Listening to the radio should be an interesting and entertaining business. We're blessed, here in our green little country, to have the publicly-funded Radio New Zealand. It's a superb service, run by excellent broadcasters.
If you're one of my overseas readers, you can find Radio New Zealand International on the short-wave band.. or here, on the 'Net. http://www.radionz.co.nz/national
But early this morning I wasn't listening to Radio New Zealand. I was listening to a "Christian" station. I put the descriptor in quotes, because I generally find that the intolerance spouted by Christians would surely disqualify them from that status if the person whose name they have adopted were to hear their rantings.
Today, for instance, some American chappy was blithering on about the US military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, which is how that establishment has uncomfortably accommodate gay personnel.
The "Christian's" POV was such that the Bible says that all "Hommerseckshills" are abominations in the sigt of the lord, and should be, at best, put to death.
He made passing swipes at witches, midgets, commernists, and socialists... but his main thrust was agin' the hoe-moes.
He's entitled to his opinion, and it's terrific that he lives in a country that gives him the freedom to publicly utter his blasphemies. It's terrific that he'd be able to broadcast his filth if he lived in New Zealand.
But he seems to be a trifle confused. because he was also ranting on about the loving, omnipotence, and infallibility of his god, who, he said, made us all. Including, presumably, hommerseckshills, commernists, witches, short people, people born with a hare-lip, or no sight or hearing.
If his god made these people, then surely - if this god is perfect, omnipotent, and loving - then there wouldn't be any gay people? Or very short, one-limbed, blind and deaf gay people who choose to follow Wicca or a dead German instead of an African desert-inspired war-god philosophy?
But apparently the birth and creation of these people sneaks past the all-seeing, all-loving, all-powerful god. My opinion? God fell asleep on the job a few hundred millennia ago, and became totally irrelevant to the world.
Reading: Still on Christian Cameron's "Tyrant".
Listening to: Well, the Radio.
Showing posts with label god-botherers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label god-botherers. Show all posts
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Sunday Scribbles XVII
The annual stuff-fest is underway. The time of year when you see and meet the best that's in people, and the worst that's in people. I despise Christmas. If it was a religious festival, I wouldn't mind so much. Hang on - it is a religious festival. Duh! The religion beinng the worship of stuff. How much crap is going to change hands this year? Billions of dollars will be spent. How much of that crap is actually going to be worth anything? 5%? 10%?
They say that it's for the children. Actually, it's for the retailers, and their businesses. This is the month many retail businesses do up to a half of their annual turnover. That's OK: there's nothing wrong with a person making a living. But let's not kid ourselves that Christmas has any other focus than that of acquiring stuff.
Leaping to God's defence. The news, a couple of days ago, that an atheist organisation was fund-raising to put some ads on a fewe buses was welcome. The ads are to say something like "God probably doesn't exist.. so stop worrying, and get out and have some fun". A fine sentiment. The reaction to the news was immediate, and predictable: god-botherers leaping to the defence of their omnipotent and all-knowing deity - as if he (yes, I'll stick with the masculine pronoun. It's how god is seen by his patrician creators. So I'll be polite.) actually needed defending. I would have thought that if he was almightily annoyed by atheists, he would have been getting in a few smitings by now. He didn't, so therefore he either doesn't need the defence of humans, or he doesn't care a rat's ass, or he doesn't exist.
If he does exist, he must be sorely disappointed by the level of argument that has been put up by his corner. The Bible says he exists, and the Bible was written by god, so therefore... That was a goody, and nearly convinced me. Right.
Actually, I feel the reactions (on Stuff.co.nz) from the god botherers demonstrated that god definitley doesn't exist. If he did, then he would have made sure his defenders at least knew how to spell and punctuate. It was obvious that most followers of god were, at best, semi-literate.
Probably. A lot were concerned by the use of the word "probably", and crowed mightily that atheists wouldn't just come out and say "God doesn't exist". Atheists should never come right out and say that, because such a statement is an act of faith, not of fact. It is almost impossible to prove a negative. And, as many atheists' non-belief is powered by a scientific point of view, they can't state categorically that there is no god, because it can't be proven. But a quiet stroll through the gardens of reason and clear thinking will demonstrate that god probaly doesn't exist. We can be 99.999% certain, but never 100% certain. Christians would rather be boiled in oil than have it proven that god doesn't exist.
The atheists were also castigated by their anti-christian statement. This, of course, is chauvinism, and subsequently utter tosh. The statement isn't anti-christian : it's anti-god. The whole judeo-christian-moslem god structure is built on sand. Any god will do: he just probably ain't there.
Listening to: Steppenwolf, "At Your Birthday Party". Great 1960s rock. Really great.
Reading: John Connolly, "The Gates". More on that later.
Word of the Day: Probably. A word that demonstrates the open-mindednessof scientists, the world's most valuable people. Give me a scientist over a theologist any time.
More Rats:
“Aye, Grampa. You did me a good deed that day.”
“But did I, boy? Did I?” the old man was earnest, and troubled. “Your parents weren’t of the Friends. They were good solid Methodists, God rest their souls. I was a friend of your Dad’s, but they didn’t really approve of me, with my Quaker ways.”
“I don’t know, old man. “ Arthur steadied himself for a moment. He looked down at his hands, still grimy from the day’s labour. He was confused, and stammered on. “You gave me a home, guidance, and love when I needed it. I am who I have become, and I’m happy with it. You taught me that killing is wrong, that to make war is stupid. As it happens, I have applied my mighty intellect against your arguments,” and he flashed a quick grin at the old man, “and I find no fault. No, sir. This morning was annoying because I brought shame to you, and for that I apologise.”
“No embarrassment, no apologies,” Grampa Smith’s voice was brisk. “Although you were a damn’ fool. You handed that blasted Weatherby exactly what he needed. But we’ll need to keep an eye on young Tim. Did you see how eager he seemed?”
The Old Man questioned himself severely every night, as he lay in his lonely bed. He cared for the boy deeply, and had treated him with great kindness. Arthur had wanted for little as he grew. He had schooled well. He was bright, inquisitive, his mind a diamond-bright darting minnow that ferreted after the truth. The old man had followed the Society of Friends’ teaching – as he understood and remembered them – since his childhood. There had been no fellowship of Friends at Northridge, but the old man enjoyed his own council, and studied the Scriptures every day.
They say that it's for the children. Actually, it's for the retailers, and their businesses. This is the month many retail businesses do up to a half of their annual turnover. That's OK: there's nothing wrong with a person making a living. But let's not kid ourselves that Christmas has any other focus than that of acquiring stuff.
Leaping to God's defence. The news, a couple of days ago, that an atheist organisation was fund-raising to put some ads on a fewe buses was welcome. The ads are to say something like "God probably doesn't exist.. so stop worrying, and get out and have some fun". A fine sentiment. The reaction to the news was immediate, and predictable: god-botherers leaping to the defence of their omnipotent and all-knowing deity - as if he (yes, I'll stick with the masculine pronoun. It's how god is seen by his patrician creators. So I'll be polite.) actually needed defending. I would have thought that if he was almightily annoyed by atheists, he would have been getting in a few smitings by now. He didn't, so therefore he either doesn't need the defence of humans, or he doesn't care a rat's ass, or he doesn't exist.
If he does exist, he must be sorely disappointed by the level of argument that has been put up by his corner. The Bible says he exists, and the Bible was written by god, so therefore... That was a goody, and nearly convinced me. Right.
Actually, I feel the reactions (on Stuff.co.nz) from the god botherers demonstrated that god definitley doesn't exist. If he did, then he would have made sure his defenders at least knew how to spell and punctuate. It was obvious that most followers of god were, at best, semi-literate.
Probably. A lot were concerned by the use of the word "probably", and crowed mightily that atheists wouldn't just come out and say "God doesn't exist". Atheists should never come right out and say that, because such a statement is an act of faith, not of fact. It is almost impossible to prove a negative. And, as many atheists' non-belief is powered by a scientific point of view, they can't state categorically that there is no god, because it can't be proven. But a quiet stroll through the gardens of reason and clear thinking will demonstrate that god probaly doesn't exist. We can be 99.999% certain, but never 100% certain. Christians would rather be boiled in oil than have it proven that god doesn't exist.
The atheists were also castigated by their anti-christian statement. This, of course, is chauvinism, and subsequently utter tosh. The statement isn't anti-christian : it's anti-god. The whole judeo-christian-moslem god structure is built on sand. Any god will do: he just probably ain't there.
Listening to: Steppenwolf, "At Your Birthday Party". Great 1960s rock. Really great.
Reading: John Connolly, "The Gates". More on that later.
Word of the Day: Probably. A word that demonstrates the open-mindednessof scientists, the world's most valuable people. Give me a scientist over a theologist any time.
More Rats:
“Aye, Grampa. You did me a good deed that day.”
“But did I, boy? Did I?” the old man was earnest, and troubled. “Your parents weren’t of the Friends. They were good solid Methodists, God rest their souls. I was a friend of your Dad’s, but they didn’t really approve of me, with my Quaker ways.”
“I don’t know, old man. “ Arthur steadied himself for a moment. He looked down at his hands, still grimy from the day’s labour. He was confused, and stammered on. “You gave me a home, guidance, and love when I needed it. I am who I have become, and I’m happy with it. You taught me that killing is wrong, that to make war is stupid. As it happens, I have applied my mighty intellect against your arguments,” and he flashed a quick grin at the old man, “and I find no fault. No, sir. This morning was annoying because I brought shame to you, and for that I apologise.”
“No embarrassment, no apologies,” Grampa Smith’s voice was brisk. “Although you were a damn’ fool. You handed that blasted Weatherby exactly what he needed. But we’ll need to keep an eye on young Tim. Did you see how eager he seemed?”
The Old Man questioned himself severely every night, as he lay in his lonely bed. He cared for the boy deeply, and had treated him with great kindness. Arthur had wanted for little as he grew. He had schooled well. He was bright, inquisitive, his mind a diamond-bright darting minnow that ferreted after the truth. The old man had followed the Society of Friends’ teaching – as he understood and remembered them – since his childhood. There had been no fellowship of Friends at Northridge, but the old man enjoyed his own council, and studied the Scriptures every day.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Promissory Notes
To go along with my rant the other day about the chap who found it necessary to have a car-sticker proclaiming his love for his wife, I was also intrigued by something else I saw while on the road.
The road’s a funny place. I’m out and about a few streets these days, and I do perceive that our quiet suburbia is, in fact, a seething cauldron of frustration, small ambitions, and despair.
The sign that I saw was a reflection of all the above. It was an exhortation to men who were “promise keepers” to come to a meeting to proclaim their unity in being godly chaps who kept their word to their spouses.
I’m always tempted to write “spice” instead of “spouses”. The rodent example, of course, but I do feel that every relationship could do with a bit more spice in it.
On topic, now. Promise-keepers. My heart fell when I saw the sign, more because someone has seen the need to remind men that they need to behave as though their word is their bond. It should, of course, go without saying. But why men? Why not… men and women? My understanding is that the divorce rate has been sitting at around 50% for some time now: decades, certainly. And I cannot believe that men are the cause of all that grief. I know for a fact that women cheat on their partners, almost as much as men cheat on theirs.
Society as a whole is doing its best to beat sexism to death. It’s a big job, but it has to happen. But let's not forget that it's a two-lane highway. The god-botherers are the ones hitting at the men these days: a nasty, small-minded result of taking on the mantle of guilt from the sexual and feminist revolutions. Yes, men have / had a lot to answer for. Our behaviour, looked at in today’s light, was appalling. But I think it’s about time we stopped paying for the sins of our fathers, and of our own pasts. It’s time we stopped holding one half of society up as a Nasty Bad Baddy, and started looking at what we can all do together.
People should be “promise keepers”. Not just men.
READING: The Jonathan Littell book. It’s very good, and very disturbing.
LISTENING TO: Damien Rice, “9”. Many thanks to Phil O’Neill, a true gentleman, who introduced me to this startling music-maker.
WORD OF THE DAY: Honour.
More Moana, yay!
There were two world-shaking events happening that day: the Spingboks were playing Taranaki, and the heir to the throne, Charles, the Prince of Wales, was marrying Diana Spencer.
I picked up the phone, called Mum, and told her I could take her Pledging, after all. She was thrilled, and had completely forgotten about our falling out. When I got off the phone I found that Treen had made arrangements with her father to go to the Club with him. I gave her The Look, too. And watched it fall to the floor, totally disarmed and destroyed.
Then I thought. And hatched a plan. The Wedding Party was going to be a little bigger than I had immediately imagined. This was going to be a day to remember.
Chapter Three.
There were still a couple of hours of morning left,so I got busy. I nipped out and took Mum to the Church, promising to pick her up in a couple of hours. She was good, although I'm not sure she hadn't been at the sherry before putting on her make-up. She looked like a cheap copy of Barbara Cartland – which, given that BC is Diana Spencer's god-mother seemed right for the day. I told Mum my Big Plan, and she was terribly excited about it, insisting she had to be there. And no, I didn't tell her about the pregnancy. I wanted the father to know before her, just this once.
When I got home I whipped up a batch of cheese scones, and muttered quiet “bugger” or two to myself because the Self Help supermarket was a: in Kaweka, and b: closed. It was a Saturday, after all. And I needed dates. Never mind. I got Treen to run down to the dairy and buy a pound, then I got her to make a sticky-date pudding. I hooked a dozen or so sausages out of the freezer, and set them aside to thaw.
I know that this all sounds like I was some sort of domestic goddess, but I wasn't then, and I'm not now. All four of us took turns cooking, washing, and we all pitch in to clean the house - and the D9 bulldozer. Let's face it, they both cost about the same. Also, at the time, I was doing some long-distance study, trying to get my Master's degree. It took me four hard years, but I got it.
While the heat was on in the kitchen, Chutty and Useless were down the back of the yard, pruning the apple and apricot trees. There's just a half dozen trees, so it was less than an hour's work, and Chutty was cheerful when he came in to the Kitchen. He threw himself at the Lazy Boy chair, and grinned at me. “So, Mo: what's the Big Secret, then?”
“What do you mean, Big Secret?” Ours is a family that regularly and often talks in Capital Letters. You can see them, like smoke, when we have a conversation. It's more apparent on debate night – sorry, Debate Night. Debate Night's a bit of a movable feast. It depends entirely on what other obligations we have as a family, and as individuals. At least once every fortnight we get together over the dinner table to, well, to talk. The rules are simple: every one of us is to bring at least one topic to the table, the discussion on each topic to last no more than twenty minutes, and each person's opinions and questions are to be treated seriously. If any one of us doesn't have an opinion, she or he can pass. Simple. Through Debate Night we've learned more about ourselves, self-respect, respect for others, and the world than just about anything else we do together.
I'm the one who's been to University. I'm supposedly the one who has been taught to think. Debate Night was Chutty's idea, which gives you an indication about where the brains and wisdom reside in our home.
Chutty grinned his grin at me, and I felt that warm glow at the pit of my belly. He's still got it. I don't do flustered very well. Never have, and certainly not then. “Has that boy been opening his mouth when he shouldn't?” I asked, sweetly. A carnation plant next door withered with the vinegar in my voice. Chutty remained blasé. “Not only Useless, but Treen, too. Said you had something important to tell me. So, come on. Give.” He was having fun here. He had me backed into a corner, and he knew it. I made my eyes little slits, and glared at him through my lashes. My mind froze,completely. Nothing was working. I had tried everything, My arsenal was empty. For a moment, I was tempted to just come out with it, but, frankly, I had laid my plans, and I was going to stick to them.
“It's a surprise,” I said.
“I gathered that,” he replied. Damn.
“And surprises,” I said, desperately ad libbing, “are best delivered when the surpriser dictates, not the surprisee.”
“And what the hell does that mean?” he asked. Fair enough. Now I had to think of an answer.
“WAS,” I said. Such wit.
“WAS?”
“W. A. S. Wait And See. I have a plan,” I said, “and I will not allow my plans to be interfered with by meddling husbands who should know better.”
“Well, how long will I have to wait, then?”
The road’s a funny place. I’m out and about a few streets these days, and I do perceive that our quiet suburbia is, in fact, a seething cauldron of frustration, small ambitions, and despair.
The sign that I saw was a reflection of all the above. It was an exhortation to men who were “promise keepers” to come to a meeting to proclaim their unity in being godly chaps who kept their word to their spouses.
I’m always tempted to write “spice” instead of “spouses”. The rodent example, of course, but I do feel that every relationship could do with a bit more spice in it.
On topic, now. Promise-keepers. My heart fell when I saw the sign, more because someone has seen the need to remind men that they need to behave as though their word is their bond. It should, of course, go without saying. But why men? Why not… men and women? My understanding is that the divorce rate has been sitting at around 50% for some time now: decades, certainly. And I cannot believe that men are the cause of all that grief. I know for a fact that women cheat on their partners, almost as much as men cheat on theirs.
Society as a whole is doing its best to beat sexism to death. It’s a big job, but it has to happen. But let's not forget that it's a two-lane highway. The god-botherers are the ones hitting at the men these days: a nasty, small-minded result of taking on the mantle of guilt from the sexual and feminist revolutions. Yes, men have / had a lot to answer for. Our behaviour, looked at in today’s light, was appalling. But I think it’s about time we stopped paying for the sins of our fathers, and of our own pasts. It’s time we stopped holding one half of society up as a Nasty Bad Baddy, and started looking at what we can all do together.
People should be “promise keepers”. Not just men.
READING: The Jonathan Littell book. It’s very good, and very disturbing.
LISTENING TO: Damien Rice, “9”. Many thanks to Phil O’Neill, a true gentleman, who introduced me to this startling music-maker.
WORD OF THE DAY: Honour.
More Moana, yay!
There were two world-shaking events happening that day: the Spingboks were playing Taranaki, and the heir to the throne, Charles, the Prince of Wales, was marrying Diana Spencer.
I picked up the phone, called Mum, and told her I could take her Pledging, after all. She was thrilled, and had completely forgotten about our falling out. When I got off the phone I found that Treen had made arrangements with her father to go to the Club with him. I gave her The Look, too. And watched it fall to the floor, totally disarmed and destroyed.
Then I thought. And hatched a plan. The Wedding Party was going to be a little bigger than I had immediately imagined. This was going to be a day to remember.
Chapter Three.
There were still a couple of hours of morning left,so I got busy. I nipped out and took Mum to the Church, promising to pick her up in a couple of hours. She was good, although I'm not sure she hadn't been at the sherry before putting on her make-up. She looked like a cheap copy of Barbara Cartland – which, given that BC is Diana Spencer's god-mother seemed right for the day. I told Mum my Big Plan, and she was terribly excited about it, insisting she had to be there. And no, I didn't tell her about the pregnancy. I wanted the father to know before her, just this once.
When I got home I whipped up a batch of cheese scones, and muttered quiet “bugger” or two to myself because the Self Help supermarket was a: in Kaweka, and b: closed. It was a Saturday, after all. And I needed dates. Never mind. I got Treen to run down to the dairy and buy a pound, then I got her to make a sticky-date pudding. I hooked a dozen or so sausages out of the freezer, and set them aside to thaw.
I know that this all sounds like I was some sort of domestic goddess, but I wasn't then, and I'm not now. All four of us took turns cooking, washing, and we all pitch in to clean the house - and the D9 bulldozer. Let's face it, they both cost about the same. Also, at the time, I was doing some long-distance study, trying to get my Master's degree. It took me four hard years, but I got it.
While the heat was on in the kitchen, Chutty and Useless were down the back of the yard, pruning the apple and apricot trees. There's just a half dozen trees, so it was less than an hour's work, and Chutty was cheerful when he came in to the Kitchen. He threw himself at the Lazy Boy chair, and grinned at me. “So, Mo: what's the Big Secret, then?”
“What do you mean, Big Secret?” Ours is a family that regularly and often talks in Capital Letters. You can see them, like smoke, when we have a conversation. It's more apparent on debate night – sorry, Debate Night. Debate Night's a bit of a movable feast. It depends entirely on what other obligations we have as a family, and as individuals. At least once every fortnight we get together over the dinner table to, well, to talk. The rules are simple: every one of us is to bring at least one topic to the table, the discussion on each topic to last no more than twenty minutes, and each person's opinions and questions are to be treated seriously. If any one of us doesn't have an opinion, she or he can pass. Simple. Through Debate Night we've learned more about ourselves, self-respect, respect for others, and the world than just about anything else we do together.
I'm the one who's been to University. I'm supposedly the one who has been taught to think. Debate Night was Chutty's idea, which gives you an indication about where the brains and wisdom reside in our home.
Chutty grinned his grin at me, and I felt that warm glow at the pit of my belly. He's still got it. I don't do flustered very well. Never have, and certainly not then. “Has that boy been opening his mouth when he shouldn't?” I asked, sweetly. A carnation plant next door withered with the vinegar in my voice. Chutty remained blasé. “Not only Useless, but Treen, too. Said you had something important to tell me. So, come on. Give.” He was having fun here. He had me backed into a corner, and he knew it. I made my eyes little slits, and glared at him through my lashes. My mind froze,completely. Nothing was working. I had tried everything, My arsenal was empty. For a moment, I was tempted to just come out with it, but, frankly, I had laid my plans, and I was going to stick to them.
“It's a surprise,” I said.
“I gathered that,” he replied. Damn.
“And surprises,” I said, desperately ad libbing, “are best delivered when the surpriser dictates, not the surprisee.”
“And what the hell does that mean?” he asked. Fair enough. Now I had to think of an answer.
“WAS,” I said. Such wit.
“WAS?”
“W. A. S. Wait And See. I have a plan,” I said, “and I will not allow my plans to be interfered with by meddling husbands who should know better.”
“Well, how long will I have to wait, then?”
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