’t know what/who was responsible. I can’t relate it to God, but does it really matter what it is if it improves your life?

P.S. The title of my last post was “Though Shalt Not Judge.” I changed it to “Thou.” If you see glaring mistakes, please let me know. I’m a novice.

Thou Shalt Not Judge

January 12, 2011

Long Branch Bar, Laporte, Colo.

3:40 p.m. to 4:52 p.m.

Notable Matter: Plastic shot glasses, “I swerve for Shem” bumper sticker

I lose faith in humanity and then I fall in love with it.

The Long Branch Bar. No windows. Few cars. Sign on the door says, “Wet Floor.” I walked in. I hate to admit it, but I was reticent. Not because my dad said, “I know a guy who got shot there, be careful,” but because I didn’t know where to go.

U.S. citizens can’t move without signs. They’re everywhere. Step here. Don’t smoke here. Wipe your feet here. Unload here. Sign here. To the left of the entrance was a long hall similar to one I walked down in college that led to a drug den, a place I didn’t expect to be and feared I would never leave. To the right, the back of the bar.

Gray hair, no teeth, a Poudre High School sweatshirt (my alma matter) flanking acid wash jeans, the bartender smiles, motions me to the back of the bar and around the counter. I walk down the bar, drag the only free stool close to a man with a handlebar mustache, thick hands, Carhartts and teeth blackened by tobacco.

“Don’t sit there,” he says.

“Why? Is it broken?”

“No. No. I’m just giving you shit. You have to be able to take some shit.”

“I can take shit.” I  sit.

The bartender asks for my ID, probably thinks I’m an undercover cop prepping for a sting. The man with the mustache me helps her find my birthday. “Girl, there’s no way you’re that tall.”

“I am. Promise.”

The ID comes back. The man says, “Michigan. Well, I know where to find you when I stalk you!”

“If you want to drive that far in the winter to stalk me, go for it.”

This is why I love dive bars. No one takes themselves seriously and no one ever reads me their resume.

First 15 Minutes

The man’s wife sits next to me. Sweet lady, kind eyes. They have four kids. Their youngest daughter, 24, is in Kandahar, Afghanistan serving her first tour. She has two more to go. She puts packages together for men in the field, wrapping food, water, clothing and ammunition in “puffy stuff that looks like honeycombs” so when they drop the packages at night — always at night — the ammunition doesn’t explode.

The woman hasn’t heard from her daughter in weeks, says the U.S. pays the Taliban to protect the communications towers, that one must be down. Even though guard dogs sit in the mess hall, her daughter eats outside. The mess hall was bombed. She’s afraid.

“How did your daughter seem the last time you talked to her? Was she OK?”

“She was OK the first three months. But that was the first three.”

“So how do you distract yourself from thinking about her every minute of every day?”

I drink.”

Love

I don’t want to give the impression that this couple is depressed, forlorn. They’re kind and funny and real. They want what everyone wants — safety, a happy family, a job, shelter, love.

They’ve been married for 33 years. Not only do they enjoy each other, they love each other. He kisses her, talks about the cute blonde he met at the army base. It’s amazing to watch.

Of course it wasn’t always that way. They lived in Kentucky for several years. He worked nights, she worked days. Life was hard. Four kids. Backwards community. Few neighbors had septic tanks. One of the neighbors did his business over a 5-gallon bucket. When the bag under the bucket filled, he threw it on top of a hill.

It was rough on the kids. Their peers would only play with them if they went to the same church. They didn’t go to church. They lived in a dry county, drove two hours for booze. The Baptists didn’t approve but somehow made peace with the bootleggers who sold alcohol and drugs to the kids.

The man and woman left. Then their kids left.

“All of a sudden you don’t know your husband. You just have to learn to fall in love again.”

Religion

She grew up Catholic. He wishes she’d kept her faith. She has…sort of. Went to church on Christmas, usually prays at home.

They agree we won’t win the war. It’s religious, no hope. He searched for spirituality years ago, settled on the Mormons.

“You know, that whole have-a-bunch-of-wives stuff is a bunch of crap. That’s like five percent, less than five percent. Do you know what they do? They give 10 percent of their income to the church so when you’re in trouble — no job, financial problems — they take care of you. It’s about family.”

We talk about aliens, things greater than ourselves, reincarnation. He suggests we could be one large ant farm someone’s watching, occasionally releasing us, sometimes killing us.  I’ve never though of it that way.

“Who is anyone to say we’re the smartest beings?”

He has a point.

I tell him I’m not looking for religion, just humanity.

“Girl, as long as you follow the basic rulesthe 10 — you’ll be fine. You don’t have to be a great person. You’re not a bad person. You’re just a person.”

I am. So are they. The woman hugs me when I stand. She smells like soap. I don’t want to leave.

Wednesday I drove up a canon to find my inaugural church/dive bar. I picked the cutest church I could find — white, capacity of 30-40 parishioners — perfect. Right down the street, a dive bar. Lovely.

Sunday I woke up hours before the 10 a.m. church service however, I didn’t quite make it to a pew. It wasn’t the night before Tullamore, it was my living quarters and the weather. Bright white room illuminated by fresh snowfall. Basically I woke up feeling like an angel and since God wanted me to revel in my angel self, I decided to relax and think good thoughts about humanity.

That lasted for about two minutes and then I did the last thing any humanitarian angel should ever do. I read the Ft. Collins Coloradoan and the Wall Street Journal. First the shooting of U.S. Rep. Gabrielle Gifford (D-Arizona) and then this stupid story about two old women sharing mom’s mink by cutting it up and turning it into two teddy bears. Weird? Definitely. News? Uh, no.

Trying to go back to God, I held my own service in bed, reflecting on one of my last religious experiences. Five years ago. Summer in Michigan. Hot, humid. Body thirsty. Sobering agent dissolving in stomach. No sleep for 24 hours.

I didn’t want to go to a church service in a graveyard, but I couldn’t weasel or beg my way out of it so I womaned up and pouted during the 45 minute drive. I was wholly unprepared for the event mentally and physically. Strapless sundress. Heels sinking in mud.

We were late. The place was packed. I tiptoed between headstones to avoid losing a shoe in the mud. People stared. In-laws offered us their chairs, I looked for a headstone large enough to support my rear. Couldn’t find one, opted to stand, knees bent, weight shifting to avoid cramping and fainting, which happens a lot. (Low blood pressure resulting from running, according to the dr.)

I tried to concentrate on the pastor’s message, which I managed until my hearing dimmed. I kicked off my shoes (I’m smarter than scary movie chicks), grabbed my husband’s hand and said, “we have to go.”

He said just a minute. I said no, right this second, death grip on his hand. He asked why, I couldn’t talk. I get lockjaw before and after I pass out.

Four steps into the crowd, hearing gone. Step five, vision collapsing from the periphery. Step six, down on my knees. Gone. Wake up surrounded by people, pouring sweat, dress soaked, fat man in a short sleeved yellow shirt and bad tie running at me with water and a cookie. Someone put me in a chair, told me I was pale, did I need something? Could they help? Husband —  back off, I’ve got it.

It was about 10 minutes before I could talk, drink or eat but all I wanted to do was get the hell out of the cemetery because, even though we were at the back of the crowd, we were the center of attention. But I didn’t have the use of my legs so I couldn’t escape. Thanks God.

I don’t have a video of my personal blackout, but this is exactly what happens. Generally I fall backward, but I knew I was going to faint in a dress so I fell to my knees. Modesty first.

Best Man Faints and Falls Backward

This is one of my few church memories and it occurred in the best possible environment for me — the outdoors. So, hopefully you can see my hesitation going into this whole church hopping experiment.

Now I’m all worked up. I’m off to snowboard and find a dive bar. Until Wednesday…

As you know, I’ve finished the Bible — all but Revelation — and so I’m moving to a new project.

After much deliberation, I’ve decided that from now until Christmas 2011, I will go to church on Sunday and dive bars on Tuesday, posting church blogs on Monday and bar blogs on Wednesday.

I hope to post from undetermined national and international locations. Prague and Argentina are high on my list as is Iceland, a fortuitous location suggested by a physic and friend who, as fate would have it, plans to go to Iceland in June. What are the odds?

Though you’ve noted my affinity for shock value, the church/bar project is about exploring the congruity of pew and stool. Both allow people to escape life, understand it, enjoy it, hide from it and surrender to it.

I’m anxious about this transition. Not the bar part, the church bit.  I read the Bible in at my own pace in solitude. But going to church requires a certain amount of scheduling (cringe) and talking to strangers. Yikes.

Yes, I talk to strangers for a living. I ask questions, people answer. I don’t like the idea of inverting this system. I want control. In dive bars, loosely defined as windowless edifices with no more than four domestic beers on tap — no one asks any questions. I walk in, people stare and go back to their bottles. They don’t ask about my personal life, my profession or my woes. In church, this is not the case.

Once I hit a certain comfort level with church, I’ll loosen up and take a bit from Pastor Noah, using myself as a mouthpiece to share problems that are not mine. (Noah talks about turning to someone in a movie theater and saying something like “Hi, I’m x and addicted to porn. Can you help me?” I will do this.)

I promise that after I run through 51 churches and 51 dive bars, I will read Revelation. Promise.

In the mean time, if you want to subscribe to this blog, please scroll to the bottom of the page. I can’t figure out how to move that up. I’ve tried. Always with the same result — a fascinating combination of expletives.

I hope you stick with me on this one. As always, questions, comments and criticisms are welcome. Email is biblethump@rocketmail.com. Twitter: @thumpme. Facebook.

I am an elitist and generally assume I’m smarter than the rest of the populace. Much to my chagrin, I’m actually an idiot in a tweed jacket. As such, I try to keep this writing rule at the forefront of my mind — Respect your reader.

Why? Because readers are smart. I went through this period of existential writing. I thought it was genius. It was crap. Maybe I’ll sift through some of those stories and post them under the subculture category.

I respect all of you, but you’re killing me. Here I am thinking I can spout off about anything, which is my modus operandi at bars, cafés, anywhere really but you’re holding me accountable for my grandiose statements.

I asked why you believe in God. Many of you said you just have faith, which is cool and inarguable. On a basil level, discussing the existence of faith is like trying to convince someone who loves mayo that Miracle Whip is better. It’s impossible, an immovable difference in opinion. You’re in or out. With us or against us.

With Us or Against Us

(This is extreme, but I can’t resist Bushisms)

Some of you gave more in-depth reasons for having faith. I read through and thought about them all. My responses are below.

Reason: You’ve had a personal experience with God.

I can’t say I’ve ever had a personal experience with God, but it really is a miracle that I’m still alive. This is not hyperbolical Ivy either. I look innocent, All American, but I could write a dictionary-sized novel detailing situations/lifestyles that should have killed me. So I can’t say yes, I’ve had an experience with God, but something got me through age 25 and that’s something.

Reason: It humbles your human tendency toward selfishness.

I’m very selfish. I try not to be, but this effort has nothing to do with the Bible or God. I like to make people feel good. Unfortunately, I have to work really, really hard to keep this at the forefront of my mind. I’m not very good at this.

Reason: It helps you love those who are difficult to love.

I don’t understand this. If I don’t like someone I don’t spend time with them so how could I ever love someone I find difficult to love? Is this a big picture question? Like trying to find a place in your heart for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the Zetas cartel or this whacko who stomped his girlfriend’s puppy to death?

Sorry, can’t do it. I won’t waste my time hating them, but I won’t waste my time trying to love them either. In the words of my Italian grandfather, “Ah, they’re nothing to me.”

Reason: Faith affects the impact you have on others.

OK. Again, I don’t use the Bible for this but I have three life goals I hope will positively affect others. They are:

a. Broaden my worldview…

b. Use writing as a means to pull people’s head out of the sand (something like that)

c. Improve the lives of those I love?

Dear God. I’ve forgotten them! They’re above the desk in my office but I’m out-of-town. I also believe I’ve temporarily blocked them out for reasons known but not shared.

We have different reasons for choosing to believe/not believe but I think we can all agree on a few things. We’re all flawed and we need motivation to become better people.

So we’re on the same page. We just work within different parameters.

Why Believe?

January 2, 2011

I’ve closed it. The Bible I mean. Yes, I neglected Revelation for my own reasons but I have to ask, why do you believe? Is it the comfort of immortality? Is it to make yourself a better person? Fear?

I’m definitely glad I read the Bible but I guess I’m fine with just being. I really don’t think about what will happen when I die. I think about what I’m doing now, who I’m affecting and the impact I’m having on others. That’s it.

I’m going to write a few entries regarding general themes I didn’t understand, questioned, etc., but I also plan on going to church. God save us all. I tried to maintain an open mind reading the Bible, but church will be a challenge. Generally I fear the “meet your neighbor” part. I’m not big on touching people I don’t know.

Many of you have given me church visitation ideas, but if you have more, please let me know. I’m guessing this new quest will start in mid-January but that’s just a guess.

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