"Three in the prize of one: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit."
"The Pearly Gates Pizza Perfetto: choose the teachings you like and enjoy! Don't forget to spread the word to all your mates!!!"
The God that Christians believe in is schizophrenic, not only physically but mentally as well. There are people out there who consider the Bible to be the word of their God, His genuine and perfect will. Whatever is written in the Bible is correct. All Christians who believe this of the Bible must therefore be either schizophrenics or ignorant. The so-called Good Book is full of paradoxes. God gives the Ten Commandments and strikes down the Tower of Babel giving people numerous languages so they can no longer co-operate (and did a good job at that, I might add). Love your enemies but throw women to men to be raped to death to protect your male guests ("but hey, women aren't me enemies, they're me servants; I mean, you're not gonna tell me to bugger off if I sell some other piece of furniture, are ya?").
I am a perfect Christian. I cite the Scripture and the lines that fit my view of the world and then preach my truth even–or perhaps especially- to those who don't want to hear it.
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"I hate God. I hate whatever made this world, I hate whatever made the human race, made men like Caliban possible and situations like this possible.
If there is a God he's a great loathsome spider in the darkness.
He cannot be good.
This pain, this terrible seeing-through that is in me now. It wasn't necessary. It is all pain, and it buys nothing. Gives birth to nothing.
All in vain. All wasted.
The older the world becomes, the more obvious it is. The bomb and the tortures in Algeria and the starving babies in the Congo. It gets bigger and darker.
More and more suffering for more and more. And more and more in vain.
It's as if the lights have fused. I'm here in the black truth.
God is impotent. He can't love us. He hates us because he can't love us.
All the meanness and the selfishness and the lies.
People won't admit it, they're too busy grabbing to see that the lights have fused. They can't see the darkness and the spiderface beyond and the great web of it all. That there's always this if you scratch at the surface of happiness and goodness.
The black and the black and the black.
-- It's as if I can't feel any more. I see, but I can't feel.
Oh God if there is a God.
I hate beyond hate."
From "The Collector" by John Fowles.
