I really do believe in god. Okay, maybe I don’t believe in the fairy-tale version of god as Santa Claus who dispenses favors and wishes from his magic throne in the sky, but I do believe that this universe created itself along with everything in it, which certainly denotes the possibility of intelligence, and I believe that there is a spiritual aspect to our lives about which we understand very little.
I have a good relationship with my spiritual side, one that is full of wonder and discovery and that brings me happiness. It is not threatened by D&D or Harry Potter or Scientologists or gay marriage. Democrats are not seeking to lure me into hell, nor are thong bikinis, Pro-Rights advocates, the internet, World of Warcraft and my Playstation, or even equal pay for women. When I look at the crazy-sounding Moral Majority I sit back and think “What is wrong with these people? How scary is their world?” But the longer I contemplate it, the more I am drawn to a simple yet inescapable conclusion. There can only be one reason my soul is not under constant attack from all influences not approved by Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson while the souls of others must endure constant battle for righteousness.
My soul isn’t worth as much as theirs.
God-fearing, upright, Christian souls taste better, are less filling, and drive 33% farther between refills. They are better-looking, lower-fat, will make your teeth whiter and never leave you with that not-so-fresh feeling. Christian souls are faster, stronger, better than before, and in case the point wasn’t getting driven home, they are for a certainty better than mine.
My soul is showing wear. A little ratty around the edges, some dirt stains that’ll never completely come out. The sole of my soul has holes in it from all the distances we’ve travelled together. It’s like a well-worn and much-loved sneaker. It means a lot to me, it is comfortable and familiar, but other people think I ought to pitch it and get some Jordans. I see that as similar to the curse of having a really awesome car stereo. It sounds great, but you only get to listen to it for short periods of time when you should really be concentrating on something else, and any time you’re out of the car, you’re always worried about someone stealing it. I don’t need Jordans. I don’t play basketball anyway.
I am in fact quite content with my discount, bargain-bin soul. I like that the world doesn’t scare me the way it does those with the big, shiny, expensive souls. When I die and move on from this world, I don’t need to join the chorus of the billions of other souls in heaven who must stand for all of eternity singing about how cool the dude on the magic throne is. I’ll be down the street, in the apartment over the bakery, drawing cartoons and listening to oldies on your stolen car stereo.
A Scholarly Discusson on this Subject.
<object width=”320″ height=”245″><param name=”movie” value=”http://www.youtube.com/v/vZjC1vw2nSY”></param><param name=”wmode” value=”transparent”></param><embed src=”http://www.youtube.com/v/vZjC1vw2nSY” type=”application/x-shockwave-flash” wmode=”transparent” width=”320″ height=”245″></embed></object>