Kirk Cameron Quotes

There is nothing more important than your eternal salvation.

I almost never use B.C. and A.D. to describe time periods. I use BKCWC. Before Kirk Cameron Went Crazy. That’s how I judge time.

No, please Satan! I don’t want to be sex meat!” Kirk screamed.

Think of someone you know who's not saved but you may be afraid to share the Gospel with that person. I've found a way that's radically effective in training people to share the Gospel.

In this town you can be a wife-beating, manic-depressive crack-head and everyone opens their arms to you. They say, "Hey, pal, don't worry about it. We'll get you into recovery. It's all part of the journey." But if you become a born-again Christian and love Jesus Christ and want to share that with other people, they say, "You've committed the unpardonable sin.

Jesus’s took his white robe of cheese off his body and showed off his erection. His cock was normal sized but it was a combo of exotic and exquisite cheeses. “I was born in Israel, but my cock is Moroccan, Greek, and French.

Dear Producers, Something is radiating deep within me and it must be transmitted or I will implode and the world will suffer a great loss, unawares. Epic are the proportions of my soul, yet without a scope who cares am I? This is why I must but must be one of the inhabitants of MTV's "Real World." Only there, burning brightly into a million dazzled eyes, will my as yet uncontoured self assume the beauteous forms that are not just its own, but an entire market niche's, due. I am a Kirk Cameron-Kurt Cobain figure, roguishly quirky, dandified but down to earth, kooky but comprehensible; denizen of the growing penumbra between alternative and mainstream culture; angsty prophet of the already bygone apocalypse, yet upbeat, stylish and sexy! Oscar Wilde wrote, "Good artists exist in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating... [they] live the poetry [they] cannot write." As with Dorian Gray, life is my art! Oh MTV, take me, make me, wake me from my formless slumbers and place me in the dreamy Real World of target marketing.

They learned about purity before they learned about sex, and they have a silver ring to prove it. They watched The Passion of the Christ, Soul Surfer, or the latest Kirk Cameron film with their youth group. They attended Promise Keepers with guys from church and read Wild at Heart in small groups. They’ve learned more from Pat Robertson, John Piper, Joyce Meyer, and The Gospel Coalition than they have from their pastor’s Sunday sermons. The diffusion of evangelical consumer culture extends far beyond the orbit of evangelical churches. Cultural evangelicalism has made deep inroads into mainline Christianity,

When I started working in commercials, I quickly learned some rules for hawking products: 1. Audiences like their soda in frosty mugs. It should look straight out of Santa’s Village. 2. People respond to cereal floating in foamy milk. 3. When lapping up soup, viewers like to see kids dressed in cable knit sweaters by a fire. 4. A golden retriever in the background never hurt the sale of anything.

But what I really needed was a mom. I still wanted to take advantage of that free laundry service at home. I wasn’t about to turn away the homemade potato-chip casseroles or her famous turkey tacos. I didn’t even mind when the “chore chart” was put up on the fridge. That was the normalcy I craved. I wanted Mom to continue to bring warm cookies to the set, making me the guy with the best mom around.

Q&As covered my fave color (purple), my fave shows (Family Ties and Cosby), my height (5′ 7″), weight (130 pounds) and eye color (hazel). They also printed false information. One said my parents were a psychologist and a newspaper reporter. Sure, my television parents held those careers—my real parents were a math/P.E. teacher and a housewife/manager (of me). I was supposed to be the coolest kid on the planet, but no one knew what a dork I was.

And I certainly wasn’t complaining when Domino’s Pizza offered me a million bucks to be their ad boy. If I didn’t have something, it was only because I didn’t want it. I was a devout atheist, livin’ large, hanging out with the beautiful people. Years later when people asked about that time in my life, I defined it like this: Imagine a world where whatever you want is given to you as quickly as possible. When you walk into a room, all the adults smile at you, talk nicely and say, “What do you want? Okay, I’ll give that to you.

Is it wrong to bring my new convictions to the set?” I asked myself. “Should I keep them wrapped up inside, letting business be business? After all, TV isn’t real. A sitcom is just a story. And the stories aren’t real. The characters aren’t real, either.” Now I sounded like a crazy person, talking to myself in my dressing room. I knew Mike Seaver wasn’t me and I wasn’t him, but viewers didn’t seem to know the difference. To them, the Seavers existed. If Mike took drugs, kids would assume it was okay to take drugs—all because Mike was cool and someone to follow. I didn’t want to blow it. That would be my nightmare. I desperately wanted to do the right thing in a no-win situation.

My dad, shattered by Mom’s exit, began to work hard at becoming the husband who could be kind and caring toward his wife. Through many months of counseling with Rick, our family friend, my dad began the process of self-examination and rethinking what it means to love someone. He began to put his time, energy and resources into his relationship with Mom—planning special trips alone together, listening to her as she shared her thoughts and feelings, and learning to support and encourage my mom instead of demeaning and criticizing her. When Growing Pains filmed in Hawaii for a second time, Dad gave Mom a new wedding ring set, asking her to rejoin him. All of us were astonished by the change in Dad. He grew to be much more loving and tender with Mom. He bought her gifts and spoke to her in a sweet voice. He became a different husband—and we all reaped the benefits of his maturity.

knew she wanted to know the reaction of the casting director. She was always so anxious after it was over: “So? How did it go? What’d they say?” Most of the time I didn’t even look at her. Occasionally I threw her a bone and say flatly, “I dunno. They said, ‘Thanks, fine, good.’ ” Sometimes I put on the shy act instead. It was my way of selfishly doing what I wanted and showing my parents I was in charge by not talking—exactly what some married couples do. If I don’t talk, then I win. I’ve got the power! What a jerk! Why did I do that? I think it was partly a way of punishing her for taking me away from my friends. Partly it was a control thing. It was my way of being in charge, of being the boss. I can do what I want, it silently conveyed. What could she do to me? I was so awful to her, yet I don’t remember her ever getting frustrated with me. She tirelessly drove me an hour each way—sometimes longer in traffic—and waited hours for me to finish. I was so unappreciative of all she did.

It probably would have shocked my fans to find out how self-conscious I was at the height of my idol-dom. On August 1, 1987, I forced myself to create a self-confidence project, hoping to increase my self-esteem, by listing my positive traits as I saw them. I am a healthy person. I am very sensitive to others’ problems. I am an honest person, I am a good actor, I am an affectionate person, and I like to be open to suggestions and ready for a change if needed. I was embarrassed by how I looked—you already know about my zits. My paranoia grew when I discovered “Cameron” literally means “crooked nose.” I went straight to the mirror, examined my nose from every angle and realized with horror that my nose didn’t go straight down between my eyes—it went diagonally. All I could think about was my stupid crooked nose. I fretted over how ugly I was and wondered why anyone would want to be around someone so gross. Trying to be helpful, Dad said, “You’re on the cover of 14 magazines this month. Obviously somebody doesn’t think you’re ugly.

Don’t move boy. Lord Jesus … this ain’t right. Oh my Lord. You’re a damn faggot whacking it to a man of God. Blasphemy! And he is a friend of mine. Good man too, that Kirk Cameron. Brought me to the Lord … holy hell … you got your sperm on Jesus and Mr. Cameron … you’re of the devil!

I love being cheese more then wafers and wine my son,” Jesus Cheese said to Kirk.

But Jesus now was a six-foot piece of sexy Cheese.

Kirk smelled the intoxicating aroma of Cheese Jesus. He tried so hard to be good. So hard to prove his love of Christ, but here he was with his God as his most favorite food.

The 69ing Boners stopped sucking each other’s cocks and followed the lead of Cheese Jesus.

Being the model child that I was, I loved going to the dentist. Well, at least to “the Flipper King.” Child actors were required to wear “flippers”—false teeth—that covered the mangy condition all developing mouths go through. A flipper was a kid-sized denture that fit in the mouth to fill in the missing teeth or to make teeth appear straight if they were naturally crooked. It was molded to fit perfectly to each specific mouth and give the wearer a smile that would make Joel Osteen jealous

While other child stars were suing their parents for millions, holding up liquor stores and ODing outside of nightclubs, we felt we were the lucky ones. Candace and I led the most glamour-less lives possible for kids on TV series. Our parents pushed for normalcy in every possible way. Bridgette and Melissa were the real stars of the family: Bridgette’s dancing and singing talent combined with her charming personality and Melissa’s first-rate brain and individuality made them two of the most well-adjusted teenage girls you could find.

When it came to religion, Dad had told Mom he wanted his children to choose their own religious paths in life. That statement laid the foundation for my earliest religious choice: to be a full-fledged atheist. I was convinced that God didn’t exist, and my dad was fine with that conclusion. Mom, on the other hand, believed in God. Yet she never really brought the subject up, except once. When I was a young teen I came home from school ravenous. I looked in the refrigerator. It was empty. I think I said “G—damn it” and kicked the fruit drawer. “What did you say?” Mom asked. “What?” “What did you say?” I just looked at her. I knew she’d heard me. “Don’t you ever disrespect God’s name again,” she instructed.

Around the dinner table one night Mom asked, “Hey, guys, remember your friend Adam Rich? He’s on a TV show. I thought we’d go to the lady who helps him and see if she would help you get on television, too. Would you like that?” Mom’s eager face suggested only one correct response: “Yeah!” Adam was the son of my mom’s friend Fran, a former New Yorker who liked to wear nightgowns and smelled of smoke. Mom had shown Fran a photo of us kids dressed to the nines at our aunt’s wedding. Her son, Adam, had recently become a child star as Nicholas Bradford on Eight Is Enough and she now insisted that Mom consider us for commercials. “They’d be perfect!” she persisted.

And though at nine I wasn’t sure what an “agent” was, I knew she must be extremely important to make even my parents nervous. Besides, I was afraid of anyone I didn’t know, let alone someone hiding behind a shroud of smoke. My imagination began to get the best of me. It was like we were in the presence of the Wizard. Instead of “I am the Great and Terrible Oz,” she was the Great and Terrible Agent.

I watched her cigarette bounce up and down as she spoke. I tried not to think about how Dad and Mom always told us that smoking would kill us. Focus, Kirk, focus. I nodded my answer. I must have. I wouldn’t dare move an inch unless she told me to do so. Iris took a long drag and studied me a bit more. “Well, say this for me: ‘Hey, Mom, I wanna go to McDonalds.’ ” I repeated her words in an unemotional, parroting way, “Hey, Mom, I wanna go to McDonalds.” “No, no, no! You have to say it like you really wanna go to McDonalds. Say it with energy.” “Hey, Mom! I wanna go to McDonalds!” I said with enthusiasm. “Now try, ‘Hey, Tony, those Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes taste gggrreeeaaatt!’ ” In my very best monotone I said, “Hey, Tony, those Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes taste good.” “No, no. They taste grrreeaat!” “They taste greeeaattt!” I added pizzazz and a smile and hoped that was okay. “Look at those Hot Wheels go!” she said. This time I knew I was supposed to be excited, so I pretended I was saying it to Uncle Frankie.

I couldn’t believe it. I snagged a bagel and smeared it with cream cheese. It was my first of many, many years of free bagels. (To this day I won’t pay for bagels or cream cheese—not when I can score them for free on film sets.)

We went into the audition building and immediately started rehearsing lines. Mom was always so eager, and that drove me nuts. “Let’s practice the lines. You do this part and I’ll do that,” she’d chirp. When I didn’t go for it, she’d say, “Okay, sweetheart, after the audition, where would you like to go to lunch?” I’d heave a big sigh and say, “McDonald’s. I’ve been thinking about a Big Mac all day.

Work never failed to give me that same ego boost I had experienced when filming that first cereal commercial. People bent over backward to give me what I wanted. And what kid doesn’t want adults eating out of his hand, catering to his every wish? Because life was all about getting to the place where I could be happy all the time, acting was the perfect venue. It wasn’t only the ego boost that kept me going. I truly loved what I did.

I started to recognize other kids from the auditions. River Phoenix was one of the regulars at that time. He was one of Iris Burton’s big hits. We would often audition for the same parts. Sadly, he later died of a drug overdose outside the Viper Room in Hollywood. I did commercials for Count Chocula, Polaroid, McDonald’s, Formula 409, He-Man, Kool-Aid, Pepsi, Fruit Roll-Ups, All laundry detergent, Hawaiian Punch, Northwest Orient Airlines—and so many more that none of us can remember all the products I represented.

One thing I thought was really cool is that we got a fax machine in our house to have scripts sent to us ahead of time! Okay, it’s not a big deal now, but in the days before cell phones and email, only the fanciest offices had these special machines.

I first met Tracey Gold when we played brother and sister in a McDonald’s commercial. We met again in the made-for-television movie Beyond Witch Mountain. Later she played a cheerleader while I played a football star in the Robin Williams/Kurt Russell film The Best of Times. She was cute, she was good and she was always working on something. I had a bit of a crush on her at the time—which probably sounds a bit creepy to the rest of the world who think of us as siblings.

Hi, I’m Kirk Cameron. I know I’m late . . .” “You are,” he said. He looked at his watch. “The audition was at 4:30. It’s 5.” He started to close the door. Instinctively, I put my foot out so he couldn’t close it. “I know, I know. But my mom will kill me if I don’t do this audition. Please can I read just to tell her I did it?” He looked over his shoulder, probably to ask what the others thought, then opened the door. I had no idea what I was auditioning for except that it was a “pilot”—the first episode of a TV series that determines whether the network will put the show on its schedule. I’d gotten the script ahead of time but had really only glanced at it. I knew nothing about the show. To me, the title Growing Pains sounded dramatic and gritty. I left the audition without a sense of how things had gone. They laughed, but I wasn’t sure they were supposed to.

I did get the callback for Growing Pains. This time I knew it was a comedy and played it the way I saw Mike Seaver. It must have gone well. One day I was playing Atari when Mom interrupted my session. “Kirk,” she said, sticking her head in the room. “You got it! You got the pilot!

I liked Alan immediately. He was funny, smart and witty—three traits that make it easy to comically play off someone else. Playing opposite someone as gifted as Alan made it easier for me to become Mike Seaver. Alan was always extremely generous with his compliments about fellow cast members. Once in an interview he said, “Successful family shows need someone with that magic—the look that has the chance to take the country by storm. Michael J. Fox did that. Kirk seemed to have that. I thought, This is a good rocket to hitch my star to.

I was really glad when my former crush, Tracey, joined the show. She looked a lot like my sisters and it wasn’t long before I started treating her like one.

I thought my character was the most fun to play, but he was also exhausting. I developed a way of coping with the high energy it took to play Mike Seaver. All the times I had shut down in the car on the way to and from auditions taught me how I could go into a quiet space in the midst of chaos. During short moments between takes or rehearsals, I sat in my chair, closed my eyes and zoned out. For a while people thought I was depressed and asked my parents about it, until they learned it was my way of recharging my Energizers.

Every tape day, the cast and crew waited eagerly for my mom’s special chocolate-chip cookies. They melted in your mouth—they were “like buttah” (which makes sense, as that was a main ingredient). Mom made dozens and dozens of them to make sure there were always enough to go around. I think she made 38 dozen a week as a thank-you for all the hard work the crew did.

Alan Thicke appreciated the “genuine sense of family, which is especially important if you’re raising kids and coming off a colossal, resounding failure. I loved the warmth, the positive-ness that comes from a successful show. I like what it stood for. Jason Seaver’s values were close to my own. I often found myself saying things at home that I said on the show. Of course, it’s easier to parent when you have eleven writers following you around.” Joanna Kerns said, “I loved coming to work every day. I loved playing a character I could live with. The security of that job for an actor opened so many doors for me. It changed my life. All we did is laugh. We had it so great.

I spent the bulk of my days with a pretend family whose issues always worked out in less than half an hour. We always dealt with conflict in a funny, heartwarming, positive way. These don’t transfer to the real world of relationships

When I turned 16, I began to confide in the man who had cut my hair since I was 9, the stylist Fran Rich had recommended. Rick Eichhorn became my closest friend for several years. I think one of the reasons I appreciated Rick was that he never once mentioned anything about my skin or my scrawny build. He was just a friend. I felt very comfortable hanging out with him and talking with him about anything. I didn’t have to hide from him. Rick was my best friend at a time when I really needed someone to confide in.

I guess in the eyes of many, I blew it. I didn’t go out with all the babes. Contrary to National Enquirer, I did not buy my home in Simi Valley to line the walls with women. Maybe I had a smorgasbord of women to choose from, but I was never a playboy. My friends couldn’t believe how I didn’t take advantage of all that female energy rushing in my direction.

My heart wasn’t where Mike Seaver’s was—or the bulk of the male population’s. I never got a DUI because I didn’t drink. The only thing I ever smoked was a ham for Thanksgiving. Maybe I would have had more free time to get into trouble with girls if I wasn’t so busy killing rats to feed my snakes. All I wanted was to find one girl and be with her for life. July 25, 1987 I really wish that I will meet someone that is so special, and wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her and who will be excited for me about my career and will not be interested in Kirk Cameron the actor, star of Growing Pains. I’m looking for someone who could be my best friend. Someone who is not the least bit phony but who is just so honest and open about her feelings and who genuinely cares about mine and wants to share her feelings with me. Not too long after I wrote that journal entry, I met a girl on the set. She came in for a quick guest role, and we began seeing each other off set. I grew very fond of her and her family—especially her father, who later became very instrumental in answering my questions about God. Within a year, my immaturity had made a royal mess of that relationship and left that sweet girl heartbroken and confused. She was the last girl I went out with until the most breathtaking woman in the world entered my life.

Sure, I would have enjoyed buying that private fantasy island. Yes, I would have enjoyed legally changing my first name to Gilligan and starting my own perfect civilization on that uncharted desert isle—but Mom and Dad knew better. They had foresight to realize I would handle my money better once I was older. Mom became my manager when it was clear we couldn’t afford the costs related to acting unless she got a full-time job. Someone needed to take me to the studio daily and stay there, because it was required by law that every underage kid have a parent or legal guardian around all day. It seemed silly to pay someone else to do that, so she took the job.

At the age of only 14, I was my mother’s employer. She worked for me, in a twisted order of hierarchy. Professionally, I told her what I wanted and didn’t want. I expected her to handle my appearances, schedule my auditions and manage my money. I know that to most, having some kind of authority over one’s parents sounds like a dream come true. “Here’s how it’s gonna go down, Ma.” But it wasn’t at all. I wasn’t comfortable being my mom’s boss or with the daily flip-flop of authority. I was supposed to be her employer on the set and her kid once I walked through the front door of our house. The power shifts were freaky and hurt my brain a little.

Like every boy, I really wanted a pet. But I was allergic to animal hair. I realize having “allergies” doesn’t help my street cred, either. But this might: I ended up living amongst reptiles. That’s cool, right? I first got the idea while lizard hunting with Uncle Frankie when I was 10. We caught a black and yellow-striped garter snake and I kept that for a while. Later, I acquired a six-foot Burmese python and named him Dudley, after Dudley Moore, my co-star in the film Like Father, Like Son. The cast of Growing Pains gave me a red-tailed boa constrictor for my birthday one year and I named that one Glenn, after my cool set teacher. I had another red-tailed boa that I named Springsteen, named for—well, you can probably guess.

She didn’t freak. Maybe I’ll be okay. I walked around him and said, “Hi, Mom . . . what did you do this afternoon?” Mom gaped in stunned silence. Brooks and I busted up laughing, hoping that making light of it would go over better with Mom. She stammered a bit. Because she always liked being a cool mom, I figured she was struggling between that and being really ticked at me. “Well, at least you didn’t get a tattoo,” she said under her breath. “You can’t get rid of a tattoo.” She scowled, took a deep breath and put her hands on my shoulders so that she could look me directly in the eye. “Kirk, it’s not that you got your ear pierced—it doesn’t look bad. I even sort of like it. It’s that you went off and deliberately did it without asking.” She turned around and went into the other room. I felt horrible. She didn’t talk to me for two days.

They didn’t waste time having kids. I was born October 12, 1970, and was named for my dad’s hero, Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. Mom only agreed because Kirk meant “of the Church.” She decided that was a pretty good legacy to put on a kid—even if she didn’t go to church herself. Bridgette followed less than a year later. They took a breather before Melissa arrived in 1974, and Candace came 18 months later in 1976. I wasn’t raised in a Christian home, but it was a moral home.

As a little girl, Mom had a simple faith in God, which began in church and shaped many of her values and decisions. When she married Dad, she presumed they would go to church as a family—but Dad had other ideas. He didn’t want his kids being corralled into any particular religion. He insisted his kids be able to make up their own minds when they were older, so he adamantly refused to let us attend even Sunday school. So Mom kept quiet and prayed in the simple way she knew how.

The real maddening thing I learned later was that when Dad was supposedly punishing Candace, he’d go in there, snapping his belt. But when the door closed behind him, he’d slap the belt on the bed while Candace yelped like she’d gotten spanked. You never saw a performance like that from her on Full House.

I’ve always had the ability to memorize complicated things and remember them. I mastered the Rubik’s Cube by reading a book on it and memorizing the patterns and methods of aligning the colors quickly. I entered a contest at Magic Mountain theme park with a hundred other kids. I did it in 60 seconds, but the kid who won did it in 23. Same for the video games I played. I read a book on how to master Pac-Man. The book had drawings of the patterns he could take in the maze. There were dozens of boards to memorize, but once I did, I could play the game for hours on a single quarter at Chuck E. Cheese.

I knew that in religious homes, Jesus had something to do with Christmas, but wasn’t sure how He was connected to it. Was He a special carpenter in Santa’s village? One year I got a BB gun as a gift. I practiced shooting soda cans and empty furniture boxes, but that got boring. I decided I needed to try my skills on a moving target. I’m sorry to say, I shot the neighbor’s cat in the leg. The vet bill came and my BB gun went.

But what was the right thing? Letting the show go on, as written? Or stepping in, hoping that I could—in a respectful way—point out how things could be different? It would be a mistake to remind producers what they already knew—that a TV series has an unspoken agreement with its audience to be what it has been from the beginning. A sitcom shouldn’t become a drama. Nobody wants to see a homicide investigation on Mr. Belvedere. (On Murphy Brown, maybe.) A show about a middle-class suburban family shouldn’t suddenly focus on illegal immigrants and their struggle to cross the border. My inner voice kept reminding me that I was just a kid, while the producers were authority figures—albeit odd authority figures. As a child actor, I had learned early that I wielded more power than most adults, yet my parents instilled within me a respect and a desire to submit to authority. My parents never put up with the typical child-star behavior.

In the early years of the show, I had earned a reputation as the prankster who planted stink bombs under the audience seats, greased doorknobs and hid crew members’ cars in bushes. I initiated practical jokes, laughter, ribbing and the sarcastic comments that flew around stage like the evil monkeys on The Wizard of Oz. My fellow cast members affectionately named me “Devil Boy.

If someone had given me a tank top with shoulder pads, I probably would have put it on. I couldn’t possibly have understood the influence I had—or, to be honest, the influence my character, Mike Seaver, had. When I spun around sporting sunglasses and a brown leather coat during the Growing Pains theme, millions of teens were doing the same thing in front of their bathroom mirrors. I had no idea.

My parents had a traditional marriage—almost. Until I got into the business, Mom took care of the home and Dad taught at a junior high school. Dad was always the leader of the family—there was never any doubt about that. He got home at 3:00 P.M. each day, which allowed him the freedom to help Mom clean, prepare dinner and do the dishes. Dad ran a tight ship with a firm hand. On weekdays, we had to be up at 6:15 in order to eat the healthy breakfast he had cooked for us. If you wanted to eat, you had to be done digesting your food by 6:40 or you missed your chance. Five minutes later, we took turns washing the dishes so we could be out the door at 7:05.

Without a god to judge him, sucking a Crocoduck was not a sin, but a celebration of life.