The Boys of Summer

Every year at this time I try to convince myself that this will be the year I cultivate a love for baseball.

It is beyond me why I’ve never caught the baseball virus. I’m built like a baseball player. Most people assume that I played baseball in college. It’s a game that seems to encourage statistical analysis. Baseball mixes power, finesse, bravado, and steely-eyed competition into a beautiful confederation of colors set on a field of grass and dirt that emit a sense of puckish youthfulness.

I want to love it. I should love it. By all accounts I should be a complete fanatic about the game, but it cannot hold my interest for long. I can find no fault with baseball that would preclude a passion for the game. I think that it is a game I was probably meant to love but for some reason cannot.

I think that for one to truly be a fan of something does NOT mean that they must be a fanatic. I mean…I think I could argue that I’m a fan of baseball, but to do so in the proximity of a few of my closest friends that are fanatics would earn me the label of HYPOCRITE.

These guys that I speak of consume the game. They adjust their schedules around the game. They spend a considerable amount of time and money attending games. They watch the games, analyze the games, and then read someone else’s analysis of the same games the very next day as they are watching the current games. These guys invest the kind of time, money, and heart into the game of baseball that makes me feel hypocritical when I describe myself as a fan.

I don’t deserve to wear the same cool stuff they do when they invite me to the games. I don’t know who the legendary announcers are that have nurtured their love of the sport. I don’t understand the nicknames and histories of individual players (see Fat Elvis). I get it, but I just don’t get it. I get it when I’m watching a game with these guys, but when I’m watching a game by myself I don’t get it.

Passion is a funny thing. It summons enthusiasm that cannot be faked. It invokes emotion that cannot be faked. It induces desire sometimes distinct from reason or intellect. It arouses love, joy, hatred, anger, jealousy, et. al.

Sometimes I envy my good friends that are passionate about baseball. This is an exciting time of year for them. From the moment that pitchers and catchers report to camp until the last game of the World Series these guys gleefully grin and toast and argue and cheer for a game, a team, and for individual players that throw, hit, and catch a ball. It’s quite a zen-like thing to watch as a non-fanatic wannabe baseball fan.

Having passion is good, I think. Your passions help to mold you and define a piece of who you are. I love that passion can change us at our core. I love that passion is somehow reliant on hope. Whatever we are passionate about will get the majority of our time and mental RAM.

I want more passions in my life. My passion for Jesus, my wife, my daughter, my Harley, and my running should be enough. But I’d like more. I’d like to be as passionate about people, in general, as I am about people’s ideas. I’d like to be passionate about child abuse and human trafficking and hunger and need. I’d like to be passionate about grace, mercy, and peace. I’d like to be passionate about injustice. I want to be passionate about the things that Jesus (one of my passions) is passionate about. I feel hypocritical being a fan of these things when I’m in the presence of those that are passionate about them.

Maybe I’m a fraud. Maybe we’re all frauds. Maybe we all want to take sides on the Trayvon Martin issue without understanding that Godly passion is laced with hope not hatred. Maybe we all want to be passionate about our political agendas without considering that righteous passion loves—it does not destroy or discredit. Maybe we all want to formulate exhaustive opinions about anything and everything as a means of convincing ourselves that we are not living lives void of passion. Maybe we all suck. I suspect that we most certainly do.

I hope we don’t all suck. I don’t want to believe that we are all frauds, phonies, and hypocrites. I want to believe that we all have passions that might be misguided instead of believing that we are absent of passion. I’d much rather think of us all possessing misplaced passion rather than being passionless. Passionless means dead. I don’t want to be dead. I don’t want to have misguided passions—but I know that I do. Still, I’d rather know there is passion in my life than to be dead inside—absent of hope—eyes at my feet instead of on the horizon.

Here’s to passion and all the messiness that it brings with it! I do love people, but I hope to become passionate about their lives and their suffering. I want to be infected with the passion that I see in Jesus. I’m not interested in the passions of His followers. I want the real stuff. I want to know that what I’m passionate about matters. I don’t want to be a fraud. And as these righteous passions grow inside of me I’m hoping that there isn’t a limit on the number of things one can be passionate about.

I still want to be passionate about baseball. That part is real, too. It’s just that I want to be equally as passionate about people’s heart as I am about the Cardinals. It’s much less messy to be a Cards fanatic than it is to be a fanatic of suffering, environmentalism, economic disparity, and the elimination of hate. However, I still think baseball might be my gateway drug. I sense that the green grass and rosin and smell of beer might represent the pleasant hopefulness necessary to dive into the messier passions of human existence.

I want to know what a RALLY SQUIRREL is. I want to put 20,000 miles a year on my ’07 Dyna Lowrider. I want to run 4 full marathons a year. I want to be fully engaged in the everyday miracle that is my wife and daughter. I want to “seek first the kingdom of God.” And through kingdom seeking I hope to add the passions of Jesus to my growing list of passions.

All of that and I’d like the Texas Rangers to win the World Series. But don’t tell all my buds that are Cardinal fanatics. The reason they all say that the Rangers didn’t win the 2011 World Series is because Ranger fans aren’t the same caliper as Cardinal fanatics. The say Ranger fans only show interest in the post-season. They say a team without passion can never ultimately achieve their goals against adversity. Maybe they’re right. Maybe a group of fanatics CAN raise the level of play of the team they’re passionate about. I’d certainly like to think so. 

KONY 2012

Spiritual Awakening in the Desert

It was a long hard run into the arid region of far West Texas. We ran a consistent pace along the Rio Grande for hundreds of miles. Three rows of barbed wire separated us on both sides from scrubby mesquite and cacti as we thundered West on two cylinder steeds with rubber hooves.

“West” always makes me think of adventure and survival and Josey Wales. In my mind, “West” is where there is newness and hope of something better. It’s where the daring (and sometimes crazy) go to escape preformed existence. “New” lives out West. “Old” is wherever you’ve been long enough to exhaust all of your resources and have explored all of the contemporary modes of advancement.

As long as you’re travelling West you know what lies to the East. You know which towns to the East show promise of fuel and which are ghostly reminders of lives long since departed. You know where the “road dragons” are to the East (road dragons—long curled chunks of tire tread that mark spots in the road where someone has blown a tire). “Been there Done that” is to the East. You’ve already conquered the East. You’ve already absorbed the scenic pleasures it has to offer and have survived the hazards it has thrown at you. Even the sun loses interest in the East and is constantly trying to escape it to no avail.

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I’ve been writing, researching, and cajoling people to embrace the spiritual West for half a decade now. At first, I thought I was the only one spending my evenings with a glass of whiskey meticulously reviewing roughly-drawn prospector’s maps of the spiritual West. I kind of thought I was the only one foolish enough to point my horse in that direction. I remember at one point thinking I might have to turn around because all I was finding the further West I went was miles and miles of barbed wire and seemingly uninhabitable land.

But something has happened.

Something has changed.

Others have felt the call of the spiritual West and have been heading that direction. You run into them the further you go into the unknown West. The spiritual pioneers are out West seeking, exploring, finding, and sharing. You see them up ahead and you quicken your pace to catch up. You are invited to ride in formation with them because there is protection, power, and energy in numbers. You share each other’s resources. You learn from each other’s stories. You build confidence in knowing that your desire to discover the spiritual West hasn’t been about escaping the East—it’s been a call TO something instead of AWAY from the past.

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When we discover what lies West we discover a new level of potential. We discover a new perspective and we realize that although the old perspective works fine to the East, the new perspective of the West requires a different set of eyes to see and ears to hear. Not everyone is ready for it. Not everyone is capable of making the journey. Not everyone is bold enough to reject the cautionary tales of Easterners and quietly travel West. And to be honest, not EVERYONE is being called to travel West.

But if you hear the call of the spiritual West (and you know it if you do), you need to heed that call. You need to pack as little as you can into your saddlebags, backpacks, carts, or buggies and start following the Son.

We need you out here. We’ve begun to establish some communities out here. We’ve discovered water and food sources and we’re beginning to figure out how to use these new eyes and ears.

The stars are much brighter and not an inch of the sky isn’t owned by one. Those stars were always over your head, but you couldn’t see them. You needed a new perspective.

Resources are harder to find out here, but you appreciate them so much more than ever before. Succulent tiny quail hiding under the very same mesquite that you use to cook them with—powerful winds that bring the promise of rain—mountains to look up at and valleys to view from above.

Changes in perspective require movement.

New ideas, dreams, challenges, and hope require effort and time and loss and sincerity.

We don’t go to tame the spiritual West! We go to learn how to be a part of it!

That’s why we pack so little. It’s because with every bit of spiritual baggage we bring along, we risk missing out on the full scope of a REAL perspective change. If we bring our old eyes and ears with us then we cannot survive out here. It’s a place that requires adaptability, freedom, and most of all it is a place that requires faith.

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My recent 1,000 mile roundtrip out West recharged my faith in new sunsets, ghost towns, prickly pear, and that a new tire may be hard to find, but somebody’s out there with just what you need. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s okay. If you DO know what I’m talking about then you GET IT. Sometimes spiritual changes at our core occur because we’re standing somewhere we’ve never been before. We can be dramatically changed by our surroundings. We almost always are.

As I relived three days’ worth of riding to my wife it sparked a thought—we depart home with the excitement of visually experiencing a new environment, but we arrive back home telling all our stories about the people we met along the way.

I’m not exactly sure what that thought means just yet, but it’s definitely fermenting in my brain.

I couldn’t wait to clean all the dead bugs off my Harley. I couldn’t wait to check all my fluid levels, air pressures, and snug up all the loose bolts. I couldn’t wait to ready everything for the next opportunity to ride West. I couldn’t wait because once you begin to satisfy the yearning in your soul to travel West you become addicted.

Yes, it’s about riding the Hog. Yes, it’s about finding those long stretches of rode where you can run 115 mph before you crest the next hill. Yes, it’s about challenging your ability to adapt and problem-solve. But most significantly, it’s about the subtle change in vision and the noticing of embedded sounds you’d never noticed before.

It’s called living.

It’s called joy.

It’s called peace.

It’s called faith.

Christian PTSD and a bunch of other stuff

Warning: Stream of Consciousness Ahead—Slow down when approaching the curves.

·         There has to be a respectful way to argue that Christianity may be the greatest threat to the teachings of Jesus Christ.

·         There has to be a way to open up the discussion with spiritually honest folks about the burden of Christianity on the intent of Christ’s message to ALL of humanity.

·         There has to be a meaningful way to investigate the problems generated by Christianity without attacking individual Christians.

·         There has to be a way to criticize the belief system without tearing down the believers.

·         There has to be a way to look at Jesus, the red letters, and the Cross from a first person perspective instead of through the filters of Christianity.

·         There has to be a way to escape the zoo of Christianity and view Christ in the wild—no barriers—no separation—no vendors—no warnings—just people standing right in front of the Lion of The Tribe of Judah (Rev 5:5).

There has to be a way……...but I don’t know what it is.

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I’m never so “on point” and cautious as I am when I attend a Christian church service. Most would think that it’s because I’m damaged goods or that I’ve been wounded by church folk in the past and just haven’t healed yet. Well, that might be part of it, but I’m nobody’s punk. I don’t whine about injustices and angrily stomp around fuming over defeat. I have a pretty short memory when it comes to confrontation and even rejection. What I don’t forget easily is disrespect or contempt—both personally and when observed from a third-party perspective.

I don’t carry a chip on my shoulder, but you won’t ever sneak up on me easily more than once.

Let me explain what it’s like participating in a church service (traditional or contemporary—mainstream or off-the-grid—clean-cut preacher or guy with an 8” goatee) when you have all your senses in hyper-active mode at the ready for any type of a flanking maneuver. It’s exhausting!

It’s like playing soccer on a field where there MIGHT be a couple landmines. You’re not sure if they’re there, but they MIGHT be so you’ll need to diligently scan the ground as you “play” the game. All the while the other players on the field joyfully play the game without worries or hesitation. In contrast to them, you play the game like Rain Man trying to get on an airplane.

I like to think of it as Christian PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). Does that mean I consider myself a victim? Of course not! I was a volunteer. No one made me participate in the system dynamic which is Christianity.

Or did they?

No. What am I saying? No one forced Christianity on me; it was a choice I made on my own at the age of 9.

But………..… I don’t know. I mean what other alternatives did I have? At 9, the choice was quite clear—either accept the basis of Christianity as expressed through my particular church congregation or reject the message of Jesus Christ and what his life/death means to me for all eternity.

And THEN radically remodel those Christian ideologies at age 11 due to the different philosophies at our new church community. Then there was the refashioning of those beliefs at age 15 after my parents had given up religion all together and I had to start evaluating doctrine and theology on my own (which meant I would attend the church where most of my friends went).

That was a Christianity based on the sound ideology of: God wants our youth to have a full-functioning gymnasium and lounge areas with pool tables and old couches. That wasn’t a bad Christianity. It provided many of us a place to meet members of the opposite sex that appeared to be like-minded Christians and thereby “safe” for exploring the nuances of dating during our mid-teens. We really took advantage of that one!

Next month’s overnight lock-in—Hell, yeah, I’m gonna be there!

There were lots of other churches with just as many different flavors of Christianity. All of them had good points and bad points IMO. But there was always one thread of consistency that ran through all of them—Jesus. So it came to pass that when I finally got tired of readjusting my own sense of who Jesus WAS based on the plethora of versions I came into contact with (Jesus version 3.7 – Jesus version 20.8) I began to think about what all of the different flavors of Christianity must look like from Jesus’s perspective (confession: I usually type “Christ’s” instead of “Jesus’s” because I’m never quite comfortable with that spelling—too many ssssssses).

I still don’t have any idea what it all must look like from the Jesus perspective. I realized the dangers of that thought process early on. It required me to assume that I knew anything at all about how a creator evaluated his/her creation. However, I think that it was that time in my life that led me to pursue writing. I wanted to know what it was like creating something you were proud to present to others whether they appreciated it or not and then see what it would feel like witnessing what others would do with your creation. Sometimes they tear it apart. Sometimes they OVERLY embrace it. Sometimes they respectfully ponder it and give you a little chuck on the shoulder (those are probably the best).

But sometimes they ignore it. Sometimes they disrespect you and carefully shoo you out of the room so that the “real” grown-ups can talk. Sometimes they label you and your creation too artless or ordinary to be the work of anyone worthy of their time. Sometimes the flaws in what you create are evaluated contemptuously overshadowing any beauty, honesty, or truth you may stumble upon in the process of being creative. Sometimes you’re considered a piece of shit no matter what you have created because it’s not what the “real” grown-ups want to hear or are looking to decorate the walls with.

Dude…did I just hear an “amen” in the distance?

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There is a point to this weird post. Let me see if I can find it.

Oh, yes! What it feels like to attend any form of church service with Christian PTSD. It’s exhausting! I know I said that before, but I don’t know what more to say without coming off like some kind of raving lunatic hell-bent on throwing all Christian church-goers under the bus whether they have a “real” relationship with Jesus Christ or are just going through the motions in order to get an invite to the lock-in.

I don’t know where it starts or ends. Oh, wait! What about that Alpha and Omega thing? Isn’t Jesus the beginning and the end? Give me a second to Google that…

I knew it: Revelations!

You see, all those different forms, flavors, and versions of Christianity kept teaching me that Jesus was the “first and the last, the beginning and the end.” They kept telling me that, “Jesus is all you need, son.” They kept telling me that the spirit of Jesus lives inside me somehow as a guide or conscience or something like that. They all pretty much unilaterally agreed that I was safe as long as I was walking alongside Jesus following him to our next venue or just sitting atop a hillside watching a rain cloud come our way.

And then they turned the tables on me. They told me that I needed their approval. They told me that I was taking some of this Alpha-Omega talk a little too literally. They said that THEY were commissioned to be my shepherds and that I should get back to the flock. And do you want to know what I finally found in the midst of all of this conflict, chaos, and confusion that gave my soul a peace it had never felt before?

Jesus—Lion of the Tribe of Judah standing four foot in front of me on the savannah grasslands without a tree in sight—nowhere to run—nowhere to hide. I stared that Lion square-ball in the eye as long as I could anticipating some answers. I stared him square-ball in the eye—a bold man daring the Big Cat to attack. I grasped a knife in each hand and prepared to TAKE whatever answers I could get.

But in the end there were no answers. In the end, I dropped my knives, knelt reverently on my left knee, and began to weep.

I wept for all the people I had failed instead of all the folks that had failed me.

I wept for all the times I made others feel like shit because they didn’t know the right scripture or where a certain book was located in the Bible.

I wept for all the people I had forsaken because they were reluctant to buy into my version of Christianity.

I wept because I had planted some of those landmines on the soccer field hoping to expose those that didn’t believe the way that I did.

I wept for about 2 years.

And when the weeping was over I looked up to see the Jesus lion still standing there staring at me. He locked eyes with me for a moment as if to say, “you good now?” and then he turned around to leave. He walked a few steps away before turning to look at me over his shoulder. Then he said, “you coming?” (I know Lions can’t talk, but I swear on a stack of Bibles that this Lion said, “you coming?”)

I’ve been following Jesus ever since in a way that defies convention and tradition and ritual. It’s all so clear now. I didn’t need answers. I needed experiences. I needed time with Jesus. I needed to watch how Jesus loves.

Now I get to witness this same scenario playing itself out over and over between Jesus and other folks as I stand back about 50 feet and just watch the stare down until each individual, in their own time, bows to one knee and weeps however long that they need to. Then we all follow together as we move to the next venue or sit atop a hill watching rainclouds gather. It’s all very surreal and yet it seems so normal after a while.

This is all based on a totally real dream that I had once, BTW!

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I’m still traveling along watching and learning as the Big Cat (that’s what I call Jesus sometimes) gathers folks from all cultures, creeds, colors, and walks of life. I still don’t know where we’re all going or exactly what’s on the horizon, but these people I hang with are radically different than any of the folks I grew up going to church with. I’m not trying to say that they are better or worse—just different.

I’d much rather attend a 1%er function than a church service any day – any week – any month – any year. I feel safer at an outlaw mc gathering or bar than at any Christian function. What I mean is that there’s definitive protocol in the biker world. There are expectations and consequences that don’t shift or change depending upon the situation. You can always feel secure around a bunch of 1%ers as long as you know the rules—and the rules are always the same. Show respect and you get respect—act an asshole and you are sure to be treated like an asshole.

Church isn’t like that. Christians aren’t like that. The varying forms, expectations, and beliefs of different versions of Christianity can switch up on you so quick you have no idea what you’re supposed to do or who you might offend in the process. You might even be the BIGGEST asshole in the group and be honored because of it. It just doesn’t make any sense and it is NOT the least bit consistent.

Jesus makes sense. Jesus is consistent. He loves. He leads. He rescues. He bleeds. He roars. He finds YOU. He doesn’t care what you look like or what you THINK you know about anything. He wants you to watch HIM work. Pay close attention. He leads.

He leads because not only is he love, truth, honor, and majestic Lion but also because he is RESPECT.

He is respect to others. He is respect to our planet. He is respect to all of HIS creation. He places value in his creation whether we do or not and expects us to respect it (all of it) as well. This protocol does not waver. This protocol is a constant.

The lion demands you to respect yourself. If you cannot respect yourself due to the ongoing pressure of whatever group you belong to then you need a new group. You’re welcome to join me hanging with bikers, but you’re gonna need to know the rule of respect first.

I’ve found more personal discipleship at the hands of patch holders in the mc world than I ever did in 25 years of bible studies, retreats, or church services. What’s that supposed to mean to someone like me? I’m still trying to find out. I will tell you that learning the very specific means of conveying respect whether in the mc world, military, or any other organization which highly regulates and values honor, respect, and loyalty can elevate you spiritually to a place that looks down on Christianity. Yeah, I said it!

Give me the respectful cadence of a biker rally any day over a Christian function. At least with the bikers I know what’s expected of me. With Christians, you never know what they’re gonna spring on you. Hence, you have to always be on your guard with your speech, actions, and even body language.

That kind of hyper-active sense of uncertainty doesn’t bode well for the Christian PTSD victim and neither does participating in a game of “watch your ass” played on a minefield of expectations.

You get my drift……… 

When words fail the Heart can still hear

I don’t trust Christians.

Wait; it gets more offensive.

Christian functions make my skin crawl.

I’d rather listen to 24 hours of shrieking hurricane force winds than listen to Christian music.

I can’t stand Christian “worship”.

If I had my way society would cease all forms of sanctioned Christian activity, henceforth.

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I trust Jesus with all my heart, soul, and spirit.

Wait; don’t roll your eyes yet.

Good music, good drink, and meaningful discussion are healing to me.

The silent private moments of sensing Jesus somehow revealing things to me heals my spirit.

Good days and bad days—my life is my form of worship.

My idea of heaven is being around a group of real people with real problems talking about what works and what doesn’t.

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If you’re turned off by where I’m coming from with any of this then I guess we have to agree to disagree. Simply put, I reject the notion that corporate worship, sanctioned lists of dos/don’ts, and Biblical teaching provide direct pathways to the soul-heart-spirit. In a world of abject poverty, moral depravity, and social injustice I think we need to focus on direct pathways to the soul-heart-spirit. This is why I don’t trust Christians.

For one thing, Christians have traditionally been identified by their knowledge of Scripture, participation at Christian gatherings, and adherence to Christian mores. This results in a reasonable conclusion that an exceptional (more righteous) Christian will usually be one that has an exceptional knowledge of Scripture, an exceptional record of participation at Christian gatherings, and an exceptional adherence to Christian mores.

Herein lies the rub—no matter how beneficial those activities or compliances may be, they will never directly impact the soul-heart-spirit. These things can never ever replace the simple private reassurance deep in your heart (way down deep where the real stuff lies about like a cave full of treasure) that Jesus really likes you just as you are right here—right now.

The expectations of other Christians don’t mean shit. Listen TO your heart.

The rules and regulations don’t mean shit. Listen WITH your heart.

The behaviors of the people you associate with don’t mean shit. Listen to THEIR hearts.

Christianity (i.e. the belief system) will always be about molding and shaping people into what Christians think they should look like. What about what Jesus wants us to look like? What’s supposed to happen when we listen to our hearts and what we hear contradicts what Christians want us to believe? What happens when Christians convince you to stop trusting what your heart is hearing? What are we supposed to think of a Jesus that conveys messages to our heart that challenge us to ignore traditional Christian values? Who’s the real Jesus? And after a lot of these kinds of frustrating questions: who really gives a shit, anymore?

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Ephesians 6:12—for our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

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The rulers are those that set the rules. The authorities are those that enforce the rules. The powers of this dark world are those that treat humanity with disdain and contempt.

With a fully open mind and a fully open heart I cannot ignore the shocking similarities between the rulers, authorities, and powers that we struggle against and the prevalent mainstream belief system we call Christianity. I just cannot ignore the potency of Christianity to poison and hate and corrupt. I want to ignore it. I’ve been trained to make excuses for the disparity between what Jesus teaches our heart-soul-spirit and what Christianity teaches our minds. I’ve spent days at a time fasting and praying that all of this Christian learning would miraculously jive with what I sense is Jesus speaking to my heat-soul-spirit.

I’ve discovered that you cannot serve two masters without unwittingly discovering that you’ve grown to love one of them and hate the other (Mathew 6:24). It’s basic human nature. One cannot focus their supreme affection or devotion on Jesus AND the “riches” of this world. Be careful not to take the lazy approach to the word “riches”. Riches don’t always mean money. Toxic riches of the world are more often power, prestige, acceptance, notoriety, accolades, deference, etc.

Part of the problem with Christianity is that it is easily converted to a system which promotes power, prestige, acceptance, notoriety, accolades, deference, etc. That’s why I don’t trust Christians, enjoy Christian music, or attend Christian activities. It’s because you never know which one you’re dealing with—either it’s a Christianity contemptuous of humanity or it’s a Christianity filled with the flamboyantly prestigious. Rarely is it a Christianity that connects directly to the heart-soul-spirit.

I don’t trust Christians because the righteous ones look just like the toxic ones. I don’t trust Christians because they lie to themselves so much that it makes it easier for them to lie to everyone else. I don’t trust Christians because they don’t know they’ve been deceived. I don’t trust Christians because they never love me; they only love their version of me that they picture in their heads. I don’t trust Christians because you cannot trust someone that doesn’t believe in themselves more than in the system. I don’t trust Christians because I know how good the Kool-Aid tastes: it is very addictive.

I trust Jesus because he died for me and everyone else I’ve ever known or will ever know. We (the scumbags, scallywags, rebels, and misfits) are worthy based on the simple fact that we’ll listen to someone that we can trust. We’ll listen to someone that gives a shit and isn’t trying to sell something in the process. We’ll listen when we don’t have to sacrifice our dignity. We’ll listen because if you’re willing to die for me then my honor moves me to die for you if the time ever comes.We'll listen if we believe that you like us.

I am not willing to die for Christianity. Christianity did not die for me on a cross.

I am willing to die for Christ—even if my death is a result of fighting against the toxic effects of Christianity.

Listen to your heart. What’s in there? What’s happening inside there when the pastor speaks? What’s happening in there when people treat each other with contempt because of differing social/political/religious views? What’s going on in there when you witness a community of Christians affected by all of the same moral depravity as the rest of the world that they reject?

Listen to your heart. Then you can start learning how to listen to other people’s hearts. Then you learn that being willing to die for Christ means being willing to die for those around you whose hearts need someone to trust. If you’re gonna spend your time learning something: do yourself a favor and learn these things. Then you get to see what making a difference really means.

Don’t wait—do it now!

This is a very small part of what the religious rulers, authorities, and power brokers of his day did to Jesus.