Monday, January 13, 2014

Bible Study







     This morning I was shopping on the Internet. Christmas is over for another year and its time to buy stuff for myself.
     A knock on the front door. Who the hell would knock on my door? I live in the middle of nowhere. It wasnt a loud cop-knock or a neighbor with the tentative lost-dog tap. This was a staccato rhythm, a series of authoritative single strokes.
     Immediately I thought, Salesman.
     As I marched to the door I glanced at my ax, which is propped nearby against the wall. Probably wont need that.
     I swung the door open to some fifty-ish guy who looked like a piece of underdone toast; bland, conservative gray suit, topcoat, glasses. He starts babbling aggressively, immediately, while holding out a book and thumbing through it.
     “Weve been talking to some of your neighbors about the bible and I would like to.
     I said, Oh shit, and slammed the door.
     I have a bible on the living room table. I could see it from where I was standing. Im reading the John Woods translation of Thomas Manns German epic novel Joseph and His Brothers. Its a reality-based re-telling of the biblical story of Joseph, Jacob, Isaac, Rachael, Zebulon, Dinah, Levi, the whole unwashed, superstitious, inbred poorly-groomed cast in a 1500 page package. I am not a bible expert, so I keep the good book next to me as Im reading so I can refer to the original tales and compare them with Manns version. Manns book is a fascinating read that will occupy a large chunk of winter.
     It was ironic, though, that for the first time in decades, I had a bible in plain view while some moron was standing at the door a few days after Christmas with a desire to rag on me about the mysteries and secrets of Christianity. There were so many things I wanted to say to my dim redeemer.
     “I read the bible, its bullshit, go away.
     “If you believe in god I cant take anything you say seriously.
     “Im an atheist and I have an ax.

     This same thing happened thirty years ago with two guys, Witnesses or Mormons, and I invited them in, poured myself a big drink of brandy, offered them the bottle, put on some loud music, Zeppelin or Black Sabbath, and told the bible-boys to sit down while I spewed obscenity laced hatred and told them that as long as they were in my house I could kill them if I wanted to.
     Alas, I no longer drink, so that specific avenue of fun has been pretty much closed off for me.

     Instead, this morning, I glanced at my ax, barked, No thanks, and slammed the door in the prophets face.
     I did not give a shit if the guy had traveled a jillion furlongs or cubits, if he had the secret to long life or if his camel was thirsty.
     Im tired of believers; crazy religious people wear me the fuck out.
     I am not spiritual but Im really devoted to my ax. Its real. Its not an imaginary disappointment invented 4,000 years ago by some goat herders who had gotten themselves in deep shit and needed a magical entity to rescue them. I can hold the ax in my hands and swing it. It has weight and I can touch it.
     How about if I went door to door preaching my beliefs and offering to show people how they could be saved?
     “This is my ax. I believe in my ax and you should, too. Can I take a few minutes of your time to show you my ax and talk about your salvation?


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