Christianity and Spiritual Experiences (that aren’t
drug related)
I
became a Christian when I was thirteen. I
think it was during the summer of 1992. I
remember that the prior summer played as a catalyst to my getting saved from
eternal damnation. I had gotten caught
sticking nails in the road with a couple of my friends who had obviously a
stronger influence on me than I on them. I wasn’t the type of kid who would set nails
in the road; I most always stayed out of trouble. At the time I didn’t realize I was going along
with a plot that could possibly put someone else’s life in danger. I wasn’t pushed into doing it. It just sounded like a good idea. I
definitely wasn’t thinking there would be consequences.
Weeks
before that unforgettable event, I had found my old man’s Playboy magazines.
They were hidden in the living room closet on the top shelf, just barely
hanging over the edge. They were easy to get to. When we first moved into my parents’ country
home (we being my brother, sister,
mother, and father), there was an old chicken coop I had made into a club
house. I snatched my dad’s dirty rags and hid them under a deer skin I kept in
the coop. Again, I wasn’t pushed into
doing it, and I didn’t need the influence of a couple buddies to convince me. I
knew exactly what I was doing, and I knew why: I wanted to gawk at the naked
women who were willing to bare their breasts and spread their legs all for my
voyeuristic pleasure. I’m pretty sure by
that time, playing with my slug was already a daily occurrence. I was getting laid in that chicken coop, at
least in my mind.
As
I stated, I normally stayed out of trouble.
So when my neighbor’s truck almost ran over one of those nails and he spotted
us running toward the road to see if any had gotten stuck in his tire, my
mother was utterly confounded when she was informed by the angry man of what we
had been doing. I’m pretty sure I’ll
never forget the shocked look on her face when she turned to me in fury and
shouted, “JOSEPH!?” At that time people
only called me J.B. “JOSEPH!?” meant I was about to lose my summer privileges. And to make matters worse, that same weekend
somebody had divulged to my parents the whereabouts of those lost
Playboys. I don’t think she would admit to
it today, but I’m pretty sure my sister, who was a year older, had snitched on
me. That little bitch.
I
really don’t remember my punishment for sticking nails in the road and stealing
my dad’s dirty magazines, but I do remember my worried mother mentioning
something about getting me into church. By that time, she and my tattling
sister had already begun attending the Four Square Gospel Church on Goyer
Road. Mom rededicated her life to Christ
and my sister became a born again Christian.
Well good for them, but I had no interest in religion whatsoever. Obviously that didn’t matter to mom, because
she began to wake me every Sunday morning around eight o’clock. I had no say in the matter. If it wasn’t bad enough getting my ass up for
school five days a week, one of the two days I was able to sleep late had been
taken away due to the belief that mommy’s little Sunshine might be turning into
a delinquent. Maybe being forced to go to church was my punishment.
Punishment
or not, the summer I was sentenced to the pew forever changed my life. If it weren’t for the Christian religion and
my desire to truly live my life doing God’s work, I might have never had the
chance to meet my wife; traveling across the United States in a Christian band
would have never been an option; and I honestly don’t think I’d be who I am
today had I not accepted Jesus as my personal savior. It’s funny, though, I really can’t remember
the experience all that much. I think I
just felt really good. For such a life
changing episode one would expect to see fireworks or hear the angels sing or…something. Nope. Not me. I just remember
feeling at peace. I remember smiling a lot too.
And
then I remember the Christian t-shirts, the Christian punk rock, the Christian
bonfires (to burn the UN-Christian punk rock), the Christian summer camps (at
which I met my wife), and the Christian book stores. These “Christian” things had all become a
part of my life. They affected who my friends were and what I allowed into my
mind. This new religion changed my whole
perception of the world around me. For
the first time in my life I was truly concerned with the afterlife, and not
just for me, but for the world. Suddenly,
everybody I knew who didn’t know Jesus was going to Hell, and it was my job as
a Christian to stop that from happening.
It was during that first year as a Christian I
decided I wanted to play music for the Lord.
My hands had been anointed with oil by a crazy old pastor from a church
in Mexico, Indiana; I began to learn to play the guitar; I began incessantly
writing songs with Christian messages; and, finally, I put together a Christian
punk band—after many failed attempts—that my band mates and I decided to call Calibretto
13. But I’m going to save the details of
that part of my life for another chapter. I’d like to spend the rest of this
chapter recalling a few more anecdotes and then explaining why I am no longer a
Christian.
Aside
from accepting Jesus Christ into my life as my personal savior, I can recall
four other spiritual experiences during my span as a Christian that many
readers might find hard to attribute only to raw emotion, the first involving
several warts on my feet. My mother had
invited me to attend a prayer group with her that congregated every Friday
night. I can’t remember if I had lost
all my friends due to my being a religious weirdo, or if I was genuinely
seeking to know more about my new God, but I decided to spend my Friday nights
with my mother reading the Holy Bible and praying with a bunch of old women.
I
remember those Friday night snore fests being nearly unbearable. I usually had
to force myself to stay awake and almost always had a bad attitude. I don’t know what it was that kept me coming
back. Maybe my mother forced me to go, but my memory
doesn’t serve me. Either way, one
evening everyone was waiting their turn to gush out their hardships and receive
encouragement and prayer from the other sad souls in the room. When it came to be my turn, I asked the group
to pray that God would take away the myriad warts that were living on the
bottoms of my feet. I really couldn’t think of anything else, and the warts
were annoying. They had developed a year
or so earlier and were a little uncomfortable.
So the group of women laid their hands on me and we all prayed
together. Some spoke in tongues and some
sang to the Lord. By the time everyone
was finished I was just ready to go home.
It was late and I was tired.
It
wasn’t until the following night when I was taking a shower that I had noticed
my warts were gone! There might have been a few bumps left, but by the end of
the week those had disappeared as well.
At that age there was no doubt in my mind that God had healed me through
the power of prayer. I look back at it
now with wonder. If we had been
followers of a different religion, praying to a different god, would the
outcome still be the same? Did the
miracle, if it was a miracle, have really anything to do with the belief in a
god or religion, or was it purely a reaction to faith? My
faith definitely had nothing to do with it.
I really couldn’t have cared less if the warts were removed. Maybe somebody else in the group had such a
strong belief in what they were praying for that the energy they were
transmitting manifested into results; or, maybe it was because a group of
people all believed for the same thing.
It was all mind power, right? It
could have been a natural occurrence.
Maybe it was coincidental that the warts disappeared. Maybe I didn’t realize that they were almost
gone when I had asked for prayer and they were already healing on their
own. Whatever the reason, I’m going to
call it a spiritual experience, because, at the time, that’s how I perceived
it.
My
second spiritual experience happened probably about a year later. I had to be no more than fourteen. It’s pretty simple: I went on a youth retreat
to Detroit with my sister and the rest of the youth group at Four Square, and
during one of the sermons the teenagers in the congregation were asked to lift
their hands and pray for God’s power and forgiveness. The idea being that we as God’s warriors
couldn’t go door to door in Detroit leading people to Christ if we didn’t have
God’s power and forgiveness in our own lives.
I remember having a heavy heart and earnestly praying on my knees for
Jesus to forgive me of my sins, when out of nowhere I heard his audible voice
tell me, “I forgive you.” I know this
sounds silly, but at the time there was no doubting it. Nowadays I claim it was all in my mind.
My
third experience can also be ascribed to an overactive imagination, but I find
that hard to accept, for I believe in ghosts (I think). I was fifteen when I experienced this
one. I was still attending Four Square
with my mother and siblings and had been invited to a Christian festival by one
of the other youths at the church. The
festival introduced to me several new Christian bands, and on the last day of
the fest there was an altar call on the main stage. Of course, being the devoted disciple that I
was, I took myself down to the grassy altar and prayed that Jesus would bring
me closer to him. I asked him to reveal
his purpose for my life and to give me a better understanding as to how I could
serve him to my full potential. Overall,
I returned from the fest with a new knowledge of good Christian music and a
warm fuzzy feeling. That warm fuzzy
feeling lasted about a week.
My
parents still live in that same country house in which I grew up. There are two bathrooms: one on the main
floor and one in the basement. At that
time, the basement bathroom was unfinished, but I preferred to use it
anyway. I enjoyed the privacy,
especially when I had snuck mom’s department store catalogs downstairs with me
to toss off to the lingerie sections. It
was quiet and most of the time nobody knew I was down there.
One
afternoon I was coming out of that downstairs bathroom when I heard a chuckle
as I entered the hall. I was startled as
it came from directly behind me. I
remember it had sounded like the goofy laugh that might come from a mongoloid
or an idiot. I turned to see who was there, not knowing
what to expect. A tall man with old blue
jeans and a loose blue t-shirt stood over me with a crooked smile hanging from
his ugly face. His greasy brown hair was
unkempt and his clothes hung sloppily over his emaciated body. He looked young, without any facial hair to
hide his pale visage. Needless to say I
was scared shitless.
I’m
not exactly sure what I was thinking at the time. Did I realize that my imagination was getting
the best of me? I can’t remember if he
seemed ghostly or tangible, but my fear was undeniable. I backed away slowly to the stairs leading to
the backdoor and stopped. I took one
last glance at him and quickly whispered, “I rebuke you in the name of
Jesus.” His image was still in my head
as I ran up the stairs and out the door to join the rest of my family who were
hanging out in the backyard, oblivious to what had just happened.
Apparently
I didn’t believe that he was really there, at least not in the flesh, because
later that evening I had forgotten all about him. I didn’t even care to tell anyone. But, then again, I was fifteen and too old to
be afraid of ghosts in the basement.
Besides, he was gone; I had rebuked him in Jesus’ name.
Boy
was I wrong. I used to wake up with
fierce stomach cramps in the middle of the night from the time I was a child up
until my late teens. That night I was
having those cramps. My brother and I
shared the whole upstairs and whenever I was awoken by those evil pangs, I’d
have to hold my stomach and clench my butt cheeks all the way down the stairs
barely making it to the main floor bathroom.
I didn’t need the privacy in the middle of the night, and there was no
way I’d be going down to the basement for awhile. The only thing on my mind was to not shit
myself, but once I had finished my business and the pangs had subsided,
thoughts about that man came to mind.
I
was afraid to leave the bathroom.
Outside that door was darkness. I
devised a plan: Since the kitchen was
closer to the hallway that contained the steps that led up to my room, I’d have
to run to the kitchen and switch on the light, go back and switch off the
bathroom light, and then run back into the kitchen. While I was there I could get a drink of
water, switch off the light, and then jet up the stairs leading to my room. I’d be safe under my covers where nothing
could touch me.
The
pressure was on and I remember hurrying back and forth from the kitchen to the
bathroom and then back to the kitchen again.
Next, I got my water from the refrigerator, which was by the stairs to
the basement. Of course the doorway
leading down the basement stairs was dark and I could imagine the tall man
standing there. I felt he was on his way
up from underneath the house. I put down
my cup, flipped off the kitchen light, and ran up the stairs to my room. I swear the man was on my heels the whole way
up. I felt I could hear him breathing
behind me. As soon as I got to my room I
jumped onto my bed, turned to face him coming off the stairs into my room, and
yelled, “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ!” POOF! He was gone. He vanished into the air. I spent the rest of the night under my covers
facing the wall, not wanting to think about the man whose presence I could
still feel. My brother slept peacefully.
When
I awoke the next morning, I went downstairs to recall my story over a bowl of
Fruity Pebbles, as my mother listened with wide eyes to my terrifying
experience with the man in the basement.
She had me phone my youth pastor to share with him my battle with what
could have been one of Satan’s minions.
I felt like a soldier who had been attacked by the enemy but fought
bravely to secure a higher ranking in the army of God. I had become a spiritual
warrior…And then the sun went down.
In
the end it seems I was just afraid of the dark.
After thinking about the grotesque man all day, I couldn’t go into a
room without a light on, and when my mother asked me to fetch for her a loaf of
bread from the basement, I broke down the second I saw him waiting for me at
the bottom of the steps. My mother took
me to her room and vehemently rebuked the man and prayed for my peace of
mind. I followed her around the house
until I went to bed that night. Over
time I forgot about the man in the basement, but sometimes I wish he’d come
back. I have some questions for him.
My
fourth and final spiritual experience happened at a Kent Henry seminar probably
about a year later. Again, I had had a
bad attitude and I didn’t really want to be there, but I guess nothing better
was going on in my life at the time, so I went.
My negativity stemmed from feelings I held for a certain girl. I was hopelessly obsessed with this cutie whom
I had discovered at a new church that I was attending, and these feelings
caused me great anxiety and loneliness.
At
the time I had no idea that I would end up marrying and having two children
with this girl who consumed my thoughts, but I knew I was in love. I was so respectful and sincere about my
feelings toward this girl that I made sure to keep all thoughts of her
pure. I let no lustful fantasies enter
my mind when it came to thinking about her.
I viewed her as too angelic and innocent to allow her image to be
corrupted by my sexual appetite. But,
alas, she wasn’t mine and it was tearing me up inside.
I
stood against the back wall at the worship seminar while the rest of my group
sat in fold out chairs as close as they were able to the man behind the
piano. Even though at the time I
considered myself a strong force in God’s army, I simply had no interest in
what was happening around me, but something changed that attitude. I had found a sharp tack on the church floor
and had been keeping it safe between my fingers when my cousin of the same age
as myself walked up to greet me. I still
don’t know why I did this—maybe it was to somehow share my pain with her, or it
could have been that I just wanted to hurt somebody—but when she reached out
her hand I jabbed her with the tack. I don’t think I’ll soon forget that
betrayed and shocked look on her face as she turned and walked away without a
word. I doubt she remembers this incident, but I will never forget it.
It
was the guilt I felt from hurting my cousin and the anxiety over my crush that
caused me to respond to the altar call Mr. Henry was beckoning to the
congregation. I found my group, stood next to them, closed my eyes and lifted
my hands. Within seconds my legs began to shake, my knees gave out and I hit
the floor. I remember begging for
answers as I lay there on the carpet of the church sanctuary, surrounded by
worshippers who were speaking in tongues and praising their God. It was then I heard a voice assure me that I
was going to marry the girl that had been consuming my thoughts. I felt peace again and then I fell asleep.
When
I awoke, the congregation was dispersing.
People were gathering their things and going home. I was told that I had
been asleep for over an hour, and the next morning at the hotel my mother said
I had been speaking in tongues in my sleep throughout the night. It wasn’t long after this event that I began
dating that girl of my dreams, and not many years later we were married. We are
still in love as of this writing and we share the joy of raising two little
boys. Was it the Lord who told me I was
going to be with this girl? If I were
living by my old Christian faith, then I’m sure I’d have no doubt that I heard
God’s audible voice, but I’m not living by that old faith.
I
had stated at the beginning of this chapter that I’d explain to the reader why
I am no longer a Christian, but I think I’ll save those reasons for another
time. I’m sure after reading through my
experiences some readers are probably just a little confused as to why I’d give
up my Christian faith having been touched so many times by its power; but one
must acknowledge that these personal experiences don’t necessarily prove any
case for Christianity. If I’m telling
the truth, they certainly help defend the power of human will, raw emotion, and
what believing in something—anything—can do to help shape an outcome.
Joe Whiteford
9/14/2009
6 years and one month ago I wrote this entry for a book I had started, but of course never finished. Since that time my mind has definitely traveled to darker regions. The faith I once had in Christ dwindled more with each passing year until I considered it completely obsolete and gone from my life. I am at a place where my life needs much reevaluation. Over the past three years I've begun to accept the stagnant sadness in my world, even though I have two beautiful boys and the best soul mate for which a man could dream. Not only that, but I've been making a humble living as an artist. Still, for a year at least I've awoken angry at life, viewing God as evil or not there. Looking for things to fill a void, I've become obsessed with material possessions. I've become afraid for my future and finances, neglectful with the time I've been given with my children, unkind and beyond selfish to my wife, and needing to get high to make it through the day. All the while looking for self worth in a band that has barely gone anywhere for over a decade, as I've placed my identity simply in music and the desire to become loved as an artist. I've been searching within myself and useless beliefs for security while being stuck in a room; I was beginning to accept self hatred and failure. I've been blind for years, but just recently my eyes have been opened. My Creator is doing a work in me.
