A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven (4 page)

I
HAVE
THE
SAME
BIZARRE
DREAM
EVERY
NIGHT
.

I am some sort of lone adventurer, standing at the edge of a mountain, gazing at a cave high up on a long precipice. I check my gear, which for some reason has a lot of weapons in it, including a harpoon gun (with necessary cable attached), rope, grappling hook, base-jumping parachute, and a backpack to keep it all in. I climb the side of the rock face, skillfully seeking purchase with knowledge I have never displayed before, until I finally reach the cave’s mouth. Deftly, I pull a tiny flashlight from my utility belt and survey the deep blackness before proceeding forward.

I make my way through the caverns until I come upon what appears to be a massive subterranean hall, bigger than the main hall at Grand Central Station. I seem to be looking for something specific; there are several sets of train tracks and mining cars for transporting precious ores or coal in various areas of the underground hall. Just as I am wondering if it is still considered underground when you are high inside a mountain, the first screams shatter the silence like a glass chalice in the winter cold.

From every shadowy corner of the darkness, hundreds of beastly zombies spill into the light of my torch like a plague of locusts, cackling and spitting venom as they scatter and storm in my direction, sensing a threat and responding on instinct to the intruder’s presence. But apparently I was prepared for this, because I immediately pull two Beretta 9 mills out of my side holsters and begin to fire with patience and accuracy. I empty the clips and eject them, swiftly sticking them into special holsters on my hips that will reload them as I pull two other guns (.357 Magnums) from shoulder slings to keep firing. When those are empty, I reach for the Berettas again. There are so many of these creatures that I know I cannot get them all. I am calm, though—there is a plan. All I need to do is get to one of the mining cars. I know I can escape and get to where I need to go.

Firing for headshots, I race toward the tracks I need and jump in. The monsters try to grab at me, but I kick them away and get the car rolling down and away. The tracks lead across a giant chasm in the mountain, toward a tunnel that plunges into more darkness. But the place I am heading for is a small opening carved into the rock, far below. It looks like a door of some kind, and light billows from it like a shock of color on a dark night. So I grab my harpoon gun in one hand and the parachute in the other and propel myself into the air, tossing the silk back behind me while firing the harpoon gun, aiming at the wall closest to the door on the other side. The harpoon sticks into the granite, and I pull myself toward it with the rope attached, floating and moving as one, until I reach the doorway. Firelight illuminates my entry, and I step into the brightness and rub my eyes. I have made it; I fought my way through dangerous caverns and ungodly zombies to be here. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then a voice yells, “Wipe your feet before you come in here!”

I know—it is a strange yet continuously awesome dream. It is filled with monsters, guns, caves, stunts, and a strange voice concerned with the cleanliness of a mountain hideaway. It has no basis in reality, it really tells no story, and to my knowledge has no real ending. Maybe I should sit and write it all down someday and see where it goes . . . oh shit, I think I just started to. You might be wondering why I have included this weird nocturnal adventure in this chapter. Well, let’s see: no basis in reality, fantastic and unsupported claims, outlandish creatures, and an unseen person telling you what to do. Am I the only one thinking it feels a whole lot like religion?

If you have not noticed, I have never been a huge fan of organized religion and all of its minions. But it is not for a lot of the reasons you would think: the god thing, angels and shit, or Jesus and his magical fruit punch trick while walking across ponds. It is not that I am specifically against monotheism—I think the Greeks and Egyptians were fucking hilarious too. My main disagreement, apart from the mythology, is how divisive it makes every single person around the world. It seems like nothing makes a difference; if you do not have a problem with the other guy’s god, you have a problem with his interpretation of god’s word, even if it is the exact same god. We have been killing each other “in his name” ever since his was the only name left on the list—that is, depending on what language your list is in. It is utterly ridiculous. You think believing in ghosts is ludicrous? Try having a serious conversation about Noah and his weird cruise ship. The only distinctions between cults and religions are better PR strategies and about a million followers.

I will say that America has a better grasp on how organized faith can be manipulated and developed for better entertainment and distraction. Certainly, various countries and civilizations have spawned several important sects over the aeons of our existence. Northern Europeans have kept their Norse and Germanic paganism alive with the adoption of Asatru. China has given the world Taoism and Confucianism. India has produced Hindus, Buddhists, and Sikhs. Japan has Shinto, and the Middle East spawned Islam. Israel gave us Judaism and Christianity. But as far and varied as these theologies are, America has the patent on taking basic ideas and making them weirder and more fucked up.

Mormons, Hare Krishna, Scientologists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Christian Scientists, Seventh-Day Adventists, Satanists (or LeVayans)—from the Chopra Center to the Nation of Islam (an American invention), from Baptists to Wiccans, America takes faith and injects it with hell fire, bullshit, and good old-fashioned special effects. But one thing is for sure: for as many new doctrines as we churn out for the lunch rush, we still make sure not one of these gets along with another—or anybody else for that matter.

For a concept that is supposed to be inclusive, open, and understanding in its unconditional love, religion really does breed its share of maniacal, bigoted, prejudiced, and unscrupulous bastards, doesn’t it? I know more atheists than zealots, and I can tell you the only things we argue about are which albums best sum up heavy metal. I mean, we as humans are always going to have a difference of opinion. My feeling is that religion only exacerbates our already individual positions.

Do not get me wrong—that is not to say there are not some atheists who are more thoroughly over the top than the righteous. Every sect has its balderdash, and nonbelievers can be just as unyielding as their spiritual doppelgängers. For atheists, nothing exists without true-blue proof, even if that includes life on other planets or our topic at hand: the existence of ghosts. But at least they can be reasonable from time to time if you can break it down on a one-on-one level. But the Right? The Flock? They are just not having it.

Then there are the little things that set me off about the whole pious situation, the undisclosed scar tissue that permeates the underbelly of my memories. In fact, let me tell you about the last time I went to Sunday-morning church. Mind you, the only reason I looked forward to mornings at Peace Lutheran was the promise of fried chicken that immediately followed Sunday service. When you are young, it is not really your choice, is it? But to be honest, there was a time when I looked forward to those Sundays because my grandmother took me, and she has always been my rock, my source of stability. So I joined her for prayer time (and the fried chicken).

But the older I got, the more I asked questions. I suppose this is what Catholics would refer to as “the crisis of faith.” I mean, none of it made sense to me. Even as a child, the thought of an ancient, invisible stalker watching everything we do and keeping eternal records of such deeds was not only unbelievable but fucking terrifying to me. If you think about it, God does not watch over us; he fucking haunts us. In a way he is the original paranormal activity or, at the very weirdest, the OG John Hinckley.

Anyway, after a while I checked out spiritually and intellectually. I went to church to hang with my Grams and capitalize on the KFC clause. But I think she could tell I was not exactly emotionally invested in “the well-being of my immortal soul.” She kept it to herself for the most part, even when I started sneaking in a Walkman to listen to my Metallica and Slayer albums. She had wanted me to go to Sunday school, which I did for a time, but no one in the classes wanted anything to do with me, including the assistant pastor who led the studies. Plus, I despised dressing up—still do to this day. Whenever I put on what is considered “formal attire,” I always feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. There is nothing worse than walking around with the idea that you raided your Uncle Vernon’s wardrobe. Oh, and why does God need you up and in the pews that damn early? During the school year I was basically wiping my ass with valuable weekend time. I do not know about you, but Saturday and Sunday are for doing fuck-all, not for freezing your ass off in a building with terrible circulation that smells like an opium den.

On my last day doing time in the holy holding pen I was sitting next to my Grams, waiting patiently for the end of the sermon. Distractedly, I pulled my headphones out of my jacket, and blocking its view from my grandmother, I snuck them to one side of my head so I could listen to Iron Maiden. I had just reached the end of side one (it was a cassette tape—tells you how long ago it was) when I looked up and realized the preacher had stopped talking. He and everyone around me were staring at me, including Grams, who had the look of breaking a few commandments in her eyes. I was kind of nervous. Why the hell were they looking at me? I was not doing shit! I was just biding my time until I could get out of those clothes and into a three-piece dinner with mash and gravy.

The congregation slowly went back to what they were doing. My grandmother, however, was not through with me, not by a long shot, as she was embarrassed by whatever I had done. She did not say a word; she just reached one hand over and slowly dug all four long fingernails into my forearm, immediately drawing my eyes to her and what she was about to say. My Grams is not a violent woman, but when she is in a foul mood, she can throw murder with her eyes. When she was sure she had my undivided attention, she leaned in close, paused, and whispered simply, “The next time you find it necessary to listen to your music here, maybe you should keep yourself from singing out loud.” She held her nails there until she felt like she had made her point, then released.

Of course I felt terrible. The last thing I ever wanted to do in my life was disappoint my Grams. But I could not lie to myself anymore either: I was not, by any stretch of the imagination, cut out to be a holy-rolling churchgoer. We never discussed it, but the next Sunday when she went to Peace Lutheran, I remained in bed at home. With the exception of marriages and funerals, that was the last time I set foot in church of my own free will. My life as a fully formed heretic was underway. The one bummer was that if I still wanted fried chicken, I was going to have to get a job.

Let me tell you my biggest bitch about man and his God: when His name is invoked, it is almost guaranteed to create bullshit. Man and God start wars. Man and God fight advances in medicine, science, and other understandings of the universe. Man and God fight common sense with ignorance when it comes to politics, freedom, welfare, and safety. Man and God are doomed to explore the future with nothing more than dogmatic myths designed at a time when people still believed our health could be affected by curses and that leeches could drain the “bad blood” from our bodies, making us well. This is the so-called wisdom of the righteous. The problem is that religions are not updated; they are running on software that makes floppy discs look like time machines. The Christian bible, with all its flaws, is so out of sync with the modern world that if it were a different book entirely, people would scoff at any quoted passage or murmured anecdote. The same goes for any of the other tomes that lie at the center of the world’s religions. The faithful languish in pure ridiculous stupidity, cribbing notes from their “textbooks” wherever it suits them, regardless of context or relevance.

Look, I know why religions were created—or at least I can make a fairly educated guess why people would reach for truth in fantasies. For all intents and purposes, I like the fact that gods were invented to explain things we did not understand, like the stars, volcanoes, and the weather. After we were savvy enough to start putting the pieces together ourselves, I know why the purpose of the gods changed to reflect how we treat each other: some of us needed guidance, or at least some sort of consequences for our actions. We as people were still too unrefined to understand how to exist together peaceably. We thrived when the rules were laid out, so I get that.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to personally cash your reality check.

It is now 2013. I am here to tell you that if you still need a guidebook that was written when people were still trying to marry camels, you have bigger issues than how to live your life. The human race has been gifted over the centuries with fantastic minds: philosophers of such extraordinary knack that we have thrived in leaps and bounds with each generation. This same gene pool has given us scientists and mathematicians of the highest caliber who have unlocked the secrets of space, time, and our own genetic codes. With every step toward spiritual freedom, I am proud to say we get a little farther away from the shackles of superstition. But it is almost always the elders of our race who cling to this horseshit like flies at an outhouse, and those same people are almost always in positions of power, using the “good word” to control the minds—and the votes—of the flock.

But here is the anomaly: in a lot of ways the church—especially the Catholic Church—encourages our scientific discoveries, and always has. It invites breakthroughs of profundity because it is convinced they are evidence of the existence of God. It waits for breakthroughs from the various particle colliders around the world because that, to them, is another example of “intelligent design.” Aside from trying to give His Bigness credit for these things, I have to have respect for that. But that respect stops dead when you take into consideration the evidence of molestation attached to that religion. In my opinion, suppression of the sexual drive inspires dark repercussions, manifesting in the worst possible way: destruction of our children’s innocence. If the Catholic Church actually did something about it, I might cut it some slack. But the various papists in charge have decided to engage in a predatory witness relocation program, shuffling offenders around to different cities—in some instances different states and countries—and pretending that will quell the darkness in these monsters. All this does is maintain the evil status quo. These people should be fucking castrated and chucked into shark-infested waters.