AndiGravity asked:


Okay, I’m not a Christian. I think anyone who’s seen my posts up to this point can take a stab at that one. So I’m told, Christianity is about a “personal relationship with Jesus”, and that you have to open your heart to him. Groovy?

Native Americans, on the other hand, tend to believe in totem spirits that guide you, and as I mentioned last night one of the most prominent of them, at least where I came from, was Coyote.

Growing up, I sort of hovered between two worlds, because some of my ancestors are white, but others are Native American. Despite being raised in Native American society, my mother spent most of her time trying to be white (that doesn’t work out so well if you marry a Native American, but they ended up divorcing, anyway).

Her father was absolutely Native American, and while he did marry a half-French woman, he didn’t really approve of his daughter’s almost desperate need to forsake her own culture. Since she was his daughter, she was always welcome in his house, but he took the opportunity to teach his grandchildren what he could about being Native American… so, hovering between two worlds.

My mother made sure we went to church, and gave us the whole “fire and brimstone” bit. I’ll head off one of the answers in advance and say that no, she most certainly didn’t do it because she loved her children. By her own admission, she loathes every one of us. It was a way for her to keep up appearances, but like every little kid being told these things by mommy, I tried my little heart out to believe it.

I’d go to bed and pray for her to stop being so mad, and nobody answered.

I’d pray for her and my stepfather to stop beating me and my brothers up, and nobody answered.

I’d pray they’d stop going out every Friday and get completely wasted and come stumbling home to pass out for the weekend, and nobody answered.

I’d pray and pray and pray for something– for anything– to help me keep believing, and NOBODY ANSWERED.

When I was fifteen, I finally couldn’t take it any longer, and ran away from home. We lived in a little town in the middle of the desert, so I literally took all the money I had in the world (thirty-eight cents) and walked into the desert.

Needless to say, that really isn’t a good idea if you have no water and the nearest town is sixty miles away, nor is it a good idea to do so if you don’t have a compass or a map. After six or seven hours, I was as lost as I could be. I was alone, there wasn’t a single sign of civilization in sight, and the one thing that I was beginning to realize more than any other was that I was going to die.

I had strep throat, and couldn’t see straight. I was out of energy, I was dehydrated, and it was freezing (night had fallen). When you get right down to it, though, I simply didn’t want to go on any more. I was done, there was no more hope, and the place I was standing was as good as any to lay down and do the deed.

Then, out of nowhere, this coyote shows up and starts snapping at me. I could hear howls from the rest of its pack in the distance, but couldn’t see any of them. This one, though, he was right there yipping and snapping and hopping around, and my desire to drop dead didn’t include being eaten while I was still alive.

So, I fought back, got it to back off, and then tried to leave. The thing should have set off after a good kick or two, but wouldn’t you know it I found the one that didn’t care how much it got kicked. It kept its distance, but it spent its time worrying me and snapping at my heels.

Everywhere I turned, this thing was behind me. I’d try to go left and it would drive me right. I’d try to go back and it would drive me forward. I’d try to go right, and it would drive me back left. All I could think was that I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. One more step. Just one more step. That’s all, just one more step. As long as I boiled the journey down to one more step, I was able to keep taking it, especially with the damned thing chomping on my heels, until in the middle of the night, I saw brake lights from a car. As soon as I did and started for them, it turned around and trotted off into the night.

It turned out to be a police officer moving from the town I used to live in to the next town. His car had blown a tire, and he had to stop there to fix it.

So, if religious experience boils down to our personal experience, I’m curious.

No matter how long or hard I prayed or how much I tried to believe, Jesus never, ever answered me… but when I was lost in the desert in the dark, Coyote showed up and found a way to get me back on my feet and get me to the one place where someone could rescue me.

If religion is about having a personal relationship with God, which one am I supposed to walk away from my experiences believing in? Am I supposed to keep trying to believe in the one who never answered me, or am I supposed to believe in the one that
Apologies, the question seems to have been cut off. The last paragraph should read:

If religion is about having a personal relationship with God, which one am I supposed to walk away from my experiences believing in? Am I supposed to keep trying to believe in the one who never answered me, or am I supposed to believe in the one that showed up?
Some of you worry me a great deal.
I have to admit, I did wonder if anyone was going to get around to basically saying “no, no, don’t you see, it was really MY god in disguise to look like that other one to convince you to believe so you should definitely believe in MY god”.

Mmmm… yes, I can see where God would try to lead someone to Jesus by making sure Jesus never spoke to them, and then send what looks like another spirit they’ve learned about to rescue them.

I can see that much in the way I can see something that looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck and say “look, it’s a moose!”

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