Today, the party in hell that started when Jesus died on the cross continued. I imagine it to be like a fraternity party on steroids, with debauchery everywhere.
Satan laughed and the demons rejoiced. Because what they wanted had been accomplished, the death of God. As Nietzsche would write nearly 1800 years later, "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him."
They had won.
On earth, the body of Judas had been discovered, broken, with his bowels spilling out.
The rest of the disciples were in hiding, behind locked doors, afraid that they would be next. Peter drowned in shame, hearing the words in his head, "I don't know the man!" and starting every time he heard a rooster crow. Perhaps he heard that rooster crow in his nightmares.
Mary? Where was Mary? Overcome with grief and pain and heartbroken, as I would be if it were my son.
Death had come and killed God, and Satan was in the middle of throwing a party.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
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Showing posts with label death of God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death of God. Show all posts
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Friday, April 3, 2015
The day man killed God
Man killed God today.
Man, in the guise of a Roman ruler, his centurions, and people who screamed, "Crucify him!" killed God.
Man stripped him, beat him, mocked him, "hailed" him as "king".
And then man led him out to a cross.
Man watched while he stumbled along the Via Dolorosa. Some jeered him, some wept, some wailed, some didn't pay attention.
Man, in the guise of trained centurions, picked up nails--long, cruel nails--and, using a mallet, drove them, blow by blow, into skin and muscle and bone and blood vessel.
They did it three times. One for each arm, and one for both feet, crossed together.
And then they sat back and gambled while God gasped for breath, slowly suffocated, bled, and died.
And if that wasn't enough, someone rammed a spear into his side.
Then the broken body of God was picked up and carried to a borrowed tomb, wrapped in linen, and laid to rest.
The last act was the sound of a stone rolled over the entrance, then the final thud as it landed in its place.
This was the day that man killed God.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Man, in the guise of a Roman ruler, his centurions, and people who screamed, "Crucify him!" killed God.
Man stripped him, beat him, mocked him, "hailed" him as "king".
And then man led him out to a cross.
Man watched while he stumbled along the Via Dolorosa. Some jeered him, some wept, some wailed, some didn't pay attention.
Man, in the guise of trained centurions, picked up nails--long, cruel nails--and, using a mallet, drove them, blow by blow, into skin and muscle and bone and blood vessel.
They did it three times. One for each arm, and one for both feet, crossed together.
And then they sat back and gambled while God gasped for breath, slowly suffocated, bled, and died.
And if that wasn't enough, someone rammed a spear into his side.
Then the broken body of God was picked up and carried to a borrowed tomb, wrapped in linen, and laid to rest.
The last act was the sound of a stone rolled over the entrance, then the final thud as it landed in its place.
This was the day that man killed God.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
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