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A Performance Review

I was spit out into this bewildering world 58 years ago, and Iíve spent all that time -- every day, every single waking minute -- trying to make sense of it. Iíve come to the (somewhat late) recognition that Iíll never figure it out, never.

Iíll never fathom the reason for the pain I see around me (and feel in my heart), the human degradation I read about and see on TV, the hurt, the extreme suffering that pervades everything. I canít find a spot anywhere on this tarnished and tawdry plane where a single spark of God resides.

That makes me significantly disappointed in God. I do believe in the notion of a Godhead, if only in a "first cause" way. I guess I could be magnanimous and grant Him credit for supplying me with some sort of genetically unlabeled "hope" that all will be resolved someday; that He is sustaining me until some time in the undefined future when all the answers will be revealed. Maybe the feeling is just encoded as a will to procreate -- but Iím way beyond that horrid specter.

Iím frankly losing patience with God. (I kinda think this mode of thinking is a particularly Hebrew one Ė although Iím not myself Jewish.) I would curse God, but I donít know the proper words to use. Surely thereís a secret alphabet that deals with this task, some unique Kabala of admonitory language that can break through the messaging firewalls of Heaven. Perhaps composed only of consonants, or only of vowels. Maybe I can set a computer program to the task, and hit upon the right words by random means in the fullness of time. Only thereís not enough time to tell Him what I really think of Him. And thereís a lot Iíd like to tell Him!

Iíd like to complain about the shitty deal of having to die. Whatís with that? And -- if thatís not enough -- for the pain most people suffer when doing that particular deed.

Iíd like to complain about good people getting stomped down by bad ones -- good people that wouldnít hurt a living soul, that go about their lives with a sense of ethics, that work hard and do right. Regardless of whether they believe in You or not.

Iíd like to complain about the Earth. Where do You expect us to live, thatís not exposed to deadly earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, volcanic eruptions, droughts, floods, invasions from hordes of bugs? Wait, donít tell me -- Antarctica?

Iíd like to complain about astronomical collisions, stars going supernova, whole galaxies smushing into each other, destroying worlds, creating billions upon billions of deaths.

And disease. If I lived for a million years, I could never conceive of more deadly and innovative diseases as Youíve created.  For example, where did You ever get the idea for passing HIV from monkeys to humans? That was a real stroke of malicious genius.

Fact is, I think youíve done a piss-poor job in running Creation -- and I donít see anybody calling you on it. You ought to be ashamed. You can dick around with me like the cockroach I am, but if (as a bug) I had a middle finger, Iíd flash it at you. Yeah, maybe life is cheap in the broad spectrum of things -- but itís all weíve got right now. The will to life is the most extreme drive we possess. Isnít that what you gave us, and every other living creature on this planet? You told us that the majesty of Heaven will make all this seem like a childís dream (more like a nightmare, to me), and -- if weíre very good and believe in You Ė weíll spend eternity gladly prostrating ourselves at Your knee.

Well, let me tell You something here, Bud. Itís going to take a lot more than that idle promise to make up for the crap Youíve dealt your "prized creations".

Given all this, itís no great stretch of the imagination as to why Iím a Gnostic at my core. In the depths of their hearts, I suspect most people probably are too. The God who we know, the one whose tiny spark lives inside us, is too good and too beneficent to have created the awful reality around us.  This venom-filled world has simply got to be the lowest, most evil emanation from some twisted, perverted offspring of Yours. And You donít have a clue as to whatís going on down here now. It's past time for You to check up on whatís happening, and retake control before itís too late. Please!

Before I lose that single brain cell that still believes in You Ė or is You.

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Image "Hope" by George Frederic Watts (1885).  Notice the one single string still attached to the lyre.

 

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