I’m really glad I don’t live in the 16th century. Or even a hundred years ago. If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be able to share my thoughts as I am now — at least not without getting burned at some stake. Here’s why.

I’ve been asking God to reveal the truth to me about Jesus. Who He is. How things work.

Last night, I had a dream that was very disturbing.

In the dream, I lived in dorm with a bunch of other girls. Everyone was happy and well-cared for. It came time for me to get my hair dyed. The tradition was that the girl’s father would take care of this matter for her.

To have my hair dyed, I had to stand underneath an platform while an innocent child’s blood dripped on me. I was appalled. I thought, “How could the child’s mother have made this deal with my father to allow her child to be killed for me?” I was enraged. I stepped out from underneath the platform and went back to the dorm.

I was ratty-looking and uncared for. The other girls all had gorgeous hair and were happy and enjoying life. I was miserable because of my unbelievably cruel father.

I returned to the platform. There was the boy who had been sacrificed on my behalf. He was lying there, almost dead. Next to him was an almost identical boy. Whenever I tried to ask the hurt boy what had happened to him, the other boy would answer, “They hurt me,” and go into details of the torture as if it were his own. He seemed spaced out, brainwashed.

Again, I was appalled at the cruelty of the boy’s father. Not only did he intend to kill the boy, but he was using the boy as a whipping boy for the son he truly loved. And even that love seemed twisted, as that boy was not a shining example of happiness and mental health.

An odd element of this dream was that on the platform next to the child who was being sacrificed was a big pile of bacon.

So here’s what I think it all means:

First of all, I think the bacon symbolizes something unholy. While lamb was an acceptable sacrifice back in the day, pig was most definitely not. It would have profaned the alter. So whatever was happening there was unholy. On the surface, this seems obvious, like DUH — of course a father torturing his son for someone else is an awful thing to do!

I think the whipping boy is Jesus. I think the father is a false idea of God. And the boy who was spaced out is the brainwashed person who thinks that God would torture his son on his behalf. And me, well, this dream was a pretty good representation of my spirit’s grief at considering the idea that I might have such a father.

I mean, God is my strength. My healer. My provider.

My rock. My shelter in times of trouble.

He is living water.

His love is enormous.

Yes, I doubt the atonement theory of the crucifixion. My conscious mind becomes frightened when I question orthodoxy, but apparently, my subconscious (spirit?) doesn’t have an issue with it.