The Lord God made them all. All things bright and beautiful, yada, yada. So worship Him, children. You’re better than people who don’t. It’s ok to feel better than them, because you are. So virtuous.
But really, Monty Python called it right. If He made anything, He made everything.
All evil, great and small. And, according to some, the Bible is His words. Bragging, as it were. He created homosexuals, and then burned them to death, along with all their neighbors and children. He gave people our greatest blessing: curiosity. But He turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt for glancing back at the place her cousins and friends were being horribly murdered. And when Eve discovered an apple, which He made, and which symbolizes who the fuck knows what, He punished everybody who would ever be born. When He didn’t like how the people He made were behaving he killed everyone, all the men, all the women, all the children, all the babies, all the dogs and cats. Everything that lived. This happened lots of times in the Bible.
All things sick and cancerous. Sickness and cancer are still with us. I lost someone I loved. It tore me up. And that keeps happening. Praise the Lord.
All things foul and dangerous. He gave us reverence, which feels nice. But who gets revered? Martyrs and saints. Men and women who were horribly murdered. And every cross proudly displayed asks you to picture a man being tortured to death. He made suffering, and it’s horrible. Blesséd are the children who suffer. Virtuous are those who self-flagellate. Pain is good. Sex is wrong. Wrong is right. White is black. Where have I seen this before? Oh, right. Orwell.
All pox both great and small. How did this happen? As a child I knew worship—my sense of wonder, my love of beauty, my joy in discovery. I knew hope, secure in the sheltering love of my parents. Worship and hope are powerful reins, savagely hooked into the tender underbellies of our minds to be seized and hauled upon by a monstrous engine of greed and power fueled by belief. Fueled by fear. It spawns crusades, pogroms, genocides, and war—with all its horrors. It abuses the innocent, the weak, and the female. I yearn for a world that makes sense. That, to me, is virtue. But not a syllable of dogma makes sense.
All things. I, who do not believe, somehow abstain from committing atrocities. There was good in all of us already, no thanks to Him. But He takes all the credit. Amen.
But really, Monty Python called it right. If He made anything, He made everything.
All evil, great and small. And, according to some, the Bible is His words. Bragging, as it were. He created homosexuals, and then burned them to death, along with all their neighbors and children. He gave people our greatest blessing: curiosity. But He turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt for glancing back at the place her cousins and friends were being horribly murdered. And when Eve discovered an apple, which He made, and which symbolizes who the fuck knows what, He punished everybody who would ever be born. When He didn’t like how the people He made were behaving he killed everyone, all the men, all the women, all the children, all the babies, all the dogs and cats. Everything that lived. This happened lots of times in the Bible.
All things sick and cancerous. Sickness and cancer are still with us. I lost someone I loved. It tore me up. And that keeps happening. Praise the Lord.
All things foul and dangerous. He gave us reverence, which feels nice. But who gets revered? Martyrs and saints. Men and women who were horribly murdered. And every cross proudly displayed asks you to picture a man being tortured to death. He made suffering, and it’s horrible. Blesséd are the children who suffer. Virtuous are those who self-flagellate. Pain is good. Sex is wrong. Wrong is right. White is black. Where have I seen this before? Oh, right. Orwell.
All pox both great and small. How did this happen? As a child I knew worship—my sense of wonder, my love of beauty, my joy in discovery. I knew hope, secure in the sheltering love of my parents. Worship and hope are powerful reins, savagely hooked into the tender underbellies of our minds to be seized and hauled upon by a monstrous engine of greed and power fueled by belief. Fueled by fear. It spawns crusades, pogroms, genocides, and war—with all its horrors. It abuses the innocent, the weak, and the female. I yearn for a world that makes sense. That, to me, is virtue. But not a syllable of dogma makes sense.
All things. I, who do not believe, somehow abstain from committing atrocities. There was good in all of us already, no thanks to Him. But He takes all the credit. Amen.
RSS Feed
