I don’t mean this to sound mean-spirited, but I’ve read some of your stuff and I can’t tell if you’re a real Christian or not.
There are no gray areas, sir, you’re either all in, or not. Your use of swear words is not cool, or glorification of alcohol and tobacco… Substances that promote destructive lifestyles.
I’m just trying to figure out what you believe, as well as urging you to consider your eternity. No offense.
PRAYING FOR YOU
None taken. I wish I could answer this, but I don’t know how. Most anything I say will be the wrong thing. And I might inadvertently cause you to worry for my soul even more.
Yes. It’s true. I cuss sometimes—mostly on accident. Some phrases come from my blue-collar ancestry.
And I promise: I only use three of the six major swear words. Though in very rare cases—like blunt trauma to the kneecap—I’ll use a fourth.
But I still haven’t answered your question. So let me tell you what an eighty-nine-year-old preacher once told me.
I’ll call him Brother Jay. I wrote a report for a world-religion class. I visited Jay at his home. He was white-haired and slumped in a wheelchair.
His daughter told me he parked himself by the window and talked to his best friend every day—morning until night.
I saw him by the window, moving his mouth. I didn’t see anybody with him.
Jay was a preacher’s son. His uncle—also a preacher—sexually abused him as a boy. When Jay blew the whistle, his mother sent him away to a boys home.
He grew up an orphan. His family never visited. Not ever. The word loneliness comes to mind.
A woman took him under her wing. She was a custodian at the shelter. She brought him home with her. She took him to church. She introduced him to his best friend.
Then, something strange happened, he fell into preaching as a young man. Jay discovered he had a lot to say about the red letters.
He told me, “I regret every word I ever preached if it didn’t make outcasts feel included in the family of God.”
I asked which denomination he belonged to.
“None,” he said. “There aren’t any, son. Sometimes, I don’t even like being called a Christian. I’m a child’a God’s what I am. Just like everyone.”
“But,” I pointed out. “Not EVERYONE can be a child of God. There’re a lot of evil folks in this world.”
He didn’t even pause. “You wanna know who the children of God are and aren’t? Easy. Anyone who don’t love his brother, ain’t one.”
“It can’t be THAT easy,” said I.
“Look it up,” said he.
So, what exactly am I, you ask? I wish you could talk to Brother Jay about this, he’d know exactly what to say, and how to say it.
Sadly, he’s no longer with us.
He lives with his best friend now.