The Bible Says What!?

Michael Wiseman

• Publisher: PublishDrive
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781839191077
• Topic: Teologia e religione
• Subtopic: Ateismo

The Bible is considered to be one of the bestselling books of all time, but what is really in it? What does it actually say? The Bible Says What!? is a direct and critical look at the Bible itself, exploring some of the most undefendable stories and ideas within it. In this book, you will encounter harsh criticisms and hard truths, looking deeper into the verses that your local pastors refuse to address from the pulpit. This book is for the Christian who is not afraid to take that arduous journey into their own beliefs and challenge them. This book is for the atheist seeking information to use in their everyday conversations with Christians. It's for the casual reader who is merely curious about what is in the book that Christians follow. This book is for you.

Chapter 1

In the Beginning…

From birth, I was indoctrinated into the ancient monotheistic cult classic, Christianity. My family proudly represents the evangelical, Bible-thumping, hardcore-for-Jesus version of this religion. Plastered on the wall next to the entrance of my parents’ home is a giant decal that reads, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. –Joshua 24:15.” Following their religion is not a choice; it is a requirement for all who inhabit their home. Both of my parents are ordained ministers and are heavily active in the church. Using the Bible and their own interpretation of its texts, they teach a class in which they instruct others on how to grow in their relationship with Yahweh. My grandparents formed a gospel group, traveling across the country singing old hymns at different churches. They call themselves the End Times Singers. They are extremely excited about an apocalypse they believe will be coming soon. I have three younger siblings who have all followed in my parents’ footsteps and found their place within the church as well. With the amount of indoctrination that we were all exposed to, it was inevitable that one, if not all, of us would give in to the unrelenting persistence to follow in their beliefs and worship their deity. We attended church twice on Sundays and once on Wednesday evenings. It was not only the church services I would have to be present for, there was praise and worship practice, of which both my parents had a role in, pot lucks, youth group events, men’s meetings, and women’s meetings. If the doors to the church were open, we were there.

By taking me to Sunday school, my parents believed that they were saving me from the eternal damnation that their loving deity, Yahweh, had planned for me. It was in Sunday school that I was led to believe in extraordinary things. I was told stories of the Christian deity killing children in their sleep and drowning them for disobedience, narratives I was taught were actual historical events. I was shown accounts of ancient genocides and curses. Validated by the adults around me, my gullible child brain soaked up and believed every word.

With the introduction of an imaginary, fatal condition called sin, they furthered their grip on my naïve mind. I was taught that I was broken, and due to this brokenness, this condition, I was therefore condemned to spend eternity in a lake of fire. I was led to believe that I was born with this condition and that a blood debt was required to save me from my flawed state, to save me from going to hell.

Hell was a place where all of my flesh would be burned off daily and then grown back, just to be scorched off again and again and again for all eternity. Fear was branded into my subconscious. Fear of the hellfire that awaited me if I faltered. Fear of angering a deity that was willing to drown every animal, man, woman, child, and infant on the planet when they failed to follow his commands.

Once the notion of a lethal and damning condition had been established, they presented a cure saturated in the blood of an innocent. I needed to be washed in the blood of an ancient demigod in order to cleanse myself of all my sins and save my eternal soul. There was a catch though, some fine print to go along with this empty cure. If I did not believe that this demigod had died for me and was raised from the dead, if I did not ask him to live inside of me, or if I died with sin in my heart, the Christian deity would send me to his special pit of suffering, without hesitation.

Despite all the threats with eternal anguish, I was told of this deity’s overwhelming love for me. He did not care that I was broken; he loved me anyway, as long as I followed the rules. My parents and grandparents both claimed that Yahweh loved me more than they ever could. My father once told me that the most important thing in the whole world to him was Yahweh, and that his deity came first before anything or anyone, even his children.

Fear is a very powerful weapon. Fear of everlasting pain and suffering. Fear of not being loved because you are broken. The Christian deity had convicted me of my crimes when I was in the womb, and only he could truly love such an imperfect, unworthy person. This was all I knew. It was normal to me. I did not know anything else.

The majority of my earliest childhood church memories take place in a building that had been converted from something resembling an old feed store. This was the first building that housed the church I would attend until the day I left religion. It had a rickety old wooden playset that always gave the kids splinters. The room they called the sanctuary was a vast space, filled with tattered cloth chairs, all facing a stage that was set about four feet off the ground. The stage was covered with a thin blue carpet that was frayed and worn in several places. I can still remember the smell of burnt coffee and donuts that filled the sanctuary every Sunday morning.

The rooms designated for our indoctrination were small and windowless. The unpainted drywall was littered with propaganda posters of a white Jesus interacting with overjoyed children. A large wooden cross stood in the back of the room, draped with a purple cloth and topped with a crown of thorns. Blood was painted into the rivets of the blemished old cross to remind the children of the gory sacrifice that was required to keep them from going to Yahweh’s personal palace of affliction.

I was taught hymns celebrating the slaughter of the Christian demigod and how his blood should be desired and sought after. We would happily sing of bathing ourselves in fountains of this holy blood. I performed rituals in which I would take a small cup of watered-down grape juice, hold it up to the ceiling, proclaim it to be the blood of my savior, and drink it. I would drink this ceremonial juice as a reminder of the blood sacrifice that was made by the Christian demigod in my stead. I would then hold up a cracker and proclaim it to be his flesh, eating it in remembrance of his broken body. As a child, I was taught how to participate in ritualistic pretend cannibalism.

On several occasions, the adult evening service would go longer than our Sunday school, and our teachers, done with their lesson plan, would release us to our parents in the sanctuary. On one of these occasions, I witnessed, for the first time, what Christians call being slain in the spirit or falling under the power of the Christian deity in the form of a ghost. As I entered the sanctuary, I remember seeing many of the adults crying, which was not an uncommon thing to witness. But, as I approached the front of the sanctuary, where my parents typically sat, I saw several people scattered in front of the stage lying on the ground with small blue sheets draped over their waists. Some were rolling around, while others were more still, but all of them were shaking and crying. One of the men started laughing uncontrollably. It was funny at first, and I didn’t quite get it, but when I saw one of my mother’s friends in front of me, convulsing and crying out for Jesus to save her, it stopped being funny. It scared me. I had never seen an adult act this way before. They seemed to be in various degrees of anguish, distress, and madness. The music coming from the stage seemed to entrance them. The mellow rhythmic sounds of the guitar, keyboard, and drums were hypnotic. The man with the guitar was repeating slowly and emphatically into the microphone, “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.”

As time passed, each adult gradually came to, wiped away their tears and smeared makeup, and went about their lives as if nothing had happened. I watched this phenomenon go on for years. Many would claim to have received spiritual direction or healing. Some thought that Yahweh was giving them prophetic words and predictions. I witnessed my own parents falling to the ground under the power of Yahweh’s ghost. Undergoing the minimal possession of this spirit, they never shouted or laughed or caused a scene. Sometimes they would cry, not sob or cry out though. Usually, they would just lie there with their eyes closed, resting peacefully. It was more intimate for them; they thought they were communing with their creator deity through some kind of psychic link with his detached spirit.

When I was about twelve years old, my mother pushed for me to get prayed over by the pastor during an altar call to receive what he called the “power of the Holy Spirit.” I eventually gave in to the pressure, reluctantly walked up to the front of the sanctuary, and stood in line. Waiting for my turn, I watched as, one by one, the adults in front of me walked up to the pastor and fell to the ground. I began to get nervous when the man in front of me stepped forward; I was next. The pastor touched the man’s forehead with his thumb, and the man began to sway. The pastor prayed loudly and forcefully. The man began to sway again, but this time he fell straight back into the arms of the waiting ushers. The ushers laid him down gently and placed a little blue blanket over his waist and walked toward me as I stepped forward. They took their place behind me and waited for the whole process to start again. The pastor’s hands were clasped in front of him and his head was raised toward the sky. Mumbling “Amen” and “Praise Jesus” repeatedly under his breath, he lowered his head and focused his attention on me. His liver-spotted hands reached out and grabbed mine, squeezing them firmly. He drew his face close and told me that Yahweh had big plans for me. He told me that I was going to be a youth pastor and bring thousands of souls to Jesus. The pastor reached into his pocket, pulled out a small bottle of oil, dabbed some on his thumb, and pressed it to my forehead.

I could smell the stale coffee on his breath as he prayed and spouted out words I did not understand. He began to press harder against my forehead with his oily thumb. I resisted, which only made him shout louder and push harder. After a while, he realized that I was not going to succumb to his holy apparition. So with an “Amen” and a pat on the shoulder, he released me unto the congregation. As far as the Holy Spirit is concerned, I have never experienced anything beyond that feeling you get when you sing along with one of your favorite songs on the radio. The Holy Ghost is nothing more than adrenaline and goose-bumps wrongly categorized as supernatural occurrences or interventions. After numerous failed attempts by many different pastors at various youth ministries and camps, I was never slain in the spirit; I never fell over.

Church camp was a time for kids to socialize with a bunch of other kids from other churches. The majority of my memories from camp are good ones. But it was at the nightly church services when things would change from fun and games to turn or burn. We would all gather in a large auditorium. The pastors would preach of our sinful nature. They told us we all deserved eternal hellfire because of this. They broke us down. They made us feel inferior, unworthy, flawed, and helpless. We were told we were filthy and vile to Yahweh.

Once brought down to the lowest form of scum we were told to ask Yahweh to forgive us for being this way. They wanted me to bow down and praise him for his willingness to care about and save a wretch like me. Once we begged for mercy, they wanted us to be bathed in the blood of a demigod to become pure and holy. To be accepted.

The words took their toll. Kids wept and fell to their knees. Cries for a savior, to be loved, to be freed from bondage or worldly influence rang out while the praise and worship team would play soft entrancing melodies. Kids formed small groups to cry with each other and speak for Yahweh. Mission accomplished. Our emotions had been played like a well-tuned piano. Once reduced to our worthless state, these preachers, these religious zealots had to keep at it. We needed to be reminded, to be re-broken. Again and again and again.

I was taught to never deny my belief. I was told stories of Christians being lined up and ordered to deny their faith or be shot. When they all refused, they were slaughtered. I was to be like them. I was taught that those who deny Yahweh to save their own skin are considered “lukewarm” Christians, and Yahweh would “spit” them “out” (Revelation 3:16). They told us that there might come a time when we would have to make that very choice. And if I made the wrong choice, Jesus would act as if he “never knew” me (Matthew 7:23). I was also taught to believe that this life was only temporary and if I denied Yahweh before death, I would be “thrown into the lake of fire” (Revelation 20:15). To me as a small child, the threats were made real by the adults advocating for their validity.

The indoctrination in my life was constant. Day in and day out. You’re not worthy unless you’re bathed in the blood. You are nothing without Jesus. If you’re not a strong enough Christian Yahweh will spit you out, like he never knew you. Jesus is coming soon, you better be prepared. Turn or burn.

My parents felt it best to shelter me from anything that did not fit into their Jesus bubble. The less outside worldly influence I was exposed to, the less likely I was to conform to the ways of the world and burn in hell for all eternity. The only kind of music I was allowed to listen to was Christian music, and even then, my father had to verify that the bands only honored Jesus with their lyrics. Listening to oldies on the radio was prohibited. One time my father heard an oldies song that talked about kissing a girl in the backseat of a car, therefore all music that did not glorify Yahweh was wicked and forbidden. Movies rated as low as PG had to be viewed first to make sure they were appropriate. If they said “Jesus” or “Christ” as a curse word, then they were using Yahweh’s name in vain and we were forbidden to watch it. Cartoons with any kind of magic, witches, spells, or goblins were the work of the devil and only there to lure children to hell. Even the food I ate had to be free from demonic influence; deviled eggs became angel eggs, and devil’s food cake was just never eaten. I was shrouded from reality, kept in the dark about how the world works for fear of my immortal soul.

Indoctrination did not stop at home or at church. My entire schooling took place at different Christian institutions where Bible classes were part of the daily curriculum, and on Thursday’s, we had mandatory chapel. Every morning, in every classroom, every child would pledge allegiance to our country’s flag and then to the Christian flag:

“I pledge allegiance to the Christian Flag and to the savior for whose Kingdom it stands. One Savior, crucified, risen, and coming again with life and liberty to all who believe. Amen.”

After swearing our loyalty to our religion, via the Christian flag, we pledged our allegiance to the Bible as well:

“I pledge allegiance to the Bible, God’s Holy Word. I will make it a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path and will hide its words in my heart that I might not sin against God. Amen.”

Once a week, in first grade, my teacher would ask the class to sit down and form a large circle. She would then put a flashlight in the middle of the circle of children and turn off all the lights. She asked us all to close our eyes and wait for the Holy Spirit to talk to us. We were trying to summon a ghost to possess our thoughts and speak through us. Whenever we performed this ritual, there was this one kid who never failed to receive special instructions from Yahweh. He was consistently being told by the Christian deity to sit next to his friend. It showed me at an early age how some people could manipulate and lie about their interactions with Yahweh to get what they want out of life. The kid with the message from Yahweh always got what he wanted; he always got to sit next to his friend.

After junior high, I was put into a home school program called the A.C.E. program. A.C.E. stands for “accelerated Christian education.” To say the schooling I received was insufficient for the educational purposes of a high school student is a massive understatement. I was learning how to properly address an envelope in the ninth grade. My history books had crosses and Bible verses depicted on them. The diploma I received upon graduation contained Proverbs 1:7:

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

The indoctrination ran deep.

As I grew into my teens, I struggled with my beliefs. I constantly felt my faith dwindling away, and yet in the back of my mind, a fear lingered, the fear of having my flesh burned off every day for eternity. My mind was plagued by it. I feared the eternal consequences of every action I took.

Eventually, as an adult, I put away my childish fears and filled my mind with more productive things, like movie quotes and song lyrics. Years later, I was out with a friend and we happened upon a Christian radio show that was doing a live reading of the Bible from beginning to end on the steps of city hall. There were at least twenty peppy Christian college kids passing out tracts and interacting with people. I knew there were issues with the religion and I knew there were issues within the Bible itself, but I froze. I could not think of a single rebuttal to anything they presented to me. I was completely unprepared. This would not happen again.

That failure had a profound effect on me. I went back to my Bible and started reading it from the beginning. I wrote out the ridiculous narratives and concepts that I found inside Yahweh’s bestseller. I found so many issues they could no longer be contained within the notebooks and note cards that littered my office. I had to put it all in a book.

As the book began to take shape, my yearning to ask Christians some of the questions that came up when reading the Bible grew. I could no longer stay silent. One day, on the way home from work, I called the number on one of those Bible billboards scattered throughout the United States. I had a great hour-long conversation with the man who picked up the phone. I began contacting my new friend whenever I would think of a new question. Eventually, he grew tired of my examination into his beliefs and blocked me. I was cut off.

With my billboard friend gone, I resorted to online engagements with believers. This format quickly proved to be slow and frustrating, so I called a church and asked to speak to a pastor. Everything changed when that first pastor came on the line and failed to come up with answers to simple questions. I knew I had to call more pastors, and I knew someone out there would want to hear those conversations. So I created a podcast called “The Bible Says What!?” On the show, I talk with religious leaders from all over the world and discuss their beliefs and why they believe them. With the podcast, I found the outlet I needed to confront those who adhere to the constraints of a religious belief. Those with influence, not just pastors, but authors, podcasters, and theologians. Those looking to spread their particular version of Christianity to others.

The result has been a rollercoaster of guests and encounters. My questions and blunt approach do not sit well with everyone. I have received threats with civil suits and been hung up on quite a few times. Regardless, I love the conversation, the back and forth, the rebuttals, and the silence after a tough question; I love podcasting. Through it all, I have learned a great deal about myself and the craft I reluctantly picked up.

I know first-hand that conversations like these change lives. I will admit, I was one of those Bible believers who never read t...