We are given no miraculous signs; no prophets are left, and none of us knows how long this will be.(Psalm 74:9)

There’s a lot of activity around here. Lots of relevancy. Lots of hipness. Lots of building building. Lots of conferencing. Lots of book publishing. Lots of critical study. Lots of strategizing. Lots of retooling, rethinking, researching, restating, reconceptualizing, re-evaluating, revisioning, remarketing, redundancy—in fact, just about every “re” imaginable except the “vival” kind.

Not that this is bad. Nobody liked the prophets anyway. They were pains in the ass. Frumping around with their wet-blanket jabber. Boils on the butt, pure and simple. They sure could ruin a party. Glad they’re gone. We don’t want that kind of religion anymore anyway; the primal scream thing never did play well among the élite. Maybe in the hills of West Virginia, but not here, thank God.

And now that we’ve nailed down the reasonableness of the God thing, we don’t really need the supernatural anymore either. Don’t really want it. Anything inexplicable would jeopardize the system. Be embarrassing too, all that whoo whoo falderal and fiddle dee dee. Christianity’s too important to be held hostage by the unpredictable. So its predictable absence is a nice deal. Keeps things respectable.

You can’t really trust God, though. He’s been known to throw a monkey wrench into the works just for fun. And knowing how much he enjoys fiddling around with stuff, there’s a good chance he’s got a trick or two up his billowy sleeve. But there’s always hope that he’s lost interest.

At this point, however, there doesn’t seem much to worry about. The dead stay comfortably dead; the sick take medicine; the lame get titanium hips; the deaf learn sign language, and the poor collect welfare checks. The rest of us listen to sermons about the good life, green technology, and the spiritual themes of R-rated movies.

Is there life after death? Of course. This is it.


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