So, what I'm getting from this is that everyone would prefer to believe that the Gospels are lies and that Mark, Luke and Matthew are liars, since it conflicts with our beliefs in an eternal Heaven. Since all our information about Jesus comes from these Gospels, which are lies, then I suppose the fairy tale Heaven that our mothers told us about (which, incidentally, were engendered in French fairy tales and absorbed by the Catholic Church) is really the afterlife to which we all subscribe. So, maybe it's time we dumped Christianity, which is based on lies, and go back to our pagan roots, as recorded in French fairy tales.

I like what Jesus says about Heaven, as recorded by Matthew, Luke and Mark. I assume they weren't liars, so that they must have recorded Jesus correctly when he said, "Heaven and Earth will pass away." [Matthew 24:35, Luke 21:33, Mark 13:31]

Hmm? So, according to the New Testament, Heaven is not a done deal. It doesn't last forever. If that is so, we may be able to assume that Hell doesn't last forever either, but that's not the question here. There is more substantive indication that Hell may have a strong enough foundation to last forever, whereas Heaven is apparently no more than a transitory reward.

Now, if Heaven doesn't last forever, where are all those saints and other good souls going to go? Reincarnation on Earth is out because "Heaven and Earth will pass away." So, for those of you who believe in Christianity and Heaven as a final reward, be aware that the Bible tells you that you're eventually going to be evicted. Poof, you're out. Get out, and don't come back.

At some point in the foreseeable future (foreseeable, because Christ saw it), your pitiful soul is going to be kicked out of Heaven. Your so-vulnerable soul will be homeless, a wisp of personality that is going to be "all alone forever" and ever and ever. For most people, that is worse than Hell. At least, you'd have company in Hell.

Hmm?

Had not. Tell us more.

We used to have a fix. It was called the SAT, plain and simple. The highest scores got into the best colleges, lower scores into less prestigious institutions. Then, discrimination against the best qualified candidates came in (specifically aimed against white males) with extra credits given for non-academic potential. And, from there, it just went to worse, with poorly qualified professionals being credentialed so that, if it wasn't for our Asian-Americans, the US would be a third-world country.

Hmm?

Wonderful

Yes.

No.

I'd love your opinion on "Hansel in the Pot."

“...the meat?”

He opened his eyes to find himself sitting naked in a low-sided cauldron, the bottom half of him stewing in a warm sauce of melted butterscotch, along with some other odd things, including specks of wolfsbane swirling in suspension and an eye of newt floating against one side of the hammer-forged pot. Not believing he’d heard her right, not wanting to upset her by having her think he didn’t want to answer, he asked, “What?”

The witch bent her bent back so that her crone face was in his face. “How old the meat?”

With everything that had intervened seeming no more than a dream, he furrowed his brow, hardly understanding what she’d asked. Surprised, in any case, at how he’d gotten from the candy-cane bush to her kitchen in as little as the blink of an eye, he quickly glanced about, not so much to get a sense of place as to avoid gawping at the witch’s soot-lined wrinkles, wriggling under the red glow of her beady eyes, or the hairy wart at the end of her beak nose, bobbing with every raspy word, or her toothless mouth, folded in at the cheeks ~ all of which served only to accent a sallow green complexion that smelled, if not of embalming fluid, of small dead things.

High above in the empty darkness, something creaked, sounding pained, agonized. A few seconds later, it creaked again, as tortured a sound as at any time before: such anguish and suffering, so much torment, expressed in that foul and charnel air.

His heart beating faster in sympathy for the boys who had sat in the pot before, he held his breath and imagined that his voice would soon be added to theirs. Still wondering how to answer her, he settled his gaze (simply because it needed to be settled somewhere) on the crook-necked bloodhawk, tipsily balanced on its wooden perch by the fireplace. Looking at it in preference to staring into the crone’s red-glowing eyes, he let his breath out in a burst and, on the last bit of air, asked, “Me? How old...the me? Do you mean...me?”

“No, not thee. Why should it be thee?” the bird squawked from the side of the cobwebbed hearth. “You’ll find there are no candies, cookies or cake for the likes of thee here.” As if incensed by its own words, perhaps simply irritated at having to employ them in answer, it extended its ragged wings to full reach, revealing its obscene body, emaciated and worn, a stick figure covered in little more than soot-smudged down and plucked skin. With the first violent beat of its wings, it whirled up vortices in the fervid and filthy air, blowing the fire under him to higher flame, then wrapped itself once more in the cloak of its dark wings. “Certainly, not thee, ye crass and evil boy.”

Hurt by the continuing barrage of pronouncements against him, as well as wounded by the abusive tone, he caught his breath again and, without tarrying a moment longer on the bloodhawk, carried his gaze around the dark, stone-walled kitchen. Intent on finding a door or open window where he might make his escape, he counted seven padlocks on the door and three on nearly every window; in passing, he glimpsed several rough-hewn tables and chairs, a few gnarled wooden cupboards and a single blood-stained butcher block, close by the fire. Feeling heat bubbles tickle up between his toes and under his sack, he cast a wary eye around the fireplace, crackling with flames, smoking the underside of the cauldron, even as the bloodhawk continued its wild ravings:

“Ye crass and evil boy, there will never be anyone remotely like thee again, no one who can remotely relate to who thou hast become, no one on whose shoulder thou canst confess the degradations of thy sins, the foul purpose of thy life.” Then, beating its wings in fury and flurry, it cawed in a maniacal fit, seeming possessed or under assault of possession. In a moment more, it stopped its wild convulsions and contortions and, seeming to regain its senses, quietly preened a few of its feathers before stating bluntly, in an entirely other voice: “You’re a wonder, Beauby. Do you know that?”

Though that remark was vaguely familiar, even worthy of deliberation ~ at the very least, some further consideration ~ he let it escape with his breath, which he had been holding throughout the bird’s last rant. Despairing of ever getting away, he leaned back and, looking up the dark hollow of the chimney, saw clouds scudding across the moonlit sky...far up, too far up, much too far up for ‘a little boy.’ When Amaga leaned forward, hard by his face, obviously waiting for an answer, he shrugged his shoulders to show he hadn’t understood what she meant then waited with drawn mouth and staring eyes for her to tell him exactly what she expected from such an odd question.

Instead, Amaga began to sway her stooped shoulders left and right, at first mulling the hang of his earlobe then inspecting every ridge in his ear from every random angle, all the while muttering inaudibly. Having satisfied her curiosity regarding his ears, she then pondered the depression at the nape of his neck, this time bobbing her beaked nose up and down while calculating a meticulously thorough mnemonic as to whether such a depression in his character might negatively impact her skills, particularly those related to soothsaying. Finally, done with that, though not fully convinced of his worth, she tilted her head to and fro, by now grumbling loud enough for him to hear the noise (but not loud enough for him to understand the words) about the wretched thickness of his skin over the meager muscle of his arms.

“One of a kind,” the bloodhawk called from the side of the hearth, employing that other and kinder voice, “You’re one of a kind, Beauby.”

Grateful for the change in the bird’s tone (though he questioned the note of kindness, having yet to place the voice within memory, seeming to hold conflicting emotions regarding the warmth in those words, the familiarity of family, the intimacy of individuals), he watched the witch salivate a long string of spittle down her chin into the bubbling butterscotch before returning his gaze onto the bird, though he still concentrated his attention on the witch. Sure what she was thinking, having heard the stories and shivered at the gruesome details, he folded his arms over his chest; what’s more, he pulled his knees up closer and rested the side of his face against his knees.

“It hasn’t been easy, Beauby,” the bloodhawk said in that woman’s voice. “I know how you feel about Marc; but he isn’t often around. He goes off and leaves me alone. You know he does.”

Looking out from the fireplace towards the ceiling, he saw lean and hungry rats peering down at him from the open crossbeams. Piercing the darkness beyond, he glimpsed the roughly adzed rafters which had been creaking (and were still creaking every few seconds) under a roof of soot-encrusted planks ~ shoddily fitted together at best, no more than a frame. Within the space of that same glance, he watched globular melts drip from the cotton-candy thatch through those gaps. Carrying his gaze back down as those drips plinked and plopped in accompaniment to the bloodhawk’s wild ravings, he watched the pink splotches soak into the tamped earthen floor.

“You don’t understand,” the creature continued in a voice grown softer still and more persuasive, issuing from the smudge of a dirty reality that clung dream-like to his mind. “Marc was a virile man. I married him because he was a virile man.”

Growing uncomfortably warm in the pot, the toddler squirmed his butt onto the other cheek before noticing that earlier splatters from the roof had already shriveled in the dry heat (or were shriveling still) across the various vials, beakers and bottles crowded on the tops of her makeshift furniture, with every flat surface packed haphazardly tight with the ingredients and instruments of her trade.

“The meat!” the witch fairly screamed, losing patience. “How old the meat?”

He shot his head up. “I’m three,” he blurted, venturing an answer, any answer.

The pupils of her eyes reflecting the flames, none of the orange and all of the red, Amaga cackled in glee and rubbed the back of her hand against her wrinkled cheek. “So young. So fresh.” She reached into the cauldron and, pulling his knees apart, stared at his risen penis. “So big. So full.”

“I’m three,” he repeated, hearing the childish reproach in his voice.

Why thank you. So freedom of expression is still a part of American freedoms or, at least, one person still thinks so. Thanks again.

Yeah, I know. You're preaching to the choir. I'm more of a gnostic myself.

Also, at the Nicean Council, any gospel that did not jibe with the Roman view of the world was not allowed into the new bible. So Thomas' gospel and Mary's gospel, among many others, were left out. These were actual witnesses to events, as opposed to the gospels that were allowed into the bible.

The Coptics to this day practice a sort of Christianity closer to what Joshua bel Miriam (not Jesus Christ, since Christ is not a surname) preached during the Roman days. And, of course, none of the gospels that are in the bible were written by the apostles, as so many people think. They were written by people who had never known Jesus except through the stories they heard, so not first-hand information, just hearsay codified.

Glad to know you weren't trampling on someone's sacred ground.

Why do you leave out the "i" when writing Christ or Christian or Christianity? Are you trying to be offensive?

I suspect one of the reasons is that colleges don't open as many doors for white males anymore, as they do for everybody else. In fact, try getting a dishwashing job if you're starving but your prospective employer finds you have a college degree. Not going to happen. That was the excuse that was repeatedly given to me: "Over-qualified."

Ask all those white firemen candidates with scores over 90 on their physical, written and oral examinations who, everyday, are being bypassed because the minority candidate is given a "free" 20-point advantage. Does that make you feel safer in your home when the fire alarm goes off? How about when you're in the hospital for surgery, and you find your doctor is an affirmative action graduate, meaning he's been rated higher than he should have all along because of these grading requirements.

So, why aren't white males going to college? Because older white males like me tell them not to waste their time. Why lose four or more years of your life in school, when it only creates a roadblock for you later on. There's more money to be made in going rogue. That's what Bill Gates realized and why he went into business right away. Like he said: "F**k a college education. I'll be so rich I'll buy guys like you with college educations."

Well, ladies, if I remind you of TS and you miss TS, then join me on "Begin to Change," a topic begun by SeaKolony in the philosophical/political realm. My point there is unconventional to say the least.

Discrimination against white males is fine. I'm all for it. I am a white male, and for the longest time I had a hard time trying to get any job for which I was more qualified than my competition. I couldn't understand why the job openings kept stating "Affirmative Action" yet were bypassing highly qualified individuals for low-level applicants. Then, I found that affirmative action was reverse discrimination. "White males need not apply." Well, what do you know?

So, instead of being able to get these government jobs, such as teaching and counseling (for which I had studied and trained and invested every nickle and dime I could scrape from every menial job I could get), I found that the know-nothing (barely able to string two words together) basketball jock I'd graduated with had gotten the position of English teacher. Wow. Affirmative Action in action.

As a result, in order not to starve, I entered another world for which I was not prepared. It was dog eat dog. And I adapted, and I rose in the business community by fighting every step of the way, sometimes licking my wounds, more often gorging on the carcass of a competitor. And then one day, while driving in my Mercedes to work, I spotted that basketball English teacher emptying trash cans outside a restaurant.

You see, he didn't have to fight for what he got; and so, he didn't value what was given to him. And he lost everything. If I can generalize for a moment, white males are being forced to fight harder and harder, which makes us stronger. Nobody gives us anything; and we don't ask for anything. If we can't dramatically improve the bottom line for some corporation, they can us and take the government tax credit for hiring a woman or a minority in our place. So, we work harder, and we succeed.

Who is forcing us to fight harder, even in the face of blatant injustice? Why, the white male establishment, of course, the old guys in Congress and the Supreme Court, all those old KKK types who realized this was the only way to toughen the race. After all, "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger." Pass out the government cheese, boys. Let our welfare state force feed the lazy until they're all fat and complacent.

And, that's why I'm for Affirmative Action. It worked for me.

Even with a lawyer's eye, I can't disagree with any of that. Very evolved thinking. You've managed to change the trajectory of this Jesus rocket, just so slightly. Thank you

Oh, OK

Would you have a look at my post "Women are Whack" for your opinion. I do value your opinion, otherwise I wouldn't ask.