This is one of those days when I’m actually ashamed to be called a Christian.

I’m not ashamed of Jesus. Or the gospel. Or even my church. I’m ashamed of people who claim to serve the same God as I do, twisted fools who have cooked up a gospel of hate and Quran burnings and have become skunk drunk on the fallout that message creates.

I’ve felt this way before—when Jimmys Baker and Swaggart took their swan dives. When a Christian family were the most immature, petty, and painfully stupid contestants on the Amazing race a few years back (I actually prayed they’d get sent home before they did too much damage). It was downright painful to watch. I felt this way more recently when John and Kate began behaving badly (yes, both of them) while wearing their casual little Christian badges for the world to see. I felt just as humiliated when stupid pastors bashed their bully Bibles over the hurting heads of Katrina victims, or claimed 9-11 was God’s judgement, or concocted another dozen or so dastardly deeds done in the name of the wonderful Lord and Saviour I love and serve.

My Jesus wouldn’t dream of doing these things.

Whatever happened to the good old days when God would just make a giant fissure to open up in the ground to swallow up believers behaving badly? (It happened to Korah, remember?). Sigh. That would be so simple, wouldn’t it?

Just take them home, Jesus. Quick.

Rumble.

Maybe I shouldn’t wish for those days.

Maybe I’d end up at the bottom of a crevasse of my own making.