It’s me, Moses. Yeah, I know; you haven’t really heard from me since the condolence card in 33 A.D. What can I say? I’ve been busy.
Somebody‘s got to enforce a basic moral code on society. Yeah, yeah, your material’s okay, but to be honest, I was never that big a fan of it. Do unto others? Come on man, you know as well as I do that only works in gradeschool, and maybe swinger parties. I mean, you put a bunch of perverts in a room together, the golden rule is going to leave them a hell of a lot of leeway for sinning.
Look, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t write this letter to bust your balls about whether or not “turning the other cheek” would work against a gang of angry and disenfranchised Puerto Ricans. It wouldn’t. That’s not the point.
I guess it’s the time of year that sort of gets to me. I mean, every year it’s the same thing. Here’s my big moment to shine. Passover. Freeing the slaves; freeing my people from bondage. Shit, I’m like Abe Lincoln, only thirty-two hundred years earlier and with a way more kickass beard. In retrospect, it’s lucky his mother named him Abraham, and not Moses, or I totally could have sued his ass.
Anyway, here I am…geared up to see some Angel of Death action, gettin’ out the lamb’s blood, got my big staff ready to split me some sea, and boom. You fly in on your rocket-powered cross, arms spread out like a rock idol, oozing with victimization. There’s not a dry eye in the house. And just when you got ’em, you rise from the dead. I gotta give it to you, Lamb of God, it´s a big, big show. But damn, you know? What’s a guy supposed to do? I mean, rivers of blood, locusts, boils, frogs hopping all over the place. Shit, it’s raining fucking fire. The production values are through the roof, but a couple of planks of wood, some nails and a loincloth, and you got them all spellbound. I don’t get it. Continue reading ‘An Open Letter to Jesus’