Christianity and My Father

My Grandfather wanted to be a Presbyterian preacher but “God did not call him”. My Uncle was a Presbyterian preacher. My Father just wanted to read fantasy books. When my father was young, he was a boxer, a football player and a bouncer. My father read fantasy books. Fourteen tumors grew in his brain, one the size of a lemon. My father became a rabid Southern Baptist. He was at church every time he could be at church. I went to church with my father. I turned to my father and I said “I love you dad”. My father looks at me. His eyes are blood shot from all the pressure the tumors are putting on them. “Jesus loves you” My Dad says.
The only interaction I could have with him would be to read him the bible. “I will not read you the bible.” I said. My father got so mad, he picked up the kitchen table and broke it in half. He ripped cabinets off and drawers out. I sat down and watched him. I was terrified. He ran at me with his fist above his head. I stared into his eyes. My father was going to punch me. Something protected me that day, it was the last rational thread that connected my father to this world. My father did not punch me. My father walked away. My father died in 1999, but his mind was dead long before that. I don’t blame him for his behavior. He had fourteen tumors in his brain. I blame the Baptist church that preyed on him and his illness. I am not a fan of what Christianity does to people and their families. If my father punched me that day; I am positive it would have killed me. I am proud to be an Atheist. I am free from oppression and guilt.

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