I NEVER STARTED CUSSING UNTIL I BECAME A METHODIST. That was over a year ago and guilt has just now started to catch up with me. I’m still trying to decide if I need to repent or not.

     After all, I’m not so sure that cussing is bad, certainly not sure it’s a sin. I do believe taking the Lord’s name in vain is a sin, and I don’t cuss at that level. I really think deep down that saying God’s name with a cuss word is more than cussing; it’s plain old blasphemy, and I just don’t do it—never have, never will. I don’t get that mad or that upset about things.

     Not only that but who’s to say you won’t go to hell for it?  Me, I’m going to err on the safe side and just not go there . . . either place.

     What I’d like to know is who made cussing cussing? I don’t think God did. If you think he did, just prove it to me; show it to me where in the Bible he names off words that are cuss words and says don’t say them.

     I had my first cussing lesson when I was about five years old. My mother had gone somewhere . . . shopping or to a neighbor’s.  My daddy and I were at the house waiting for her. She was, in his opinion, late—way over due—and he was steamed. Likely because supper wasn’t on the table when he was ready for it.

     He was pacing the floor and talking to himself, and I was listening as fast as I could. He was one more mad daddy. All of a sudden his voice became tense and measured . . . important, almost scary. But I liked it. I didn’t know where this was going, but I was along for the ride.

     And then I heard him say—not so much to me as just to the walls, the doors, or whatever was closest to him as he paced the room: BOY, WHERE IN THE HELL IS YOUR MOTHER?

     I wanted to say, “Wait a minute here Dude! Don’t you take that tone of voice with me. How in the hell should I know where she is!

     But of course, even at five, I had more sense than that. After all, I’m alive today, aren’t I?

     Then, almost as if she knew we were talking about her—taking her name in vain, so to speak—my mother came through the door.

     And believe you me, I was ready for her!

     Still impassioned by my daddy’s masterful command of the English language, I took my position right in front of her, and in my manliest voice said, MAMA, WHERE IN THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?

     That’s about all I remember of that day. Or the next year of days. Right now even, I’m trying to disremember it, wondering why I brought it up after all this time.

     But there’s more to my cussing experience, and as you might have guessed, I’m willing to tell it all. The rest of it.

     Tomorrow.

Paul