preachers

“Ownership” Featured Blog Post

**TRIGGER WARNING**

One of the ideas that I have struggled with the most this past year is that I was a slave. I was owned. Words that are hard enough to type and still stumble and bumble off of my tongue. My heart clenches, my hands shake, and my mind screams NOOOOOOOO every time I delve into this subject in therapy or on my own. I still ask how? why? Questions for which I will never really have answers.

Read More at Sunset – Fire, Ashes, Rebirth

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What Happens To Good, Non-Religious People When They Die?

I asked a religious man once what happens when someone is a really good person, never hurts anyone, is kind and giving, but they don’t believe in God? What happens to them when they die?

Although I knew what the answer would most likely be, based on my own knowledge of religious doctrine, I was curious to see what his answer was.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, “they cannot get into the Kingdom of Heaven, because the only way into the Kingdom is to accept Jesus into your heart.

I feel dejected nonetheless. I was swept back into the past, a little girl riddled with fear of never being good enough for a man named God, a man who watched me always, with eyes that could see every move I made.

How better to control a human, than to make them believe that there is a celestial camera on them at all times, recording, taking notes, shelving and categorizing their actions, and the records will be used after they die so that the evidence of their life can be examined for qualification to get a ticket to Heaven,

Or a damnation to hell.

There’s a grief that sweeps through me as I observe the masses, arguing and killing each other over invisible ghosts and legends, old scrolls and dust riddled stories.

As the invisible eye watches the scattering, robotic human beings, earth and rock crumble from too much drilling, children cry, praying to the sky for daddy to stop touching them and mommy to stop yelling, for a meal that isn’t mixed with clay, a pair of shoes, not being forced to fold their hands to pray or a chance to play without hearing the sounds of war.

I stand riveted, holding onto hope that maybe we’re close to the end of suffering and the beginning of loving, but then I pass a street corner where parents force their children to stand with signs telling of the end of times,

And I cry, because tears are coming in sporatic waves these days, a hovering fog whispering the screams of the depraved.