I am at pains to commit myself on the subject of God. I’ve read in various articles that scientists say the biggest mystery of all is that of existence. “God” is a term that I associate with all things known, unknown, and unknowable. I therefore find the terms “Mystery of Existence” and “Fact of God“ loosely synonymous with one another. I reject any limited understanding or conception, as I do not believe there is an end to knowledge. My freedom to choose my own beliefs, to altar them, or to discard them completely in the light of new information, and as I see fit, shall remain with me.

Some prefer to describe their beliefs in words that stubbornly resist spiritual interpretation, words that dismiss application of supernatural phenomena as irrelevant, or even absurd, words having no framework of reference outside of their own narrow context - words that box God out. Then there are those who would have us believe that science is a fraud, or at the very least not to be taken seriously when considering spiritual or religious matters, as well as those who, astoundingly, see a universal correctness in their beliefs, and who would punish with eternal torment, anyone who did not agree with them. I try to avoid both of these extremes.

The more contentious ground, it seems to me, is the suggestion of a Being whose existence is personal to man, One who is interested in human affairs and willing and able to intervene in them, who can be sought through meditation and petitioned with prayer; a Being with whom there is communion in the exercise of such basic principles as honesty, humility, and trust.

It seems we would altogether disallow the existence of any Intelligence greater than ourselves. I don’t understand this, though, because it certainly isn’t borne out by the world around me. There are those who are certainly smarter than I am, and some who are downright stupid. I should view this fact of life with gratitude. At times, however, arising from within me is the seeming threat that if I’m not as smart as the next guy, then I’m not as good as he is either. As a result, I soon find myself in over my head, in a position from which I cannot extricate myself, needing to make an apology, and deciding I would rather die first.

The undisguised contempt for Jesus that is so prevalent today is totally unwarranted; it’s childish and shoddy behavior, especially for adults. Frivolous or insupportable remarks made about another’s religion, or religion in general, are also irksome to me, as this is an evasive maneuver with which I am well familiar. Sure, we can detail the atrocities performed in the name of religion (as in the name of politics, or in the name of “manifest destiny” - just about any peg is suitable for hanging a hat). There is also much (and quite possibly more) good done in and by these organizations, as well. To take notice of one and not the other is blatantly self-serving.

I was raised as a Southern Baptist and later attended a Methodist, then an Episcopal church, in Englewood, Colorado, which is a suburb of Denver (I broke into one of them once, with some friends of mine, and stole the petty cash box so we could buy a matchbox of marijuana). My first wife, shortly after we were married, discovered the Pentecostal movement, and I joined along with her. (She mistakenly thought that I would want to give up all my dope immediately, so she flushed a 1/4 lb. of the best weed I had ever had down the toilet. I told her I was thinking more along the lines of tapering off. I remember that now, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.). After several years involvement with the Charismatics, I concluded my dealings with churches altogether, and never went back.

The only holy book I’ve ever known is the Holy Bible, and I still find it sufficient for my purposes. That I understand it differently than a lot of Christians I know, doesn‘t render it useless to me. I know there are many other philosophies of religion besides that of Christianity, and to what extent or particular that there is any wide variation in these myriad philosophies, I don't know. The backdrop of my religious upbringing is a Christian one, and not only do I perceive it as being very difficult to change at this point - if not impossible - even if I wanted to, I feel no need to abandon it.

From the outset, I decided to use blogging as a tool for my own peculiar purposes, particular to something that’s still rather vague in my mind, but that's slowly taking a shape that I like. It is painstakingly tedious at times, as writing has never come easily to me. I was hoping to capture something of myself, some of my thoughts and experiences, combine them into some loosely jointed yet coherent narrative, then present it to the world, and say, "This is who I am!" Of course, it always helps to know, first.

Then, in reading some of the blogs of my on-line friends, I began feeling inadequate to the task: everyone seems to have a life - doing things, going places, renewing old friendships, realizing their potential - and the routine of my life is the same everyday: I get up, get coffee, log onto the internet, read my email, read the latest blogs, then go to the Religion 1 chat room until I get tired. Then I read until I fall asleep and do it all again when I get up. Somewhere in the middle of this flurry of activity, I find the time to fight with my wife and neglect my children. Today is the first day I've been anywhere in weeks, and that's because I had to see my doctor; I couldn't get out of it. If I broke another appointment, he told me, then he wouldn't renew my prescription. (I hate doctors, passionately. I couldn't survive without them, but that's probably the reason I hate them so much.).

If I was going to write about myself, it had to be about something other than my daily routine, because it is the same every day. And the regular flow of my thoughts and emotions is so formless and elusive, so susceptible to disruption at any given moment, to changing shape and direction at the behest of anything from a hungry stomach to a psychological quirk, that the focus and feeling are soon lost, easily replaced. Something a little more definitive would be agreeable - but what?

Once, I was a member in good standing of Alcoholics Anonymous (I've been sober for 16 years now, but quit attending A.A. meetings roughly 10 years ago, which is not something I would recommend to the seriously afflicted, and I am one of the seriously afflicted), and there I learned that helping myself is a matter of helping others (something to do with self-centeredness), and to do that, I had to be honest with myself about my past, and then share it, warts and all, with others - not carelessly or indiscriminately, where it would be unwelcome, but exercising my best judgment. How else redeem a wasted past? I owe this much to myself, if no one else, as it always works when cynicism and self-pity begin getting the better of me, which is quite often. So I decided to start at the beginning of my life, being as honest as possible with everyone, and trying not to be overly melodramatic.

Now, it occurs to me that a blog is very similar to a very public sort of diary, and I found myself feeling embarrassed after reading some of them, as if I had just been prying into someone's private life, peeping at them through their bedroom or bathroom window without their knowledge or consent, an uninvited witness intruding upon their privacy. My initial reaction was one of regret, as I was reading of real life experiences, real life injustice, and the pain and damage it can cause in human lives. It occurred to me that I preferred the less detailed version of my friends, as this kept them at a safer distance from me than the mirrored version of myself that I was now reading about. It occurred to me that anyone reading my blog may have felt the same way. It occurred to me that I’m deathly afraid of getting close to anyone.

Anchored somewhere in the murky waters of my past is the substance of my issues. Sometimes my past can grip me so firmly, that I can’t let go of it. I panic, knowing something is wrong somewhere, with me, and I don’t know what it is, or what to do. I've never been convinced that an unrequited past is my problem - an excuse maybe, but not a problem. And then there are times when I think there is more to it than that; for the most part, though, my attitude of mind seems related more to the current events in my life than to any mental or emotional condition that may have formed its beginnings. I would have much the same feelings and outlook on life today, based solely upon my present circumstances, solely upon the choices I make today, as I would were I to have the additional burden of an unresolved past.

So I think to myself, the past isn’t getting me into trouble today - it's not alive anymore (is it?), it's dead (right?); it’s today’s choices - today’s choices - that keep getting me into trouble tomorrow. And then I think, but it’s yesterday’s choices that got me into trouble today! And I think about it to the point that it doesn't make sense anymore. I think, and get confused, and it hurts my head, and it frustrates me...and I forgot to take my pills today. Damn.

On a lighter note.... Next to sleeping, and chatting on-line with the friends I've made there, my favorite pastime is reading. I've also taken an interest in blogging recently. Oddly enough, it has had something of a liberating effect on me. Not that I've turned into Jonathan Livingston Seagull, or anything, but I’ve been finding it profitable and worthwhile to commit some of my thoughts to writing, as scattered and uninformed as they may be.

As for my reading habits of late, the serial killer has become my favorite, all-time hero, especially when he gets away with it. The weary and taunted homicide detective, collecting the smallest evidence, studying the obscurest detail, daily confronting the gruesome handiwork of a demented killer; the forensic pathologist, detached and unfeeling, dutifully recording every motion of his ghastly routine, every observation, every thoughtful conclusion rotely dictated, looking for the remotest clue as to the identity of his subject, and its cause of death - all of it fascinates me (in my imagination, of course; in reality, I would be as appalled and revolted as any sane person - not that I make any such claim).

I wonder, though: why do the broken and battered bodies of men, women and children - people who, when alive, had to fight for notice - all of a sudden, in death, become the subject of such scrutiny? If the same meticulous care had been given them while they were still living, as they are certainly getting now, then perhaps they wouldn't be laying in the morgue now, naked and toe-tagged, the last moment of life still frozen on their faces, their most private moment now a spectacle, and waiting (with infinite patience) for the clinicians to pick up their scalpels and saws, and remorselessly tear into what remains of them.

Do they believe in the existence of a loving God? I don’t know if I could, doing what they do all day, every day. Our hopes for family and loved ones, the desires locked in our hearts, the passions that drive us, the fear of failure, the pain of loneliness, the misery of regret, in the end, all reduced to a biological mass of weight and volume, alone and violated on a cold, stainless-steel table. And the rest vanishes, bowing to insignificance, humiliation, indignity, and defeat. For me, this is intolerable, if not impossible; yet, for them, man's inhumanity to man relentlessly shoved at them day after day, a ceaseless parade of death pervading their every waking moment, what else is there?

So why is my attention riveted by these unbelievably horrific events in human lives, by the staggering enormity of the grief caused by them (for surely that's part of it)? I've searched the web for uncensored photographs depicting, in the most graphic detail, scenes from murders and autopsies, auto wrecks, grotesque human deformities and savage self-abuse, challenging my senses to revolt. It was only a matter of time. One day I came across the picture of an infant, lying motionless and stiff on an autopsy table, an incision having been made from its sternum and running the length of its torso, the skin peeled back to reveal its insides: that was enough.

Still, why the fascination? The other night while I was reading "Imagining Robert", a biography written by Jay Neugeboren, wherein he chronicles his brother Robert's descent into madness, I found myself identifying so completely with this man's mental illness and frustrating circumstances (Robert never killed anyone), looking over at the books piled on my bed (about five at the time, all of them about some psychotic, genius-demon serial killer), then back at the book I was reading, back and forth between the books on my bed and the one in my lap, and it clicked: it's the insanity, the madness underlying the gore, that draws me back again and again.

My own insanity, of course. The last thing I wanted to find, and I've been pursuing it, unwittingly, inescapably, relentlessly. This kind of knowledge I would rather live without, because it doesn't solve the problem, and because it presents the very real prospect of losing myself completely (should I fail to act), and indeed, going insane.

"Jay, let me switch the phone to my good ear. There, now can you hear me better?" - Robert Neugeboren