God's Love

God is love. Or so I've been told. Told that by this son of a bitch that lies before me, bloated, blue and cold. God is dead. Or so Neitzche once said. Is he dead? Did he never live? Whether he lives, has lived or never was, what the fuck does that have to do with my non-belief? Why is it that I can be rude and crass and spout off dick and fart jokes with not so much as a blink of disapproval. However, one word has gotten me ostracized, yelled at, and, in some cases, downright hated! That word, if you can't guess, is Atheist.

If God is truly love, then shouldn't his followers act in a godly way and show me the love that they would expect from him? If God is truly love, then shouldn't he appreciate my skepticism and embrace me for the good deeds that I perform on the daily? Good deeds, mind you, that I do out of the goodness of my heart, not to get in God's good graces. Good deeds like opening my arms and wallet to people in need without judgement of their beliefs. Good deeds intended to help without the hope of converting these people to the ways of an atheistic life.

A friend once told me that I would never go to heaven without asking Jesus to be my savior. I asked him how he would feel if a Muslim walked through the door and said that he would Burn for eternity without accepting Mohammed. He responded that the Muslim would be wrong and he would be the one saved for all eternity. If God is truly love, then why would he let his sons and daughters suffer eternally just because they had doubts or beliefs in what their parents and grandparents and generations before believed. That is not love. So, if this is your God, then God is not love, and I only have room for love in my life.

Round One

My desk is neither cluttered nor well organized. Darth Vader's bobbling head nods in approval when I provide a satisfactory response to a client (only when I request his opinion by flicking his giant plastic helmet). My daughters eyes smile at me as they peer over the glass that no longer fits properly in the motorcycle frame my mother-in-law purchased. Photos of my guitars taunt me from behind my monitor. They remind me of what I could be doing with my time instead of waiting on a nonsensical Credit Union employee calling me to ask the same question they have asked a thousand times before.

And this is where I sit. Wondering. Hoping. Dreaming. Failing. I guess you can't call me a failure. I have a gorgeous wife, a wonderful daughter, and the ability to keep a roof over my head and food in our bellies. Why do I feel like a failure? I don't, but I do feel contained. Minutes pass by like hours as I await the next question. Will the next one challenge me? Doubtful. My only solace is the amplification in my left ear from my iPod. Although this helps get me through the day, it also teases me.

"Listen to what you could be doing if you had more time to devote." "Why aren't you on the road right now?" What the fuck? I should be. Did I make a wrong turn? Can I still find a way to follow the path? Can I escape from my cubicle? Tune in next week to find that nothing has changed...