My Jesus Story.

When I was in my early twenties, I left a very controlling church.

My therapist told me that I had lost my self, that I broken pieces of myself off in order to fit into the group.

As I drove home, I had a vivid picture in my head (not a vision). It was of me. I was basically the June Cleaver wife for my  husband Jesus. Domestic bliss ensued and things were good. Then years went by. Slowly Jesus changed. Became more controlling, more demanding. Eventually Jesus became violent and began assaulting me (in very bad ways). But I ripped at Jesus’ face and it was a mask and underneath was the face of my college minister. That was the end. I realized that the abuse I felt was not from God. But that God had not stopped it.

I was driving and crying. I said, “You left me Jesus. You left me with them.” But then I started sobbing even harder and I sad “You left me, ME. Don’t ever leave me again, ME. Don’t ever leave, Me.”

My whole personality was disintegrated. I did not not really know what I was, what I liked. During the crucial years of 16-23 I had been on a religion binge that truncated my growth in every normal area.

 

So a few days later, I was in my run down cool-ass rental house in a terrible neighborhood in Waco. And I was in my room. Again I had a vivid picture (not a vision.) I was in a large room, with hard wood floors. I had just seen the movie the “The Crow.” The room was the kind of room rich people have when they have a whole room with hard wood floors and nothing in it but a grand piano and then big open windows/french doors. Off in the distance was a piano. Anyway, I was standing in the room. Jesus came in. He was dressed like The Crow, and and very pale. He came up to me and stood silently. I began to beat the holy shit out of him. I knocked him down and hit him again and again til there was blood everywhere. And I knew he was fine with that. Because he had done nothing to stop the people at my church from hurting me. I hit him again and again and kicked him.

And I said, “it is OVER.  This is our separate peace.” (remember that book?)

That was the end of me being best friends with Jesus from age 23 to 36. During that period he meant nothing to me. Never thought about him, etc. Never prayed to him.

 

At the age of 26 I read “The Politics of Jesus” by Yoder. I got involved with the emergent church; soon after again had a very sentiment-oriented relationship with Jesus. For awhile it was very sentimental. Now it has again changed, positive but less emotionalistic.

Anyway, that is my Jesus story.

Who am I? I am the dude that beat up Jesus. Don’t worry, he is very forgiving.

 

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