Mad at Jesus

Does it make you uncomfortable that a large portion of the Christian community in America is preoccupied with the Rapture?  Rapture is the term Evangelicals use for the apocalyptic Second Coming of Christ where all Christians will be swept into heaven while unbelievers are left on earth to suffer the consequences of not being Christian. I think Michele Bachman predicts the “End Times” every time she gets in front of a microphone. If you aren’t familiar with this doctrine you really should check into it.  It’s real horror movie stuff-plagues, murders, genocide-not for the faint of heart.

I don’t understand it and was raised in it.  I’ve very nearly resorted to professional help to rid myself of the nightmares.  These churches spare no one, even children.  I was exposed to it through lengthy, vitriolic sermons and graphic movies shown at kiddy functions.  If my mother was five minutes late picking me up from school I was certain she had been “raptured” and I had been “left behind” to face the wrath of Jesus who knew full well  I really didn’t like him.

Even as an adult I still have horrible flashbacks of those movies. They go something like this, a little girl is walking with her mommy holding her hand, when suddenly her mother’s purse hits the  sidewalk, cars begin crashing around the startled tike as people rush past her screaming in terror.  It amazes me to think the producers of that flick honestly thought Jesus would leave a child behind to face carnage.  What could this child possibly have done?  I remember thinking whatever it was I had probably done it or thought it.

Where I grew up, thinking it was as bad as doing it.  Sin was sin, there was no gray area.  In fact there was very little any safe area, almost everything was a sin.  Missing Sunday school was a sin.  Lying was a sin.  Sex, drinking, movies, dancing all were sins.  Life revolved around one big confession to Jesus, who in my mind was an overbearing deity with nothing better to do but wait on me to screw up so he could strike me with cancer. 

Cancer was his punishment of choice.  Anyone who got cancer was obviously, “not right with the Lord”.  Even little old ladies incapable of harming a fly, much less drinking, dancing or having s-e-x were not immune.  Once stricken with cancer, word would spread throughout the congregation that in fact, God’s time was not our time and just because they didn’t look guilty for a recent infraction didn’t mean that they weren’t receiving latent punishment.

Latent punishment, that’s what the Rapture is all about.  All those unbelievers who refused to listen to the preachers, the missionaries, the TV evangelists all are doomed, if still living, to face the “Tribulation”.  The Tribulation is the time between all the right people being Raptured and all the wrong people finally being cast into the Lake of Fire.  The Lake of Fire would have to seem like a welcome respite considering the downward spiral of conditions on earth throughout the seven years.

Seven years, that was the duration of the Tribulation.  The first three and a half years, I was taught, would not seem so bad.  The Democrats would have control of the government again, everyone would marvel at the new and easy way to purchase products without having to carry money or credit cards.  You just went down to the post office, honestly the post office, and got a tattoo with your personal identification number. 

I recently heard a TV evangelist predict the “Mark of the Beast” was to be a device implanted under your skin that when scanned would deduct money from your bank account-so I suppose we have given up on the tattoo in lieu of a more modern spin on biblical interpretation.  However it was to happen, it was going to happen at the post office being instructed the postal service had the perfect system to become the purveyor of the mark since they had everyone’s address and would know, by the mail piling up, whom had been raptured and could now be removed from the mail route.

As in all gruesome tales, the last half is much worse than the first. As things are rocking along so well a man "rises up" and declares himself to be the reason for all this great stuff. And, having been deemed credible by the world powers everyone decides to make him their leader.  I always wondered why the prognosticators believed this leader they call the “Anti-Christ” would be an American, since when Revelations was written no one had even heard of the New World. I never asked, since that question seemed like it had sin written all over it.  I worried I had even thought it.

Well, this Anti-Christ is going wage war with the Jews and try to turn the rest of the world against them.  Then there is to be this terrible battle called Armageddon and all the world powers will gather in Israel and there will be blood up to the horse’s necks or something.  Then, just when it reaches the bloody crescendo, out of the clouds comes Jesus accompanied by all the righteous people to defeat the Anti-Christ and his armies.  And get this, the righteous people get to help reign over this new world. 

As much as I have tried to put this out of my life, I am too often reminded of the Rapture and its impending doom.  All I have to do is turn on the TV, read the newspaper, or surf the web.  There are to be signs before all hell breaks loose, literally.  There will be earthquakes, floods, fires, wars or even rumors of wars, you know just a typical day in the life of our planet.  I used to be afraid to watch the evening news or even the local weather forecast.  I just knew while I slept, Jesus would come back, take my family and leave my sorry, sinful fanny right there in the bed.

I also used to worry that if I ever did get good enough to be snatched up into the air with all the other good people my dog would starve, in which case I would get really mad at Jesus for starving my dog.  Once I got good and mad at Jesus again, I would realize I had sinned so I would stop worrying about my dog and begin fearing for my own skin again.  It really was a vicious cycle.

I used to plan how, when I had been left behind, I would get all the food out of the pantry and go live in the woods, with my dog of course, and so escape the mark of the beast.  I wasn’t real sure how I was going to live through the plague of mutant locusts I saw in the movie.  I thought if I could find a cave perhaps I could avoid having my blood sucked out in my sleep.  But I lived in Florida and we didn’t have any caves.  We just had culverts and they were full of spiders.  I figured I’d take my chances with the mutant locusts.  I hate spiders.

It took me years to leave the terror of being left behind, behind. I was well into my twenties before I finally ditched the last bit of nagging doubt and terror- but there are still moments, say when an earthquake is reported, that I feel that old familiar churning in my stomach.  It takes me a moment to recognize it for what it is.  I guess I still have some of the Pavlovian effect.  I suppose I always will.  I cringe when I hear these fundamentalists continue to spout this death and doom apocalyptic rhetoric.  I have learned to feel sorry for them though.  I think how sad it must be for them die so disappointed.  I think how crushing it will be to find out that Jesus probably isn’t as bad as they’ve made him out to be and that they aren’t as good as they thought themselves to be.

I used to wonder how Jesus feels about this?  I wondered if he resents his good name and reputation have been tainted by this culture of fear?  But nevertheless, I have forgiven him for scaring me and for giving those backsliding little old ladies cancer.

We’ve talked it all out, Jesus and me.  I told him I wasn’t afraid of him anymore and that I wasn’t going to live in fear of the end of the world.  He reminded me his first miracle was to change water to wine.  Since then, Jesus and I have been on pretty good terms.     

Our Lady of Perpetual Worry

I worry about a lot of things. I’m really good at it since lord knows I’ve had years of practice. I do most of my best worrying from three to six in the morning. I worry about losing clients. I worry about money. I worry about my kids. I worry my grandchildren will be Yankees. The list is endless.  I think Southerners are better at worrying than folks from other regions. We kind of make it a religion- at least we incorporate it into our religion.  I guess you could say it is the root of many Southern denominations.  You know all that hellfire and damnation had to come from somebody worrying about being bad. I think a lot Southern preachers get most of the sermons from worrying. Worrying that people aren’t repenting. Worrying that people are committing one or more of the seven deadly sins. In the south missing Sunday School counts as one of those.  Worrying the collection plate will be empty or the sound system goes out during the altar call.  I think growing up in that environment helped me hone my worrying skills.

I must not be alone considering the myriad of inspirational posts on facebook- you know with the sappy flowers and unicorns. They say things like worry has never changed an outcome it just robs your present joy. Yeah right.  I wonder if it makes people feel better to post this stuff. I wonder if they are directing it to me. After all isn’t everything posted on facebook all about you?

Worrying sets you up for the inevitable, whatever that is. You know it is coming you just don’t when, but you know. So when it really happens you almost praise yourself for being psychic.  I’m thinking consummate worriers are really just frustrated psychics.  Maybe all these worries flooding our minds in the wee small hours of the morning are psychic vibes.  Maybe I’m not going broke, it’s my neighbor. Maybe my kid didn’t really get a speeding ticket and not tell me. Maybe it was the girl in front of me in the checkout line at the grocery store.  Maybe if I concentrated I could figure out how to place these worries with the proper owner.

I'm thinking I'll lie awake worrying with little sticky notes. With each new worry, if I really stretch my psychic powers, I could come up with the name of the unfortunate soul this worry rightfully belongs . Now that would be productive!  In the morning I could deliver the worry to its person. I would walk right up and stick it on their lapel and say, “This belongs to you.” Can you imagine the reaction? I’m sure it would not be positive but I would consider it a public service. I mean obviously if they don’t have the good sense to worry about this in the middle of the night and just go about wantonly snoozing while something might happen then someone has to warn them. 

I’m trying to be positive about this apparent gift. All the great persons in history had burdens to bear and most likely it is the way they bore them that made them famous. I know I’m stretching it.  I really don’t think I’ll end up in a masterpiece painting bearing yellow sticky notes. I don’t think I’ll be sainted as “Our Lady of Perpetual Worry.” It is comforting to think about though, but I won’t think of it between three and six since it is comforting and no comforting thoughts are aloud between those hours.

I think my worry may be related to my second best talent-jumping to conclusions. I can jump to conclusions quicker than it takes to get 14 “likes” on facebook after posting a don’t worry meme. Jumping to conclusions, for me anyway, is always in the negative.  I suppose some people jump to positive conclusions but that would only make them foolish optimists and dreamers. Silly people, I’m sure they sleep right through the night leaving the work of proper conclusion jumping and worry to an expert like me.

I revere other worriers. Eyeore and Charlie Brown are trusted companions. I have no time for all that “Power of Positive Thinking” drivel.  Who wants to be around a person who is perpetually optimistic?  Now I’m not talking about being happy.  I understand happy.  I can be happy about all sorts of things like not being run over by a bus, keeping my clients for one more day and not having Yankee grandkids but I have the sensibility to know that it could happen or at least worry that it will.  Perpetually optimistic is downright annoying.  You have to wonder how these people even find their way home at night since every single little thing that happens during the day is an opportunity for growth and a path to somewhere better. I mean shouldn’t they always be ending up somewhere else-like Xanadu? What a stupid place to want to end up what with all the roller skates and spandex. I’ll take my dark room and my dark thoughts. You won’t catch me abandoning my job as a professional worrier. It wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do and I worry about not being responsible.

My High Horse

My High Horse

In the right-hand corner of my condo stands a small stool, about a foot high and just about square.  It has a hole in the middle, for handy carrying, and two other very distinctive features.  This stool has a pair of felt, purple ears that stand erect and point slightly forward, if a stool has a forward side, and a lovely chenille yarn, cranberry colored tail that reaches all the way to the floor ending in a little “poof”.  It seems out of place next to the decidedly modern chairs, almost an anomaly, quietly resting against the wall.

It is the first thing I see when I open the door, tired and often frustrated at the end of the day.  It is ironic that it sits here, while I am out there, seriously trying to change the world.  It rarely speaks, stools do know their place in the great scheme of things; perhaps, a lesson I should do well to learn.  It often just looks at me, or at least I imagine that it is so, and I look at it, and we draw collective sighs.

As far as I know, there are no other step-stools like this one; because, I made it.  Late one night I was prowling around the living room, board and sleepless, and an idea came to me.  I needed a tangible object in my life that symbolized the endless hours of time I spend on moral rabbit chases.  Alice had her white rabbit and her looking glass, I had nothing, nothing at all to touch and hold that seemed real and concrete.  I just had a bunch of ideas, and dreams, and as a friend commented, “A whole barrel full of youthful enthusiasm.”

There was no sacrament in my daily ritual, no host or wine; there was nothing that transcended the ethereal and made manifest, no mysterious word to tangible object.  I just had me and my beliefs.  Sometimes, I felt like a street evangelist, spouting the gospel and waylaying busy people as they hurried to work.  Sometimes, I felt like the little match girl, sadly offering my pitiful wares to a world filled with greater and grander lights. Mostly, I felt like Horton the elephant, from the Dr. Seuss classic, “Horton Hears a Who” in constant danger of my precious dust speck being boiled in beezlenut oil.

I am a lobbyist for smaller clients who are mostly politically unsavvy, have very little money, and even less of a voice.  I am a sucker for underdogs and lost causes.  I am the absolute worst capitalist and yet a small business owner, employing of course, myself.  I spend most of time with a red mark on my forehead, pretty much permanent, from banging my head against the wall, the wall of the establishment.  Of course the “establishment” is anyone that doesn’t see it my way.

So, on this night that I couldn’t sleep, mindlessly clicking channels and staring out of the window, I had what I like to consider a small epiphany, mainly because I like the sound of the word.  I thought about my work and my reputation, actually I had had a really nasty altercation with a Senator, who had done something rather underhanded, and obviously should have known better.  I had handled the situation quietly, relying mostly on my facial expressions because they can’t be repeated in the media and because they rarely take a back seat on such occasions, one reason why I refuse to play poker.  It was later, in the cafeteria, that I flung, and only truly southerners will understand this, a hissy fit.

I have always assumed that a “hissy fit” had something to do with what a cat has when it is upset.  I have a cat, a big old tom cat, and on many occasions he has shown his displeasure with me, or the world, by hissing and frothing at the mouth.  He accentuates this state of being by swatting, claws exposed, at anyone or anything that comes near him.  I didn’t actually scratch anyone, but a close friend did make a screeching noise, much like my cat, imitating my voice as it rose to a high crescendo.

As I began my journey into the surreal on this evening following my feline fit, I felt the intense need to speak and be heard.  Secretly, you must know that I heard the words to an old Neil Diamond song in which he croons, “I am, I said, and no one heard at all, not even the chair.” Ashamed as I am, I am a Neil Diamond fan, and I know all the words to all the songs he ever sang.  That’s me, just full of useless information, fun facts to know and tell.  So, between the verses of old music and hot tears on my cheeks, I formed the one piece of my life that makes sense when nothing else seems to.  I created, from the dust of my pitiful existence, my high horse.

Of course I could have formed a soap box, and called it such; but a soap box just doesn’t seem to fit the bill.  I have always thought of a soap box as a mechanism for sales and personal gain.  Somehow, that just didn’t fit.  A high-horse bespeaks of callings, and grand campaigns, of challenging windmills and charging shadows.  It denotes the chivalry of battle, and the holiness of victory, or the sanctity of defeat in the face of insurmountable odds, bravely fought.

When people enter my home, they seem unfailingly to spot my high horse.  I think at first it appears a mere child’s toy, tossed to one corner of the room.  It seems oddly infantile in a room full of adult accoutrements. But slowly, almost surely, they inquire as to the strange little maple stool with felt ears and a chenille tail.  I proudly, as sure as a parent displays a child’s refrigerator drawing, extend my arm, palm out like a game show host, introducing my masterpiece, my sanity, my high-horse.

If it is true that laughter is the best medicine, then I have a found a prescription I intend to perpetually refill.  Sometimes I medicate myself, coming home to an empty room angry, frustrated, and voiceless.  As soon as I turn and close the door and drop my briefcase, I practically run to my high-horse.  Once several feet higher than my normal stance, I clear my throat, and enunciate loudly as I address the silent walls.  More often than not, I approach a mere whine, the whimper of a child left for lasts in the choosing of sides for a ball game.  But, there are times when my spirit soars and my consciousness simply lets itself go, and I am Caesar addressing the Roman Senate.  I bring the populace to their knees and enlighten the hearts and minds of the sooth-sayers and wise men.  Those nights are keen and remain forever etched in my memory.  Those are the nights, that surely, if the world could hear, there would be peace on earth, and goodwill towards mankind.

But, mostly, the evening springs into the sky, the lights of the city illuminate the landscape and the world revolves on without ever hearing my soliloquy to reason.  I gingerly climb down from my high-horse, pull off the panty hose picked and running, that never last more than one wearing, kick my shoes deftly into the closet, and plump down onto the sofa, my feet not quite reaching the floor.  It is very hard to be a force to be reckoned with when your feet don’t reach the floor. 

But, having sung my swan song, for tonight anyway, I feel better, relieved and a little revived.  I pad barefoot into the kitchen, grab a box of cheese straws and count out my caloric and carb intake for the evening.  As surely as I am a southern woman, and as surely as I can fling a hissy fit, I know that surely, tomorrow is another day.