Answer to the "Spiritual Atheist" Point of View

Conclusion.

The video from yesterday by a young atheist who defined "spiritual" for himself was a great summation of what I've heard from atheists on Twitter who have seriously thought through their decision of non-belief.

And now for the other side of the coin.

Here's an excerpt from "The Silver Chair," which is part of the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, a former atheist turned Christian. And IT is the perfect summation of why Christians choose to believe. One reason I love the Narnia Chronicles is that although they're children's books, Lewis conveys difficult-to-understand spiritual concepts so succinctly and easily. This is a fantastic example.

Read it, compare it to the video posted below ... and post your thoughts. I'd love to hear from both atheists and Christians on this.

The Silver Chair – Chapter 12

“One word, Ma'am,” he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one thing more to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a playworld which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia.”

Spirituality for Atheists?

An atheist on Twitter brought this video to my attention. It's completely gorgeous and well-done. I'd like opinions from both sides on this. What do you think? Let's open the door for some constructive discussion. Tomorrow we'll look at the other point of view, from the book "The Silver Chair," by C.S. Lewis.

Forgiving the Haters: Parental Discretion Advised

Parents: Please make sure young children are not viewing the screen with you as you read this blog post. Thanks.


Have you ever been faced with someone who outright hates you because you proclaim the Name of Jesus?

This week, I have met several of them on Twitter. In fact, although I had a Twitter account with 2,200 followers, I had to shut it down due to incessant harassment from these individuals.

I received photos like this, which I won't post here because it's so shocking, but go to this link:

http://www.funny-games.biz/images/pictures/39-attention2.jpg

I received messages like this on my blog:

"You do recognize that it's not the fantasy of a loving "deity" we're offended by. It's the crazy bitch who won't SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET OUT OF OUR FACES. In other words, it's YOU."

And I received messages like this on Twitter:

"Jesus did not die for me, he should have asked first, I would have told him not to be an idiot. I forgive you for being a moron."

I watched as people pilfered through my blog posts like voyeurs, quoting, misquoting, maligning, criticizing, deriding. I was amazed that they went so far as to look up my contact information on my professional Web site and conspire to publish my phone numbers and call them (no longer good numbers, by the way). They came up with a Twitter hashtag campaign, WWHRD (What Would Heidi Raff(erty) Do?) to mock me and also talked about a parody Twitter account called Heidi Rat. They pulled up my body of work, magazine articles I've written during the past nine years, and circulated them to laugh at them.

Then, when I closed down my Twitter account and launched a new one with an incognito identity, they trolled through the timelines of known friends of mine on Twitter. They figured out who was talking to someone new and discovered my account. Then they published that account with my ID and continued their harassment throughout today.

Here's the thing.

They aren't attacking me.

Whether they know it or not, they are attacking the One who loves them.

Why do you think people go out of their way to harass one individual like that, with such venom and hatred? Why do you suppose they get upset when told, "God loves you," or, "Jesus died for you?"

Could it be that deep down, they hear the Voice of the One who seeks them, even in their bigotry, even in their darkest actions?

Absolutely.

And here's what He brought to mind to me today, when all was said and done:

"You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.'But I tell you, Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.

"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? 48Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect." -- Matthew 5: 38-47

So.

I will love my enemies.

I will pray for those who persecute me.

I will bless those who deride me.

I will pray for them, pray for their children, ask God to bless them and to wrap them in His arms.

Why?

He commands it.

And He loves them.

And I forgive them.

Joe's (Unholy) Jihad Against Atheists

SECOND NOTE TO READERS OF "HOW GOOD IS THAT" WORDPRESS BLOG:


Originally there was another blog post here, as you can see from the title. I'm not sure what's occurring on Twitter or why people have been hitting this particular blog entry in droves since yesterday (April 4). But I can tell you one thing:

I am no longer using Twitter. At all.

I am not seeking drama. At all.

I am minding my own business.

If Jim Gardner is now waging a new character assassination vendetta, please tell him to get a real life and that I'm praying for him.

And if you want to know what happened ... read the first note I posted to all of you in November (below).

Whatever is going on, I don't care. You shouldn't, either. But feel free to peruse my blog if you want to read more about Jesus.

Thank you, and God bless you. Even Jim.
Heidi Rafferty




FIRST NOTE TO READERS OF "HOW GOOD IS THAT" WORDPRESS BLOG: (This was posted in November 2011)

It's come to my attention that a lot of you are now visiting Christian Safehouse because of a blog entitled, "How Good is That" on Wordpress.

I have not read the blog entry, because it has been written by a person who is angry with me for backing out of a book deal with him.

He is unemployed. I met him on Twitter and shared with him an idea I had for a book. He asked if he could co-write it with me. I received his first draft and saw he was going in a direction that was opposite of what I'd intended. I tried to back out. He persisted and suggested that I do two books, one with him and the other on my own with my original idea.

At the same time, I was working on his behalf to find him magazine freelance work with my editors. I write for eight magazines. I thought this guy deserved a break and wrote letters on his behalf to people in the industry.

At first it seemed to be like an okay arrangement. But then my co-author decided to smear me on his blog because he disagreed with a matter taking place on the social network Twitter. This matter had nothing to do with my professional life or the book we were supposed to be co-writing. I also was uncomfortable with the chapters he was submitting to me, as he seemed to be trying to determine the sole direction of the book content.

I decided it was in my best interest to back out of the book project. He'd only written 2 chapters, and not much work had gone into it. We did not have a contract. We always had the agreement that if we decided it wasn't going to work relationally, one of us could back out.

In retaliation for my decision, rather than accept it as a professional would and move on, he has chosen to write about me on his blog.

As I said earlier, I have no idea what the content is -- only that he is promoting this on Twitter and doing what he can to discredit my reputation.

You can believe what you want, but I just wanted to let everyone know that I tried to help this individual, and this was his repayment for my professional kindness and courtesy.


Thanks.

Heidi Rafferty

The R.J. Corman Car Game

Plunked in the middle of Kentucky's blue grass are rows upon rows of stark white fences. They roll from one hill to the next like dominoes and stretch on the horizon like a yoga master. They wall off the fiefdom of a 21st century railroad magnate named R.J. Corman.

Corman's presence in central Kentucky is distinctive. Besides the white fences, he has other trademarks: Red spindle-tops adorn white Churchill Downs-like barns. Stone gates to long driveways herald their owner's name. But what really stands out are the railway cars themselves. Around corporate headquarters, several are grouped like fattened cows by the River Nile, all of them, red, all of them, lettered in bold white: "R.J. CORMAN."

So when I drive Neil 45 minutes to his little country school, he and I make the most of our trip by playing what we call, "The R.J. Corman Game." Adults would quickly tire of it, but for a 6-year-old, this game is the bomb.

As we drive, whoever first spots a white fence, spindled barn, stone fence or railway car shouts, "R.J. Corman!" The winner, of course, shouts the name the most.

This would seem to be a pretty open-and-shut goal except for one thing. There are some copy cats along the road, people who have obviously admired the Corman panache and have tried to emulate it with their own red-and-white barns and fences.

Sometimes this really confuses Neil. In his excitement, he'll yell, "R.J. Corman!" only to have me shake my head and say, "No buddy, see? Look how that place doesn't look new or clean. And the fence is white, but it's really old."

"Oh, wight, Mommy," he says in his lisp, substituting his ws for rs. "I forgot!"

The game then goes downhill as we also coast downward and across the Kentucky river. Now there are grey barns, ramshackle homes and derelict structures. Neil loves to "put on his silly face," as I call it, and start pointing willy nilly at these lovely objects. "R.J. Corman! R.J. Corman! R.J. Corman! R.J. Corman!" he gleefully shouts, and I finally have to put the nix on it with a tickle in his ribs and a sighed, "Let's do this again tomorrow morning."

So what's my point in telling you all of this?

It occurred to me this morning, as we were playing this little game, that the return of Jesus to earth will be as easy to spot as ... well ... an R.J. Corman railway car.

Do you ever worry that this anti-Christ stuff will be just a little too confusing for you? Sometimes I have worried that. I'm like any other Christian, pulling out Revelation when I have insomnia and scaring myself with the various prophecies. But the anti-Christ prophecy is the one that scares me the most, because so many people will be fooled by this guy.

And it hit me today: I have nothing to fear. Neither do you, if you really know Him, because just like Neil and I can easily identify the Corman name and Corman properties, knowing them from the pretenders and even those that are obviously not anywhere near "Corman quality," we will also know -- clearly -- when Jesus has shown up.

Check out Matthew 24: 26-31 ... and take heart. It will be as clear to you as R.J. Corman:

"So if anyone tells you, 'There he is, out in the desert,' do not go out; or, 'Here he is, in the inner rooms,' do not believe it. For as lightning that comes from the east is visible even in the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man. Wherever there is a carcass, there the vultures will gather.

"Immediately after the distress of those days
" 'the sun will be darkened,
and the moon will not give its light;
the stars will fall from the sky,
and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.'

"At that time the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky, and all the nations of the earth will mourn. They will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky, with power and great glory. And he will send his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of the heavens to the other."

The Indian Princess, Unveiled

Conclusion of this story series.

A Performance of “Riverdance.”
Wednesday night.
Norton Center for the Arts.
Danville, Kentucky.

She dances.

My breath, caught in my throat, struggles to expel through my lungs, but I am holding it fast … while she dances.

She stands atop a staircase, against a backdrop of tall flames, her crimson dress matching the image of consuming fire.

She dances.

She raises her arms over her head, mimicking the arc of ire, moving, bending … writhing.

She dances.

Is she symbolic fire?

Is the fire symbolic of her?

Is the flame … within her?

I cannot tell which. Perhaps it is one, perhaps all three, but there’s no mistaking that as I watch muy bonita, she most definitely personifies one thing for me: My Indian Princess of long ago.

She whirls down the stairway, her skirt flaring as she whips her hips and stomps dainty dancing shoes. The drum rhythm, repetitive and primitive, accelerates. She and the beat are one, passionate, painful, unrelenting, unstoppable.

I see her dancing on the hot coals, my Indian Princess, unveiled, exposed, burning, hurting. She is all that I am, all that I feel, all that I have experienced. She is the anguish churning in my heart. Salt touches my lips, and I realize that tears have traveled down my cheeks. I am transfixed, just as I was on that long ago summer night around the campfire at age 10, listening to the teen-age camp counselor weave the tale of the princess in search of love.

Then.

She is surrounded by other dancers. They move with her, angling with the direction of her body, bringing their arms around her waist and behind her back.

And they lift her.

High above their heads, she is held. They dance in her place. I see in my mind’s eye the suitor who grabbed the princess, rescued her from the coals and danced in her place.

It all makes sense, this journey, one that began with a child’s imaginings, continued in a symbolic lifelong habit of walking on hot sand and pavement and culminated here, on this night, watching this skilled dancer unknowingly play out the tale.

No longer does it matter what I am experiencing – the harshness of life, the unfairness of circumstances, the heartache of my soul.

I do not have to dance on the hot coals alone.

I can be – and I am being – carried. Others are lifting me up, dancing in my place, bringing my concerns before my Father. They’ve always been there for me, too, these princes and princesses, stomping their feet, fervently praying, taking my place when I am too weak to stand alone and utter the words, “Help me. Dance for me.”

They are the Christian safe house.

They are the Indian suitor, rescuers, who love and who sustain.

They … are you.

The Indian Princess Dances

After that summer camp story of the Indian Princess dancing on the hot coals, for whatever reason, my childhood mind aspired to do the same.

So everywhere I went in summer months, I went barefoot.

On scorching pavement and concrete, I went barefoot.

On blistering beach sand, I went barefoot.
On patios, sidewalks, on walking trails that meandered through public parks and on the melting Macadam of driveways in front of my houses … I went barefoot.

By the time I was a teen-ager, the desire to be an Indian Princess had recessed into the imagination of childhood … and I’d forgotten the reason I went barefoot everywhere.

I just did.

I continued to go barefoot, to traipse the heat of the world’s surface, because … well, it was just a habit.

My teens merged into my 20s. My 20s became my 30s.

And I was still going barefoot, hither and yon. Whenever the opportunity arose to shed my shoes, I did so with glee, not quite remembering the reason, just knowing that I loved to be free to walk … barefoot.

Then I got married.

My husband noticed that my feet were hard and calloused. He complained that they weren’t soft and supple, like other women he’d been with.

I started wearing shoes again.

I became embarrassed about the state of my soles.

And before I knew it, my body itself was protesting the long years of my barefoot existence. My feet grew painful corns, tough ridges of skin on the edges of my heels. I could feel the real skin underneath the protective layers – but the layers themselves were actually painful.

I tried to rid myself of the problem I’d created.

I used all manner of cutting devices, even a grating device, to recreate the feet I had before the summer of the tale of the Indian Princess – the feet of a child. I had infections in my feet, cuts, sores, blisters. I covered them in antibiotic ointments, always trying to self-correct them, then always trying to self-heal them.

All lotions, creams, pedicure instruments, advice from a doctor even – nothing would rid me of what I now saw as ugly, repulsive, disgusting, painful … and worst of all … ridiculous.

I would think to myself, “All of this started because of that stupid story about the Indian princess and the hot coals.” And I would berate myself and chide myself and even hate myself for it.

What I didn’t realize, though, was that the matter was much more than about calloused feet.

It had everything to do … with a Christian safehouse.

Tune in tomorrow for the next part of the story …