Read Online Angry Conversations with God by Susan E. Isaacs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan E. Isaacs
Tags: REL012000
Ads: Link
stinginess
or grandiosity. He can’t even forgive you without sounding like a jerk.
Susan: I know. I just go there.…(To God) I got it from Dad and I gave it to you. Sorry.
God: And I forgive—you know what I mean.
Rudy: Good. That’s progress. (To Susan) What about Jesus?
This would be harder. I hadn’t cheated on the Father with another deity. But I had fantasized about John Lennon and then had
sex with a boy. I wasn’t exactly Bride of Christ material.
How could I respond? Just, “Sorry“? That sounded so flat. And if I added all the reasons why I was sorry, it would sound like
a list of excuses. Yes, I was longing for love; yes, I needed a healthy role model. But my sister had managed somehow.
Jesus: I know why you did it. I know you were looking for love. But I loved you. Wasn’t that enough?
Susan: I needed a human to say he loved me, to say I mattered.
Jesus: I know. I’m sad you didn’t get that from a Christian guy.
Susan: Well, I’m sorry.
Jesus: And you know I forgave you already.
Rudy: (To Jesus) You’re not angry or hurt or heartbroken?
Jesus: Just because I’m not throwing a table over doesn’t mean I’m not upset.
Susan: (To Jesus) If you want to throw a table over to vent, I understand.
Jesus: How about I throw that trophy case out the window to prove I’ve got cojones?
Rudy: No, no. I believe you. Last question. Let’s talk about creativity. No one in Susan’s family “got” her. Doesn’t sound
like the church did either. Why is that, God? Do you not like art?
Susan: Only if it ends in an altar call.
God: Come on. I love art. The Sistine Chapel, the Bach B Minor Mass.
A Man for All Seasons.
Love that stuff.
Susan: You didn’t like my kind of art. Show me one joke in the Bible.
God: The hill of foreskins.
God snickered and Jesus joined him. Well, that’s how I saw it.
Susan: That was
supposed
to be a joke?
God: Come on, Susan, the visual picture alone…
Susan:
Why couldn’t one Christian tell me that when I needed to hear it?
My mom made me feel horrible for laughing at “Hugo Vas Deferens.”
God: No one in the church got the joke. Sad.
Susan: Well, you know who got the joke? You know who got
me
? You know who appreciated me and made me feel like I mattered? Heathens and drunks and potheads and Jews.
God: I sent whomever I could get!
His answer caught me off guard.
Susan: That was you?
You
put those people in my life? Then why were you so upset when I fell in love with David?
God: Don’t boink the messenger.
Jesus: (To God) At least David was a Jew. She could have fallen for a pothead.
Had God used those people to love and encourage me? The ones my church and parents rejected? Well, Jesus did love outcasts
and God did choose the foolish to shame the wise. Maybe I could have figured it out. Still, if just one,
just one
Jesus person had made me feel loved at the time, it could have changed a lot. It could have changed everything.
Chapter 5
WE’VE ONLY JUST BEGUN
YES, I HAD CHEATED ON JESUS. IN MY DEFENSE, WE WEREN’T officially “married” yet—to use the analogy set forth in my story. Ideally you don’t get married until you’re a fully functioning
adult. I wasn’t even old enough to vote. But according to American evangelical
churchianity,
I’d committed a sin worse than murder or genocide or trying to set myself up as a deity. I’d had sex!
Actually, I felt horrible—and it was more than just Lutheran guilt. Sex was awkward. The media presented sex as the ultimate
transcendent experience. Girls were fed the
A Star Is Born
version—Babs and Kris lounging forever in a bathtub with candles and incense; guys were fed the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am
version. And therein lies the first of many diverging expectations.
What did sex set in motion? A wave of insecurity and neediness, that’s what. I worried: Did David love me? Could I make him
love me forever? I didn’t even know who I was yet, and now I wanted some boy to
or grandiosity. He can’t even forgive you without sounding like a jerk.
Susan: I know. I just go there.…(To God) I got it from Dad and I gave it to you. Sorry.
God: And I forgive—you know what I mean.
Rudy: Good. That’s progress. (To Susan) What about Jesus?
This would be harder. I hadn’t cheated on the Father with another deity. But I had fantasized about John Lennon and then had
sex with a boy. I wasn’t exactly Bride of Christ material.
How could I respond? Just, “Sorry“? That sounded so flat. And if I added all the reasons why I was sorry, it would sound like
a list of excuses. Yes, I was longing for love; yes, I needed a healthy role model. But my sister had managed somehow.
Jesus: I know why you did it. I know you were looking for love. But I loved you. Wasn’t that enough?
Susan: I needed a human to say he loved me, to say I mattered.
Jesus: I know. I’m sad you didn’t get that from a Christian guy.
Susan: Well, I’m sorry.
Jesus: And you know I forgave you already.
Rudy: (To Jesus) You’re not angry or hurt or heartbroken?
Jesus: Just because I’m not throwing a table over doesn’t mean I’m not upset.
Susan: (To Jesus) If you want to throw a table over to vent, I understand.
Jesus: How about I throw that trophy case out the window to prove I’ve got cojones?
Rudy: No, no. I believe you. Last question. Let’s talk about creativity. No one in Susan’s family “got” her. Doesn’t sound
like the church did either. Why is that, God? Do you not like art?
Susan: Only if it ends in an altar call.
God: Come on. I love art. The Sistine Chapel, the Bach B Minor Mass.
A Man for All Seasons.
Love that stuff.
Susan: You didn’t like my kind of art. Show me one joke in the Bible.
God: The hill of foreskins.
God snickered and Jesus joined him. Well, that’s how I saw it.
Susan: That was
supposed
to be a joke?
God: Come on, Susan, the visual picture alone…
Susan:
Why couldn’t one Christian tell me that when I needed to hear it?
My mom made me feel horrible for laughing at “Hugo Vas Deferens.”
God: No one in the church got the joke. Sad.
Susan: Well, you know who got the joke? You know who got
me
? You know who appreciated me and made me feel like I mattered? Heathens and drunks and potheads and Jews.
God: I sent whomever I could get!
His answer caught me off guard.
Susan: That was you?
You
put those people in my life? Then why were you so upset when I fell in love with David?
God: Don’t boink the messenger.
Jesus: (To God) At least David was a Jew. She could have fallen for a pothead.
Had God used those people to love and encourage me? The ones my church and parents rejected? Well, Jesus did love outcasts
and God did choose the foolish to shame the wise. Maybe I could have figured it out. Still, if just one,
just one
Jesus person had made me feel loved at the time, it could have changed a lot. It could have changed everything.
Chapter 5
WE’VE ONLY JUST BEGUN
YES, I HAD CHEATED ON JESUS. IN MY DEFENSE, WE WEREN’T officially “married” yet—to use the analogy set forth in my story. Ideally you don’t get married until you’re a fully functioning
adult. I wasn’t even old enough to vote. But according to American evangelical
churchianity,
I’d committed a sin worse than murder or genocide or trying to set myself up as a deity. I’d had sex!
Actually, I felt horrible—and it was more than just Lutheran guilt. Sex was awkward. The media presented sex as the ultimate
transcendent experience. Girls were fed the
A Star Is Born
version—Babs and Kris lounging forever in a bathtub with candles and incense; guys were fed the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am
version. And therein lies the first of many diverging expectations.
What did sex set in motion? A wave of insecurity and neediness, that’s what. I worried: Did David love me? Could I make him
love me forever? I didn’t even know who I was yet, and now I wanted some boy to
Similar Books
