I tried to be a good Christian this week. I didn’t laugh too loudly at my workmates vile jokes, and I avoided the seedier parts of the internet. There were probably other churchy type people just like me, shielding their self-saved souls as best they could from the exact same things. Did they feel - as I did- a bit grungy by the time Sunday rolled around?
Thus another week passes by for those trudging joyfully through the slime of humanity on their way to the Pearly Gates. I wish everything was going to be alright in the end- that I could approach that day knowing that I had done my best, and that doing my best actually counted for something. I fear that isn’t the case.
This kind of Christianity makes me wonder if Jesus isn’t building a mansion made out of itchy pink fiberglass insulation; that I get to spend eternity wearing spotless robes with too much starch while scratching out a tune on a harp. I don’t even want to know how to play a harp, for goodness sake!
I keep running into people who think that Christianity is basically about what you can and cannot do on your way to heaven. Where the hell did they get that idea? Oh… I think I just answered my own question.
I suppose a lot of us Christians have confused them too. God once promised to exchange our hearts of stone with ones that could actually beat, but it’s easier for us to remember the rules if we can chisel them into something solid.
This is my lament. A dirge for what we once called the hope for all mankind. The Christian religion.
Now if it would only lie down and die so that something… or Someone… could rise up in its place.
