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Nov. 27, 2004 King James and his subordinates translated the Bible. Joseph Smith with the help of his magical glasses wrote the Book of Mormon. The stick of Judah follows the teaching of the Old Testament written by those ancient ones. I have no clue who wrote the Koran and I don’t know a darn thing about the ancient scribes of Buddhism and Hinduism. I only know that humans wrote every word in those well- traveled books. Laymen and men of the cloth have debated how much truth lies between the pages of each for hundreds of years. The debates have created wars, prevented wars, and healed the wounds of wars. Religion has been good for the world and bad for the world, depends on where you put your eyes. I dare you to pick up a history book and show me a chapter that doesn’t mention religion, peace, and war. History has been a series of man killing man, man killing children, man killing women, and man killing himself. Between the pages of death are pages of god, god commanding man to kill, god commanding man to get out of town and head west, god commanding humans to love one another. What’s it going to be god? Should we kill? Should we love? Suicide bombs have been created in god’s name. Planes have flown into massive buildings for god. Children must die for god in every land on earth. I dare a justification. Tell me about the warm and compassionate god, you know the one. It’s the god we sing praise to in our warm and comfortable churches; it’s the god that we thank for our gluttonous Sunday dinners. It’s the god that we pray to in our moments of weakness, in those moments when we have majorly screwed up. When those so-called televangelists decide to show their perverted sides it’s the god they go television and beg for forgiveness. Everyone knows the god of cymbals and bells and whistles. Is that who god is? When you are on a battlefield and bullets, and shrapnel are flying all around you, god is in a warm church in Chicago or New York. Ask the Vietnam soldier that reached in the foxhole next to him and found only the bloody remains of his nineteen-year-old buddy, where his god is? It is so easy after the fact to say that god pulled you through the battle, but how about the thousands that didn’t pull through? Was god cat-napping during their crisis?
You might call me a putz or a whiner,
but I haven’t had a reasonable answer to any of
these questions in my life of fifty-eight
years. I don’t expect to live many more years,
but I do expect that these questions will remain
unanswered at the end of my years.
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