Allah Azeem – Another Troll Conversation

    It was my day off, but I woke up early anyway. I wanted to sleep late but my body said, ‘no.’ I had a number of errands to run and chores to do around the house anyway, so an early start wasn’t really a problem. I just wanted that one day to sleep… But God has made the night as a cover, and made sleep for resting, and the day for rising.¹ So I was up and working when I saw him again – my semi-regular troll, Gunner.

    I heard him first, actually. I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard the screech and skid of a vehicle outside, followed immediately by the slamming of a door, and aggressive horn honking. Then, him shouting, “Carter! Carter! What is this? Carter!”

    I closed the water reservoir on the coffee pot and pushed the button to start the brew and then went out the front door to see him.

    “Good morning, Gunner. It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

    Gunner pointed at the window of my house. “What is this?” he demanded.

    “Not even a ‘hello’ today, Gunner? No greeting? No salutation? Just demands?”

    “I saw it as I was driving by your place last night and it pissed me off. I had to come back today to talk to you about it. I want to know why you’ve got that Mohammedan filth in your window and what I have to do to get you to take it down.”

    He was referring to the sign I made and put up in my window yesterday. It says:

الله عظيم

    “Tell me, Gunner, what do you think it says.”

    “I don’t read heathen,” he snorted.

    “I don’t really know Arabic, either,” I told him. “But I asked my friend, Rizwan, to help with it. It says Allah azeem.”

    “So, you’re a Muslim, now?”

    “Well, now, Gunner, you’ve made two faulty assumptions, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet. Why don’t you come inside?”

    It was cool inside, out of the sun. Another thing I appreciate about my days off. And I could smell the coffee. The pot was gurgling and just about finished. Gunner followed me into the kitchen, and we sat down at the table together.

    “You’ve made two faulty assumptions, Gunner. The first being that anything written in Arabic is Muslim. Arabic is a language, not a religion. And Arabic Christians have been affirming Allah azeem – ‘God is magnificent,’ since the day of Pentecost.”

    “What are you talking about, Carter?”

    “Parthians, Medes, Elamites, et cetera et cetera, Jews and proselytes – Cretans and Arabs… they were there when Peter gave the gospel in the upper room.”

    “But…” He started to object but I stood up from the table and opened the cupboard. Pulled out a pair of coffee mugs. “You take sugar with yours, right?”

    Coffee poured and sugar stirred, I continued. “Your second mistake, your second assumption is that everything Muslim should be hated or feared.”

    “Carter, you know as well as I do that Muslims hate Christians. It’s in their Quran that they have to hate and kill Christians.”

    “Is it?”

    He set down his coffee and glared at me.

    “I’m going to share something, Gunner, but first, when the Quran is recited, listen to it attentively and be silent, so you may be shown mercy.²”

    “But…”

    “Silent,” I reminded him. “The Quran says that the Believers – Jews, Christians… whoever truly believes in God and the Last Day and does good will have their reward with their Lord. And there will be no fear for them, nor will they grieve.³"

    I paused, waiting for his reaction. “Silent, right?” he sneered. I nodded for him to speak. “So, like I said, you’ve gone Muslim.”

    “No. Not at all” I said. “I’m still a Christian. Still a Methodist and not a monster. But I have read the Quran a couple of times, and I try to appreciate it.”

    “But the terrorists…”

    “Yes. The violent will use whatever text proves useful to their violence. The hateful make every book a weapon. It’s the same with the Jew, the Muslim, the Christian, the Buddhist, the Sikh.”

    “But the jihadists…”

    “The Quran says that whoever takes a life – it will be as if they killed all of humanity. And whoever saves a life, it will be as if they saved all of humanity.⁴ - which is very similar to something from the Jewish tradition - Whoever saves a single life is considered to have saved an entire world.⁵”

    He started to say something, but I said, “Your coffee’s getting cold.” We sipped from our mugs in silence for a few minutes.

    “All you liberals want is Sharia law and the death of America. Sharia and Islamism are incompatible with America.”

    “By the wind scattering dust, and the clouds loaded with rain, and the ships gliding with ease, and the angels administering by God’s commands⁶ – what is Sharia law, Gunner? Give me some examples.”

    “The hand-cutting hudud punishments. Punishments for adultery. Punishments for blasphemy. Punishments for apostasy. Your pal, Rizwan, will tell you all about it.”

    “Rizwan’s a Christian. Episcopalian.”

    “So, another liberal, like you.”

    “Doesn’t the Bible demand death by stoning for adultery, for idolatry, for blasphemy?”

    Gunner set his coffee cup down and said, “Just like you, Carter, to twist the scripture to defend the Muslim.”

    I didn’t say anything. I’d already said enough.

    “You’re still just one of those so-called Christians who cause trouble and pervert the gospel of Christ. But anyone who preaches another gospel, a different gospel is accursed. I’m just here as a reminder of the danger you’re working upon yourself, Carter. You’ve departed from the faith and given heed to seducing spirits and doctrines of devils. False teacher. Damnable heresy. Spoiled by vain philosophies and the traditions of men.”

    He stopped and looked me in the eye. “What do you have to say to that, Carter? You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you? Are you going to quote from the Quran again?”

    I sighed, breathing through the annoyance and the exclamation. I rubbed my forehead. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be, Gunner.”

    He stood up from the table and stared down at me. “Why should it be easy, Carter?” Then he walked off, banged the front door open and went outside. I heard his truck peel out from the driveway seconds after.

    I stood up from the table, went to the front door and closed it. Then I went back to the kitchen to wash his coffee cup and refill my own. “Be gracious,” I said to myself. “Enjoin what is right and turn away from those who act ignorantly.⁷”

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
The Righteous Forsaken (the eleventh conversation)
A Sabbath Garden (conversation number twelve)
Doesn't Doctrine Mean Anything to You? (conversation thirteen)
Real Christian Men, Real Christian Marriage (conversation fourteen)
 

1Surah Al-Furqân 25:47

2Surah Al-A’râf 7:204

3Surah Al-Baqarah 2:62

4Surah Al-Mâ’idah 5:32

5J. Sanhedrin 4:9:1

6Surah Az-Zâriyât 51:1

7Surah Al-A’râf 7:199 

Real Christian Men, Real Christian Marriage – Another Troll Conversation

    He was there again. On my porch, waiting for me when I got home from work. “Can I come in for a bit, Carter?” he asked with that smug grin he always has when he comes over. It had been a long day in the hot sun. I wanted to say no. I wanted him to just go away, but I’ve committed to this exercise, and I mean to honor it. I sighed...

    “Sure, why not?” I said as I opened the door and let him in. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m still sweaty and gross.” I gave him a glass of water and invited him to sit on the couch while I went into the bathroom, took off my shirt and began to clean up with a washcloth.

    “Havin’ a bit of a whore’s bath, are you Carter?”

    I rolled my eyes. It was too hot for this. “What can I do for you, Gunner?”

    “Carter, you know I’m concerned about you. You’ve been on my mind, and I’ve been thinking about your condition. You’re on, what is it, your third marriage?”

    I tossed the washcloth into the sink and came back out to the living room. It’s true. He was right. I’ve been married twice before, and I don’t mind talking about it. I am what I am. Mistakes and warts and all – but he was taking a lot of liberties here. “Yes, Gunner. That is correct.”

    “Was it just a string of bad luck there, Carter? I’m kidding. I’m kidding. But seriously, are you going to do something different with this one to make it last?”

    “You’re walking a fine line here, Gunner...”

    “I’m just telling you the things you need to know. You need to learn how to lead as a husband. Be the head, not the tail. You’ve probably been beaten down by the feminists. Real Christian men know how to satisfy their wives. And evangelical men have the lowest reported rates of domestic abuse among any group in the United States. Real Christian men, Carter.”

    “I don’t know where you got your statistics,” I said. “Maybe they’re true. Maybe they’re not. Maybe the lowest reported rate of abuse is not actually the lowest. I don’t know. But are you sure that’s the way you want to go, Gunner? Are you sure that’s the argument you want to make? I’ve seen your arrest record, you know. It’s in the public records. We don’t have to go down that road if you don’t want to. I’m giving you the opportunity to start over.”

    There was a long pause while he glared at me. “I was a different man then. And she’s forgiven me.”

    “I’m sure she has, Gunner. She’s a better woman than you deserve.”

    “You’re soft, Carter. If you don’t get it, you must be gay or retarded.”

    “Now see – there must have been a dozen other ways you could have made your argument, but you went straight to ableist and homophobic slurs.”

    “I didn’t call you a fag, so what’s your point?”

    “Cruelty is the point, isn’t it, Gunner?”

    “Truth hurts, Carter. Can’t help if it offends you.”

    I stared at him. Silent. Just waiting for whatever would come out of his mouth next.

    “I don’t want to hear it. We’re not talking about this. I swear, you’re so frustrating, Carter. How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Coward! Fool! Who do you think you are? You’re not God. You’re just a man. And not much of a man. You do the cooking. You do the laundry. Don’t you? You’re not an impressive man. You’re not a godly man in any way. You’ve got no dignity. You’ve got no masculinity. Shut up, little boy. Grow up. Maybe one day you’ll know what it means to have a godly marriage. Shame on you for saying you’re a Christian. You won’t submit to spiritual authority. I’m here, I come here for your own good, Carter. And you’re just too stupid to receive it.”

    I stared at him in continued silence for a few seconds and then offered him another glass of water. He launched himself from the couch and stormed out of the house.

    I’m sure I’ll see him again sooner or later.

The Conversations: 

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
The Righteous Forsaken (the eleventh conversation)
A Sabbath Garden (conversation number twelve)
Doesn't Doctrine Mean Anything to You? (conversation thirteen)

Doesn’t Doctrine Mean Anything to You? – Another Troll Conversation

    “What are you doing, Carter?”

    It was late in the afternoon; the sun was setting and long shadows stretched across the lawn. I was sitting on the porch looking across the street. “I’m waiting for Sorrow to return.”

    Gunner raised an eyebrow above his slightly hyperthyroid eyes - a particularly strange look considering the way the left eye drooped. “You are a weirdo, aren’t you?” he said, but I didn’t bother to explain that Sorrow is one of the stray cats we’ve been feeding on our porch. He used to come around and mew at us with his tired, smoky cat voice, but we haven’t seen him for several days. And when last we saw him, he was looking pretty weak. I’m afraid he went off somewhere to die.

    “Why are you here, Gunner?” I asked.

    “First we need to talk about your hair.” He flicked the ends of my hair.

    “What about my hair, Gunner?” I said, flinching slightly.

    “You know you need a haircut. Up in a femboy, manbun like that… ‘Doesn’t the very nature of things teach you that if a man has long hair it is a disgrace to him?’”

    I laughed a little and then said, “Yeah. My dad used to quote Paul at me too. But that verse doesn’t really cut the way you think it does.”

    He didn’t seem to notice the pun. But that was okay.

    “The Nazarites were actually required to have long hair, remember?”

    Gunner scoffed. “Are you saying you’ve taken that vow, Carter? Can’t drink any more of that IPA beer you like. Can’t make any more of your homemade wine...”

    “No. I’m just saying that Paul’s argument isn’t universal there. It’s cultural. ‘Contrary to nature’ doesn’t automatically mean ‘morally deviant.’ Miracles are, by definition, ‘contrary to nature’…”

    He glared at me for a second and then waved me off. “Fine. You’re wrong. But whatever. That’s not really why I came here. It just bugs me, your womanly locks. Man up and get a haircut, Carter.”

    I sighed and asked again. “Why are you here, Gunner?”

    “I want to return to something you said in one of our previous conversations. You said that in the context of salvation, ‘All means all.’ Did I get that right?”

    I affirmed it.

    “So, tell me, Carter, who's a Christian? A true Christian? Roman Catholics?

    “Yes,” I affirmed again.

    “Jehovah's Witnesses?”

    “Yes.”

    “Mormons?”

    “Yes again.”

    So doctrine means nothing to you? You don’t discriminate at all, you’ll just let anyone and everyone in?”

    “Well it’s not up to me to let anyone in, as you said. Or to keep anyone out, either. But no, I don’t think that doctrine is meaningless, irrelevant, or pointless. Some doctrines are healthier and better realized than others. I think the Word of Faith folks are unhealthy and unhelpful with their brand of prosperity gospel. And I think the Latter-day Saints have a particularly weird theology. Some churches have doctrines that I think are clearly mistaken. Seriously so. But if they call Jesus Lord and trust him for their salvation, that’s enough for me. Yours for example. I know your Christian Reformed Church wouldn’t welcome me. That’s your theology and you believe it. I still count you as a brother. Estranged, maybe, but a brother in Christ.”

    “But…” Gunner began to object.

    “No buts. But one caveat. Not everyone who calls out ‘Lord, Lord’ is recognized by the Lord. The true disciple is the one who does the will of the Father – feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, welcoming strangers, clothing the naked, visiting the imprisoned, healing the sick.”

    “But…”

    “It’s not a matter of orthodoxy versus orthopraxy. But the true test of orthodoxy is orthopraxy.” I said over his objection.

    “Don’t give me your liberal college words,” Gunner said. “Answer the question plainly.”

    “Maybe the question isn’t who is a true Christian but rather, what is pure religion, undefiled and unspoiled in the eyes of God – and that question is already answered for us. We don’t have to wrestle it. Pure religion is coming to the aid of orphans and widows in their hardships – the poor and defenseless, the outcast and the outsider.”

    “And keeping oneself uncontaminated by the world!” Gunner insisted.

    “Yes. And keeping oneself uncontaminated by the world,” I assured him.

    “You’re still a Universalist. You’re still a heretic. You’re still a deviant.”

    “Maybe,” I said still looking up and down the street for Sorrow. “But you keep coming back, don’t you?”

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
The Righteous Forsaken (the eleventh conversation)
A Sabbath Garden (conversation number twelve)

A Sabbath Garden – Another Troll Conversation

    Sunday afternoons, with sun and breeze, are made for yard work – though I don’t think of it as work. I come home from church, still humming the hymns, change my clothes, put on an old pair of work gloves (it’s not work) and haul out the push mower. No engine, just spinning blades as I walk back and forth across the lawn – to and fro upon the lawn, walking up and down in it.

    With a portable speaker on the porch, I listen to music as I walk the yard. I sing along, full voiced – or as full voiced as I can be. Sometimes I get a little winded pushing the mower and pulling weeds. Maybe the neighbors hear me. Maybe they don’t. Doesn’t matter. I enjoy it.

    Today I also dug up some new flower beds. I shoveled up the soil, laid in some compost from my heap in the backyard, and planted a variety of annuals and perennials: Coneflowers, Black-Eyed Susans, Morning Glories, 4 O’clock Flowers, Sweet Basil, Poppies, Dahlias, Lilies, and a mix of assorted wildflowers.

    Sweated and slightly exhausted I surveyed my handiwork (it’s not work) and realized that Gunner was there. Watching with his arms crossed across his chest. He was not amused.

    “Shouldn’t you be resting, Carter? It’s the Sabbath.”

    I pulled off the gloves and knocked the dirt from them. I also noticed the dirt under my fingernails. “Gunner. Good to see you as always,” I said. I used my pocketknife to dig the dirt out.

    “Six days you shall labor, Carter.” Gunner said. “You’ve got six days to do all your work but the seventh – Sunday – is a Sabbath to the Lord, your God.”

    “Gunner,” I said. “You are a joy and a wonder, aren’t you?”

    “No work or labor of any kind. No kindling fire. No gathering food. No commerce -buying or selling. No carrying of burdens.”

    I took a large drink of water from my thermos. It’s important to stay hydrated, after all. I took off my cap and wiped sweat from my brow. “It’s not work, Gunner. I enjoy this. The sun on my face. The smell of the cut grass and the dirt. This is not work; this is a pleasure.”

    “That’s out too, Carter. You must refrain from doing thy pleasure on the Lord’s holy day. You can’t call the Sabbath a delight. The Sabbath is not for personal pleasure. It is reserved for honoring the Lord. You need to find an inward posture of reverence and worship instead of these self-centered activities.

    “Self-centered?” I asked. “Self-centered? Do you think this is all for me? And I think you’re missing the point of that chapter in Isaiah.” He glared at me. “Yeah, I recognize the reference.”

    “Work, trade, and trivial pursuits are beyond the Sabbath boundaries.”

    “Trivial? Trivial?” I said. “All the produce of the garden is with resurrection filled, that the Lord may have a city fruits of resurrection build.”

    “What? Is that supposed to be a hymn or something?”

    “It’s here in the yard that I rest,” I continued. “I am restored. I am resurrected. My body, fresh, my mind attuned to the day. It’s here that I am made whole again. The garden of the world is remade. Order and beauty are brought out of chaos. The bees are fed. The neighborhood is filled with color. And God is praised.”

    Gunner kicked a clod of dirt

    “And yes. It is a hymn, though not often sung. You should look it up; Margaret Jenkins Harris had a few good ones.” I offered him a trowel. “Would you like to lend a hand?”

    He kicked another clod of dirt and turned away.

The Previous Conversations:

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
The Righteous Forsaken (the eleventh conversation)

The Righteous Forsaken – Another Troll Conversation

    I came home from work, worn and tired, but feeling pretty good. At least physically. I parked my car in the driveway and, as I do every day upon returning home from work, checked the mailbox. Once inside I took care of the necessary things. I gave the cats their expected treats, washed my face and hands, and changed my clothes. Then I sat down at the kitchen table to examine the mail.

    Bills and bank statements. It’s not a crisis, but the margins are thinner than I’d like. I sighed and offered up a wordless prayer.

    That’s when I heard the front door open. My first thought was that it was my wife coming home from her doctor’s appointment. But a voice called out that wasn’t hers.

    “Hello? Carter? Are you home?” I recognized the voice immediately. Gunner. My prayers summoned, not God’s glorious angels, but an imp to test and torment me.

    “Let yourself in, I guess,” I said from the table. “I’m in the kitchen.”

    “Hey, Carter,” he said finding me at the table. “What’s up?”

    “I’m just engaged in that all-American pastime, worrying about finances.”

    He nodded and grinned. “You’ve got your Bible there handy. Why don’t you check out Psalm 37:25?”

    I knew it without having to open the book. “I’ve been young and now I’m old and I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread.”

    “That’s the one,” Gunner grinned.

    “That verse makes me more than a little nervous,” I admitted. “Would you like to sit down?” I gestured to an empty chair. He was making me nervous.

    He sat. “Well, maybe that’s because you’re not as righteous as you let on.”

    I raised an eyebrow and glared at him. “No. I’m just not sure the psalmist looked very closely at the world.”

    Gunner laughed. He stood up and went to the fridge. “You got any of that crappy IPA beer?” I was on the verge of inviting him to help himself, but he’d already found and withdrawn a bottle.

    “The Bible is always right, you know,” he said. “And errorists like you have no rights.” He took a large swig of the beer. “Man, this stuff is terrible.”

    “Why are you here, Gunner?” I finally asked.

    “Carter, I like you. God help me, but I like you. You’re a…” he foundered for words. “Well, I don’t know what you are exactly, but I like you. And God’s laid it upon my heart to make you a personal project. My own mission field. God’s assured me that even a filthy socialist like you can be saved.”

    “Gunner,” I said after a moment, “you are a cold glass of salt water on a hot summer day, aren’t you? How did I come to be so blessed?” He just laughed and chugged more of my beer.

    “What you need to do, Carter…” he began to say but I interrupted him.

    “Gunner, I swear to God, if you say I just need to pull myself up by my bootstraps, or some other Republican cliché…” I stopped. I didn’t really know what I would do.

    “I was just going to say that idleness is your only barrier to financial security.” He said the beer down on the counter.

    “Get out,” I said. “I’m tired and I need to start dinner. So leave.”

    “Depart from evil, Carter,” he said as he made his way towards the door. “Depart from evil and do good. That’s the way to keep your home forever. That’s the psalmist again.”

    “Get out,” I said once more and closed the door behind him.

The Previous Conversations:

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)

Bulls, Dogs, and Villains – A Tenth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll

    There are slightly different lights on different days. All that we see within is not the same. One day it is sunlight on cornfields. The next is candlelight in the house when the power goes out. This shuckling soul dance, this pietist gyration, like the flickering flame of a candle. Silent persistent prayers.

    “You bleeding heart liberals are all the same…”

    He’s at my door again and I wonder if my wife is right. Why do I keep letting him do this? The front door is open to let in the pleasant afternoon breeze. I’m home from work. My laptop open. My notebook open – the place where I write all my little notes, dribs and drabs of doggerel, punning names to file away for later use, obscure words to look up, stray bits of dialogue in search of a story.

    I look up from the writing that isn’t happening and see him there – with his slightly hyperthyroid eyes, the left one drooping somewhat. And he’s just standing there grinning. And waving.

    I don’t bother to get up from the couch.

    “Listen, Gunner, you can insult me all you like. You’ve been doing that for some time now. So call me a bleeding-heart liberal, if that helps you feel better. But tell the truth and get it right – it’s more than my bleeding heart. It’s the bleeding heart of Christ, and my calloused hands, my burning eyes, my strong but tired back, and my iron will, combined with all the blood of the prophets. Mock me; that’s fine. But it won’t stop the fight. It won’t stop the work. It won’t stop the words.”

    “You say so, Carter. I don’t think you’ve got any of that. But how much weight do you think your words will hold? Does anyone actually read your stuff?”

    My writing program is open. A new, untitled document is open. The cursor is blinking expectantly. I sigh and close the laptop. I stand from the couch and take the three steps to the front door to speak with Gunner.

    “Here is the patience and the faith of the saints. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.” I say this quietly. Nearly a whisper but he hears me just fine.

    He recoils in mock terror outside the door and laughs. “Are you threatening me, Carter? I thought you were one of those pacifist types. Didn’t think you had any real fight in you.”

    I fling open the door. “Well, don’t just stand there like a dog at the door. Come on in if that’s what you’re going to do. A dog, or bull, or just a villain – come to hack off my hands and feet. Come on in so you can look at me and gloat.”

    He stands there stupefied. I am shocked as well.

    “I’m sorry, Gunner. I’m a bit out of sorts today. And who can ever really detect his own failings and hidden faults. Come on in if you want. I’ve got a couple of beers in the fridge if you wanna share one with me.”

    “Is it that IPA crap you like?"

    I shrug, “It’s what I’ve got.”

    He shakes his head no. “No thanks. I’ll just see you later.”

    And that’s it. He is gone.

Truth with Untruth: A Ninth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll

    Breaking the formula and the norm, I received an email from my troll, Gunner, today. Usually he comes by my place, pulling up in his noisy pickup truck, or he finds me out and about town as I ‘m buying groceries or running errands. But today he sent me an email instead of his usual routine.

    To: *******carter@hotmail.com
    From: Gunandrun***@gmail.com

    Re: Myths and Legends

    Jeff – I know I was just at your place the other day and I don’t try to bother you too often at home, but I had to reach out to you today. Something you said in our last discussion You told me that you understand the creation stories of the Bible to be more myth than history. I believe your exact words were “sacred story, not a scientific document.” And, honestly, I wouldn’t have expected anything other from you, liberal as you are. I’m not even sure why you say your a Christian, really.

    But if your going to say your a Christian you should do it right. If your going to say your a Christian you have to accept the Bible as our sure word of prophecy. Wholly. Completely. It’s truth from cover to cover. Not myth. Not fable. Not fairy tale. Not Legend. Not tall tale. But truth. Pure upright truth. There is no fiction in the Bible.

    Gunner

    I replied. Succinctly.

    To:Gunandrun***@gmail.com
    From: *******carter@hotmail.com

    Re: Re: Myths and Legends

    Gunner.

    Come on, man. The Bible frequently uses fiction to teach truth.

    j.c.

    The conversation continued over the next couple of hours via email.

    To: *******carter@hotmail.com
    From: Gunandrun***@gmail.com

    Re: Re: Re: Myths and Legends

    Never. Not once.

    Gunner.

    To:Gunandrun***@gmail.com
    From: *******carter@hotmail.com

    Re: Re: Re: Re: Myths and Legends

    Setting aside the creation stories (plural, btw) and the other obvious fictions like Jonah, the prophet Nathan used a fiction to teach King David the truth. And Jesus taught with parables. Mark explicitly says that he did not say anything to them without using a parable.

    j.c.

    To: *******carter@hotmail.com
    From: Gunandrun***@gmail.com

    Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Myths and Legend

    But parables are not just stories. They were true stories about real, historical people that Jesus knew. Its all true. It’s all real. If its not true historically how could it be true prophetically?

    There is no untruth in the Bible, Jeff. You can’t express truth with untruth. We don’t follow cunningly devised fables. God is not a man that he should lie. This is what concerns me most about you. You dismiss the Bible as a mere story book.

    Gunner.

    To:Gunandrun***@gmail.com
    From: *******carter@hotmail.com

    Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Myths and Legends

    You’re putting words in my mouth again, Gunner. I don’t dismiss it. I accept it for what it is. And I never used the word “mere.” It is profound and has shaped my life since I was young.

    You’ve simply misunderstood the genre of Parable as used in the Ancient Near East.

    j.c.

    To: *******carter@hotmail.com
    From: Gunandrun***@gmail.com

    Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Myths and Legend

    Jeff. Your either a liar or a fool. Or both. The Bible is DIVINELY inspired. 40 authors over 1,500 years with one true voice. It is TRUTH. Get it right and get saved.

    Gunner.

    I might have responded again, but I had to make dinner.

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)

Millions of Years of Death – An Eighth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll

    “We’re in a rut, Gunner,” I said when I saw him approaching. It was my day off and I was enjoying a cup of coffee and a novel of historical fiction on the front porch. One of the stray cats that hangs around our place for food was there, allowing me to pet her occasionally. But she bolted under the porch when she heard the guttural roar of Gunner’s pickup truck. He parked it in my driveway, turned off the engine and stepped out, waving at me.

    He took off his red ball cap and said, “What?”

    “We’re in a rut. I know how it’s going to be. It’s always like this. You come to me with a question or a challenge. I respond and I answer. You insult me and then you leave. Now, I don’t mind playing this role, but you know that we don’t have to be enemies, right? There is no obligation to hostility.”

    “Oh, come on now, Jeff. You know you’re in control here,” he said.

    “Okay. Okay,” I said. “Fine. Come on up to the porch. Let me get you a cup of coffee. You like sugar in yours, right?”

    Cup of coffee in hand and seated on the porch with me, he began. “I would bet that you’re one of those who believe in the theory of evolution. But I want to challenge you with one thing.”

    “Go for it, Gunner,” I said.

    “The alleged evidence is the fossils in the layers of sedimentary rock, a long and tortured history of death and suffering. But it just doesn’t work. You can’t have millions of years of death before Adam’s sin.”

    “Well, the scientific descriptions of cosmological, geological, and biological evolution are not actually in conflict with theology…”

    “But the Bible…”

    “Or the Bible. Only with a particular and peculiar interpretation of the Bible.”

    “False. False! You are elevating man’s opinion – your opinion over God’s word. The God of millions of years…”

    “Billions,” I interjected but he either ignored me or didn’t hear me.

    “…is not the God of the Bible. If you’re unwilling to believe Genesis, if you’re unwilling to believe the first, the foundational book of the Bible, how can you claim to believe the rest of it? Either you’re being disingenuous or you’re deceived. Either way, you’re insulting God’s character. Calling God a liar. Like all of your so-called educators and scientists, you are slow to acknowledge the legitimate, slow to honor what is true. Paul says that ‘the wages of sin is death.’ So you can’t have hundreds of millions of years of death before the introduction of sin.”

    “Okay, Gunner,” I said. “Let’s accept that premise.”

    “So you agree?”

    “Well hang on. Hang on. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s accept first the proposition that without sin there is no death. And your argument is that there could be no death before Adam’s sin. Yes? Do I have that right?”

    “Spot on!” Gunner agreed.

    “Okay. But Adam’s sin wasn’t the first. Sin was already introduced.”

    “What are you talking about?” Gunner furrowed his forehead.

    “You also accept the idea that Satan is a real individual, an evil entity and not just a myth or a personification of the idea of evil. You believe that Satan was an angel in heaven who rebelled against God and was cast out of heaven. Yes?”

    “Yes,” he said hesitatingly.

    “And when did Satan’s fall occur? After Adam’s?”

    I could see it happening behind his eyes. The sputtering fire and smoke of incredulity, the proof-text checklist rolled up like a scroll. And then the confidence returned. “But the six, twenty-four hour days of creation still don’t allow you millions of years for life to evolve.”

    “Billions,” I said again. He didn’t respond so I pressed forward a little. “I understand the creation stories of the Bible to be more myth than history. As a sacred story not a scientific document. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe. The world is God’s and I believe this. Sin brings death. I believe this.”

    “If you don’t believe Genesis, you don’t believe the Bible.” He declared and set down his coffee mug. “Your faith is weak. Your faith is blind. Your faith is destroyed by Big Bang insanity. You want the creation without the Creator.” He stood as if to leave, but turned again and said, “Tell me, Carter, is your tongue scarred from all the double talk?”

    I didn’t have an answer, so I sipped my coffee. He looked at his watch and said, “Well, I’ve gotta’ go. See ya’ next time?”

    “Sure, Gunner. You always seem to know where to find me.” he descended the steps of the porch, got back into his noisy truck and drove away. I picked up my novel and returned to the story. A few moments later the cat reappeared from under the porch.

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)

Toward Sodom – Another Halfhearted Conversation with a Real Troll

    He comes around to harangue and harass, he insults me and belittles my faith and then he disappears. For a while. I go on about my life. I work. I write. I watch bad movies with my wife. And then he returns for another round or two of abuse.

    “I don’t know why you put up with him,” my darling says to me. “He’s a troll.”

    “Ahhh,” I nod and smile, “but he’s my troll.”

    She stares at me for a second or two and then says, “That makes no sense and you know it.” She laughs. I laugh.

    But he’s here again today. He catches mes as I’m working in the yard, raking leaves and pulling weeds. and he’s another argument for me. One I wouldn’t have expected.

    “Lot was selfish,” he says to me without preamble.

    Like I said, compared to some of his previous maneuvers this assault seemed indifferent. Insubstantial Inconsequential. Unnecessary, even. Like he wasn’t even trying anymore.

    “You mean when his uncle Abram offered him his choice of land for his flocks and herds?” I ask to make sure I understand what he’s asking. “Genesis chapter fifteen or thereabouts?”

    “Thirteen,” he nods. “Yeah. Lot was the selfish one. He was greedy and should have allowed his uncle, the patriarch, have the good land. He was greedy and he resisted his uncle’s authority.”

    “How does Lot’s acceptance of Abram’s offer make him a rebel? And Abram had taken the good land, wouldn’t that have made Abram the selfish one?” I ask, but I am already too late, Gunner is moving on.

    “Lot settled in the cities of the plain and pitched his tent toward Sodom.” He claps his hands. “Toward Sodom!”

    “We have no indication that Lot or any member of his family participated in the sins of Sodom – which were not homosexuality but rape, and inhospitality, selfishness and a lack of concern for the poor. The fact that God sent angels to rescue Lot and his family should indicate that he was not…”

    “Aha!” Gunner claps me on the shoulder with his meaty hand. “He pitched his tent toward Sodom, Jeff. You can’t get around that. Towards Sodom!” he shakes his head back and forth as he retreats back to his pickup truck.

    “Bye, Gunner,” I say waving.

    “What was that about,” my darling says from the door of the house.

    “I have no idea,” I say and go back to pulling weeds.

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series) 
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)

A Sixth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll – The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged

    “Hey Carter!” came a shout and I knew who it was without turning my head, which was good as I was experiencing a wash of vertigo at the moment. I’d come home from work and took a moment to relax, sitting on the porch with the feral cats who hang out near our house. We feed them and they allow us to pet them. Sometimes. Anyway, I’d spent a few minutes petting and talking to the one we’ve named Sorrow, but he took off. He’s skittish. I would have gone inside myself but, as I said, the vertigo.

    “Hey Carter!” came the shout again.

    “Gunner, it’s been a while. Where’ve you been?” I didn’t really want to speak to him. He’s a bit of a troll, always trying to rile me. Always ready to condemn me. But I try to be patient. I try to put up with him even if I wasn’t feeling right side up.

    “Where’s your American flag?” he asked as he stepped up to the porch. “You’ve got a Palestinian flag, a skull and cross bones pirate flag, and a queer pride flag in your window, but no American flag and I’m just wondering why you hate America so much.

    Yeah. That’s usually how it goes with Gunner. “Patriotism is the doctrine that cannot be challenged, eh Gunner?” I said with my head still between my knees. “As it happens,” I answered him, “my American flag is safely folded and put away in a closet somewhere. I have plans to get it out for flag day.”

    “To put it up?” he grinned. “Excellent. I knew you'd come around eventually." “No,” I said. “Not to display it. To wash it. I’m going to sit on the courthouse lawn with a bucket of soapy water and spend the day washing the flag. I’ve made up a sign to take with me. Stained with Oil. Stained with mud. Stained with War, Stained with Blood. We are not the good guys.”

    His grinned disappeared. “You know, Carter, there are three heavens, but none of them are yours.

    Another wave of vertigo washed over me and I closed my eyes to keep from spinning. It’s the end of the world – alive or dead, doesn’t matter. We’ve got to move fast while national security concerns are still beating. There are opportunists waiting and grasping for exploitational exposure. Which is just another method of murder. Clean and simple kill counts. The lower depths of darkness rule here. It is not enough for the burning fire. Not enough for the burnt offerings. The god of this land is not placated without death. Blow it up. Burn it down. It’s a rigor mortis policy long past its prime. It’s all in the CIA monitoring and redacted FBI files.

    “All the nations,” I said after the vertigo receded. ALL the nations – this means you, this means us – are as nothing before God, Gunner. Nothing. And no American exceptionalism, no rugged individualism, no protestant work ethic will make a damn bit of difference. That flag is nothingness and emptiness.”

    “You’re such a hypocrite, Carter. If you really thought that you wouldn’t have that terrorist Palestinian flag in your window.”

    I nodded slightly – too much motion might have triggered another wave. “You could be right, Gunner. I’m a messy bundle of contrarian contradiction. What can I say?”

    Gunner huffed and waved me off before storming back to his noisy pickup truck and driving away. I watched him roar away.

    Sorrow poked his head out from beneath the porch and meowed at me. “Yeah, buddy. Hang on. I’ll bring out some food for you,” I said as I stood and went inside.

A Fifth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll: All Means All

     He showed up again, as he does, coming in after I’d come home from work. I was long and tired. The bone spur on my foot has been bugging me recently, causing arthritis in my hallux, exacerbated by damage to the nerves between my toes. But today was tolerable. Mostly. The pain and discomfort didn’t slow me. But showered and dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt, and a skull printed cardigan I felt better. Almost human again. I saw his face in the window with his slightly bulging, hyperthyroid eyes – and that drooping, lazy left eye turned slightly downward.

    He came with geologic and atmospheric convulsions. The sky trembled and the earth rumbled. Hah. Not really. There were no earthquakes, no lightnings. Sometimes his being here feels bigger than necessary. Slightly dangerous. But really he’s just Gunner; he’s just a guy I know with a slightly drooping eye. He doesn’t particularly care for me. He is generally dismissive of me and just about everything I say. I acknowledge it for what it is. He doesn’t worry me. Not too much. I have my reasons for letting him stick around. They are my reasons and nothing of his. And that is enough for me.

    “Be serious,” he said and I knew we’d begun. I didn’t yet know what it was we’d begun, but I knew we were off. “Be serious,” he said again.

    “What’s on your mind, my brother?” I asked him.

    “It’s just that exactly,” he said. Seriously. “I am not your brother. You are a heretic, of course. And not a Christian of any stripe. I know this. You know this. What I don’t understand is why you continue to deny it.”

    “Because it’s not true,” I sighed. “Do you want coffee?” He waved me off but I poured him a cup and he accepted it. And asked for sugar…

    “We come from different traditions,” I began. “Different Christian traditions, but…”

    “No buts,” he interjected. “You’re lost. In your natural body and in the fatty folds of your mind, you are lost.”

    He has in the course of our brief acquaintanceship called me foolish, silly, inept, and satanic. He’s used that one repeatedly. It’s become one of my favorites of his accusations. He could call me contumacious, but I doubt he knows that word. Maybe it’s a little pretentious that I know it… “In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; in all things, charity,” I said sipping at my own mug of coffee. Outside the wind was ripping around the walls.

    “No. No. Nope. Nothing of Augustine,” he said setting his coffee aside. “Catholics don’t count either.”

    “Well it’s not Augustine. It was…

    “I don’t really care who said it. It’s wrong. What fellowship does light have with darkness? What harmony can there be between Christ and Belial?”

    “And I take it that I am Belial in this telling?”

    “What else would you be? You openly embrace socialism. You belong to a denomination that endorses women pastors and generally accepts abortion. You defend Christless Muslims and the gays and trans… There’s nothing of Christ in you. By the way,” he said picking up the coffee again. “What’s with the skulls. On your sweater. And I saw the cow skulls in the garden out front. You live in death. Christ is life and you live in death.”

    “Ah, just a bit of Memento Mori, I guess.”

    “It’s devilish, is what it is. I keep saying that you are full of inconsistent demons.”

    The wind was slashing through the trees in the backyard. Whistling like one of Gunner’s imagined demons. It’s been so cold this week. And colder still toward the weekend. After another sip of my coffee I said, “No question. No doubt. No fear for you. You are confident -cocksure- that you’ve got theology pinned down, staked out. Lines drawn. Boundaries permanently delineated. Truth fully and finally realized twenty centuries after he said that the truth would set us free.”

    He nodded. Smug. Sure.

    “And I am not. Not sure. Taking truth from myth and wonder from mystery. I believe. I believe and I doubt.”

    “Exactly. This is your error. One of your many errors. But they all stem from this don’t they? You are full of doubt and disbelief.”

    “Well, unbelief, maybe. But not disbelief. Tell me – does all mean all?”

    “What? I’m not interested in word games with you. You twist. You wrest. And none of it’s true.”

    “No game. Does all mean all? Does everyone mean everyone? Whosoever?”

    He set his coffee down again and prepared to respond. But I stopped him. “Nevermind. I just realized what time it is and I need to start preparing dinner. My wife will be home soon. Can we finish this discussion tomorrow?”

    “Yeah. Sure. I forgot – you’re the domesticated one in this house, aren’t you? I bet you do the laundry too.”

    “As a matter of fact I do, but that’s not really either your concern or relevant to the discussion at hand.”

    I asked him to leave. I was tired and uncomfortable. I didn’t need his harassment. But I asked him to meet me again the next day on neutral ground. I invited him to join me for lunch at the Family Diner just up the road.

    There, seated in booth number 24, I waited for him. He slid into the booth and said “Now… What were you trying to say about all not meaning all?”

    “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

    “But,” he stammered.

    “Wait. Just the silence if you please.” The waitress came by and took our orders and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

    We’d each started into our meals when he spoke again. “What were you saying about all not being all?”

    “You’ve got it wrong, brother. All is all. Tell me – will all who call upon the name of the Lord be saved? Or will you deny the testimony of scripture?”

    “No. Stop. You’re twisting. You’re wresting again…”

    “You believe in the universal effects of Adam’s sin, but not of Christ’s redemptive work? All died in Adam’s sin, and all are made alive in Christ. Right? Right? Universal sin. Universal life. All means all.”

    “What?” he sputtered, spitting out a bite of his cheeseburger. He coughed a few times and then choked up a response. “Universalist. Unitarian. I knew it.”

    “Listen,” I said. “I’ve told you before, I’m a Methodist. You know this. And for the rest – I don’t know. I believe. I doubt. And all means all even if I don’t know what that means.”

    He slammed down the last third of his burger and said, “Hell is a place, dude. A place where the fire never goes out.” He snatched up the last of his french fries, dunked them in ketchup and added, “Hell is a place where the worm never dies.” He shoved the fries in his mouth and stood up from the booth. “Remember that.”

    And with that he left the restaurant, leaving me both checks, of course.

Do You Even Pray? - The Troll Returns

    The troll rolled up at my house a few seconds after I got home from work myself. I knew it was him by the roar and rumble of the damaged muffler on his pickup truck. He pulled up to the sidewalk just past my house and I saw that bumper-sticker of his, “Luke 23:46 Still Applies!”

    “Hold up there, Carter,” he bellowed as he stepped out of his truck. “I’ve got a question for you.”

    ‘This should be fun,’ I thought to myself as I got out of my car and turned back to him. “What’s up, Gunner?”

    He stepped quickly up my driveway. “I just want to know, do you pray, Carter? Do you?”

    I sighed and closed my car door. “Listen,” I said. “You can come in and insult me all you want, but I need you to help me with something.”

    “What?” he asked taken aback. He actually took a step backwards as he said it.

    “Simple. Just what I said. You can come in and sneer and snarl at me all you want, but I promised my wife that I’d put up some shelves for her and I need some help holding things level. If you want to continue your… discussion, you’ll have to help me with that project.”

    I pushed the lock button on my key fob and the car alarm honked twice, then I walked to the front door. “Are you coming?” I asked him.

    “I’ve been watching you,” he said as soon as we were inside the house. “You’ve been holding out. I’ve been listening and you’ve been keeping secrets.”

    “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” I said. “Let me change my clothes and get my tools and we can continue the fun.”

    “Here you are, struggling in deep water,” he shouted up the stairs to me as I changed out of my work uniform. “Fire burning, smoke grenades exploding all around you. War. Disaster. Unrest. All of your modern scientific life. And all I can say is, why not just accept the providence of God? Why not just let God open your mind?"

    I came back down in jeans and a t-shirt. “Keep going,” I said. “I’m just going to grab my tools.”

    “Strong delusions,” he said. “You’ve believed the lies. The lies of the government, the lies in your church – which we should talk about. You need a better church. A Bible believing church…”

    “Right. Hold that,” I said, handing him the shelf.

    “God’s laws are resolute. Not open to debate,” he continued.

    “Uh-huh,” I nodded as I measured and marked the studs with a pencil.

    “Admit it,” he said.

    “Hold that,” I repeated.

    “Admit it. You don’t even know what the truth is.”

    “You’re probably right,” I said, handing him a handful of screws.

    “So again: Do you even pray, Carter? Answer me this. Do you actually believe that God hears and answers prayers? Tell me you’re not one of those…”

    I drew the line. “Is the bubble in the middle?” I asked him and handed him the level.

    “Are you even listening to me?” he asked but I was already running the drill to secure the brackets to the wall and I couldn’t hear him.

    It’s the smugness that gets me. The unwarranted confidence that God hears his prayers as an unquestioned absolute. And not only hears but responds. Answers. And answers positively. Does he pray for and miraculously find a parking spot in the grocery store parking lot? Do I pray? Sure I pray. Of course, I pray. But does God hear? Does God answer? I don’t know; it’s a blur and a wonder. I pray like a man giving up the ghost.

    I finished with the drill and wiped a bit of plaster from the wall. Together we secured the shelf to the brackets. “That looks pretty good,” I said.

    “Oh, yeah. That’s going to be pretty secure there,” he said.

    “Yeah,” I nodded. “She’s going to be happy. Thanks,” I said and showed him the door.

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll 
Another Conversation with a Real Troll: I Will Not Fight the Argument
A Third Conversation with a Real Troll: Supermarket Wrestling

A Third Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll: Supermarket Wrestling

     My troll caught up with me on my day off. He had to, obviously. Rule of three, right. That’s how these things work. In folklore, in comedy, in advertising. One. Two. Three. He came first to assault my character. He came again to challenge my doctrine. Now he was back a third time to question my faith as I was buying groceries. Standing there in the produce department, as I picked out onions and peppers, I saw him coming to me.

    “You are common, but you have nothing of the common love in your heart – being of one accord, one mind. You are divided in yourself. There is no eternity in your heart.”

    “Hey, Gunner. What do you think of these tomatoes? They’re not red. They’re pink and pale. Probably mealy too. Winter produce is so…”

    “What will little Satans like you do if loosed upon the world? Adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lewdness, idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations…”

    “Emulations?” I scoffed. “What are you…?” But he rolled on with his list of condemnations. I had my shopping list; he had his.

    “Wrath, strife, sedition, and heresies. That’s your thing. Heresies.”

    “Here? You want to do this here? Now? In the supermarket?”

    “Sure. Why not now? Are you afraid? Now is the judgment of this world and the prince of this world shall be cast down. You should be afraid.”

    “Okay. Okay. But come with me and keep your voice down.” I put the tomato back and moved on towards the baked goods. “I need bread,” I told him.

    “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God. That’s your real problem. You don’t live by the word of God.”

    “Oh, come on, dude,” I said as I picked up a loaf of sourdough. “I read the Bible every day. Or nearly so.”

    “Yeah. Yeah,” he said as he followed me towards the meat department. “You read it. But you wrest it. Unstable and unlearned. You twist it, distort it out of true. You read it but you don’t believe it. You won’t accept the verbal plenary inspiration that makes it true. Inerrant. Infallible. Authoritative. God breathed, without mistake or contradiction.”

    I chuckled and pointed to the lamb shank behind the glass of the refrigerated shelves. “Behold the Passover lamb. How were the Israelites to prepare it?”

    “What?” He recoiled. 

    “Were they to roast it or boil it? Exodus or Deuteronomy? They don’t agree.”

    “No. Not like that. You’re not going to get me with those proof texts, with those alleged contradictions. You pick and chose the parts you like because you think it’s easier that way. But the whole word is inspired. God breathed. It cannot fail.”

    “God breathed, you say?” I turned my cart down the canned good aisle. I would finish my shopping. “What about Adam? He was inspired. Literally God breathed. But he failed. Yeah? I don’t think inspiration means what you think it means.”

    Just then Gunner reached out and stopped my hand as I was selecting cans of kidney beans. “Who inspires these perversions in you? You’re going to have to learn the lesson. Leave the Bible alone. Get better and get saved.” The flickering fluorescent lights cast on again off again shadows across his face

    “I don’t wrest the scripture, Gunner.” I said as I placed the beans into my cart. “But I do wrestle with it. Like Jacob wrestling through the night. And like Jacob, it’s broken me. Left me limping.”

    “You limp because you’re broken. Because you’re so lame.”

    “Lame as I am, I leap for joy in God,” I said. “And that is the miracle.”

    Gunner stood there, unmoved and blocking my path through the aisle.

    “We can continue if you want,” I said. “But I still have several things on my list. Do you mind?”

    He pursed his lips tight and shoved my cart – not hard, but away. He said nothing more. Just walked down the aisle and out of the store. I returned to my list – getting cheese and milk, and a few other things.