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1. How did the species that inhabit planet Earth come about: creation (as described in one or other scriptures) or evolution?
As a proponent of the ‘dialogue project’ (Hinnells 2005, p.459) both creationism and Darwinism hold validity in explaining how life originated on earth. Scientific fact is the evidence of fossil remains and observance of the natural order of species which point to evolution as the correct theory (p. 457). However, questions remain unanswered. For example, if all life on Earth evolved from a single species, where did that species come from? If man evolved from the ape, why are there still apes? What of the missing link? Unanswered questions also plague creationist theory: If God created man as a finished product some 10,000 years ago (Genesis 1:26), why are there fossil remains of the Neanderthal, Cro-Magnon man, etc? The ancient men of the Bible are said to have lived for 500 years, contradicting the 20 life-span evidenced from said fossils. These as yet unknown elements can be viewed as either problems for the theories of Darwinism and creationism, or opportunities for dialogue. Obviously, scientific evidence cannot be denied, however, the view that the complexity of life and the exactitude of the Cosmos can only come from the hand of a Divine creator, rather than the happenstance of a ‘Big Bang’, when examined, does seem valid. No doubt, there will be more scientific discoveries, and religious counter-theories in answer, which all seems, to this writer, ideal grounds for continued dialogue.
Any addict of any persuasion will tell you the road to recovery is a difficult one, and begins with realising you have a problem and the resolve to do something about it. For me, this involved a stint in a rehab for alcohol dependency and months of counselling for depression. Don’t be mistaken, the battle was far from over, but at least now I had the tools on-board to help me cope and the determination to live life free of addiction.
Soon after, my spirituality began to reignite. In hindsight, I liken the process to a flame (spirituality) that had a glass cover (addiction) placed over it, before long the life-giving oxygen (God connection) is depleted and the flame begins to sputter and die. I believe there is a spiritual flame or God connection inside all of us, some will never find it, and others need the right medium to realise what they have and make it glow. For me, that medium was Jesus Christ, not religion, for religion is a man-made construct, but the words and deeds of the Messiah Himself.
Yes, Jesus charged his apostles to start His church, but I challenge you to find one today that He would be proud of, a church that is free of hypocrisy, internal strife, and twisted doctrine. There are some out there, but they are hard to find, and the danger is one becomes cynical in the process of looking. I’ve learnt that it pays to bear in mind that believers are not the building they worship in, and fellowship with like-minded people is a worthwhile and necessary pursuit.
Now we come to the end, and the reason I have told you all this: It was not to say ‘go here’ or ‘follow this one or that’, but to show you how I began life with a God connection, how the Enemy (Satan), through his minions and tools of addiction, sought to sever that connection. And how by making a conscious effort to change my life, did I defeat the Enemy and reclaim my immortal soul. Why didn’t God help me beat addiction, you may well ask. Because he gave us free will, and no matter for what reasons, I chose to partake. Therefore, I had to choose to stop. Alcohol and drugs are some of the greatest tools Satan has at his disposal, for as in my case, he can take you out before you even have a chance at redemption.
You may not agree that Jesus is the right medium, for you it may be Budda, Allah, or Vishnu. All that I can do, all that I can show you, is my God reality. The rest is in your hands.
The Battle and One Man’s Reality
“My name is legion,” the evil spirit replied, “for we are many.” The Gospel of Mark: Ch.5; Vs.9.
For the purposes of brevity and boring you with needless exposition, the next twenty years will be condensed into a paragraph of woe, the tale of a man stumbling through life in a drug and alcohol fuelled daze.
The worst thing about mind altering substances apart from the physical damage and separation from God is you make bad decisions. In my case, for example, unprotected sex led to pregnancy, which in turn led to marriage. Before I could say ‘close the gate’, there were three children—to a man who could barely look after himself let alone be a responsible husband and father. Needless to say, the marriage ended in divorce, and shortly thereafter I attempted to end my life.
Obviously that attempt failed, so I tried again, and again. At this point, you are probable thinking that I mustn’t have been real serious about it, because the truth is that if you really want to, it is not that hard. However, deep down, I didn’t want to leave my children fatherless and these desperate attempts were nothing more than cries for help. I wanted someone to come along and make things right, remove my addictions and straighten out my mind. Only, there is but one person who can do that. First, however, I had to reach rock bottom.
It came after a particularly bad night. I went to visit an old friend armed with a bottle of bourbon. When J answered the door, I immediately realised something was wrong. He looked terrible, and when I asked after his health, he told me he had just been diagnosed with liver cancer and the doctors had given him only months to live. J was 28. Realising that alcohol was the last thing my friend would want to see; I promptly removed myself and headed to the beach, where I set about draining the bottle.
I woke the following morning lying next to a grave in the local cemetery with no idea or memory of how I got there. We all have a breaking point and this was mine—thank God. As I sat in the dirt, the events of the past few years welled-up inside, and I was suddenly wracked by an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt. That’s when I made a life-changing determination: If I am not going to commit suicide, then I have to live. And this was no way to go about it. (Cont.)
(8) Road to Perdition
“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction.” — Jesus, The Gospel of Matthew.
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Of course, initially I thought all my Christmases had come at once, what kid wouldn’t with all this time to themselves. However, that would soon change as the Enemy marshalled for another attack. In hindsight, I would have been much better off at Chevalier dodging Brother Mamo—better the devil you know—for in the coming months, this teenager would find himself in a place very few return from, at least not without suffering irreparable damage.
The first realisation I had about George was he is a closet-alcoholic. Come nightfall and when in need of company the most, I would find my minder in a drunken stupor or passed out in his shack. Whether it was because of the shame I harboured about Mamo, George’s bad example, fear and loneliness, or a combination of all these that lead me to the bottle I will never know. But what began as a few tentative swigs, soon turned into outright guzzling, for as one can imagine in an hotelier’s home, choice of alcohol is more a problem than availability. I remember one particular time a party had been arranged at a friend’s house and I decided to guzzle on a bottle of Chivas Regal before leaving. Naturally, I never made it to the party, waking up that night in the gutter not far from home. I’d drank three-quarters of the bottle! It was a miracle I didn’t get alcohol poisoning.
It was during a similar state of inebriation that George made his move. I was drinking one afternoon while watching TV, and after many glasses felt quite ill, so I laid up on the lounge and soon fell fast asleep. I remember waking to find George sitting next to me with his pants down
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(6) Tainted
“It is possible for you to reach it (the Kingdom), but you will grieve a great deal.” — Jesus, The Gospel of Judas.
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In hindsight, M’s treatment of me was predictable: smother any ideas the boy has of exposure under a blanket of fear. Then if he does tell his parents, it becomes a matter of revenge, ‘you know how they can get, and the boy feels harshly dealt with so he concocts this ridiculous molestation charge out of spite’. Whatever the reasoning, it worked.
A week or so later I signed on for rugby union, and you wouldn’t want to know whom we get as coach, Brother M. Whenever a tackle needed to be demonstrated, I was called out and used as the tackle-dummy. Until one day, he hit me that hard it burst a blood vessel in my nose. Crying as I clutched my nose, M called me a sissy and told me to get to the infirmary. From then on, as much as I tried to avoid the man, it was like he was omnipresent, seemingly always around when I was up to mischief, just small stuff, like running where you shouldn’t or flicking rubber bands. But the thing was, instead of just giving me the strap and being done with it, he would tell me to wait at the designated ‘strapping-room’ and wait…and wait, until the bell would ring for class or some other place I had to be.
The result of all this was an ever-present anxiety, wound up a notch every time I laid eyes on this so called man of God: ‘Will he strap me now
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September 30th 2009 21:18
A wonderful self-defence mechanism allows children to bury bad events, and it wasn’t until I was an adult and underwent hypnotherapy, did the incident return like some replay of a horror movie. M had me sit on his bed. He sat on a chair opposite. He then explained that he had to conduct a health check to make sure nothing was wrong. Relief flooded through me—I wasn’t going to be strapped! This and the fact his demeanour was relaxed, his voice echoing quiet assurance, made me accept the lie. He then told me to stand and take down my pyjama pants. I quickly obeyed, not wanting him to notice my two pairs of underpants.
That’s when he began to fondle my private parts. I remember getting embarrassed and pulled away. M assured me that this was natural, and not to worry. Then for reasons of his own, he told me to pull up my pants, and that we would continue the check tomorrow night. Before leaving his room, he warned me that these health checks were personal and not to mention anything to the other boys or there would be serious trouble.
The following night, I knocked on his door with an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. Once inside, he again told me to take down my pants. Then alarm bells started to ring in my mind. Something was wrong; this was no health check! I refused him, saying that I would tell my parents if he touched me again
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September 16th 2009 06:42
My parents were publicans and naturally wanted their son to spend as least amount of time in hotels as possible. Therefore it was my grandmother Gertrude who shouldered the greater load in raising me from about three until the age of six when she died. Just before grandmother’s death, I’d been staying at the hotel for a week owing to her admission in hospital. She passed away on the Friday and for reasons of their own, my parents decided to wait until Monday when we were at home to tell me.
We had left the hotel on Sunday evening. The family home was a weatherboard cottage in a seaside village south of Sydney, and it was about 8.00pm by the time we’d travelled the 80 or so kilometres. As usual, I had fallen asleep in the backseat of the car, and what transpired as we pulled in to the driveway I have put together from memory and what my parents have told me.
Mother reached over from the front and shook my leg to wake me and that’s when I suddenly began to scream and thrash about on the seat. My recollection of this event has grown vague with the passage of time, but apparently, I carried on for a couple of minutes before settling down, then flatly refused to get out of the car. What I do remember, what I’ll never forget, is the all-pervading sense that something was wrong, seriously wrong? Of course, the wrong was my grandmother had died
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Comment by Pete
on The Secret — What Secret?
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