Saturday, November 26, 2011

Christianity: Essentially a cult based around human sacrifice?

Jesus died for our sins. He was beaten, ridiculed, tortured, stabbed and left to die nailed to a couple of planks of wood in the blazing sun of a middle eastern desert. All for us.

Thanks Jesus.

It was really pretty typical of the primitive cultures of the time. The Mayans were sacrificing people to their gods, the primitive Celts loved a bit of human sacrifice, or so we're led to believe. The Romans sacrificed anything and everything to their Pantheon of gods.

The only real difference is that the bible claims that Jesus was god. And also a man.

Let's think about this for a minute. Jesus is the son of God but he also is God.

God is all powerful, all knowing and all seeing. He has a plan for us all and yet still allows us free will, that's how great he is. He can do two completely opposite things at the same time. Wow.

Jesus is a man who feels pain, love, betrayal, abandonment, loneliness and probably a welter of conflicting and changing emotions. Like all of us, except Chuck Norris, who just feels well prepared, all the time. But, and here's the problem, he's also God and therefore feels no fear, pain, despair, lust, and presumably doesn't get that annoying itch from healing sunburn. A paradox? Not for God!

Think about him up on that cross, supposedly suffering. He's not really, is he? He's God; he knows he isn't going to die. He knows he can't go to hell or oblivion. He has planned this all along. He's going to come back to life in a couple of days time, put in a couple of guest star appearances and then bugger off back to his opulent retirement in heaven. Which, by definition, is the best place you can be. He not suffering he's laughing. Like the guy on the cross next to Brian in the famous Monty Python film, he was probably laughing and singing. 

As far as I can see (assuming that it's not all just bullshit of course) the whole thing with the cross, the crown of thorns, the spear and the sun burn was nothing more than cheap theatricality designed to impress the primitive, unwashed, uneducated peasantry of the time.

Suffer? He's God, he can't suffer.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Last Will and Testament

As some of you may know I'm off to Spain tomorrow to partake in the mildly dangerous, and Aussie backpacker infested, San Fermin Bull Run. Just in case I should be too slow, stupid, reckless or unlucky to survive, I have prepared this, probably not legally binding, document:

Dear friends and relatives. Thank you for taking the time to read this, my last will and testament. I don’t know if I’ve been gored or trampled to death, or maybe a bit of both, but hopefully it wasn’t too horrific for my Mum. I know she will be upset anyway but it’ll be probably be slightly worse if I’ve been maimed in some hideous way or lingered, suffering for several hours before my eventual demise. I think my Dad will be OK, he’s always been a rock when the really big disasters have struck over the years. I know they will be thinking I was extremely stupid and irresponsible for taking part in such a dangerous event in the first place. It is essentially a relic of medieval times. Back in those days a couple of people dying a messy, violent death was a pretty regular occurrence. It was probably just a bit of laugh. I’m not laughing now!

I don’t have much stuff to leave, certainly nothing that anyone will want. I don’t really have anything worth any money and haven’t been a big collector of antiques or anything. My flatmate Anna-Marie, who’s just said she’ll be ‘so disappointed to see me back’ can still have my laptop, despite that comment which was hopefully a joke. Any money I have can go towards the transport of my remains back to the UK. I doubt my travel insurance covers me for recklessly endangering myself. Hopefully they can just cremate me on the spot and stick my ashes in a flask or something. Then they can just post them back or Trev can carry them. Unless of course he is killed in a valiant attempt to throw himself between me and the raging bulls. This is the practical option because I don’t think EU regulations would allow my first choice of funeral. To be put on a Viking longboat style craft with a load of wood and maybe a few fireworks, being sailed out to sea and set alight. It certainly makes more sense than transporting ten stone or so of rotting meat half way across Europe. When the ashes get back to Larne I want them scattered on the Antrim plateau. Make sure you check the wind direction; you probably don’t want any Big Lebowski type accidents.

If anyone feels compelled to have some sort of memorial service only genuine friends and family are allowed to attend. If you don’t give a shit that I’m dead please don’t come out of obligation or to represent your family. If you are just coming for the free booze and a bit of a party, that’s fine. If there must be speeches then they have to be either funny, short or heart breakingly eloquent. I’d prefer honesty but amusing lies would be acceptable. If you plan to make a reference to any sort of afterlife, you’d better be willing to present some very convincing experimental evidence to back up what you’re saying. I’m probably not looking down, or up at you, like some invisible peeping tom, analysing and, usually, if you believe the speeches, approving of your actions. What’s left of me is hopefully, if my previous instructions have been followed, drifting gently on the breeze or being digested by some unfortunate sheep. Ministers are not welcome unless they’re relatives. I don’t care what songs you play because I can’t hear them. However as it’s my memorial I’d like to think you’d play stuff I that I liked. If anyone wants to drink Jager bombs and dance to The Jackson Five, I’d really appreciate that. I mean I appreciate it in advance now as, of course, when I’m dead I won’t know anything about it. Please don’t wear suits, I never liked wearing a suit and always thought at work it was sexual discrimination. I mean, women can get away with wearing any old crap but I have to wear a shirt and sometimes even a tie. Gentlemen, loud colourful shirts please and don’t be embarrassed to wear pink. The ladies can, of course, wear whatever they want because who’d going to tell them they can’t?

I think that’s about it. Sorry again for being dumb enough to get myself killed. If I’ve made any plans with anyone, I’m going to have to cancel. I’ve sort if rushed this a bit as I only thought if it a couple of days ago and I always was a terrible procrastinator. It’s a pity I didn’t put off my trip to Spain for a couple of more years though. If you are looking for anyone to blame then have a go at Trevor Whittaker. It was all his idea. No point in blaming the poor bull, he’s burgers.

If it so happens that I make it back alive, and I hope that I do, then this still stands until I write something to replace it.