I wrote my last blog (the one about masturbation and dildos) before meeting the born again Christians (or is that Born Again?) for a three-hour lunch and chat, which sort of turned into a bible session—only without the Bible but with a lot of talk about our Lord God Almighty. (I’m sure referencing Him requires capitalization, and I’m also certain that a whole helluva lot of Catholics have capitalized on that for a great many years.)
Anyway, I’d posted a note on my Facebook page saying I’m open for coffee if you live nearby (some restrictions now apply), and these friendly God-fearing folk took me up on the offer hoping to heal my heathen ways. (Apparently, part of doing God’s good works is reading this blog, so blessed be you.)
We agreed to meet at Ricky’s Restaurant. I called ahead to make sure the restaurant had a place to tie up my dog and a water bucket for her. And, no, I don’t have a dog, but my roomie is away and I’m house-, cats- and dog-sitting. She—Sasha, the dog, not the roomie—is utterly adorable (though my roomie is, too) and is the gentlest soul (her aged bones survived cancer). Since people swoon over Sasha, I—like a proud parent, or perhaps a proud dog owner—have claimed her as my own. (This will immediately change if vet care is required.) Ricky’s confirms it has a shady spot and water for my dog.
I leash up said Sasha, and we walk to town. I give plenty of extra time to allow for her sniffings¹ of every shrub on the way—plus it gives more people a chance to drive by and see her glory. When we arrive, there is indeed an ideal locale out of the sun for her to rest and where I can keep an eye on her. I’ve got my runners on should someone try to abscond with my new, old compadre.
A gentleman of mid-sixties arrives sans spouse, and initially I’m suspicious. (I’ve been asked out a few times because of my writing, which does make one wonder, no?) But alas, the wife is en route so I ramble about my life and my family and my book and my writing and that’s when he sees his chance.
Yes, that’s why I wanted to talk to you, he says, somewhat tentatively.
I’ve been getting a lot of that lately, I reply.
He smiles and tells me he’s has some interesting life experiences and felt compelled to reach out to me. From here he stumbles a little awkwardly into mentioning God. Well, somehow the Holy Spirit (or my highly, if not holy, honed intuition) has already alerted me, and I’m not surprised. He asks what amounts to be: Do I know God?
Well, I went to Israel and got baptized in the River Jordan, does that count? I tell him. (True story. Mentioned in my memoir.)
The height of his eyebrows shows how surprised he is by this information. So you’re a Christian? Do you have the Holy Spirit in you?
I refrain from saying Hell, yeah! or Card Carrying! or something else naughty or witty and instead stick with what’s safely not sacrilegious. So I just smile and say, Yep.
I glance out the window at “my dog.” She’s sitting pretty.
From here Mr. Born Again and I go on a discussion of the rights and wrongs of Christianity, and Mrs. Reborn shows up and we order inhumane food choices—which I do from time to time to prevent me from becoming all superior-minded-fundamentalist-finger-pointing (plus I rarely buy meat anymore so this is a treat, what can I say: hashtag iSin). We chat for three hours on our spiritual states of mind, the state of the earth and the way we ought not to worry about things because if we have faith then worry is really a sin now, isn’t it?
And I concur. True. My [little] mom tells me all the time, When you give your problems to God, you’re not supposed to take them back. (Only with a Spanish accent.)
In my mind, I’m thinking about the last blog I wrote on self-pleasuring—which hadn’t yet been posted at the time of this luncheon but was in the queue—and wondering how awesome God is to make worry a sin and masturbation not. I refrain from mentioning this even though Mr. Born Again did mention there is Alberta beef² on the menu. Raised eyebrow. Naughty humour permitted in Christian circles? Interesting. I have to say, Christians are going about their marketing plan all wrong!
Actually, I do say that part aloud and add, See, the way I see it is this… There’s no point in preaching to the choir. They already know the songs. If “we Christians” want to win the rest over, we’ve got to speak their language. I’m speaking to the foul-minded folk like me. If I can be a naughtypottyblog writer and a God-loving do-gooder, who do you think is going to inspire more people? I pause for effect then continue. If you’re all in their face and “that’s wrong,” you’re simply not going to sign up as many believers. My mom tried that strategy for years and all that her leadership—read: self-righteous judgement—taught me was that there was no way I’d want to be a member of Heaven’s Club. Hell no! This is why we will only all win if we lead with love.
He misses some of the point by telling me that my elephant journal essay, 10 Commandments Revisited, was downloaded to me by the devil. Oy! And anyway, I disagree.
After careful review, I’ll bet MLM (my little mom) can find bible passages from the New Testament that support every point I made, which totally makes sense because the Old Testament where the 10 Commandments were originally written was fulfilled by the bloody blood of Christ, y’all! (For those who are unaware, Christians believe Jesus’ death on the cross, which is in the New Testament, wipes out all the old: Old Testament, old sins, etc.). This brings me to the conclusion that my 10 Commandments essay was inspired by the Holy Spirit, not spawned by Satan. Booya! Touch. Down. Dance.
And here’s another thing that I forgot to mention in the convo: According to the Bible, Jesus will come back when the whole world has been made away of his prior existence etc. He will either be “like a thief in the night “or “riding on a gleaming photoshopped cloud for all to see”. (Author’s interpretation. Not sure how He’s going to pull off both, but that’s incidental.) Here’s my question: If Christians need to alert those who don’t know about Hay-soos, then why the heck are they hounding those of us that already do know about Him? Shouldn’t they either be high-fiving those of us who are aware or go teach in Botwania or something? If we are saved by the blood of JC, then stop fucking finger-wagging, it’s not your job to save us, only inform. Plus, I saw you eat that plate of pork sausage from Kentucky.
Nonetheless, it was a riveting conversation and free hugs were given and a free bible was received and, whilst I was revved up with my eye on the holy discussion, I had also taken my eyes off my dog, who wholly dug up the front of Ricky’s garden bed. We high-tailed it. Sorry, Ricky’s staff. My bad (dog).
What have I (re)learned? In God’s world, worry is a dealbreaker. Also, never mind ask and it is given, instead give thanks, and it is already received, possibly wrapped, in pretty paper with sparkly confetti and a shiny ribbon. (Or a polka-dot bag from an adult-only store.)
Homework: Do God’s work. (Wrote this. Check.)
P.S. The next day I interviewed a man who photographs women in bondage. How am I going to make that God’s work? Heaven help me.
¹Sniffings: Annaism. Meaning: Exactly what you think it does, duh.
²Refer to my blog: Alberta Beef Makes Me Horny, written last year. Obvi, Mr. Born Again is committed to God’s work. He knows I jest, so it’s okay, and if not then don’t go for coffee with a naughtypottyblog writer—but also, see, you can be a believer and read my questionably Christian ramblings!
