The collapse has come and gone. “He” never came back, but hope and pride won’t fess up to the fact—so the ever extending goal posts. Christianity is so far removed from its roots it can’t even dig one up. Buried in a wash of now speculative jargon, still looking for what was an obvious, imminent prediction forever prolonged under the hubris of hopeful generations. Is it that hard to admit they were wrong? Fooled? Maybe read too much in to it? It’s fundamental precepts have dissipated into the stratosphere—of longing. Reveling in what might have been, the big promise of the hero’s return is just too tempting to let go.
We are now in a world where belief has no utility. No ritual, no improvements, but only words masking the wishful’s true behavior. Every believer is on the same diverge in the yellow wood, following the road most traveled by and marked in the sod like an old wagon trail, seeking an ideal that brings peace and eternal life—a promise that no man can resist.
Islam is the last hope, where they still have the stomach to do things that no man cares for—kill things to appease God.
Western man has now turned to machines to do their killing, far removed from that distaste the moment they have the opportunity. Barely even able to kill their own food while those that do often ritualize it and thank their god for the life they’ve taken. Religions have moved on from blood sacrifice to the sacrifice of personal growth—for no greater purpose than self deprecation.
The goalposts have shifted and stretched from generation to generation. The failed prophecies have been too numerous to measure, but hey, who really cares? That, would be some kind of evidence. The beginning of the end—again.
Like balking a-top the high dive, it’s time for bungee-jeesus to come down from the cross.
Can we really and truly believe, or can we only decide to pretend to believe. Deciding to believe a non-ordinary, supernatural delusion is a choice, which makes it a charade of pretense mixed with hope.