The interior of my home, curiously, looks like a shrine to all things spiritual. Curious, as I belong to no religion and bow to no man. Don’t come knocking on my door with any pamphlets or bother trying to recruit me for your cult . Respectfully, I ain't the one. I go into full rigor mortis at the thought of such things. But ever since the Spirit of Christ slipped into my Civic coupe that morning through a crack in the passenger side window, enveloped my entire being in his loving atmosphere, and as if by telepathy indicated that I needed to forgive all the selfish, sick souls who'd ever trespassed against me—that it was the only way I'd untwist myself from this burning kink of pain —I began, in earnest, collecting spiritual icons of various faiths in remembrance of my divine encounter. It was 2003 , and I was in my prime. I was also in the grip of a nasty addiction to drugs, alcohol, sex and crime. Before that miraculous morning, I never believed Christ existed. His fol