Mona’s Monologue from Chapter Eight

Sometimes I think of God as this little man sitting on this café patio somewhere, bewildered at how it’s all gotten so out of his control. He had such good intentions, but everything he made had a mind of its own and, right from the first, he found himself unable to contain their conflicting impulses. He tried to create paradise, but he soon discovered that free will and paradise were incompatible because everybody had a different idea as to what paradise should be like.

But usually when I think of him, I think of a cat : a little mysterious, a little aloof, never coming when he’s called. And in my mind, God’s always a he. The bible makes it pretty clear that man are the doers; women can only be virgins or whores. In God’s eyes, we can only exist somewhere in between the two Marys, the mother of Jesus and the Magdalene.

What kind of religion is that? What kind of religion ignores the rights of half the world’s population just because they’re supposed tpo have envy instead of a penis? One run by men. The strong, the brave, the true. The old boys’ club that wrote the book and made the laws.

I’d like to find him and ask him, « Is that it, God? Did we really get cloned from a rib and because we’re hand-me-downs, you don’t think we’ve got what it takes to be strong and brave and true? »

My life as a bird, Charles De Lint.


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