Awake in bed early this morning, a copy of the New York Times in hand, I was getting increasingly distressed reading about the case that I just wrote about in the previous post: that of Abdul Rahman’s conversion to Christianity, and the hysteria surrounding it.
After all, this is a serious subject. People everywhere are treating it seriously, and rightly so; from the leader of the free world to that of a recently freed portion of it, from the Pope to the Mullahs, and from the blogsters that form my virtual intellectual classroom, to the college students who people my real ones.
But seriousness, as that great prophet of immorality once put it, is nothing but the sign of indigestion and bad metabolism. And of all things, especially seriousness about a subject like this one. Religion. God. What God? Which God? The Right God, or the wrong God? The one that we know, or the one that belongs to them?
I fell asleep reading the story in the paper. Early morning sleep while I should be in class: what joyful abandon! Whoever said that anything was better than twilight sleep? Especially prostration with an aching back before an unbeknownst and contradictory semitic fantasy…
I woke up later to the sound of my radio alarm, and fittingly, a female voice was singing:
What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger in the bus
Trying to make his way home…