Chapter 9: Rich man, poor man

The Bible is full of great morality plays expounding the virtues of the poor and the malevolence of the rich. Mathew quotes Jesus as saying that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get to heaven. I don't want to get into all the crazy arguments about whether Jesus intended to be literal. And it is silly to talk about the alleged misinterpretations assigned to the eye of the needle. Suffice to say that Jesus wanted us to understand that most rich people were assholes. They were assholes in his day and they are assholes today.

Today's political arguments revolve around this unarguable premise. To hear a Republican talk, one would think the rich were endowed with virtues far beyond the capacity of our lower class brains to decipher. They truly believe it when they say the rich work hard and the poor are lazy. I have been around both the rich and the poor all my life. I can honestly say I know of no rich man who works hard. Rich people think 8 meetings and two plane connections is a hard day. But if they had to work one shift at McDonalds, they would understand the true meaning of work.

Most of this idiocy revolves around the belief that most rich people are self made men. To the contrary. Most rich men are generationally wealthy. The top one percent had it given to them. They were born into it. They work to keep it. They work to keep from being swindled. They work to make it possible to pass it down to generation after generation after generation. Their ability to make more millions on top of what they already have boils down to the same kind of luck it takes to win at roulette. They spend their days betting on stocks and bonds and businesses to which they owe little or no sweat. To call that work is an insult to the working class.

They never clean a toilet or dig a latrine. They don't have to paint the eaves or clean out the basement. They don't rake their own leaves or dig their own weeds. They are mostly leeches on society, grabbing up most of the profit for themselves. The only value they give to our society is in the wealth they allow to be used to finance businesses...the bricks and mortar kind.

When we prospered, back in the 50s, the rich were taxed at 90 percent. Politicians knew that most rich people would never have to pay that rate. But they also knew that if you allowed them to park their money in high yield bonds and low risk derivatives, they would be absolutely happy to sit on their millions. That high tax rate pushed money into the markets. In order to avoid the tax man, the rich invested in charities and businesses. And boy oh boy did we prosper!

Most people have never read a single book on economics. I read three this year. All of them outline the following simple reason for high taxes on the rich:

If I am rich, I have a large amount of disposable income. Most middle class people have nearly none. Disposable income generates demand. Demand generates middle class prosperity and healthy tax collections. When disposable income is concentrated at the top as it is now, the markets starve. Demand is low because one man holding a hundred million dollars cannot possibly spend his disposable income. But if ten thousand people hold that same hundred million dollars, chances are excellent that they will spend a great percentage of it. They will be able to fix their cars and put insulation in their attics, or go to a movie or buy a new TV. They will generate demand. They will stimulate job acquisition.

Rich people are no more frugal than you or I. They just have no need to spend their cash as a percentage of income. So giving them tax breaks will only exaserbate the problem. Giving them tax breaks will tie up even more money that is never spent.

So now that you understand the great Republican lie, let's compare that with the great Christian makeover.

Why do you think most Catholic Churches have stopped preaching sermons about the pitfalls of wealth? Whe don't they follow the example set by Jesus and pillory the rich? Could it be because their most important benefactors are rich? Could it be that the collection plate dictates the political stand of the Church?

So they give Jesus a makeover and strip him of his anti-wealth, anti-violence message. They pray to Jesus to make them victorious in war. They pray to Jesus to help them nail that next commission check. They hobnob with the wealthy and flatter them. And the wealthy start believing that they do it all by themselves. They dip into the corporate coffers and scoop up the lion's share of the profits.

Michael Moore makes his point in this way: Imagine a large room with a hundred people standing around waiting to be fed. Everyone is very hungry and hasn't eaten in days. A man walks in with a large pie cut into 100 pieces. One of the hungry men walks up to the pie and takes 99 pieces for himself, leaving 1 piece for the other 99 people. That is how capitalism works in this country. And without the help of the Christians, it would never fly. Christians have forsaken the most important message of their great Savior. They have embraced greed and forsaken generosity.

“But that's just business!” they will say. That may well be...but Jesus was specific about this one and today's Christians are diametrically opposed to his message. There is a way to make capitalism a more egalitarian pursuit. But reforming it will be impossible until conservative Christians turn back to Jesus and accept his philosophy.

I'm not holding my breath.

Before long I was flying regularly. But I had so many mechanical problems that I was never truly comfortable in the air. My muffler broke off in mid air on one occasion. The prop was sheered and pieces of it flew through the wing making a nice neat hole. I simply turned toward the field and landed gently. I became an expert at sudden engine loss. Eventually it became so expensive that I had to quit the sport. But there were lots of great moments soaring through the air.

One day I was flying as the kids came home on a big bus. I flew down close to them and waved as they got off the bus. I don't know who was more thrilled, them or me! I will never forget that feeling. It was a warm spring afternoon just before dusk. The sun was setting and the shadows were long. There were geese flying close by. I took the para-glider high over the field and cut the engine so that I could coast slowly down without any noise. The wind whistled over the wing and I could hear children playing beneath me. Life just doesn't get any better than that. I sure hope God was with me that day. If not, he missed a helluva ride.

One Sunday morning, on one of my last flights, I flew over to the farm of one of my friends who had been injured in a para-glider incident. Although he had been paralyzed from the neck down, he was what they called high functioning. As I flew low and close to his house, he came outside and looked up at me. I waved, tilted my wing and circled over and over. Then I left with a great big lump in my throat. God was right there. I am sure.

You might have heard of people who consider certain activities to be their version of church. For me, flying was church. It was far more spiritual than any church. It allowed me to enjoy living and nature and the goodness of God. The kind of somber prayers that the Catholic Church advocates is absolutely useless to me. God is not the dour overlord depicted by Catholics. There are very few things of which I am absolutely sure. But that is one of them. Those journeys into the skies nurtured my soul in a way that no prayer could. And God was as close to me then as he has ever been.

Many Catholics are aware of this basic truth. Unfortunately, most of them are fallen Catholics. That is a shame; a tragic misunderstanding of the true nature of God. Note to Catholic Bishops and the Pope: if prayer is a chore, it ain't a prayer.

I strongly disagree with the idiotic idea that you should make yourself uncomfortable by kneeling and rattle off a bunch of stuff that bores both you and God. You are NOT praying. You are eager to finish and you are saying the words as quickly as possible and as you “pray” you are thinking of everything from your sore back to the cupcake you ate for lunch. I say again, THIS IS NOT PRAYER.

And one more thing. I have never met a cleric of any sect or religious affiliation that had a clue about the true nature of God. For those bozos to be passing out advice to the rest of us is a great irony. Fortunately, I have met many priests and nuns like Father Breen, my pastor at St. Edwards. These holy men almost make up for the thousands of clueless ones. Too bad there are so few. And if the conservative ones get there way, even fewer in the future.

If you understand why people cuss, you begin to understand why God is much bigger than the picture painted by conservatives. And if you have the chance to hitchhike, you begin to understand that we all share a great adventure as we trudge along. God truly must be endless.

Here is what hitchhiking taught me.

God is the embodiment of the eternal and endless and timeless universe. The universe is endless and therefore has no center. Try to wrap your mind around that. Think about it. If the space we call the universe (billions of galaxies created by the big bang) is really only a tiny cloud separated by trillions of light years from the next large mass of stars, then who's to say there aren't millions more spread out endlessly? Even so, there is an irresistible thirst within us to find out just how far it goes. That is the most important part of God. That is what propels the human race. It is that sense of insatiable exploration that sustains us. It is, in my lowly opinion, the only truly immortal part of the universe and therefore, the only truly immortal part of God. God simply could not exist without us. He created us just as we created him. But neither of us could possibly exist without the other. So if you want to know which came first, you are asking the wrong question.

This is the cosmic God I yearn to know. He is much more interesting than the human God that Catholics invented. I'll admit that he is not the personal chum Christians want to believe in. But I also believe that if he exists, he has no more compassion for us than the wind has for a bird. He is as impersonal as the tide but every bit as constant.

Chapter 8: God toys with me

When I was a para-glider pilot, I learned to respect the wind. It lifted me and cradled me and soothed my body as it propelled me through space. Sport flying was the greatest personal adventure I ever experienced. It made me hyper-sensitive to the laws of wind and gravity. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same moment. It brought me closer to God than at any moment in my life.

The urge to fly bit me a few years ago. Fortunately, my wife supported me and encouraged me. I cannot adequately describe the fever that came over me when I realized that it was possible for me to fly out of a field with a light wing. I had always dreamed about flying in some small craft at a very low altitude and a very low speed. Flying in any kind of aircraft other than a para-glider is much too fast. Even a powered hang-glider moves too fast. Only a para-glider gives you the sensation of flying with the birds. At a maximum speed of 12 knots, a little over 10mph, you glide with the wind. A para-glider has only one speed. If you rev the engine you cannot go faster. More power makes you climb. Less power makes you descend. If the wind is greater than 12 knots, you fly backwards, making it impossible to travel upwind.

Picture a tricycle with a parachute tied to it. The engine mounts to the back of the vehicle and the wing anchors to the frame. The wing is laid out on the ground behind the trike. The pilot straps himself in and guns the engine. As the para-glider moves forward, the wing fills with air and lifts off the ground. As the vehicle gains speed the wing lifts it off the ground. There are lots of videos on youtube that show how it works.

As a para-glider lifts into the air, it is important that it does so without swinging. If the wing is off to the side upon lift-off, the trike will sway back and forth once it is free from the ground. If it swings too much, it will deflate the wing and crash back into the ground. So it is vital that the pilot make sure the wing is centered before taking off. If the wind is rowdy, the pilot can end up being tossed about like a marionette. It is a very unsettling feeling. If a para-glider swings too much, it can deform the wing, become entangled and fall to the ground. So it is an understatement to say that flying in unpredictable wind conditions is hazardous.

My second lesson in para-gliding was on a blustery day with winds gusting periodically to 12 miles per hour. We waited for the wind to calm down before we attempted to fly. We watched the windsock and when we got a calm period we started the engine. I was very nervous about the wind conditions and so was my trainer. Somehow both of us forgot to strap me in before I left the ground. I was two hundred feet high when I discovered the mistake.

The seat belt does not keep the pilot from falling out of the para-glider. It is difficult to get out of the seat without making an effort. But the wind began to toy with me almost as soon as I realized the seat belt was unbuckled. I had only had 3 previous flights and I was still scared shitless every time I went up.

A para-glider is controlled by lanyards that attach to the wing on both sides. Pull right and you go right. Pull left and you go left. When the wind is “active” you can make the ride more tolerable by responding to wind gusts by the way you steer. A rookie pilot often over compensates and therein lies the danger. One of the first things you learn as a pilot is how to let go of the steering and trust that the lanyards will still be there when you want to reach for them. I had not been through that step. So there was no way I was going to let go in those wind conditions. I was absolutely frozen.

There I was bouncing around helplessly. Other pilots on the ground were becoming concerned as they watched my progress. My radio was one way, so I could hear but I could not speak. I could only indicate with my feet by shaking them back and forth if I was not okay. I began to shake them wildly. My trainer began to talk me down. We both knew I would have to come around and land into the wind. So I started my turn. Without a seat belt, I thought I might simply fall out of the trike. I later learned that the danger of doing that in flight was tiny. The real danger was landing without a seat belt especially when the pilot was a rookie fighting wind gusts.

As I made the turn I looked out at the ground below me and there it was. The farmer whose corn field abutted the airport had grown a message for those of us able to see it. The corn spelled out “Jesus” in neatly sculpted rows. As an atheist, the message seemed to mock me. I was not comforted by it. I was annoyed. To me, if there were a God and he was toying with me as I dangled in the air, he was a sadistic son of a bitch. It made me determined to keep my cool and land safely. I know. It is a terribly wrong minded and cynical way to look at such a sweet message.

As I lined up on the runway, the wind started tossing me. I could hear my trainer telling me to straighten up, but I was powerless to do so. I knew I was in for a bumpy landing.

As I drew closer and closer to the ground, I became more and more calm. My flying skills returned and I began to take control I set the para-glider down perfectly and slipped out of the seat. Fortunately, my wife was not aware of the dangerous situation until we talked about it later. She ran up to me and hugged me and I put on a brave front. “No problem,” I lied.

Hey Guys!  Going to Texas to shoot horse videos.  Will not be adding to the blog while I am down there.  Heavy shooting schedule.  Will be back Saturday the 15th with more hilarity and nonsense.

Cussing is absolutely harmless. It has a cultural identity. It is a bond that common workers share. It is a sign of lower class angst. I admire cussers.

Of all the cussers I have met, the one I most admire is a good buddy of mine from high school. His name is Greg Motter. Greg is one of those guys who makes no apologies. His straight forward country manner belies his deep mental acuity. He gave me my first heavy construction job carrying concrete forms. It was a brutally difficult job but I got through it because of his guidance and good-natured ribbing.

Just about every other word that comes out of Greg's mouth is a cuss word. His favorite word is motherfucker. He isn't a belligerent cusser. (As soon as my wife walks in the room he shuts it off.) He is a consistent cusser. He is a creative cusser. I have no idea why he likes me. He and I are as different as night and day. But for some odd reason, we get along. I can always ask him his opinion if I want an unfiltered comment. He does not try to ease the pain when he tells you how full of shit you are. I sometimes think he cusses to hide his innate intelligence. When you lace your philosophical statements with vulgarities, the resulting commentary sounds less truculent. Less radical. More folksy. Almost sage.

Greg and I became close friends because of his sense of adventure and my eagerness to be led. He once decided to hitchhike to Atlanta to see Corndoggie. He asked me to come along. It was the early seventies and there was a preponderance of yippies, hippies and protestors of every ilk littering the highways. It was a trendy thing to do. It was also dangerous as it ever was.

As we struck out on our journey from Louisville to Atlanta, normally a six hour car ride, I grabbed my granddaddy's fedora and a few bucks. I was trying to become a hippie. I thought Greg was not hippie enough so I suggested he stand back and let me put out my thumb.

“I look more like a hippie,” I informed him. This was hilarious to Greg as it would have been to any casual observer. My hair was only slightly longer than Greg's and the hat had a comical effect. So I can imagine what we looked like to an oncoming car.

We stood out on I-64 with our thumbs out, walking backwards. Don't ask me why we chose to walk backwards instead of standing still. I guess we realized that we may have to walk all the way if we didn't get a ride. I know. Crazy.

After about an hour of getting nowhere somebody finally picked us up and the adventure was in full swing. It was an old beaten up station wagon with a married couple of hippies. They were trying to get us to share our weed and we were trying to get them to share their weed. After about 20 minutes of hinting around we finally realized nobody had any weed. It was a very pleasant ride. Everybody seemed full of hope and exuberance. But the ride came to an end all too suddenly when our benefactors informed us that they had to make a detour.

After they let us off at the ramp, we noticed they got off and right back on at the other side of the overpass. We realized that the need to score some free dope was foremost on their minds. Who could blame them?

This time our luck was not so good. We stood there for hours until just before dark when a Volkswagon bug pulled up. I clambered into the back and Greg sat up front. The driver, Bobby, was a young man in his thirties. He was very clean and neat, something you don't often find when hitchhiking. He talked a lot. He talked a whole lot. Occasionally, Greg would look back at me and snicker.

Somehow this asshole turned the conversation to guns. Greg and I became increasingly alarmed as he pointed out how easy it would be to kill someone on the highway and drop them in the ditch. It would be years before the body could be discovered. This kind of talk was bad enough but he eventually reached over to the glove box and pulled out a revolver. I believe it was a thirty-eight.

Greg and I totally freaked out. We were too scared to say anything. But finally Greg had the balls to say what I was thinking.

“Hey man. This is freaking us out. This is way not cool,” he said.

“Let us out, man,” I blurted out.

Then Bobby started to apologize. He explained that he was worried about me sitting behind him and worried that I might grab him and try to strangle him. That was why he brought out the gun. He was actually more afraid of us than we of him. He did a good job of convincing us that he had no violent intentions but that he had never picked up hitchhikers before and he figured the gun made him safe.

This nightmare drove home the stupidity of people who carry firearms. The whole thing could have ended tragically if I had freaked out and tried to grab the gun, which definitely occurred to me.

We calmed down and decided to stay in the car with him since he was going all the way to Atlanta anyway. He kept apologizing but it didn't matter. We were totally freaked out for the rest of the drive. It was the most unpleasant and scary time I ever spent hitchhiking.

When he finally let us out close to the campus at Georgia Tech, Greg and I couldn't get out of that car fast enough. As he patted the little Volkswagon on its backside and the car rolled away, Greg said, “Adios, motherfucker.” Then he turned to me wide eyed and seriously pale. “Son of a bitch,” was all he could say.

It was quite a rush. But the fear subsided almost instantly and we began to laugh, nervously at first. Soon we were rolling in the street in pain from the waves of hilarity. We dodged a bullet and we knew it. We got exactly what we had signed up for...an adventure.

Chapter 7: The Joy of Cussing

There is certainly no more satisfying form of expression than cussing. Vulgarities bring those of us who respect the working man closer together. If you have never wielded a shovel or cut a mitered edge into a two by four you probably have no idea what it means to be a part of the working class...a cusser. But Catholics have populated the factories and sweatshops of the American workforce for decades. Their contributions to the union cause are as endemic to their culture as bingo and fish fries. And if you work hard for a living like these people, you cuss.

So let's get something straight. It ain't no goddamn sin to cuss. Any mother fucker who says it is can get up off his white fluffy ass and take me on. The fucking ten commandments say absolutely nothing about cussing. Now don't get me wrong. I don't think you should walk into church and let any fucking word fly out of your mouth. Little old ladies cannot tolerate that kind of talk. It is not okay to cuss around grandma. But cussing is like Neosporin. It soothes and cleanses.

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

Bullshit. The language police were alive and doing well in Biblical times. It won't surprise you to know I cannot exempt Moses from my theory of embellishment. Just imagine how easy it would be for a story about Moses staring at fire embers to be turned into the burning bush story. I just don't buy the ten commandments and neither did Jesus. He boiled them down to just two.

If I want to say a few well placed goddammits, nobody is gonna tell me it's a sin. When I say goddammit it is no more blasphemous than saying motherfucker. In fact, it is far less offensive than motherfucker. There is nothing vain about my use of that phrase. And it is never intended as a slam to God. He already knows that. All of us old school Catholics cuss all the time every day and God is right there with us. Hell, Jesus was a fucking carpenter for crying out loud. There is no more expert cusser on earth than a goddam carpenter.

Now just hold on a minute. Don't get excited. I just wanted you to take a minute to see what it was like to treat God like a friend instead of a megalomaniacal monarch. If he is friendly, he is at least as friendly as I am. Right? And if he is like my father then he loves to tell dirty jokes and make me laugh. Right? After all, who invented sex? Who invented humor?

The point I am trying to make is that the Catholic Church has done an excellent job of formalizing God to the point of turning him into something distant and condescending. And of all the stupid ideas promulgated by the Church that one is the most destructive. I treat God like a friend. I yell at him when I am mad and ask him frank questions. Why don't you? Why not put him on the grill every now and then? Hey God, would you mind paying attention to the Palestinians for a few seconds? Would it kill you to send them some guidance? Hey God, I know you are busy making Tebow's life a fucking NFL dream but would you mind helping my neighbor with her chemo treatments?

(Marijuana addition)

Later that week I went home to Louisville. Since I had sold my car to Dad to pay for my college tuition, I had to hitchhike. Just outside of Bowling Green I was picked up by an old farmer in a rickety old truck. (One of the lessons I learned about hitching a ride was that nobody in a nice car ever stops for hitchhikers. Ever.) I climbed into his truck and sat back to enjoy the ride. It was a clear winter day in January and I enjoyed watching the fields flow past the window.

Jeff was at least seventy years old. He had a scruffy white beard and dirty hands. He was a slow mover but he talked a lot. And he was a very interesting person. After we got to know one another he asked me to open up the glove box. Inside was a little baggie full of weed. He asked me to roll one for us and I obliged. As we passed it back and forth the time began to slow down and it looked to me as if he was slowing down. I glanced over at the speedometer and he was doing 45 mph. It worried me very little because it was 1979 and the speed limit was only 55 mph.

Suddenly old Jeff pulled onto an exit ramp and pulled over. “Well, this is as far as I go,” he told me. I had to get out of the truck, high as a kite, and go back to hitchhiking. The beautiful afternoon turned dark. If I knew he wasn't going far I would have passed on smoking the dope. But there I was in the middle of nowhere trying not to go paranoid.

I didn't walk far before a large tractor trailer pulled over to give me a ride. There were two men in the seat. One of them got out and motioned me to get in. I didn't like the idea of sitting between these two guys. They were rough looking. I pushed my fears aside and climbed up into the seat. We hadn't gone far before they started passing a bottle back and forth. The driver ask me to hold the steering wheel while he took a long pull. It just totally freaked me out. I began to form an exit strategy but unfortunately I had already told them I was heading for Louisville and they were going well beyond that. I resolved to hunker down and try to nap. I figured I could close my eyes and everything would get better. But no such luck. When I do dope, I have what is sometimes referred to as racing thoughts. My brain goes into overdrive.

Those two assholes kept trying to lure me into the conversation. The more they tried, the more I resisted. And the atmosphere turned sour. We bounced along for a couple of miles before the driver weaved completely out of his lane and into the fast lane. When he realized his mistake he jerked the wheel back and nearly lost control as the old truck shimmied and shook. That was all I could take.

“Let me out!” I yelled over their laughter.

“What?” the little one said.

“I said let me the fuck out of this fucking truck,” I said, trying to sound tough and confident.

They looked at each other. Then the driver said, “Alright by God. I'll stop the goddamn truck and let your sorry ass out.”

And with that, he stomped on the brakes and pulled over. I climbed out and they slammed the door and took off, cussing me as they pulled away.

My heart was beating so fast and so hard, I could barely get my breath. I watched the truck as it slowly weaved into the distance, half expecting it to stop and back up. I was so grateful when it finally disappeared over the horizon.

I began to shake. I sat down on the side of the road and put my hands over my head. I told myself to calm down. I told myself that there was nothing to be afraid of. I told myself I was just high and I would come down soon. I slowly regained composure, picked myself up and began walking again. As I walked, I looked up at the sky and said a prayer, “God, I know you and I don't get along but I sure would appreciate it if you would send me a little help right now. I am just about to lose my shit here. So please. A little help.”

Never in my life had I ever prayed for something and got an answer immediately until that day. I no sooner finished my prayer than one of my college buddies drove up and pulled over. He picked me up and took me all the way home. And I thanked God for the help.     

Capital Punishment revision

Chapter 6: Why I am against Capital Punishment

When I was about six or seven I was playing with my Erector set. I wanted to play with the motor so I reached behind my bed to plug it into the wall. I decided it would be a good idea to put my finger on one of the prongs so that I could find the hole and guide it in. Well I sure found the hole. And my finger found an electrical current running at about a hundred volts. Since I was grounded to the bed the jolt was not nearly as bad as if I had been sitting on the floor. But the charge was significant and I held on to it long enough to notice that I could not breath.

Of all the pain I can remember as a child, that was the most intense. It frightened me so badly that I immediately began to wail. I ran around trying to catch my breath as my mother tried to console me. She searched my body frantically, looking for a wound or a burn. She had no idea why I was creaming but the intensity of my cries totally unnerved her.

“What is wrong? What have you done? Calm down. Stop crying. Where are you hurt?”

“I electrocuted myself. I put my hand in the socket accidentally and it shocked me.”

That was an intense lesson. I had been warned over and over again by my mother and my grandmother. But I pretty much ignored them.

A few days later I saw an episode of Superman. Superman was my favorite show. I used to tie a towel around my neck and fly around the house with my arms outstretched, making a swishing sound like the one in the series. In this episode, Superman was rescuing an innocent man from the electric chair. At the last second, he broke through the concrete wall and put his arm between the electrodes of the main switch. Never mind that it would have made a lot more sense for him to merely stop the guard from pulling said switch. But the sparks flying around him made for a dramatic climax.

Even though I understood only the rudiments of electrical conduction, it seemed hokey to me that Superman's arm didn't conduct enough juice to send the poor man to his death. But I never let hokey crap keep me from enjoying my favorite show. But this one sat with me for a long time because I remembered the pain involved in electrocution.

I became ghoulishly mesmerized by methods of execution. As a fifth grader, I bought all the monster models. There was Frankenstein, the Mummy, the Phantom of the Opera, and all those great monsters. As each new model came out, I saved up my allowance and bought it. I spent hours carefully painting and assembling each one. But the one I remember most vividly was the guillotine model. It was an odd addition to the series because there was no Hollywood movie featuring this instrument of death. In fact, there was no other model in that series that was based on an invention instead of a character.

I was walking down the aisle looking over the car and airplane models when I first saw it. It was in a box with a lurid picture depicting the moment of execution. I was absolutely spellbound by what I saw. The prisoner is strapped to a table while standing and then rotated 90 degrees and lowered under the blade. A stock is then placed over his neck to insure a clean cut. Then the blade is dropped. There is something theatrical about that sliding table. I tried to imagine the feeling of being strapped to that device and the terror of waiting for the blade to fall. Of all the horrors I explored as a child, this one truly terrorized me. To this day, it still frightens me.

One of the little known facts of that era was recently revealed in a documentary produced by the History Channel. It seems that most of the victims of the guillotine went to their deaths quietly and with dignity. But in the later years, when it's popularity was waning there was an execution that did not go by the script. A young woman who was to be executed broke free from her tormentors and ran about the scaffold trying to get away. As she was finally subdued, she screamed and plead for her life. Her screams pierced the air as the drama played out. It was the beginning of the end of the reign of terror. The heretofore blood thirsty masses lost their taste for murder as the inhumanity of that instrument was laid bare.

To this day, I still dream about being put to death. It is almost always by electrocution. In my childhood, the dream always ended with me being led to the chair kicking and screaming. But more recently I am resigned to my end. And lately, there has been a disturbing evolution in that recurrent nightmare. Now I am part of the execution team. I am being forced to perform the task and I am powerless to stop it. It reminds me of the protest signs I have seen at executions that reads, “Don't murder in my name!”

As a child, the cruelty of capital punishment and the methods of state sponsored murder seemed incompatible with Jesus and Christianity. As an adult, well, let's just say it's one of those things fundamentalist Christians are willing to ignore. Any way you look at it, frying a man over a period of about three minutes is just barbaric. The idea that it is instantaneous has been proven false over and over again as botched electrocutions produced burned and miserable victims screaming for help. It is exceptionally cruel and unusual punishment by any standard. The fact that our Christian society tolerates it, and encourages it, shows just how primitive we are. It is nothing more than revenge. The fact that it has been rendered humane is probably the most disturbing new twist in this macabre saga. Lethal injection has made state sponsored murder seem palatable. It is ironic in the extreme.

I believe it goes against one of Christ's most important subjects. It 's called forgiveness and it is a virtue sorely lacking in the fundamentalist community. Thank God the Catholics have distinguished themselves in this field by staunchly advocating for the abolition of capital punishment. It is one of the few social issues in which the Catholic leadership has followed the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. When I see nuns and priests gathering at executions to demonstrate on behalf of the condemned I am reminded that Catholicism is still a powerful force for goodness. If more Catholics would participate in that protest we could do away with capital punishment for good.

You cannot say that you believe the teachings of Jesus and believe in capital punishment. Hypocrisy of this sort exposes fundamentalist Christians for what they are. The murder of these people, often innocent, is the worst sin of our times. America is one of the few remaining civilized countries that still resorts to this thinly veiled instrument of revenge. I have deeply held gratitude to Catholics who work every day to eliminate the scourge of capital punishment from our society.

Now please don't misunderstand me. I am not trying to say that the Bible is evil or that it has no meaning. I am trying to draw a distinction between blind faith and informed truth. One need not be a person of faith to accept the moral veracity of certain parts of the Bible. But taken as a whole it is, to say the least, lacking in credibility.

There are millions of non believers who stick to their religious affiliation for cultural reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with their sense of logic. They are the truly silent majority. They sit through hours and hours of mindless ritual, waiting for church to end so that they can pal around with their buddies. They have learned to sit quietly while the dull witted ones dominate the conversation.

If we could somehow free them up so that they could become vocal within their own communities instead of constantly acquiescing to the dull witted ones, we could spark a movement that would revolutionize religion. It would not be a new religion. It would be a renaissance within the entire religious community. Think about it, a religion that agrees with science instead of fighting with it. Think about what that would mean for progress. Think about the political ramifications if we could stop trying to go in two directions at the same time. All we need are a few Michelangelos or DaVincis to make it happen. Et voila! Synergy!

And there would be no need to destroy the Bible and the Koran. People would finally be free to accept them for what they are; beautiful allegories instead of history books. And people would be free to go back to them and find new meaning, examining them more critically. Instead of dispensing with the myth entirely, we would be placing a new meaning over it. We would actually be adding new chapters to those great books, opening them up to revision, keeping the old while evolving toward the new. The Bible would lose Leviticus and the Koran would lose Jihad. And all the stupidity wrapped in warfare would finally start to dissolve.

Think about it. For the first time in the history of civilization, the religious world would be aligned with the secular and scientific communities. Our progress would be synergistic. We would be capable of vastly more rapid evolution. Our species would thrive on logic and reason instead of myth and hucksterism. Our political systems would become more efficient as we throw aside our more primitive instincts. War would become unthinkable. The capitalist model would be free to evolve into a more compassionate system of checks and balances based on morality and fairness instead of greed greed greed.  

(Insert for section on sin)

Priest were not always celibate. In fact, there are biblical scholars whose research has cast doubt on the supposedly celibate life of Christ. And once again, people who are willing to use common sense are going to conclude that Jesus had some kind of human sexuality. To deny that would be to deny him the most important part of being human. Not surprisingly, every Christian Church of nearly every sect claims Christ to be a virgin. Let's face it. Their rules about human sexuality preclude any other possibility. So we are left to believe Jesus had no sexual encounters and no lust in his heart. Even Jimmy Carter had lust in his heart.

Okay, lets say we are willing to swallow this nonsense. What is the precedence for priestly celibacy? There were no clear and absolute rules until 306AD when the Council of Elvira created regulations regarding the unholy act of touching pee pees. So for three hundred years after the birth of Christ, it was okay to screw. To any logical, sane human being this would beg the question, “Why did they get to do it?” And why don't we? Did God suddenly decide that his representatives on earth, the priests, had to stand outside the candy store?

You can imagine what a horrible rift this might have caused within the Church. You can also imagine that with a controversy like this, popular opinion would vacillate. You would be correct.

The act of love is allowed only within the confines of marriage and only for the utilitarian purpose of procreation. So don't be having fun in bed. At the core of Henry VIII's feud with the Church was sex. He wanted to have lots of it and with whomever he wanted. When the Catholic Church said no, he picked up his concubines and executioners and formed his own evil corrupted misogynistic Church.

We can always go to Paul if we want to see a completely perverted view of human sexuality: “He that is without a wife is solicitous for the things that belong to the Lord, how he may please God. But he that is with a wife is solicitous for the things of the world, how he may please his wife: and he is divided.”

Hate to break it to you Paul, but he who is without a wife is solicitous of pussy. In fact, he who is without wife is much more free to think than he who is with wife. He who is without wife in constantly in search of that which only a wife can give.

This kind of sexual repression sort of made sense in the days before condoms. It reminds me of the aversion to pork. We now know that improperly cooked pork can cause trichinosis. So it seems fortuitous that primitive Jews made it sinful to eat pork. They had no idea why they were doing it. They just knew there was something unclean about pork. Sex is even more dangerous than pork. So it sort of makes sense that primitive people would attempt to make a set of governing principles designed to make sex safe.    

(Marijuana continued)

I was always paranoid when I smoked and I have no idea what I was thinking by smoking a jay before work but there I was staring at the mirror with a wig on my head. It was the most comical looking thing. It looked like a helmet and the bangs went around my forehead like a comb over. Hilarious. But I was so high all I could think about was what people were going to do when they saw that thing on my head. I have no idea how long I stood there staring at myself but it must have been a while because the manager came storming into the bathroom to roust me out.

There was a nice couple ready to be waited on. I asked them what they wanted. It was something simple like a couple of burgers and fries and drinks. But every time I turned around to get their order, I forgot what I was doing. I stared at the shake machine for a while then came back to them and asked them to repeat their order. In the old days, you had to remember the order and add it in your head. It was just too much.

I went to the boss and told him I had to leave. He told me he would fire me if I left. He put me on the grill, hoping I could redeem myself. But I totally screwed that up too. He walked back to the grill and told me in a very low voice that if I could survive the shift without leaving, he would not fire me. I handed him the wig. An old lady in line gasped when I took it off my head. Then I walked outside, grabbed my bike and went home to my dorm.

Nothing good ever became of me when I smoked dope. It just made me paranoid and stupid. And the paranoia often lasted for weeks. I think there is something about weed that triggers depression in some people. In fact, after one particularly nasty episode, I nearly committed suicide. In fact, I actually got into the car and drove downtown to find a building to jump off of. Fortunately, I turned back home again and slept it off.

I went to work the next day and I was scheduled to run camera for a live news feed. I prided myself in being able to set up and shoot in very little time. But this time, I just stood there and stared up at the sky, asking God to show himself to me, to give me a sign. It was snowing and the white flakes fell about me as the chief photographer watched me in astonishment. He ran around like a madman trying to get everything done so that we wouldn't miss our broadcast window. He placed the backpack on me and handed me the camera. All I had to do was point it in the right direction and hold it steady.

When we arrived back at the station he called me back to his desk and asked me if I was alright. I just stared at him. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me to go home. He looked me in the eye as if he were my father and told me he would cover for me. I was struck by his kindness.

I went home and spent a very long night with racing thoughts. But I finally fell asleep and went back to work the next day. It was the last time I ever smoked marijuana. I have never been suicidal since. For me, smoking weed is truly a mortal sin.

Insert for "SIN" section

And speaking of libido, there's no better way to enjoy casual sex than to get high before getting laid. Marijuana is one of those evil drugs we've been told to avoid. I tend to believe it does a lot more good than bad. So it must be a sin.

I still remember my first high. I was in high school. One of my best friends, code named Corndoggie, took me down into his basement and shared a joint with me. At first, there was absolutely no effect whatsoever. A few hours passed and we did another. Then Corndoggie turned on “Yes” and plugged me into the head phones. Those first few guitar pings in “Roundabout” blew me away. I had never experienced music this way. It completely filled my head. I was staring at the ceiling but I was completely unaware of any visual input. I actually saw the music. I was not hallucinating. I was imagining all the instruments as they played. My ears were able to pick out each solo and each accompaniment. It was as if I could see every player picking every note. The only thing I can compare it to is the experience of eating ice cream while high.

Corndoggie knew what to do next. Once he was sure I was high. Once he saw the stupid grin on my face and my wide reddening eyes, he slowly took the head phones off my head and said, “Come on. We're gonna get some ice cream.”

I struggled to get the phones back. (like a baby missing his bottle) But Corndoggie reassured me. Don't worry. This is gonna be better than the music. Trust me. And off we went to Dairy Queen. I don't remember how many of us crammed into his car but I do remember getting out of the car and walking up to the door at the DQ. It's an odd thing to remember but just about everyone who has ever been high can empathize. As I walked toward the door, it seemed like we were stuck in slow motion. Every step took a long time. The door just seemed miles away. I finally spoke up, “Hey, this is taking way too long,” I said. Everybody stopped and looked at me. Then they all started laughing. I started laughing. But I had no idea what was funny.

Then Tom said, “Hey Rod, if you'll go back to the car and get my jacket, I'll pay for your ice cream.”

I looked back at the car, which was probably less than 50 yards away. Then I looked back at Tom. I struggled to make a decision. Everyone waited while I thought about it.

“I don't know, Tom,” I said, as seriously as if my decision was life or death. “It's just too far.”

And bingo. Everyone fell out in a fit of laughter. I have no idea how long we stood there and laughed but it seemed like we were drawing attention to ourselves. Tom spoke up. “Look man, you have to learn not to act high when you're high. You have to be cool.”

I stopped to mull this over then I said. “What's the point of being high if you can't act high?” I asked. Then Corndoggie spoke up. “It's okay to act high when nobody can see you. But when you are in public, you have to be cool. People will stare at you.”

I turned to look around and sure enough everyone was staring at me. The people inside the Dairy Queen, the people in the parking lot, my buddies, everyone was staring at me. I suddenly became very uncomfortable. It must have been obvious because Corndoggie said, “Hey man, don't worry about it. We'll take care of you.”

By now, I imagined that every person inside the DQ was staring at us. I imagined what they might be thinking. “Those assholes are high. I'm calling the police.”

We were obviously attracting attention to ourselves. What may have looked like a few teenagers standing outside of DQ having a silly conversation became a dangerous drug conspiracy in my mind. But suddenly we were moving again. I tried to look nonchalant as we strolled up to the counter. I looked up at the menu and tried to make another difficult decision.

After ordering and trying to remain “cool,” our ice cream arrived and we walked to a booth to eat it. The musical experience was still vividly spiraling about in my head when I took the first bite. My expression must have registered the ecstatic sensation because Corndoggie looked at me and put his hand over top of his head. He raised his fingers while hinging his palm on the back of his head, sort of like a beer stein with a swivel top. The metaphor was not lost on me. It was as if the top of my head had just come off in an explosion of pleasure. “My God. This is the best ice cream I ever had in my life,” I said.

Tom was quick to chime in. “Now Rod, all you have to do is learn how to enjoy it without acting high.”

Of course! Makes perfect sense! And utterly impossible.

Later that night they brought me home and we all got out of the car to shoot the breeze. I was still high but beginning to come down. Somebody said something about a turtle and I decided to imitate a turtle. I got down on the ground and crawled around as I began to laugh. Then I flipped over and rolled around as if I was trying to right myself. We were all howling with laughter.

Unbeknownst to us, my 12 year-old sister and her best friend were watching us from the house across the street. The recreation room was ground level and the window was down to let the summer breeze flow through. They could see us clearly because we were directly underneath the street light. We heard them giggle and we stopped to look around but then we fell into laughter again for another minute or so.

That was the first and only time I ever had a good high on marijuana. Although my friends continued to enjoy it for many years, I became terribly paranoid any time I smoked. They eventually learned to pass it around me when the joint came out. They didn't want to be around me when I was paranoid. In fact, I usually turned to suicidal thoughts whenever I did a dooby. So eventually I stopped trying it, but not before I wrecked my grades and lost my job.

I had a job at Burger Queen in Bowling Green. My hair was long and the manager agreed to hire me if I would cut off my hair. I agreed to cut it off but conveniently forgot to do it for weeks. Then one day, I walked in to start my shift and the manager gave me a wig. He told me to go into the bathroom and put it on. He told me he would fire me if I didn't wear it. None of this would have been a big deal if I hadn't smoked a joint before coming in to work. So the idea of putting a dead rat on my head was almost as frightening as it was humiliating.

Now that’s what I call embellishment.  The second story is a steamy novel that would sell like hotcakes.  The first story is true.  Boring.  

What absolutely blows my mind is when you start talking with a conservative about embellishments and overt lies and they try to tell you that you are misinterpreting the scriptures.  One of my favorite embellishments is the story of Jonas and the whale.  You remember it.  Jonas is swallowed by a big fish and he lives inside of it for a couple of weeks.  Now if you talk to fundamentalists about this story they will stop you as soon as you say the word “whale.”  They point out that it was not a whale and then they launch into a diatribe about how you cannot interpret the scriptures unless you understand them.  

Now you and I know that whether Jonas was swallowed by a whale or a goldfish, the story just simply ain’t true.  It is laughably false.  It is a cartoon image with a man in a rocking chair surrounded by the ribs of the big fish building a fire so the fish will sneeze and blow him out.  Hilarious.  How on earth can people swallow this crap?  Yet people who are otherwise intelligent will argue as if their lives depend on it being literally true.  God can work miracles.  

Catholics have learned to steer clear of stories like Jonas.  They really don’t want to admit that the Bible is full of nonsense.  But they also don’t want to admit that they don’t believe every word.  It is the single most enormous bit of doublethink in the world.  Let’s be frank. This story is utter tomfoolery.  And the Bible is full of stories like this.  Most Catholics have moved on.  Why then, has the conservative leadership not purged these stories from the Catholic Bible?  

Can you say “slippery slope?”  If you get rid of Jonah, you have to get rid of Adam and Eve.  You have to let go of Lot and his curious wife.  And then what do you do with Moses and Noah?  Yep.  The slippery slope should be one of the Sacraments.  

Part 5:  Embellishment

The Bible was recounted by campfire for thousands of years before it was actually written down.  If you pass a story down from generation to generation without writing it down, you end up with a much better story than you started with.  The truth gets embellished.  

The following story is true.  

Mrs. Lochner was my third grade teacher.  I first encountered her in the hallway at Sts. Simon and Jude while I was in second grade.  I thought she was very mean.  She whipped her kids into line and barked like a drill sergeant.  But once I entered the third grade I got to know her and I loved her.  It was the first time I had a lay teacher.  I love the nuns so much.  They were always sweet to me.  Mrs. Lochner was rough as a cob.  But I loved her just as much.

One thing I noticed about the third grade.  It was strictly business.  No more laying our heads on the desk while Sister Cornelia Marie told us a story about Jesus.  No more talk of religion except during religion class.  No more discussions about what a good Catholic would do.  Lots of math drills and English lessons.  I did well.  In fact, I had perfect scores in every subject.  Mrs. Lochner said I was the only student who achieved that during her tenure.  After that, it was all downhill for me.  But I was, once again, teacher’s pet and popular with the girls.  In fact, I remember one day being chased around the playground by a bunch of girls who ran after me screaming, “Rodney!”  Yes, I peaked in the third grade.  

My true love sat next to me.  Her name was Roberta.  It was perfect, innocent puppy love.  She always wore a ponytail and she had big luscious red lips.  What a babe!  Every day Mrs. Lochner would make us exchange our spelling homework with our “neighbor.”  And every day, Roberta corrected my spelling paper and I corrected hers.  As Mrs. Lochner spelled each word aloud, Roberta and I would bob our heads to indicate that the word was properly spelled on the page in front of us.  But one day, Roberta shook her head instead of bobbing it.  I panicked.  I looked directly over at her.  A smile crept across her face and she put her finger over her mouth.  Just kidding.  


Now here’s that same story after a couple of generations of campfire retellings:

Mrs. Leadblochner was my high school teacher.  I first encountered her in the hallway at St. Judas while I was in reform school.  She was a total bitch.  She loved to whip her male students  with a two by four and barked like a drill sergeant.  But once I entered sophomore year I totally feared her fat ass.  It was the first time I had a biker for a teacher.  Her rosary was made of a Harley drive chain.  She kept it in a sack purse and used it to swipe you up side the head if you cracked wise.  She had a sick crush on me.  Once she put me on her lap in front of the whole history class and whiskered me like my dad used to.  Her beard left a big red mark on my jaw.

One thing I noticed about being in a remedial school.  It was strictly business.  No more sneaking out to the parking lot for a smoke.  No more class discussions or study time.  No more discussions about how to roll a joint.  Lots of math drills and English lessons.  I did great.  In fact, I had perfect scores in every subject.  Mrs. Leadblochner said I was the only student who achieved that during her tenure.  All I had to do was keep her stocked with heroin and life was smooth.  But I was, once again, teacher’s pet and popular with the girls.  In fact, I remember one day being chased around the garage by a bunch of bimbos who ran after me screaming, “Rodney!”  Yes, I peaked in reform school.  

My true love sat next to me.  Her name was Roberta.  She always wore a low cut halter and had the nicest ta tas you ever saw in your life.  What a babe!  Every day Mrs. Leadblochner, who was too lazy to correct our essays would make us exchange our tests with each other.  And every day, Roberta corrected mine and I corrected hers. If there was a mistake, we fixed it so Leadblocher wouldn’t know squat.  But one day, Roberta brought down the house.  Instead of fixing my paper, she acted like she had an ice cream cone.  She licked it and bit it with those enormous red lips of hers.  When she was finished, half the guys had to go to the can.  Wow.     

Part 4:  Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus was certainly no conservative.  Not by a longshot.  Jesus was a thorn in the side of his contemporary conservatives, the pharisees.  They truly hated him.  If he came back to us in this time, he would be hated by the conservatives and murdered all over again.  His message is universally radical and unequivocally liberal.  The most astounding makeover in history was the great Jesus makeover...the makeover that turned him into a conservative.  And if you listen to them, they will tell you how they did it.  

Jesus Jesus Jesus!
Go ahead brother, say his name.  Say it loud.  Tell him you love him.  That’s right.  Cause he gonna raise you up and bring you to heaven.  This is the evangelical dream.  Jesus is a rock star.  You say his name over and over again and you ignore his teachings.  You go to Church two or three times a week but you worry more about your bank account than your family.  You disobey every one of his commandments but you believe that all you have to do is declare Jesus your lord and savior and everything else will take care of itself.  Just believe, brother.  

The Jesus freaks are all about form and completely devoid of function.  They believe in believing.  They believe in confessing.  They believe in testifying.  They believe in revenge.  They believe in praising.  But they don’t believe in cussing.  And they especially do not believe that non christians can get to heaven.  

These people are the very same people Jesus attacked during his life.  They worry about all the little things.  But they ignore the big ones.  They are die hard capitalists.  They want lots of stuff.  They yell at their kids and fight with their neighbors and hate their marriages.  They hate peaceniks.  They love America.  They are proud people.  The meek better steer clear of them.  It’s their way or the highway.  They are ignorant of all religion other than their own.  They think poor people are poor because they are lazy.  But boy do they love their Jesus.  Gimme some Jesus.  Jesus is the answer.  Jesus Jesus, oh I can’t say it enough, Jesus.     

Humility, kindness, peace making, forgiveness, love, generosity...these are concepts they don’t have time for.  It’s so much easier to yell at your husband for not taking out the garbage.  It feels great criticizing your best friends new dress.  Fooling around with your secretary is something you just can’t resist.  But all you gotta do is shout out Jesus when your shallow life exposes itself to you.  Just get a quick religion high and then get back to reality.  Confess your sins and then go right back and commit them all over again.  Don’t worry, I got Jesus on my side!  

Why doesn’t it ever occur to these people that Jesus was man, not a slogan.  He was a peacenik, a humble, meek, socialistic, anti-wealth hippie who roamed the earth without a job or any ambition whatsoever.  So please, stop calling out his name.  It is disheartening to think that he would lift a finger for you while ignoring the evil that permeates this land.  

Chapter 3:  Demons

Adam and Eve have gradually evolved into metaphors.  There’s the good news.  Moderate Catholics recognize evolution.  They have learned to reconcile the Genesis story with history by relegating its passages to what can readily be described as poetry.  Even the conservative leadership of the Catholic Church is gradually coming to grips with Darwin as they did with Galileo.  

They have finally stopped demonizing science.  They are gradually coming around to the truth.  The problem starts with Adam and Eve.  Once we agree that the creation story is a lovely myth...once we realize that Adam and Eve never existed...we must make the necessary adjustment to our core beliefs.  We must admit that the Bible was an oral tradition passed down by primitive people.  (Bob’s religion is not that far off.)  Although there is wisdom and truth permeating those pages, there is also absolute idiocy.  Leviticus is rife with outrageous commandments.  A farmer who plants two different crops in the same field should be executed.  Really?  

Not only is the Genesis story a myth, it is wrong minded.  It creates a god who is petty and egotistical;  a God who creates humans and then immediately tempts them and exacts disproportionate justice upon them.  This god is seriously flawed and imperfect.   He is not worthy of worship.  But for millennia humans have been afraid to question the personality traits assigned to God by our primitive and misinformed ancestors.  Our concept of God has long been dominated by our allegiance to those woefully uneducated people...a people whose concept of God was molded by their observations of their own earthy tyrants.   

Early monarchs were the model for early gods.  They were all too human.  The early Jewish God did not escape that model.  In fact, the Greek and Roman mythologies invented gods who epitomized the passions and frailties of humankind.  It seems probable to me that early Jewish ideas about God were influenced by those myths.  

But of all the ancient stories of the Bible, the story of Abraham and Isaac is the most damning
evidence that the early authors were mistaken about God’s true nature.  

The story goes like this.  God wants Abraham to prove his faith and love.  God tells Abraham to take the life of his son, Isaac, killing him on an altar of sacrifice.  Abraham reluctantly obeys but at the last minute, God stops Abraham before the death blow.  

It reminds me of a scene in Monty Python’s “Life of Brian.”  Brian is in a line of prisoners waiting to be executed.  A man sits at a small table organizing them into different groups.  He asks each man the same question, “What is your sentence?”  Each man says, “Crucifixion,” and is told to move on to the right.  One by one, each man is told to move to the right.  When Brian arrives at the table, the bureaucrat asks, “What is your sentence?” and Brian replies, “I’m to be set free!”  with a big grin.  Without hesitation the bureaucrat says, “Move to your left.”  

Brian starts to walk away, then says, “I was just kidding.  I’m to be crucified.”      

It was the funniest line in the whole movie for me.  And now, every time I read the story of Abraham and Isaac, that line pops into my head.  Just as Abraham raises the knife to kill his beloved son, God grabs his arm and says, “Just kidding.”  And God and Abraham enjoy a good laugh.  

Jewish Rabbi Yoseph Ibn Caspi, writing in the 14th century made an observation about the story. “How could God command such a revolting thing?”  But to this day, Catholic clergy continue to preach the idea of the ultimate sacrifice; the ultimate act of faith and love.  Imagine what would happen if people were allowed to act on such nutty delusions today!  Do you see what I mean when I say that Catholics should read the Bible more critically?  

Can you imagine a priest who points out the flaws in this story from the pulpit?   Do you think such a priest would be able to speak out freely?  Well if you thought so, you would be wrong.

The old Testament God simply does not pass the smell test.  His lack of compassion, his refusal to take responsibility for his own creation, his utter lack of humility;  these are not the traits of a loving God.  My fundamentalist brother is quick to remind me that I should fear God.  I say bullshit.  I can understand why he disagrees.  Fundamentalist Christians voluntarily place themselves into a straight jacket when they try to profess the idea that every word of the Bible is literally true.  Their arguments about carbon dating are laughable to anyone who understands the process.

So instead of worrying about people who cannot differentiate between well intentioned poetry and actual historic fact, we need to move the Catholic Church into the 21st Century...even if they kick and scream all the way.  

We can do this by speaking truth to power.  But now I am getting ahead of myself again.  

I was talking about demons.  Let’s see now.  Demons.  Demons.  What other demons do I want to talk about here....hmmmm.....  Oh yeah!  Satan!  

The whole story of the angels and Satan is the most unbelievable fairy tale ever perpetrated on the faithful.  Many of the traits we now attribute to Satan came not from scriptures but from Dante’s Inferno, a piece of fiction.  It just goes to illustrate, yet again, that a juicy story passed down from generation to generation will evolve from fiction to lore and eventually to accepted fact.  If you ask the nuns or priests about all of that, you will almost always get an educated, informed answer.  The problem is this.  Those facts don’t get put into the sermons.  So Catholics go on thinking the old doctrine is Bible.  

In fact, if you had the time and the money, just about any Divinity school in America could easily disabuse you of the nonsense that has pervaded Christianity for centuries.  I once heard a Baptist preacher say he tried to forget everything he learned at Divinity school because if he tried to pass what he had learned to the congregation, he would be fired.  

Recently, Catholic seminaries across the country found a solution to the problem.  They stopped teaching the truth.  They handed control back over to the conservatives and the conservatives cleaned house.  Liberals and intellectuals were replaced with obedient ideologues.  So now the priests coming out of seminary school have no problem reconciling what they have been taught with traditional Catholic theology...and modern Catholic theology is simply ignored.

To put it succinctly, the most pernicious and dangerous demon will always be ignorance.