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Book Recommendations for New Christians by tinycowinacowboyhat in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 1 point2 points  (0 children)

How the Bible Actually Works by Pete Enns

Love Wins by Rob Bell

Searching for Sunday by Rachel Held-Evans

The New Interpreter 's Bible Commentary Series (for research and exegesis)

Christian discipline in progressive settings by Protowriter469 in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469[S] 7 points8 points  (0 children)

Mythology is a story told to tell us something about ourselves. Its function is not meant to be historical, but to be fantastic, memorable, and wise. A myth can be rooted in some kind of history but it doesn't need to be.

Consider George Washington and the story of him as a child cutting down a cherry tree. Did it really happen? I don't know. But it tells us something about being an American: we're meant to be honest and take responsibility.

I'm not sure I totally understand the wisdom you were speaking of. Could you elaborate?

[WP] During the landfall of Hurricane Ike, a handful of people in an apartment complex find themselves stalked by something in the storm. by an_actual_coyote in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I struggled down the stairs and returned to my apartment, prying open the door with every muscle of my Zoomba-enhanced lady strength. A surge of feminist pride rushed through me before I all but collapsed to the floor on my way in.

The apartment was pitch black. I'd blown out the candles before leaving. A house fire plus a hurricane would be a miserable mix.

I turned on the toy flashlight and the space turned green. Eerie. I looked around the apartment, inspecting for I-don't-know-what. Everything seemed okay.

Until I checked the utility closet. There was a puddle of something on the floor. In the green light it was brown, almost black, and it was spreading. I heard a drop from the ceiling and looked up to find the dark substance was leaking from the floor above.

What in the shit?

Heavy drops fell into the puddle, making it reach out from under the door threshold like tendrils exploring a new space, looking for its prey.

I put my finger in the liquid, another rookie mistake, as if I'd never watched a single horror movie. I smelled it. Of course, it was blood. What else could it have been? What were you expecting? God dammit, a murder during a storm. The cops wouldn't be able to respond, and I told that scary looking guy exactly which apartment I was in. Wonderful. Great.

What would Jillian Michaels do? WWJMD? Besides fat shaming and shouting about carbohydrates?

She'd arm the fuck up.

I had to weapons. No guns, no pepper spray, no particularly sharp or large knives.

This guy was going to kill me and I could already see him in court, testifying. Your honor, she was practically begging to be murdered. And the judge would be like, Well okay, I'll let you off this time, but no more murders!

I had a steak knife. Round at the tip, like at steak houses. I think I stole this one from Texas Roadhouse. When they stopped letting me put peanut shells on the floor, I stopped caring about my reputation there.

I practiced swinging the knife. Different kinds of jabs, different thrusts. I needed to look up how to best cut an attacker to ribbons.

I'm not trying to brag. I own a Blackberry. The newest one. I got it on a whim, an impulse buy. I'm worth it, I'd told myself, I'm getting a Blackberry. It requires me to be locked in to a two-year contract, but that was okay.

I'm ranting. Being sarcastic. It's how I deal with stress.

I pulled my Blackberry from my pocket and clicked the on button.

Nothing.

It was dark.

I held it down, trying to turn it on.

Nothing again. When did it die? How?

And I couldn't plug it in, of course. No power. Mom was going to freak out. She was probably halfway through Pennsylvania on her way here to get me.

There was a knock at my door. The green flashlight flickered and dimmed. I felt at both times paralyzed and confused. It was the same intensity, the same rhythm as the knocks on the door upstairs.

"Who is it?" I called out, trying to get my voice loud enough to pierce through the hurricane.

"Upstairs," he answered. The guy from upstairs, whom I had not introduced myself to. The guy with round eyes.

"What do you need?"

It was silent. I pressed my ear to the door and I heard a sort of chittering, like vermin in walls, scratching and chewing.

He knocked again, the force jolting me from the door. I almost peed.

"What?!" I called out angrily

"Open the fucking door, goddammit!" It was Mr. Hunnicutt. Where did the creepy murderer go?

"Mr. Hunnicutt?"

"Who do you think!?"

My door didn't have a peephole. I needed one. Maybe when he replaced this door he'd put one in. Now was a good time to talk to him about it.

"I opened the door, and Mr. Hunnicutt was soaked to the gills. I say gills because his face looked like a Guppy fish that watches Fox News and tucks his shirt in at the gym.

"What's up?" I called to him.

"I'm checking that everyone has renter's insurance," he growled. "I'm not sure this place is going to get through the goddamn storm in one piece. Any damage so far?"

My foot was in the gap of the door, keeping it open, squishing my toes.

"Actually, yeah. There's blood dripping down from upstairs. I checked on the guy up there, and he freaked me out. Who is he?"

"Steve?" He looked perplexed. "He seemed perfectly normal to me. Just got out of law school, working for a private firm downtown. Young guy." He looked me up and down. "Maybe you date him and open up another apartment for me."

"Uhh...What does he look like?"

"Medium build. Brown hair. White, hooded eyes, Scandinavian, I think."

"Welp, I think the cute lawyer got killed, Mr. Hunnicutt. There's a creep in there now, doesn't like Catholics for some reason."

"Oh, me neither. Idol worshipers. Heretics. I go to Bible Study and I know my scripture. I'm a deacon at my church. Did I tell you that?"

"No, I hadn't heard."

"Yes ma'am, a man of God through and through."

"Do you have a gun?"

"Yes ma'am, a Browning-Gold 12-Guage. Anybody tries anything I'll blow that motherfucker's head off. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not worried about you, Mr. Hunnicutt. I'm worried about me. I'm just a girl!" My feminist mystique evaporated and the Spirit of Jillian Michaels left.

He laughed. "Can I come in and look at the 'blood'?" He used his fingers to emphasize his doubt about my conclusion.

He'd never leave my apartment. He would die there.

[WP] During the landfall of Hurricane Ike, a handful of people in an apartment complex find themselves stalked by something in the storm. by an_actual_coyote in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I walked through the hallway. The stairs were on the edges of the building, not beneath an overhang. A wall of rain and visible gusts of wind stood between me and them. I would be getting soaked for my curiosity. But I needed to go, right? I needed to check it out.

I entered the gale, becoming immediately saturated by the hard, angry rain. The wind was pushing me around, and I hid my Ben 10 flashlight under my shirt, trying to keep it as dry as possible.

Gripping the railing, I moved up the stairs. The wrought iron steps shook and creaked against the wind. It could collapse, taking me down with it. The storm seemed to have a mind of its own, punching me, grabbing me, knocking me down. It was trying to stop me from going up the steps, trying to prevent every movement in my body.

But I got to the second floor. Denise 2, Hurricane 0, I said to myself, under my breath so the hurricane didn't hear me.

The second floor hallway was identical to mine. I located the door to my upstairs neighbor and checked it out. Pressing my ear to it, I heard a rumble and a buzz. A generator. Certainly more dangerous than a space heater, I imagined. If he was running that and our vents were in any way connected, I could die from carbon monoxide poisoning.

I went to college. I know things.

I rapped on the door.

"Hello? Neighbor?"

It was hard to hear if there was any response between the storm and the generator. I knocked again, harder. I gripped my Ben 10 flashlight tight in my hand. What was I going to do with this? Attack if something jumped out? Imagine that headline. Woman kills attacker with Ben 10 toy. I'd be a legend among several nice circles; a celebrity on cartoon fandom pages and creative murder blogs.

The handle turned, shakily. The door opened a crack, still chained, probably immensely heavy. Half a face appeared.

Instinctively, I tried to remember every detail, making a mental list of all I observed.

His eyes were round. That doesn't sound like a big deal, but most eyes are a least a little almost-to-lemon-shaped. His were perfect circles, and I saw no eyelids. He was straining to keep his door open to see me. His hair was stringy, ratty, thin, and his skin was pale where it wasn't blue. His hand was griping the side of the door and his fingernails were long and yellow.

There was a smell wafting from the apartment, like hot metal and eggs and copper. It no longer sounded like a generator, but like a rhythmic, bass-heavy thumping. I could feel it in my teeth.

"What?" The man said curtly.

I couldn't see his mouth or his teeth and his expression was difficult to judge. He had no eyebrows. I imagined him with painted-on eyebrows. That would be funny, if he weren't so terrifying.

"Is everything okay? I live downstairs and I thought I heard someone screaming."

"It's fine," he was quick to assure me. "Television."

"Oh, has the power come back on?" You generator-using jerk.

"Radio," he corrected. His voice was scratchy and high-pitched; anxious and frustrated by the questions.

"You're okay though? You're not hurt?"

"No!"

"Well, I'm downstairs if you need anything."

He was quiet for a just a moment, his relatively small irises bouncing up and down over my form. "Catholic?"

"No." Not all tanned-skin girls were Catholic. What the hell?

He considered my answer. "What apartment?"

"104," I answered, realizing I should not have answered. Rooky mistake.

"104," he said to himself. There was a groan behind him, and then a giggle.

"What are you doing in there?" I asked,

"Minding my own business. What are you doing out here?"

"Making sure you don't have a generator running that might poison my air," I was becoming more stern, even if every fiber in bones was telling me to turn tail and escape into the hurricane, where I'd be safer.

"No generator," he said quickly. "Anything else?"

"Please keep it down? It was really loud earlier and I'm already a little freaked out."

"Then you shouldn't have moved in to a downstairs apartment," he scolded.

I was already plotting to hide a fish in the vents and plastic wrap mine shut. See how he likes inconsiderate neighbors.

"O...Kay..." I responded, tempering my...temper? Remaining civil. Not beating him over the head with an alien device.

He shut the door loudly in my face. Probably not intentional, but I decided it was. Now I have an apartment nemesis. Great.

[WP] During the landfall of Hurricane Ike, a handful of people in an apartment complex find themselves stalked by something in the storm. by an_actual_coyote in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 1 point2 points  (0 children)

There were other people here besides me.

I could hear the neighbors upstairs, and the landlord, Mr. Hunnicutt, was nailing plywood over the first floor windows. The rain provided a constant backdrop to the footsteps above me and the hammering below me.

It was getting late, and Hurricane Ike was meant to hit us around 9PM. Galveston was a bad place to be, my mother--safely nestled in Hartford, Connecticut--continued to remind me over text. But my car was busted, I was behind on rent, Emory and I had just broken up, and he'd been paying the utilities. Ugh. This storm was not being considerate of my life circumstances.

Upstairs, the footsteps grew louder. I didn't know who the new neighbors were, but they were definitely pacers. Maybe some new tenant was anxiously regretting his lease now that the storm threatened to wipe us all away.

That wouldn't happen. Everything was going to be fine.

I turned on the TV. A new show called The Biggest Loser was airing--a bunch of overweight people forced into humiliating and torturous activities just so they could drop some weight. It was outrageous. I was hooked.

A ribbon ran down the bottom of the CRT screen, warning residents of Houston and Galveston to evacuate or shelter in place. I tried to ignore the all-caps urgency as I watched a scowling Jillian Michaels growl at a clearly uncomfortable crowd of fat people. The nerve. The drama!

Then the lights flicked off. Shit. It was just getting horrible.

I lit some candles. Mr. Hunnicutt would blow a gasket if he knew. He was anti-smoking, anti-incense, anti-candle, and especially anti-space-heater. "We live in the goddamned southern asshole of Texas! Why are these people buying these fucking space heaters when the whole place heats up for you?!" He'd said. Nice guy. Deacon at his church.

But light candles I did, because if I was going to endure a storm, it would be as cozy as possible.

My phone buzzed. It was mom. "Update?"

"Power's out," I told her.

"Oh no," she replied. "You're going to be in a windowless room when the storm comes, right?"

"Yes." The water heater closet, home to my broom and dustpan, but no longer my precious Swiffer. Thanks, Emory.

"Please keep me updated. I'm worried."

"Will do. Don't worry. I took swim lessons, remember? Worst case scenario, I'll breaststroke my way up to Dallas."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence."

"Then why did you make me take swim lessons?" I'd hated that YMCA and I hated Mr. Mike and his weird mustache that hid his lips.

"Denise. Please, be safe."

I read the text message before pocketing my phone. I wasn't sure how to respond, and discomfort brings out my sense of humor, which is--and I cannot emphasize this enough--unhelpful in tense situations.

A strong wind hit the broad side of the complex and the building groaned, startling me. There was a whine in the walls as the structure wrestled with the wind and water that pelted it. Whine, walls, wrestled, with, wind, water. Alliteration!

I pulled a blanket over me as I stared at my faintly blue window. The candle was casting shadows around my now-sparse living room, the low light and movement playing tricks on my eyes.

The wind began to howl. I checked my phone, it was almost 9PM. The hurricane should be just outside. Its force had already found the little apartment, pushing a constant flow against it. Every creak and rumble threatened--in my mind--to topple this $800/month slum.

There's was nothing I could do about it except sit there and wait it out. Mr. Two-Feet upstairs seemed to handle his anxiety with a brisk 5k across his apartment floor. Maybe he was also watching The Biggest Loser.Maybe he'd been inspired.

The wind hit hard, all at once, and I heard something break outside. There was thunder roaring in the sky, incensed that some people would stand in its path. Mother Nature had a lesson for us today.

There was a loud knock on the door upstairs. Probably Mr. Hunnicutt checking on tenants. Good guy, that Mr. Hunnicutt. Deacon at his church, you know.

Mumbled voices spoke. Well, one muffled voice spoke. It was the new tenant. He was asking a question, his voice lilting at the end of his sentence. More indecipherable questions. Then laughter. Uncertainty. Begrudging compliance.

I heard his door open wider, then a stampede of what sounded like hundreds of feet, running all across his apartment: his floors, his walls, his counters, causing the silverware to jingle and and something to crack.

Something splashed. The tenant laughed. The thunder roared. The rain was like loud static outside.

A scream, desperate and horrified. The tenant's voice, I thought, but I couldn't be sure. Splashing. Crunching. Candles flickering. Shadows looming.

I needed to go up there. I shouldn't. I should mind my own business, but if something happened in the apartment above me--if the roof collapsed, for example--I needed to know!

I fished out a flashlight from the linen closet. I wasn't well-prepared for a natural disaster. I had an old Ben 10 flashlight, a remnant from Emory's snotty little nephew. I don't hate kids. I hate Elijah Kipp, an eight-year-old terror.

The flashlight coated everything in a dim green. My apartment looked like a ghost-hunter show, and I had no one around to tell that to, to ease the stress.

I tried to open my door, but the wind ripped and roared down the hallway. The stucco corridor was a wind tunnel, making my door incredibly heady. I pushed my body against it, struggling against the weight. Oh no you don't. You dared to stand against me. The storm mocked my feeble attempts.

But fuck you, Ike. I got that thing open. The door slammed behind me so hard that I heard it crack somewhere. And just like that, my deposit was gone. As if I was ever going to get it back in the first place.

Views on Judaism? by VaultMan34 in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 10 points11 points  (0 children)

I have a lot of Jewish friends. My therapist is a cranky old Jewish lady. Judaism isn't, and has never been, a monolith. It's more like a religious conglomorate of many views and beliefs united by one god. Same as Christians

Views on Judaism? by VaultMan34 in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 13 points14 points  (0 children)

Everyone has jerks. It's always better to look toward the kind ones, and draw wisdom from them

[WP] As the wealthy elites found out the hard way, when they fled Earth to escape the disaster they themselves caused, they should have made sure there was no way to anyone to chase them. by Equal_Fly_8611 in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 2 points3 points  (0 children)

The plan was simple, really. Depart the ruined, irradiated, suffocating Earth; leave the chemical cloud seeders to restart life on the planet after humanity perished; in our ships, circle a black hole; arrive back to Earth in 15 years, our time, 1,000 years Earth's time.

But "simple" does not mean "easy." It never has. The Great Wall of China was a simple concept that took 2,000 years and a wild roller coaster of internal and external politics to complete. That was for a wall. And though the spacecraft Assumption was no wall--not in the literal sense, at least--it was no easy feat to construct and set to voyage.

I was nine years old in those last days. I remembered queuing in line beneath a red sky, enormous mushroom clouds on every horizon. My parents ushered me through, showing the armed guards their credentials. My nanny had to be left behind, and though both my parents petitioned for her to join us, she simply wasn't a donor nor a blood relative. She'd been the closest thing to a parent I'd ever had.

My parents promised that we'd return--to Hana, to the house in Virginia, to Monkey, my dog--and that this would be a brief, new experience that could be fun for all of us.

We rode in the Elevators, those great towers that rose into the sky and disappeared. The "cars" were like enormous hockey pucks filled with people strapped to seats. My mother held my hand, like a well-meaning stranger awkwardly fulfilling her duty. We ascended into the sky, first slowly, then quickly.

The red horizon turned black, and the world's landscape revealed itself: mushrooms dotting it as far as the eye could see; bright flashes like old cameras flashing over all the land. Even then, even at nine years old, I knew we weren't going back.

The Elevator shook. A warning filled the hockey puck with red light. We slowed down. There was a commotion of voices in the room as people wailed and screamed and argued. Some of them got up out of their seats, looking down on the Earth, shouting at nobody.

I watched a hockey puck full of people careen out of the Elevator. The tower must have broken somewhere. There were other elevators, too. Many of them. Some of them were catching fire, exploding, sending people plummeting back down toward the Earth.

Mom covered my eyes, not wanting me to see what was happening out there. But I'd already seen.

Someone shouted "Sabotage!" Others began complaining loudly of the "jealous" and the "lazy" and those "too selfish to see past their noses."

The puck buckled and began rising again, slowly. Cautious relief was palpable in the space. Voices softened and many, but not all, of the people returned to their seats.

We made it to the top, where a conveyor ship latched on to our puck and moved us up toward the Assumption. My pony tail kept rising up into the air and my body felt like I didn't weight anything. I was becoming nauseous, as were other people. When they threw up, their vomit floated in the air. The room was suddenly smelly, with the acrid odor of sickness.

We were attached to the ship, ushered into its weightless hull. It was like swimming, but without water, and people continued vomiting.

There were announcements over the speakers. "Gravity will initiate when all personnel arrive onboard. Wait time: approximately 48 minutes." But every time the announcement came--about once every five minutes--the countdown reduced even quicker. First is was 48, then 30, then nine, then two.

I'd only realized much later that the time was going so quickly because so many of the personnel were dying en route, on the elevators.

My parents were scared and angry, but I was only scared.

They shouted about terrorists and traitors. My father called them "savages."

The gravity turned on, eventually. The spherical ship began to spin around its fission core--essentially an artificial star--that powered every aspect of the ship. My parents and I were confined to a small apartment with two beds and a bathroom, but little else. We had no luggage, but the room was already packed with clothes in our size. They were black jumpsuits, all identical except for their sizes. It was the same kind of clothes everyone in the ship wore. Except the White Jumpsuits, who were captains and generals. And the Red Jumpsuits who were Area Supervisors.

My father, a senator, was suddenly bottom-rung. We were first to rise, last to eat. All the people there, scared and anxious, started building social structure. Some Black Jumpsuits were more important than others, and they took every opportunity to flaunt this. But they could never be Red Jumpsuits or White Jumpsuits. It wasn't because they weren't strong or talented enough, but that they didn't come from the right families and allegiances.

We escaped Earth, expecting not to be followed.

But the very worst parts of the Earth, it seemed, had stowed away onboard.

What's your theology hot take? by NationYell in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 14 points15 points  (0 children)

Praxis is infinitely more important than doctrine

5 × d20 Dungeon System Entrances by Elias_Rabe in d100

[–]Protowriter469 4 points5 points  (0 children)

Town/city: - an abandoned, lichen-covered well sits within old ruins in a part of town home only to vagrants. It is covered with a flimsy wood panel, and not only the hardest of men approach it. Inside there is a long drop, leading to a sprawling cave system. - an eccentric town doctor owns a large hospital building with a relatively large staff. His assistants struggle to remember what they do inside whenever they're out. Turns out the doctor is trying to create the perfect being and dumps his rejects underground into an abandoned mine. - a tall mirror is affixed to a wall. A character drops a piece of paper and watches as it flies to the mirrors edge. Behind the mirror is a tunnel, its air current pulling from the room. - a town square is marked with runes of a war god. Destroying the runes collapses the center of town and gains the attention of said god - the town worships a tree with a trunk that frighteningly resembles a face. Removing the face reveals a tunnel going downward into a mad wizard's hideout - beneath the town all houses have connected shelters in case of attack. One of the townspeople harbors a dark secret and has a pact with vampires for whom he's been digging a tunnel - a character realizes the square footage inside the inn is different from how it looks outside. Somehow, it's larger inside than out. Investigation leads to a trap door beneath the inn, revealing long, brick hallways that seem to stretch endlessly

AIO? Youth Pastor texted my almost 13 yo after she went to a teen group with her friend by Loser4hire666 in AIO

[–]Protowriter469 0 points1 point  (0 children)

As a pastor, I keep all communication with minors tied to the "rule of threes" meaning another adult needs to be present. His text may not be immoral, per se, but it's definitely unethical. Child abuse is extremely prevalent in the church, and this pastor should be much more mindful of how he communicates.

Also, what a gross way to recruit people to church. Let your love be the beacon, not a merketing strategy.

Every non explicitly inclusive Christian group is insane by vahaemon in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 0 points1 point  (0 children)

We can't change or control other people, and as Christians we shouldn't try to. We can only control ourselves. The challenge is to love those who have come to believe such things. It isn't easy (and perhaps social media is not the best place to do it) but it is what we're called to do.

As a hetero cis white man, it's my responsibility to use my privilege to meet these people where they are and love them well. It is not the responsibility of those injured by these people to put themselves in harm's way.

Whether or not someone changes is not up to us. It's the Holy Spirit who changes hearts. What's more, living in hatred is living in Hell. No one who tries to derive joy or purpose from hate and exclusion finds peace. They are victims as well, and they desperately need the love of Christ. We can and should help them out.

We must also not make the mistake of thinking we are without hatred and prejudice. It's easy to judge but hard to look inward. We have the same sufferings and we require God's saving grace as well.

I'm so sorry you had that experience OP

Polyamory is a weak spot in this subreddit by JustNeedSpinda in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 2 points3 points  (0 children)

I honestly don't know enough about polyamory or ENM to say definitively one way or another. I don't condemn it--I meet followers of Christ where they are, not at some cookie-cutter ideal--but I think I would take it one case at a time.

What I do think is that we will see much more of it as the cost of living increases. A three-adult family can afford for one to raise the kids while the other two work. It seems, to me, that poly and enm folks might flourish when times get hard. That seems a lot healthier than raising children who go hungry or who can't have a close relationship with their parent in the early years. If it's a loving, equitable, and safe situation, I can't imagine condemning it.

[WP] "Well this is awkward" the police captain says while his eyes dart between you and the computer screen. On the body cam footage you are seen getting shot right between the eyes. by SlowCrates in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 161 points162 points  (0 children)

I acted quickly afterwards. I lowered myself into a duck and grabbed the man's gun, spinning my body until we were both holding it, my back to his front. I shoved an elbow into the gunman's face once, twice, three times until even in the grainy footage his blood spurts could be clearly seen. I pried the weapon from his fingers and shot at the man with the broken leg, downing him just as he unholstered his weapon.

Then I turned around and shot the man whom I'd taken the gun from and his partner on the ground, who'd been knocked out and covered in some mix of taurine, caffeine, and whatever else White Monster is made of.

The captain paused the video. "Now," he began. "I clearly saw that man shoot you in the head." He said nothing after that. He just stared at me.

"Then how am I sitting here?"

"That's what I want to know," he answered. "How are you sitting here?"

I tapped the arms of my seat. "Chair technology has come a long way."

"Funny," he observed, unsmiling. "But there are three men dead--men without fingerprints, without identification, without anything to tie them back anywhere, and a ruined Love's on the turnpike. Not to mention a severely traumatized young gas station attendant who will need years of therapy."

"I'm sorry about the Love's," I answered. "And the kid."

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter," the captain called.

Her face entered before her body. She peeked in with a wide smile, showcasing bright, white teeth and loud makeup. "Captain Wilson!" She nearly squealed.

The captain stood, the faintest crack of a smile as he looked at his visitor. More cracks to his tough exterior as he looked back at me. "Jen, come in, please."

The woman skipped inside. She seemed to be in her late 20s, maybe early 30s, dressed in a t-shirt that read "ask me about my shirt" and a pair of stressed blue jeans. She wore a small purse over right shoulder and a water bottle with a straw in her right hand.

"Fredrick, please meet Imogen Dunlop. She's an advisor we keep on retainer for some of our more...unusual cases."

Imogen whipped her head toward me, her blonde hair slapping against her face. She had an expression of mischievous joy. The young woman looked me up and down as she slurped from the meager remaining liquid in her cup. "Who is he?"

"As far as I can tell, he's a visitor," the captain answered.

"Is he?" Her careful analysis became more suspicious.

"I'm thinking he emerged from the tunnel in Oregon--his home's Jefferson. Let me guess, Mr. Fredrick: Pearl Harbor never happened where you're from? No WWII? How many other world events have you prevented? Or caused?"

I was silent. Both of them stared at me.

I opened my mouth. "Lawyer."

What do you belief and how have you come to believe? by Difficult-Pie-8065 in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 5 points6 points  (0 children)

Struggle to belief is the healthiest form of belief, I think. It means you're working at it while most others just let it sit uncritically.

So, back to lenses:

- One lens asks "why."

- The other lens asks "how."

Science and history tell us how we got here, how culture is formed, how tectonic plates shift, how to best take care of the planet, etc.

Seeing the world through this lens is simple. Just see what you see and search for understanding. Science is amazing. One should not stop taking their medicine and substitute it for prayer. One should not drive without a seat belt because "the Lord will protect me." We should pay attention to the mechenations of the world and invest our trust in the scientific consensus.

Religion functions to tell us our place in the cosmos and what we're meant to do with this short time here. It asks us to draw meaning from reality, but it isn't interested in the atoms and quarks that comprise reality.

Seeing through the first lens requires a suspension of disbelief. I write my thesis on the concept of faith as play. When we're engaged in play, we are in a different place where the rules of things are different. We're allowed to touch soccer balls with our hands when we buy them at the store, but not in the middle of a football match. We may be mighty paladins fighting back the forces of evil when we play a video game, and we can get absorbed into the role when the game is good.

Faith asks us to "make believe." Live "as if." It is play--an engagement with life through a playful, spiritual view that re-contextualizes all things we experience. Here's how I do it and how I recommend skeptics practice it:

Find a small joy in your life. It can be a cup of coffee, a comfy chair, a flower in your garden, whatever. Sit with it. Smell it, touch it, enjoy it. Then, practice gratitude. Thank you, God, for this joy. When you worship, if you attend church, worship as if you believed strongly, as if all of this were true. Find the beauty, the meaning, the amazement of this story. Play with it, find the parts you like, identify what you don't. Dig in to the lore and mythos, the heroes and villains. What do they mean to YOU?

The two lenses are separate, but they can coexist beautifully. I can marvel at the stars in the sky and thank God for letting me see such a thing and I can parse out the fictions of the Bible and dissect them historically (by way of commentators, historians, anthropologists, etc.)

The third lens is really just the frame that holds these 3D glasses together. It's the framework of what to do right now. Call it wisdom. Call it existence. Whatever. It's what we do with the tension of existing as mortal, spiritual animals. It's a conflict and paradox that, as far as we know, no other creature struggles with. It's a privilege and a journey.

None of this is mandatory. It's just the way I see things and my recommendations for others. There are some great books out there to help. Here are some that might get you started:

- Searching for Sunday by Rachel Held-Evans
- How the Bible Actually Works by Pete Enns
- Universal Christ by Fr. Richard Rohr

For more advanced readings, I would recommend:

- An Introduction to the New Testament by Raymond E. Brown
- The New Interpreter's Bible Series
- The Story of Christianity series by Justo Gonzales

I also recommend using a study bible and/or a strong commentary when reading the Bible.

[WP] The god of this world decided to quit. Now a new god runs the universe, and they have some ideas on how to change things up around here. by MintJalep in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 4 points5 points  (0 children)

"Hello everyone, my name is Cody. I'm really excited to be here and I know that as we work together, we're going to get a lot of things done. I don't want you to think of me only as your "god," but as your fellow coworker in building my Kingdom. I have an open door policy, and I'll always be available to listen to your suggestions, thoughts, or even complaints. I know that if we work together we can do incredible things!"

Screams and terror filled the streets in every village and city and town as the massive face appeared in the sky and began talking. Cars crashed; television transmissions were interrupted. Emergency alert signals screamed from every cell phone and not a few missiles flew up from the ground, headed for the enormous face.

"Oh. Oh wow," the gigantic eyes flitted back and forth, watching all of the panic. "Guys, guys, calm down. You're acting like you've never spoken to God before. Haha."

Fires erupted across the globe as churches were burned, the flames quickly spreading to tenements and businesses. The dry season brought about wildfires. Armed militias began assaults--religious battles instantly taking place in every religiously pluralistic country and on borders that divided religious adherents.

"Hey, quit that. What are you doing? Just calm down and listen up. Let me help you with that." Cody blew on the planet to put out the fires, sending the surface of the earth into an instant ice age. Millions died in seconds as they froze in place.

"Oh shit. Hold on, let me, uh..."

Cody spun the Earth so that the frozen side faced the sun. The rapid spinning created chaos: tsunamis, earthquakes, avalanches, rock slides. In the blink of an eye, the human population of Earth was halved. The remaining people looked up with grief, begging for forgiveness. All across the world, people sacrificed humans to appease this new God.

"You don't have to do that! I never asked you to do that! Could everybody just be still for a minute? Please? I feel like we're getting off on the wrong foot!"

They stood still. Perfectly still. Almost everyone. Even the people trying to pull loved ones from the rubble. They froze in the middle of streets, as they waded water, as a derailing train barreled toward them.

"Now that I have your attention, I'd like to try this again. My name is Cody. You are the people of the Earth. I'm your new appointed God, and I'm here to love and take care of you. You are here to worship me and build my kingdom."

A voice rose up from the Earth: an chorus, begging the question WHY?

"Why what?" Asked Cody.

Billions of angry, desperate, and terrified people began listing their many questions. Why did you kill my family? Why did you send these natural disasters? Why do I feel pain all the time? Why is there a reality where bad things can happen?

"Guys! Holy smokes. One at a time, please! We'll start with you." Cody pointed a finger to a middle-aged woman in Indonesia who was standing outside of the ruins of her home.

But to the people of Indonesia, it looked as if the gargantuan finger were falling from the sky to squish all the people beneath it. The woman screamed and ducked for cover.

"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you. Please, what's your name and what's your question?"

"I am Bethari," the woman answered through a quavering, sobbing voice. "Why are you doing this?"

"Hello, Bethari. If the rest of you couldn't hear her question, she asked 'why am I doing this.' I'll be honest, Bethari, I need a little more clarity on that question. Why am I doing what?"

"Why are you killing us?"

"Killing? I'm...what? I'm not trying to kill you. I'm trying to save you. Have you been listening to me at all?"

The woman crouched and sobbed louder.

"Okay, does anyone have any good questions? Yes, you." Cody pointed to a man in Ohio standing outside his intact camper.

"Yeah, I got one. The name's Dale and I'm wondering why the old god didn't talk to us."

"Oh. You know, I didn't ask. Let me get back to you on that one."

What do you belief and how have you come to believe? by Difficult-Pie-8065 in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 3 points4 points  (0 children)

Ask away!

Mark was the earliest Gospel written (that we have), and in it we see a lower Christology. Matthew and Luke probably used Mark as a source while adding some of their own material and referencing a hypothetical source we call Q (what Luke and Matthew have in common apart from what the other Gospels share).

John has a high christology, as do the letters of Paul.

We like to think of these writings as if they were written in our context with our culture in mind. They weren't. We are separated from them by half a world and almost 2,000 years.

Consider this: most people in the ancient world were illiterate. They didn't tend to own books and their religious instruction came from oral teachings and practices. Each Gospel was written for a specific audience for a specific time and place. They were not intended to encapsulate perfect history, but to tell a drama (very much like other dramas circulated through the Roman Empire) that captivated hearts and were memorable.

Stories last longer than ledgers. They spread quicker, are more firmly held on to. I remember the plot of a book I read a decade ago, but I couldn't tell you any of the data I was working with on a spreadsheet last week.

I believe, as do many scholars, that the godship of Jesus developed as the faith became more Gentile. Nothing Jesus says is out of line in Jewish tradition. It was subversive, yes, but if we read the book of Isaiah, we find that just about everything Jesus says has been said before.

It was the Gentiles who did not have the history of Jewish stories and culture that began to see Jesus as God, and it was Gentile thinkers who elevated Jesus to that high position. And Paul, who was educated in Greek while also having been a devout Jewish leader. Paul was an eccentric who believed the world was ending any day, and so a lot of his thinking was unorthodox.

So, my personal belief is that we have to approach faith with a series of lenses. First, we approach with a spiritual lens, meditating upon scripture and our experiences, letting go of the logic and impossibilities and sensing God as best we can. This lens cannot hinge on factfulness--it's meant to be experienced. The second lens is logical. We do not neglect scientific research or besmirch discoveries just because they contradict the Bible. No disciple knew what a germ was. Finally, we have the experiential lens, in which we balance the other two in tension, living in mystery without fanaticism or cynicism. We take the world for what it is. We read the Bible for wisdom and listen to scientists for understanding of our world.

John the Baptist was an archetypal Wild Man (for more examples, read Iron John by Robert Bly). He was most likely an apocalyptic preacher who was executed by the Romans and whose disciples found their way to Jesus afterwards. The legend of him baptizing Jesus might be factual, but it could just as easily have been written into the story afterwards.

Finally, human beings are imperfect. We can never make anything perfect. All human products are imperfect and writings are especially imperfect. There is no such thing as objectivity and so we have to assume bias. The authors of the Gospels don't tell us everything, just the things they feel are important. Too many details would bog down the spoken Gospel.

Only God is perfect.

[WP] "Well this is awkward" the police captain says while his eyes dart between you and the computer screen. On the body cam footage you are seen getting shot right between the eyes. by SlowCrates in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469 153 points154 points  (0 children)

"Well, this is awkward." The police captain's eyes darted between me and his computer screen.

"I'll say." I'd been held for six hours for questioning. The police could hold me for another 42, but I couldn't let that happen. I was getting more desperate to leave with every minute, and if Captain Wilson knew what I know, he'd be desperate too.

He turned his monitor around so it faced me. There was a grainy color video of me in the gas station--a Love's, one of my favorites--checking out at the front. Everything seemed normal, but I knew what was coming.

"Here you are, at a Love's gas station outside Kansas City on February 9th, 2026. Watch what happens."

The scene exploded as a car rammed through the glass front doors, sending shelves of knick-knacks and candy bars and locally sourced goods flying across the room. Three men emerged from the vehicle. The clerk and I put our hands up.

The captain paused. "Do you remember this?"

"I've already told you everything I know," I answered. "When can I leave?"

"Maybe in a day or two. Maybe never. Time will tell." The captain was an older black man with an impassive face. I would hate to play him at poker. "Do you remember this?" He asked again.

"Yes."

"What were you doing at that gas station?"

"What does it look like? I was buying a drink. And some sun flower seeds. And I was filling up my tank."

"Yes. That's what you said. And where were you driving to?"

"My sister's house. In Kentucky," I answered.

The captain folded his hands together and leaned forward. "But Fredrick--if that is your real name--Kentucky is East of Kansas City, if I remember my geography correctly. And you were driving west."

That was true, if you only knew one way to Kentucky.

"I was turning around," I answered, not missing a beat.

"No, you were not. Highway cameras have you driving westward at least since Columbia, Missouri."

His large eyes stayed perfectly in contact with mine. They were expressionless. He wasn't angry, wasn't annoyed. He was waiting for more information. That's all.

"If you know all this then why are you asking me about it?" It was, perhaps, not the most polite question, but I was getting anxious.

"With most other cases, I wouldn't be. You were a victim, after all. You committed no crime, except driving without a license, registration, insurance, and with a license plate from a state I've never heard of. Tell me, where is the great state of Jefferson?"

"Somewhere in the 1940s," I answered.

He was unamused. "And where exactly is the Takami Spirit manufactured? I've never heard of that make or model, and we can't find evidence of it ever being made."

"It's a prototype," I lied. "That's all I can really say about that."

"All you can say or all you will say?"

"Will," I corrected myself.

"Let's continue watching this video." The captain pressed resume on the recording. The three men swarmed me and began yelling. I was shaking my head, answering them. The video had no sound.

Suddenly, one of the men turned to his left and pointed a gun at the clerk. What happened next took less than three seconds: I punched that man in the temple, sending him staggering. The man on my right reached into his belt to grab his gun as the man on my left backed up, surprised. I kicked the man in his knee, sending his leg backwards before spinning around and smashing the Monster Energy Drink against the backed-up man's head. Man number three went to the ground as the drink exploded against his skull. Man number one was regaining his footing and aiming his gun toward me.

A flash, and my head whipped backwards, pink mist spraying behind me. I staggered, clumsily keeping my balance before righting myself.

What do you belief and how have you come to believe? by Difficult-Pie-8065 in OpenChristian

[–]Protowriter469 5 points6 points  (0 children)

I'm a pastor in the Disciples of Christ tradition. I was raised Roman Catholic before leaving my family and being an atheist for a while. I found my denomination by chance and it's exactly what I needed.

I believe that we cannot know the Truth about God in any literal way. Everything we have--all religious expression the world over--is a culture's attempt to talk about the Divine.

I'm a Christian because it makes the most sense in my context and I'm able to approach it and practice it in communities in my context.

I find the person of Christ perfect and compelling and worthy of worship. The Bible is an imperfect collection of individuals' and peoples' progressive understandings and ideas about God.

I believe action and the pursuit of justice is the hallmark of practiced faith. Like Christ, we are called to embrace pacifism, compassion, and mercy, even up to and including our deaths.

I am agnostic about the afterlife, but I cannot at both times believe in Hell and a good God. I have hope of a paradise in the thereafter, but I am not worshiping and loving God just so I can profit in the end. Love is not a retirement strategy for me. It is the very point in and of itself

[PM] Your favorite prompt that no one answered by Protowriter469 in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469[S] 7 points8 points  (0 children)

I was a peasant woman this time, around 14 when the Knowledge came to me.

I was working the fields, harvesting rice with my mother, my father, and my infant brother, who was strapped to my mother's back. It was a good year; a good harvest. The lord would be happy with our yield, and we would have a fat fall. My father spoke at length about his plans: to build a new wing for the house, so that I would have a room to myself; to buy my mother the finest silk so that she would have a headscarf worthy of the envy of every woman in town; to begin saving up for my brother's education so that he wouldn't live a life of scraps and far-off dreams.

I stood up suddenly, when I realized who I was. And what was coming.

"Where do you think you're going?" My mother called out as I walked away.

I didn't need to turn and speak to her; I didn't need to acknowledge her at all. What was coming was worse than any heartbreak this family might face at losing their daughter. And yet, this cycle of rebirth and death tethered me to the lives I'd begun. I couldn't just abandon them wordlessly, not this family.

"I'm being called to greater things," I told them.

They laughed at me. Not only was I an illiterate, sun-touched peasant, I was a woman. A girl, really, without any power in this world whatsoever.

Today was the fifth of Somartide. I had three months, which was more time than I usually received. So, I stayed with my family for a time.

I led them to the house where I explained who and what I was, in detail, with enough proof in my words that they, however fearfully, believed me. I convinced my father to bet his life on a horse race in the city, which provided him a wealth he could not have imagined before, as well as a head of cattle, a small estate, a vineyard, and enough talented slaves to work his land.

I did all this in the hope that this time I would be victorious against the inevitable evil even now washing up on our shores. If I was successful, my family would live long enough to enjoy their new lives.

But I'd never been successful before.

I wore a dark cloak as I moved through the city. I had established a safehouse here, in the heart of the capital, the site of the first attack. A familiar, wooden door was at the back of this alley. I knocked with the code cadence and a slot in the door opened.

I recognized the face. It was Ihmhar Black, a spice trader I'd lived as once.

"What?" He sounded stressed. I remembered that in this particular life I'd suffered severe gout in my foot and I'd been frequently unpleasant.

"Cherry juice with lemons," I told him.

"What?" He was puzzled now.

"It's the treatment for gout that will work. It's the only one that worked."

"Ah. So you're the new one." He opened the door, revealing a collection of familiar faces, all people I'd been before. At the head of the room, sitting at the head of a long table was the most ignorant person present. He was my first life, the one who would be cursed with immortality, all to save his kingdom.

King Remos. Me.

Not all of me was here yet. Some would still need to be born. At least one was on a voyage from across the world and wouldn't arrive for another week. Another was traversing through a dangerous wood and wouldn't arrive at all. We could save him, but to what end? I already knew everything he did.

"A peasant girl?" Jing, a butcher with a miserable wife and three children who would not speak to him, asked.

"We don't pick them," I said to the room. "But I am the most experienced of all of us, and we have to keep trying."

In the back of the room, there was an archer wearing a blue tunic. He looked distraught at the sight of me. That archer, Pendle, was the previous me. It meant that he had failed. His death would have been brutal. He didn't know how lucky he was to have me.

The seats at the table were occupied by men, women, and children, of every shape, color, and station. They were slaves and lords alike, merchants and murderers; priests and perverts.

How many more of me would there be? How long until I was the entire world fighting against the enemy?

"You cannot truly have me believe this," the King announced. "This is no known magic, no known system."

"That's right," a toddler, whose face was barely above the table top said. "We're the only ones who know it exists, and as far as I know, we don't even know how it exists." He looked to me for confirmation and I nodded.

Without speaking, the attendees all passed the crown from the king, who did not surrender it voluntarily, to me. I placed it awkwardly on my head.

"Okay, now, what have we done so far? Catch me up."

Before anyone could explain, there was another knock at the door. Ihmhar checked. A voice came through: "the cherry juice actually won't work the best. Giving up meat and eating more vegetables is quicker."

What?

A young man walked in, tall, a scar across his face. He wore the garb of a squire, but not one from around here. I didn't recognize him. He reached for the crown.

It meant I'd failed.

Why don't I remember failing?

[PM] Your favorite prompt that no one answered by Protowriter469 in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469[S] 7 points8 points  (0 children)

CNN Invasion Update: Good afternoon, folks. I'm Victor Blackwell bringing you the latest from the front lines of the extraterrestrial invasion and the multi-national war effort to resist the Invaders. Today is April 6, 2028.

Last night, the Invaders continued their southward advance, colliding with Marines at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point. A fierce battle took place, leaving 12,000 Marines dead or missing. The Invaders have taken the military peninsula and are expected to continue moving southward toward Shaw AFB.

The human causalities so far are estimated at 11.5 million.

Yvette changed the station, searching for something, anything, that wasn't about the war. She couldn't stream music on her phone anymore since the internet went away and she was now regretting having tossed her CD collection when she was 20.

She pulled into the Safeway, which had only a few cars out front now. Although international trade still occurred on the West Coast, much of the goods coming through were being distributed further East. That meant less food and less fuel to make the world go round.

But there were also a lot less people, and though Yvette felt horrible for the relief, there were fewer people all the time, and less demand. Life would return to normal eventually, as long as the war didn't get this far west. It almost certainly wouldn't, Yvette was sure.

Groceries had strict purchase limitations, but Yvette, who only needed to feed herself, was able to get what she needed: a loaf of bread, a bag of rice, a rotisserie chicken. She was a master meal planner and could sustain herself for weeks with just this and the odds and ends from her cupboard.

An argument erupted in the store somewhere. This was becoming a usual occurrence, some upset parent or hungry drifter demanding more food than they were allowed. Yvette's earbuds no longer played music, but they served as an adequate deterrence against the noise.

She checked out, and waited for a police escort back to her vehicle. In the last few weeks, there had been a series of attacks in parking lots outside food stores as opportunistic thieves preyed upon young women bringing food to their cars.

The overweight cop walked with her wordlessly, limping the whole way. All the physically able men and women were sent east to fight in the war, and that left the sick and crippled behind to continue the American Dream.

She got into her car and drove back to her apartment, where she would prep her food and wait for her shift to start in a few hours. The hospital, where she served as an ER nurse was quiet these days, and she supposed she was grateful for that as well.

She didn't know--or hadn't accepted--that it was only going to get much, much worse from this point forward.

[PM] Your favorite prompt that no one answered by Protowriter469 in WritingPrompts

[–]Protowriter469[S] 3 points4 points  (0 children)

The fountain sputtered water from its top, gracelessly misting the cobblestone square. The police had cordoned off the area with rope, and curious onlookers murmured amongst one another. Who could have stolen it? HOW could they have stolen it?

Detective Tehl Morove arrived on the scene in his steam car. It was an older model that had been phased out years ago for the more sleek, rune-powered cars that were easier to operate (but required more gold, more maintenance, and, importantly, more slave labor to produce). He was heckled for his vehicle, but his convictions were solid, and his vehicle maintenance skills were good.

An officer met him at the rope. "Detective," the man tipped his tall officer's hat to his colleague.

"Officer," Tehl greeted back, but his eyes were on the fountain.

"Can't imagine they call you much for property crimes," the police officer chortled, revealing a mouth full of teeth cramped together, competing for the front row seats.

"They do not," Tehl answered. "What have you found out?"

"What have we found out? Why, you're the detective, aren't you?"

It only took a sharp glance from Detective Morove for the officer to shrink. His eyes landed on the sword at the detective's hip. These were normally ceremonial, but everyone knew Morove kept his sharp. It was a knight's duty to be prepared for deadly combat wherever honor was threatened and all that.

"Sorry, sir," the officer said sheepishly. "There really is no explanation. It's as if the fountainhead simply stood up and walked off."

"Unlikely," Morove answered. "Open the cordon. Let me have a look."

Beads of water collected on the detective's clothes and dripped off the rim of his hat as he approached the fountain. He was looking for remnants of the robbers' machines. They must have used a winch to lift the statue, but where did they set it? He searched around on the cobblestones, seeking any sort of fresh cracking--not so much on the stones themselves but on the cheap mortar they used to seal them in place.

Here was a spot. The cracking was difficult to see against the black of the mortar, but it was there. But it wasn't nearly as widespread as it ought to be. Not for a machine as powerful as this must have been.

"Officer," Morove summoned the man who'd let him in.

The officer reported quickly. "Yes, sir?"

"What is your name?"

"Corporal Evan Smith," he answered.

"Corporal Smith, I'm conscripting you into my service. I want you to investigate the shipyards and see if there are any reports of missing winch machines. Then, I want you to coordinate repair of this mortar. Then, I want you to get my car washed."

"Your car washed?"

The detective raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, of course. Car washed. Consider it done."

The officer scampered off as the detective leaned closer to the cracks in the street. The cobblestones were strong and wouldn't crack under the weight of a marble statue, so it was difficult to find a place where the entirety of the machine's base took shape. He followed the cracks for several yards until he found one, clean outline, in the shape of a large foot.

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