When I was a child, seven and eight years old, God used to talk to me.  He didn’t have a big, booming voice like is so often portrayed in the movies.  He did have a male voice, so I use the pronoun “he” without hesitation, but it was a calm, almost soothing voice.  He spoke to me when I was most upset, when I most needed to be calmed and soothed.  It wasn’t just the voice (God’s voice was, as I said, almost soothing).  It was what he said, and how he said it.

God spoke to me mostly after disputes with others: family, teachers, or other children.  For years, God’s voice seemed entirely fair to me.  In a calm, reasoned voice, an adult voice that I could trust, God told me, without malice or ill will, and without apparent bias, that I was right.  Yes, in those years, God was always on my side.

Whether I’d been reprimanded by a teacher or teased on the playground; whether I’d fought with my little sister or been scolded by one or both parents; God was always there, ready to speak the moment I retreated to solitude.  In calm, patient, measured tones, God would tell me I was right, and my temper would be soothed, even if resentment lingered.

I don’t remember exactly when I started to question this voice as the voice of God.  But, when I was nine years old, I started to realize that God spoke mainly in my own words.  It would make sense for God to use only words I knew – God wanted to communicate with me, after all, and knew everything about what I knew – but he also tended to use my own style, and there was really no reason for him to do that.

Then, to use a recently-popular political phrase, God flip-flopped.  If my opinion on a dispute changed, so did God’s – or so did the voice’s.  Every once in a while, I’d realize I’d been wrong, and the voice would get right on board with me, while still defending my character.  Then, I began to notice that the voice would often echo my thoughts, sometimes word for word.  My faith in the voice unraveled quickly after that.

One day, when I was nine years old, sitting in my bedroom, I made the voice sing Mary Had a Little Lamb.  He didn’t want to.  I had to force every word.  But there was no doubt that this was the same voice, the one that had confirmed my correctness countless times in countless disputes, singing:

Mary had a little lamb.
His fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

I stopped after the first verse.  It was enough.  The voice never spoke to me again.  The silencing of that voice never had a big effect on my faith in God.  In the next few years, my faith would become stronger and more comforting than at any other time in my life.  But I never had a direct line to God again – at least not to his voice.

In recent years, I’ve wondered if I shut off something valuable, a connection to my inner self, maybe even a bit of God within me just learning how to express itself, but I don’t really think so.  It may have been a crutch my self esteem needed at some point, but I think I dispensed with it at about the right time.  I don’t think there was ever much substance to it.  It didn’t increase my awareness of myself or of others.  It just calmed, soothed, and, to a point, kept me entrenched in my own opinions.

That voice is something I never forgot, for whatever reason.  I don’t think I was really hallucinating – it was rarely much louder than a thought.  I never believed that my ears were directly involved in hearing the voice.  Though some would dispute it (I’m still very good at arguing, and occasionally, very occasionally, show a slight stubborn streak), I do think that silencing the voice when I did taught me to question my own views on things, to realize that my current perspective might not always be the most enlightened one.  I might not be perfect at remembering that, but it’s a start.

”It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, than that he would cause one of these little ones to stumble. (Luke 17:2, New American Standard Bible) This post may be hazardous to your faith.  Please proceed with caution.

In visions long ago, I saw a room, much like an executive office, suffused in bright white light, almost too bright to look at.  Into that office walked a young version of my mother, just thirty-five years old at the time, her face filled with quiet concern.  Before she spoke a word, I knew where she was.

She was in Heaven.  When she had died was not apparent, and I drew no conclusions from how young she looked.  In heaven, if she wanted to be young, I guess she’d be young.  I also knew where she was in Heaven.  She was visiting God.  This was where God met those who wanted to meet with Him – where he held “office hours”, I guess.  How much of that room was a physical part of Heaven, and how much was symbolic, was of no concern to me.

God was not visible, but was clearly present in the room.  When my mother spoke, God’s voice answered.  It was a deep, male voice, straight out of the movies.  She spoke first.  “I’ve been waiting for my son,” she said.  “I’ve been patient.  But he should be here by now.”

There was a long pause.  Finally, God replied, “Yes, not too long ago, your son left the world.”

“Then let me see him, please,” she replied.

There was a shorter pause, then, “You don’t want to see him, my sweet child.”

“I have to see him.  He’s my son.  I can’t be happy not knowing.”

“Very well,” God said, relenting.  There was a small door in the middle of one of the office walls, toward the bottom.  It resembled the door to a crawl space on a house, and was no taller.  God caused the door to open.

Inside, it was dark.  A single figure was visible inside, as a silhouette outlined by yellow flame.  His eyes were flame.  His hair was flame.  His mouth was a gaping black hole surrounded by a beard and moustache of flame.  He was writhing in agony, and seemed completely unaware that the door had been opened.  He was an adult version of me.  Even behind the moustache and beard, and even with the dark spaces between the flames, the face was unmistakable, like an animated line drawing in burning yellow.

The door was closed.  My mother walked away in peaceful silence.  I don’t know how bad being in Heaven allowed her to feel.  But it didn’t matter, because I always woke up at that point, ending the dream and any need to develop the story further.

(more…)

Luke 17:2 reads: “It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, than that he would cause one of these little ones to stumble.”  That quote is fom the New American Standard Bible, and I got it from a neat little site called BibleGateway.com.

There are similar verses in Matthew and Mark.  I guess I don’t really believe the threat, or I wouldn’t risk posting some of the things I’m posting here.  But I do have some respect for the consideration it calls for.

Now, I’m not about to claim that my writing is so persuasive or compelling that it will seriously test a strong faith — or even a weak faith.  But, if you’ve found happiness in a faith that I cannot hold, I have no desire to shake that belief, even a little bit.

My purpose in these posts is to share with people strong in their beliefs, or open to changing them.  I lost something very precious to me some years ago, and I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to get it back, and what form it might take if I do.

If any posts appear in the “Spirit” category without the millstone picture, I consider them “safe for all viewers”.  Otherwise, proceed with caution.  This is the only warning you’ll get.