Jesus and Napalm
How many pages are there in the Bible, how many words? The Answer; a lot! So, why do we tend to take a handful of passages, sometimes only partial sentences, and out of those attempt to weave what we believe to be a coherent view of God and the Bible, generally without even attempting any meaningful historical context? Maybe it’s a case of familiarity breeding contempt. “Contempt you say—I believe that the Bible is the infallible word of God, how can I have contempt?” It’s simple really; it would be like saying that you really, really, love your spouse, while ignoring almost everything about them that doesn’t make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Who cares how they got the way they are, all that matters is that you have a comfortable life together. Don’t open up doors that are better kept shut, you’ll regret it, let me tell you! This is, after all, the best philosophy for a happy life.
Back in the dark and distant days of the 1960’s the U.S. government used to send out little slips of paper. On that paper were some numbers. Those numbers determined whether you were going to get on a plane and fly to a far-off land called Vietnam—gun in hand, running through the jungle while trying not to die. You and your pals, hanging out in a swamp, napalm glowing overhead, melting the skin off of this new vision of the “Yellow Peril,” watching the limbs of your best buds being blown off, and them bleeding out on the ground right before your eyes. Eighteen year olds, who only a few months before were hanging out at the local soda shop, trying to pick up some chicks, playing a groovy game of pin-ball, while listening to some Grand Funk Railroad.
Life can change awful quick when a handful of “enlightened” politicians have the ability to tell you whether you’re likely going to live or die. And so young people began to question whether dying in some godforsaken place that you couldn't even find on a map was really such a good idea. But their parents thought different and said, “Hey, who are those communist-hippie bastards, burning the flag, wearing long hair and listening to that godless rock and roll”? We had to go to war, why not them?” And then they probably turned on some old John Wayne movie, one where the bad guys were so obviously bad that you could tell who they were even if you were in a spaceship hovering the earth in a far distant galaxy. It’s good to keep it simple. That way nobody has to question who the bad guys are. They weren’t really thinking about their beloved sons being blown to bits by landmines planted by a bunch of gooks with machine guns, they were just being Americans.
Eventually, the Vietnam generation grew up—the ones that didn’t die, that is. They came home, some protested with the hippies and helped to end one of the costliest, most protracted wars Americans ever fought. And the amazing thing is, it wasn’t even really a war, at least officially. The commies had been beaten back, or something like that. America went into, or remained in a financial slump, depending on your perspective. The country suffered through a long malaise....or maybe it was a mayonnaise....no, that doesn’t make sense. Anyways, we were depressed and needed a jolt of good ole American pride. The problem as some saw it was; how’s it possible for the biggest baddest dog on the planet to lose a fight with a bunch of short, yellow bastards, armed with pitchforks and machine guns? The answer; maybe you can’t just kill your enemy when you’re allegedly trying to save them. Sort of like trying to get rid of a toothache by shooting yourself in the head.
Now, shut up and leave me alone, that’s old news. I got to catch up on what’s happening with the NFL or the Kardashians. There’s some freaks on my favorite program, “who wants to be a star”, you know, the one where some hot girls try and marry a stranger for a chance to humiliate themselves on national television. Man, don’t you know what’s important? You’ve got to have priorities!
So, why should anybody be surprised when people approach God the same way they approach politics, economics, war, or anything else that interferes with important stuff like reality T.V. or football. They may not have a clue about how they actually got where they got, but they most certainly will have no shortage of theories—usually along the lines of someone else having made things bad for them. That would be President Obama if you’re a conservative. President Bush if you’re a liberal. Maybe it gets a little more nuanced than that, and allows for liberals or conservatives in Congress, the liberal media, Fox News, the Illuminati, George Soros, homosexuals, Jews or Muslims. After all, you can check out all the truthful stuff on your favorite Internet site, the one that features Bigfoot and space aliens colluding with Jews, Muslims and homosexuals.
One thing is certain, never look in the mirror, and never ask questions that are too difficult, either of your political or religious beliefs. Crank the music up and make it loud, turn on the television, surf some porn, and ignore everything that doesn’t fit. And while you’re at it, remember that ole slogan from the sixties, the one your parents used to say, “I support my country right or wrong!” After all, you’re old; it won’t be you that’s going off to war, you already did your time.
So, salute those brave soldiers on the bus outta town, sing songs about brave soldiers dying for a good cause, and always keep it simple. If you can’t remember, or won’t remember, how you felt getting on that bus, heading off to boot-camp and potentially into oblivion, it doesn’t matter. You’ve said your prayers. And when that long, good-night comes calling, you’ll head off to that big mansion in the sky where Mom and Dad are waiting for you, and you’re greeted to the strains of “I’ll fly Away,” an old country picnic, the smell of barbecue in the air—with the odor of napalm faint in the distance, disappearing, like your memory.
Mark Magula
One thing is certain, never look in the mirror, and never ask questions that are too difficult, either of your political or religious beliefs. Crank the music up and make it loud, turn on the television, surf some porn, and ignore everything that doesn’t fit. And while you’re at it, remember that ole slogan from the sixties, the one your parents used to say, “I support my country right or wrong!” After all, you’re old; it won’t be you that’s going off to war, you already did your time.
So, salute those brave soldiers on the bus outta town, sing songs about brave soldiers dying for a good cause, and always keep it simple. If you can’t remember, or won’t remember, how you felt getting on that bus, heading off to boot-camp and potentially into oblivion, it doesn’t matter. You’ve said your prayers. And when that long, good-night comes calling, you’ll head off to that big mansion in the sky where Mom and Dad are waiting for you, and you’re greeted to the strains of “I’ll fly Away,” an old country picnic, the smell of barbecue in the air—with the odor of napalm faint in the distance, disappearing, like your memory.
Mark Magula
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