The Faces of the Divine in Doctor Who
Written in November-December 1996
When Doctor Who first aired in November of 1963, the character of the
Doctor was very much different from what he later evolved into.
He was irascible, gruff,
imperious. When Barbara and Ian (two humans) bumbled into his TARDIS to
spy on him, he kidnapped
them and whisked them
off to the past. I don't believe he ever apologized for doing it, and
certainly the kidnapping
set them all off on a series of adventures together. Pretty quickly they
ceased to view
themselves as his prisoners, but there's no doubt that the Doctor was in
absolute control of
everything and everybody in his TARDIS.
Now, I doubt Verity Lambert had God in mind when she put together this
amazing character. What
she wanted was something that could at one moment be familiar, even
intimate, and in the next
remote, powerful, mysterious. So she wasn't trying to depict God in the
Doctor, but if you
really stop to think about the Divine nature, you've got something that is
at times familiar,
intimate, comforting, and then at other times remote, powerful,
mysterious--so non-human that
the human heart fails in fear when it tries to consider this sovereign Being
who created the
soul with a mere breath and can extinguish it with the same.
It wasn't until I watched "An Unearthly Child" and "Caves of Fear" (the
first Dr. Who
adventure) that much of what I had read in C.S. Lewis and other writers
really began to dawn on
me. My view of God had always been quite anthropomorphic and rather
egocentric. He was sort
of just a bigger, better, immortal version of me, to my mind. But
"Unearthly Child," combined
with some tragedies in my life, planted the first seeds of the strangeness
of God in my mind.
If--as with God--you start out with the premise that the original Doctor is
good, then his
actions are often quite enigmatic, especially when he never bothers to
explain or justify some
of the things that he does. And the fear in me, the viewer/participant, is
born that he might
hurt me and believe he ought to hurt me and needs to hurt me because it's
the right thing to
do-- even if I don't think it's good or the right thing to do.
Consider Barbara and Ian. They were narrow minded and pig headed. They
secretly trailed Susan
back to the TARDIS and sneaked inside, ready to call in the welfare
services if they found her
so-called grandfather to be the sort of person they did not approve of. So
they were whisked
off in the TARDIS, effectively prisoners of the Doctor until he should
choose to bring them
back home. Yet there is a rightness in what he did, even a mercy.
Barbara and Ian somehow
survived their adventures, even developed warm feelings for the Doctor,
and they certainly were
cured of their narrow mindedness. All the same, it seems a bit extreme,
So it is with God. I've got one agenda, and He's got another. I'm
concerned about being kept
safe when I commute weekends to my home in South Carolina. I want to stay
employed as a
contract technical writer. Every now and then I do checks on my motives
for why I do the
things I do. That's my agenda. Surely I must be as pig headed and narrow
minded as Barbara
and Ian. I just never think about it. And what about the sins in my life,
conscience that I don't even know about? In God's agenda, there may have
to be a lot of
whisking me into danger, suffering, and troubles to break me out of my own
mold. Does this
frighten me? Yes, it certainly does.
Doctor Who, the earlier episodes, really brought this home to me. Oh,
of course there are
stories where he's silly, bumbling, downright ornery. I want to say
again that I know that he
was not created to represent God. There is merely a suggestion in the
character of certain
traits that we would equate with being divine or god-like.
One thing that amazes me about reader/viewer response to the Doctor is the
complaints about his
arrogance (thinking of first and third Doctors, here). I think that his
consistent with somebody who is hundreds of years old. Of course he would
view us as
juvenile and would talk down to us at times. Or scold. And he would be
unimpressed with our
systematized structure of apportioning out greatness and fame. Surely
after a few hundred
years and the witnessing of countless wars, crimes, sacrifices, and
achievements, a person such
as he would be unimpressed with our conventions of defining social, even
I don't think his attitude is arrogant; I think it's justified. In
applying this concrete
example of attitude to the divine, I am shaken by how ignorant I must be of
What could any of the things that I rate as important in this life possibly
matter to God?
Does it even occur to Him at all that a human being is president or a
preacher--or a writer?
Surely to God, Who sees every earthly convention, structure, contrivance
pass away and be
forgotten from the face of the very earth that spawned it, our achievements
just seem trivial: beneath consideration.
The things that matter to God would have to be things of consequence in His
mine. So I'm left with things like love, self sacrifice, devotion,
mercy, truth. And these,
rightly enough, are things that the Doctor seems to value in his early
strongest image of the Doctor's love of eternal things would have to be his
love for Jo,
certainly one of his dearest companions, the only one he seemed to have
grieved over losing (up
to that point in the stories), and the one who had the least to offer him
that was of any
concrete use. She was not physically strong, not extraordinarily
intelligent, not trained in
science, not even all that sensible at times. But she whole heartedly
loved him and twice gave
up her life for him (though she was spared both times). The key to her
relationship with him
is that she increasingly devoted--not her abilities or her possessions--but her
own self to him.
Responsively, the Doctor increasingly moved from gruff or grudging
acceptance of her to a
devotion of his own. Instead of constantly telling her she cannot go with
him (as he does in
instances in "Terror of the Autons," "Claws of Axos," and "Colony in Space,
" he starts to leave
the decision up to her and eventually asks her to come along-even on
Sublimation and the Face of God in Dr.
I can't help it, and I did not even know it at first, but when I write
about the Doctor, I am
writing about my view of God. This is not to say that my DW stories should
be read for
Christian content; they are not doctrinal. They are certainly not
doctrinally correct. No,
they are simply honest about me--about what I was thinking about God when I
wrote each of them.
It has stunned me to go back and re-read earlier stories and realize what I
was putting into
them. It was an unconscious process.
My transfer of my own religious questions/experiences was first pointed out
to me by a
co-worker, and she introduced me to the term "sublimation," Freude's term
for the use of the
creative process as a means to transform [usually dark] events or
circumstances into something
meaningful/beautiful/coherent. Her explanation was that while some people
take the bad things
that happen to them and vent their frustrations, anger, unhappiness in
destructive ways, others
take these same events and transform bad or troubling things into expressive
the arts. Her admittedly amateur assessment of me was that I am very much
a sublimator. I
certainly agree with this. I have to translate nearly everything that
happens to me into a
story before I can safely store it in my memory and forget about it. If I
don't translate it
into a story, I'll dream about it in story form.
The next person who made me go back and re-evaluate my own fiction was one
of my readers, but I
forget which one. She pointed out to me that in both "Influx of the Array,
" which started as a
DW story, and "Every Dead Body I Meet," the Master was the most charming
I was troubled by this assessment, as it was correct, and I realized that
at that time I was
much more attracted to the Master than the Doctor.
I want to stay on this topic, but I have to offer some background
information. I spent 1993
living with a family and home schooling their children. I can't blame them
for everything that
went wrong. I too blithely accepted them at face value and handed my life
over to them--a thing
I had no right to do since it is not my life to hand over. They were (and
are) deeply troubled
people, but I was thoroughly fooled by them. They definitely used some
deception in their
relationship with me, but I strongly believe that more hard-nosed common
sense on my part would
have saved me much grief from them.
It was a tough year, in which my most basic and fundamental tenets of my
personal faith in God
and in Jesus Christ were assaulted. These people, claiming to be
Christians (indeed, the
father was an elder at my own church) consistently charged me with
previous guarantees to me to care for me in return for my work with the
children. They took
apart my testimony of the conversion I had in Christ, and they took the
position that I was
still very troubled from my violent and unhappy childhood. I started to
believe them. I'm
sorry to say that I nearly denied my faith in Christ. I'm sorry to say
this, and it shames me
more deeply than any other sin in my life. Because, you see, Christ has
saved me, and
everything I said He did for me He really did. But I came to a point where
I sincerely and
deeply doubted it.
I was spared when the father was caught as an adulterer. He was removed from the eldership and a
process of church discipline and restoration was started. But his
character was revealed when
it was discovered that he, was even then, lying to the elders. He was
family moved out of state, and I was free. Broke, sick, and alone.
But free. By God's mercy,
I was immediately hired by AT&T as a contractor.
I was unable to write fiction for a long time, and I found my own fan mail
that I received from
my existing books to be very troubling. After all, I had nearly denied
Christ. I felt in no
way capable of being some sort of role model to children. But I
re-discovered Dr. Who, and
there came a day when I decided it was better to write a Dr. Who story just
to enjoy it myself
than to not write at all. So I wrote "Influx of the Array." And I
found-to my happiness-that
I could write a coherent story again, a sign that I was recovering. Steve
Leahy was the first
person to write me congratulations on the story, and he will never know
(unless he reads this)
how much his offhand comments that the story was "not too bad," helped me.
Now when I look at "Influx," I see what I was saying about God. The
Doctor (God) is good and
has his set of people whom he loves: the Brig, Jo, Mike Yates, etc.
But Diana (me) the person
trapped in a strange house and suffering, he has no allegiance to. He is
kind enough to her,
but when she entreats him to take her away, to take her with him, he
kindly but firmly refuses
on the basis that she does not belong to him. So Diana teams up with the
only other person who
can take her away--the Master. I think I clearly saw this as self
destructive and wrong, as
depicted when the Master callously uses Diana as bait to try to kill
the Doctor in an explosion. Yet Diana is so desperate that she still
clings to the Master.
This was my view of God
in a time of great doubt. I can't deny that there is a lot of self
justification in the story.
If I am Diana, I am certainly presenting my case of going over to the
"other side" as
sympathetically as possible. In the story itself I never assigned blame to
the Doctor for
rejecting Diana's pleas. Instead I showed his rejection as simply
inevitable. He could not
take her with him because he had no legal right to do so. So I'm not sure
if I was saying that
God could not love me simply because I was too alien to Him, or if I was
saying that he could
not love me because He didn't want to. Neither assessment is correct, of
course. God loved me
all along through my difficulties and did answer my prayers and burst apart
the structure of
lies that this husband and wife had built. But at the time, all I saw was
the suffering and
unhappiness, my own doubt in God and my own guiltiness.
"Every Dead Body I Meet" brings a new person on the scene: Mags
Hardbottle (me before I became
a Christian). Like me before conversion, Mags smokes, fights, cusses,
and is streetwise in a
strategic but sort of innocent way. She's well versed at martial arts (I
have studied MA all
my life) and has a sort of cheery disrespect for the person of God (the
Doctor) although in
practice she tends to be on His side. Jo, disapproving of the casino,
reliant on the Doctor in
a strange and dangerous world, is also me--the Christian me: moral,
respectful of God (the
Doctor), reliant on him, powerless without him, and able to suffer a lot
when she falls into
the hands of evil people.
I'm not always sure of what I was sublimating in EDBIM. These stories
are not a point by
point allegeory of my life. I just recognized--in looking at them AFTER they
written--certain images that came directly from my spiritual struggles. I
can see that Jo and
Mags are both versions of me. And I see that the Master's rescue of Jo is
that same thing that
occurs in "Influx" between the Master and Diana, the juxtaposition of
alliances. Again, while the
Doctor (God) seems ineffective, the Master
(perhaps Satan or perhaps any ungodly factor) effects the rescue of Jo from
her torment and makes
an alliance with her. The evil seems more
effective and responsive than the Good.
Yet in "Every Dead Body I Meet," there is at least a resolution to this.
The Doctor does show
up, and we see that as soon as he is reunited to Jo, Mags is nearly
forgotten by him. He
accepts Jo, and so the reversed alliance ends. And yet--to my chagrin--Mags and the Master continue to be the
more interesting set
To me, the most notable thing about EDBIM is the detail of Jo's suffering
and her alone-ness.
before she is rescued, her pain-induced vision of the Doctor is definitely
my own longing for
God when I thought He didn't love me and had not forgiven my sins or
cleansed me from the
violence and horror of things I had done to myself and to others before I
became a Christian.
These long nights of tormented dreams occurred in my life after I had begun
to doubt God but
before the lies that this husband and wife were living were made apparent.
I felt as though I
were their prisoner, for I had given everything up in reliance on their many
promises to take
care of me. My helplessness and longing are paralleled in the story:
Jo had an uncle once, who had died of cancer. He had talked about
unremitting pain. The doctors and nurses had talked
about unremitting pain. Now she herself understood it. She lay in a
timeless state, transfixed by the drill, unable to move,
unable to resist, unable to even scream after the first few minutes.
The oddest thing was to sleep during such pain and horror. But she
did sleep--short intervals that were frequent and filled
with dreams, until some particular stab of the pain woke her.
She had strange dreams--dreams that replayed the most vivid
of memories, so vivid that it stunned her to wake up from
them, stunned her to believe she was only dreaming. She saw
the Doctor and the Brigadier jousting each other with words
over coffee on a sunlit morning in the Brigadier's office, with the
sunlight pouring over them both through the long and
narrow window, turning the Doctor's sheaf of white hair into a sort
of halo. Mike Yates entered, saw her, instantly
brightened, and came over to say good morning.
She saw the chit of paper where they kept their tallies for chess
and checkers victories. It was hung crazily, taped
lopsidedly to a metal equipment locker in the Doctor's lab and work room.
The pain and the confused dream thrust her back to her own grim reality.
After another session of waking pain, she fell
back into the confused dreams. She dreamed she was in the
room where she was now imprisoned, and the door opened,
but instead of her two captors, it was the Doctor.
He leaned over her. "Oh, Jo, I'm so sorry," he said. "I'll help you.
It's all right." He ran his eyes along her, searching, until
he saw where her gown had been pulled back to reveal her left side.
"This is not difficult. Just a moment. It may hurt." He
lowered his head over her, and she felt afraid, wanted to protest,
but could not. She heard a sharp yelp of pain abruptly
cut off, and when he lifted his head, he was not the Doctor any
more, but the Master. He had a jet black rat in his teeth,
dead from a broken neck where he had bitten it. She took in her breath in
I can't help but notice in this passage the Doctor's telltale halo, and
also the idea of Jo
missing and longing for a heavenly place-a place where it is morning, where
there are smiles
and a certain gentleness even under the bickering that goes on. I think I
describing my own longing for the niche I once had felt so strongly a part
and loving kindness in Christian fellowship. The rest of the story though,
is a confusion.
The Doctor and the Master team up. The Master seduces Mags. What is
going on? Again, I want
to emphasize that none of the stories are a point by point allegory of my
life, and I never
consciously wrote them to express my current spiritual state. I think at
some point the
requirements of story kicked in, and I had to simply write the thing in
order to finish it. I
don't want to read too much into the stories, and it may be that everything
Episode Seven in EDBIM was merely what was necessary from a literary
standpoint to end the story.
I did wait for two months after episode Seven to write the rest of the story.
I think this pause
may have been an evidence that I had run out of what I was saying
in the sublimation process.
Then, finally, I saw how to end the story so that I could set it up for
"Four Jacks." The
ideas for "Four Jacks" strongly appealed to me and I was eager to write it.
But again, in
retrospect, I find in it the images that show the state of my faith at the
time as I continued
to wrestle out the doubts and fears that haunted me.
Consciously, I designed it as a Dr. Who version of C.S. Lewis'
Strength, complete with some of the same ideas and characters from
Belbury, but no
disembodied talking heads hanging anywhere (as far as we could see). The
Master is more
clearly depicted as outwardly sauve and inviting and inwardly diabolical and
cruel. I'm glad
to see this, because it shows me that I was getting more clear on which
side I was actually on and how the two sides are so radically different.
But the Doctor (as God) fools Jo and has to do something very cruel to her
in order to save her
life. I think that in this aspect I was coming to terms with what happened
to me in being
allowed by God to enter into the devastating relationship with this husband
and wife. But it
troubles me that I depict Jo as having to forgive the Doctor. When people
talk about having to
forgive God, I think they are talking nonsense. He is righteous and good
and does not need our
forgiveness. I think it's haughty to even think in those terms.
All the same, the story was not consciously written to depict doctrinal
correctness. Rather it
can be used to see what I was actually thinking at the time-even the stuff I
do not want to
admit to. I think I had gotten to the point of saying that God has a right
to do what He sees
fit to do, and He's right and good to do it. But I think I was also saying that it
hurts a lot, and
there's something misleading about Him when He shows us His kindness and
then strikes us with a
blow that takes years to recover from. I don't think it's good or even
accurate to think of
God in these terms, but it's what I was thinking and wrestling through at
the time. Certainly
the Doctor's tenderness with Jo when he does what he does makes it clear to
me that I at least
had confidence in the motives and attitude of God.
Another point I see as probably a sublimated statement of faith is the
death of Mags and the
resurrection of Jo. Mags (the non-Christian me) comes back into the story
when Jo is shot and
unconscious. So essentially there are only Mags and the Doctor (God)
onstage. Mags ventures
out on her own and against the Doctor's wishes and gets killed. But I
think it is instructive
that it is the Doctor himself who vaproizes her body. In the storyline I
was just thinking it
would be better to have the Doctor do this to save her body from
experimentation. But I think
there is a sublimation side to it. Jo "dies" in blood, and Mags is active,
and then Mags dies
and Jo resurrects. The stream of events is overseen by the Doctor. I
think I was indicating
my willingness to forsake the old me, to recognize that she is dead, and
to go on as the
Christian, resurrected version of me.
Note: The stories, Every Dead Body I Meet and Four Jacks were rewritten as one single story called Book of Five Rings, which appears in Season Ten of my canon. I rewrote the ending regarding the death of Mags. She lives to come back another day, in Insiders.
Jon Pertwee died in May of 1996, and his death prompted me to pick up and
finish a story I had
started right after "Influx" but had never finished. "Hounds and Hares" is
a story that I think
has nothing to do with my view of God. It is almost purely what I claimed
it to be--as far as I
can see. I consciously depicted myself as Jennifer, right at the age I
was when I first saw
Dr. Who. Instinctively I made Sarah Jane Smith the companion.
In retrospect, I think
that I did this because I could not put additional companions
into a story where Jo exists.
with the Doctor is so close that I couldn't squeeze another character in
there. So I used
The reason I feel certain that there's nothing unconsciously sublimated into the story is
because I so
consciously sublimated my own life into it. Bruce and Chucky really were
my friends when I was
that age, and they are both fairly true to form. I watched Dr. Who
at that age, about
a year or two before I converted to belief in the shed Blood of Christ for
atonement as the
sole means of salvation. So Jennifer is depicted as somewhat searching in
her religious life,
but more a moral reasoner than a person who has a relationship with God.
She's pretty close to
the way I was at that age. Yes we had bullies up the street, and yes I
studied karate at the
time. And I smoked.
Certain passages in the story depict my view of Dr. Who, of
science fiction, and of
writing, and it was almost obligatory to get a scene in there in which
Jennifer is held in the
arms of the Doctor. Every kid fan fiction writer in the world wanted to be
safe in his arms,
within the shelter of his cape, etc. Jennifer's lines about being
different when she's down in
the tunnels with the Doctor than she is in the world above serve as a
commentary for many of
us: how the creative world enables us to build a morality for the real world. Finally, in real life, my friend Chucky died. His death-and the resultant
end of the three of us
as a trio of friends-- is referenced when Jennifer and Bruce no longer have
enough cards in the
deck to make a group of "three three's," and they exclaim that the deck is
"Give me all your threes," Bruce said.
She sighed and handed him two threes. "The deck is shot," she said.
"There are cards
missing. We lost some in the
He looked ruefully at the two threes. "So we can't make a book out of
these," he said. "Not
enough to make the threes complete, anyway."
"No, one is missing, and I'm sure it's gone forever." She shrugged
helplessly. "If one is
lost, then the whole set
"We'll just have to play something else," he said. "And why not?
Just because the threes
aren't complete, we can still play something
She shrugged as an indication that she was too tired and dispirited
"Poker," he announced.
"I wonder where Chucky is," she said
But all of this was conscious on my part. The goals of the story were to
write a decent story
that nonetheless was purely fanfiction in the way most of us wrote it when
we started out. Any
one of us could have been the main characters of either Jennifer or Bruce.
It had the "real
feel" of my own home town and my own life, yet it should have been
translatable to anybody
reading it. It covered the typical younger viewer's love and admiration
for the Doctor, as
well as some commentary on science fiction and creativity, as well as
issues of right and
wrong. The haunted house, the steam tunnels, the deserted hospital
corridors were all the
things that populate younger fiction. My greatest regret was that I could
not squeeze a
cemetary in there. Then it would have been perfect.
All the same, "Hounds and Hares" was very popular when I first posted it,
one episode at a
time, on alt.drwho.creative. I posted it twice consecutively, one
episode each day, and on
some days I received as many as ten e-mails about it. It remained popular
after it went onto
my web page. It was even suggested to me that a new series with Jennifer
and Bruce might work
out. But sadly, Jennifer and Bruce had to grow up and go their separate
Even after the catharthis of "Hounds and Hares," the death of Jon Pertwee
saddened me. I was
aware that I was sublimating my grief when I wrote "Killer Bees," and by
that time I was aware
that the stories were serving as a method of expressing my continual
struggle with faith in
God. But I tried not to pay attention to it as I wrote. After all, the
story is still the
main thing. I enjoy creating my characters and don't like to sit and
figure out who they
really are or what they really mean. Clerk 42 was delightfully snide and
rude--sort of the way
we sometimes wish we could be if we were only brilliant and cold enough to
get away with it.
There is sometimes something awfully dumb in the way that Jo always asks questions, (rather than choosing to stop and think)
and Clerk 42 was
quite refreshing. He also gave me a chance to have Jo Grant slip her own
halo a bit and call
him a "pompous ass" while staying in character.
"Killer Bees" takes place after the Third Doctor's death. The first
episode in its entirety is
an exploration of how lonely Jo is. This made the episode drag a bit, and
so I've twice gone
in and cut it back. The enigmatic character in the train helps--a sort of
marker to the reader
hat there is more that is going on than first appears.
But Jo is essentially experiencing what I experienced at the the end of
and loneliness. Not only have the important relationships in her life been
severed by betrayal,
she has lost that most important relationship-the Doctor (God).
And Jo blames
herself. She feels that she has deserted him, even as I felt and feared
that I had denied and
thus lost Christ.
There are two faces of God in "Killer Bees," the Doctor and the Clerk.
The Doctor saves Jo in
the first half, nurses her with great care, but then by default she is
turned over to the care
of the Clerk in the second half. After the kiss--which the Doctor does not
comprehend as she
comprehends it--the Doctor has very little to do with her directly. I think the
storyline does reveal my
view of a kind hearted God up to a certain point in my life, Who was
replaced with a sterner,
less sympathetic but still righteous version of Himself. And this less
appealing version still
performs the same roles, but it's a lot less comfortable for me. He must
now be endured rather
han enjoyed. Knowing Him has become a chore and a duty rather than a
pleasure and the source
of all wonder. It's better than thinking He doesn't exist, but it is
still a sad--and
naccurate--view of God.
My great encouragement about "Killer Bees" is that I keep changing it.
I'll see one sentence
or one paragraph and think, "You know, I ought to fix that right now."
And next thing I know,
I've rewritten six episodes. The result of this inability to let it lie
has been the
transformation of the Clerk. In the latest version, he is snide only
until the last episode,
and then we see a very loving side to him. He tells Jo that he has to
sometimes hide his
friendship, even from his friends. And in the last scene, he is very
tender with her,
expresses a longing for the closer friendship they once had, and comforts
her regarding her own
future. Again, I wrote this without thinking about what it was saying
about my view of God. It just seemed to round out the ending better.
But now in retrospect I think it is showing a more accurate view. I do see the stern face
that let me "fall
among thieves" and learn a hard lesson about the dangers of my own pride and
But behind it is the loving kindness that was always there and that
unerringly heard my prayers
for deliverance from the enemies of my soul, and that did deliver me and provide for me.
The biggest change in my sublimation process came in "Blood Dimmed Tide,"
in which the Doctor
does not represent God. It is clear to me that when I
first wrote it, I was the Doctor in many of the scenes. Those chains and those fits of rage,
grief, and confused religious belief are simply me as I was viewing myself in my doubt, guilt,
and torment. There are a couple places where the Doctor could come to know God better but
refuses, and I think this was my assessment of myself as well. I'm glad to see that I depict
the rejection as a loss or flaw.
The face of God remains absent and enigmatic until the very end of the book.
The first three
quarters of it are purely about human struggle, human suffering, and human
doubt. Similar to
Hounds and Hares," I think there is less unconscious sublimation in
because I came to it with some very definite ideas about what message I
wanted to put into it.
Apparently when I am aware of thematic structure and what I am sublimating
shows up all through the first half of the story), I do less of the
unconscious stuff. Or
perhaps it is harder for me to see.
There are godly people in my circle of friends who worry about all the
time I spend writing Dr. Who stories. To them, the sight of a
formerly award- winning Christian children's book writer dabbling in Dr. Who is a great loss. But somehow writing these stories helps me deal with this doubt. Somehow it helps me get over what happened. Somehow the sublimation process helps me process what happened and makes me more able to put it to rest. Maybe it makes me aware on other, literal levels of how I am viewing God and helps me address my errors or at least articulate them to people more well founded in the faith than I am.
Certainly over the last few months I have done this.
If you are still reading this incredibly long article, perhaps you want to
know where I am in
my faith. Here's my answer. I think that I feared not believing in God
more than I actually
stopped believing in Him. There was one day when I went out to look at
guns because I was
convinced I was a stranger to grace and to God, but the Lord saw fit to
make me miss the
driveway of the gun store. I went up and down the road several times and
could not find it.
That was probably the worst moment, and that was before the husband and
wife were so quickly
overthrown (right before) and ultimately excommunicated.
My great challenge is to trust God. I think I believe that He is
righteous, even good, but the
eternal strangeness between man and God has made me very wary of Him.
He'll do the right thing
even if it hurts me, and I don't want Him to. I don't want to see myself
for what I am any
more. I don't want to be ripped with grief and remorse. To be perfectly
honest, the price for
being unselfish and loving is so very high that I dread having to pay it.
Rebecca Anderson has
offered me some wise and gentle counsel on this subject, and the godly,
older people in my
Bible study group also are ready to assist me. There really are godly and
kind people in this
world, and it is a delight and a comfort to be befriended by them. I
think it must be the best
comfort in the entire world to have the Christian friends that I have. So
I try to be aware of
the comforts that God offers to me every moment of every day. Mike's
statement in "Killer
Bees" is an echo of mine: "I confess what I did freely, I pray and ask
God for forgiveness and
guidance." It's a day-by-day thing--a regaining of ground from a hard fall.
If you are a
Christian, please pray for me. If you are not, stay tuned. As the Lord
wills, I'll tell you
more as time and space to add articles permits.
For info on sublimation and the creative process, check this URL:
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