Wednesday, December 1, 2010

How to talk trash with Almighty God

If it's Wednesday it must be Morford.

What are you gonna do, cause a famine? Melt the ice caps? Induce global pandemics, war and rape and disease, sadness and poverty and earthquakes? What you got, oak blight? Bedbugs? Jersey Shore?

Truth is, billions of flawed bipeds have been languishing under a million-year worry that if we jump out of line, blaspheme to your holy face or even draw a cute n' bearded cartoon of one version of you that you'll ... well, who the hell knows what? Flood the oceans with blood? Snap Italy like a twig? Make all women wear giant potato sacks and never have sex? Explain what "brimstone" is? As if.

Let's just say it outright: Big deal. Enough of you. Enough of this. Something's gotta give, you know? It's high time we as a generally rashy, hugely confused but still relatively high-functioning mammal spoke some hard truth to divine Christian/Muslim/Jewish power. Because the fact is, you ain't all that. Not anymore, anyway. What, you got some lightning for me right now? Locusts? Sure you do.

I had a friend in the Marine Corps who would go outside in thunderstorms in North Carolina and holler heavenwards in a loud voice whilst making an 'X' on his chest with his finger, "Hey God, you ain't got the balls to get me!". Once right after he did that lightning struck about fifty feet away. He just smiled and looked up, "And ya couldn't hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle either!". Heh.

Oh, I know the risks of speaking up. They say you are not to be mocked. They say the sinners and the blasphemers, the perverts and the kinkmonkeys will get theirs in the end, a big day of atonement in the sky full of hacksaws, screaming and the new KeSha CD piped in like the devil's Muzak.

Of course, those who believe in that also believe in pregnant virgins, crimson demons and fat babies with wings. These lost souls tend to take it all embarrassingly literally, like a five-year-old hearing Peter Pan for the first time. Hey, mythology is fun, right up until it's dangerous and bloody and rapes your livestock during the Crusades.

It's the people who believe that shit that make it dangerous to read the riot act to the nonexistent product of fear and ignorance and superstition. Or the casual observer who thinks he's talking to himself and gets him committed.

Unless ... wait, unless we've been going about this God thing all wrong? Unless you're actually not some sort of scowling robe-clad deity hanging out right there in the end zone, the political rally, the mosque or temple or shrine, but are rather this sort of indefinable hum and thrust and pulse, constant and forever, emanating from and penetrating into everything at all times everywhere? Because that would be weird.

Just as weird as the God shit. A lot less harmful though.

No comments: