E-Squared: Nine Do-It-Yourself Energy Experiments That Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality by Pam Grout Read Free Book Online Page A

accept this human-made God as an indisputable fact. But it makes no sense. If God is love, if God is perfect, if God is all the other beneficent descriptions we ascribe to him, why would he toss anyone into a lion’s den? Furthermore, why would anyone in their right mind want to hook up with a capricious and unjust god who gets his jollies from punishing them? Even the ditziest of women knows theoretically she shouldn’t hang out with a guy who might hurt her.
    I mean, who needs it?
    God as Terrorist
    “I don’t know if God exists, but it would certainly be better for his reputation if he didn’t.”
    —J ULES R ENARD , F RENCH AUTHOR
    No sooner had I mastered my ABC’s than I was taught that I, little Pammy Sue Grout, was a miserable sinner and had fallen short of the glory of God. It was a fact, same as two plus two equals four and el-em-en-oh-pee is more than one letter in the alphabetical lineup. The only redeeming part of this all-important lesson is at least I wasn’t alone. Turns out, everybody else in the world is a sinner, too. Even Mrs. Beckwith, my tenderhearted kindergarten teacher who let me bring Pokey, my pet turtle, to class every other Monday.
    The bad thing about being a sinner is it guarantees a one-way ticket to hell. It was a little hard getting a handle on hell, being I hadn’t traveled much farther than the Kansas border. But, according to my dad, hell was not a place you wanted to be. It was hotter than my Aunt Gwen and Uncle Ted’s house in Texas the summer their air conditioner broke. And, unlike that vacation that ended after four days, you stay in hell for eternity. To understand eternity, he said, you think of how you felt last December 26 waiting for Christmas again.
    The escape clause is that you can “get saved.”
    So when I was four years old, with the church organist playing “Just as I Am,” I walked to the front of the little Methodist church in Canton, Kansas, plopped down on my knobby little four-year-old knees, and asked the good Lord to “forgive me for my sins.” My family, from a long line of Methodists, collectively breathed a sigh of relief. Dad and Mom called all the aunts and uncles that very night to broadcast the good news.
    “Well, our oldest is officially saved now,” they crowed proudly. “At least, we can be assured that Pam is going to heaven.”
    The best part, they figured, was that my conversion couldn’t help but set a good example for my sister, Becki, who was two; and my brother, Bobby, who was only three months old, although I secretly hoped they would give him until he was old enough to talk.
    Of course, you didn’t want to take any chances. I mean, Jesus could come back at any time—night or day. He was like a thief in the night. He could come in the morning while you were stirring circles in your Cap’n Crunch cereal. He could come at recess while you were hanging from your knees on the monkey bars. He could even come at 2 in the morning while you were sleeping, which could be a real problem if you happened to be a heavy sleeper. Jesus could snatch you up before you had time to get the sleep out of your eyes.
    And that you didn’t even want to think about. I mean, Aunt Gwen and Uncle Ted’s house was hot.
    At the same time I was learning to accept my true sinful identity, I was being told over and over again that “God is love.” Never mind that the churches presented God as a sort of hidden camera that watched over everything I did.
    It made no rational sense. But, of course, I was only four. What did I know?
    Even though I was yawningly close to being a perfect kid (I made straight A’s, tried not to fight with my siblings, stayed away from drugs and alcohol, and even made my bed without being told), I felt I was constantly being critiqued by this “loving God” who was sitting up in heaven, gleefully rubbing his hands together whenever I screwed up. Which, gosh darn it (oops, there I go again, using his name in vain!) seemed to be