God Help Us

By whatever means you believe this insignificant globe circling one of the small stars in the universe became infested by homo-sapiens, most would agree that the continued spread of the plague is accomplished by mortal activity.
Fear not, for a cure is on the way, if not imminent. As soon as one of the God-fearing groups who believe killing infidels by any means possible, including suicide, has the technology to blast the earth into smithereens – adios amigo.
But wait a minute – how about OUR God! Would she let this happen? Couldn’t all the various Gods get together and have a conference and work something out?
And who is “our” God, or I guess more to the point, who is “my” God and how did that come to pass? Geography.
The mortal activity that takes place all over the world produces bodies with minds that are greatly influenced by where they are born, or, where their parents were born. If I was born in Baghdad, what are the chances I would be a Methodist? Or born in Ireland a Jew, or Alabama a Muslim?
I was born to parents in Maryland who thought they might be some kind of protestant Christians. So, even in a limited way, geography played a part in which sect I was trained by. First, I was Lutheran, then we moved to the city and I became a Methodist, then to the suburbs where the closest church was Baptist.
So, like it or not, believe it or not, the religion you were trained in is a product of where you or your parents were born. Of course as you reach an age where you can think for yourself, you may elect to change. Very few do. The fear of God that was instilled in you is a powerful thing.
Personally, as I studied many various religions, all of which had some very salient points, I concluded that it was too difficult to pick one so I adopted a position of agnosticism. My religion was best expressed over a century ago by Robert Ingersoll: “Help for the living, hope for the dead.”

Wise Guy

While in the city I had been accepted into an accelerated Junior High school program where you were able to complete 3 year’s of schooling in 2. Robert E. Lee Junior high school, P.S. 49. The facilities were unbelievable, considering we were supposed to be the crème de la crème of Baltimore’s youth. Located in the middle of a block of row houses, three blocks from the railroad station, the building dated to the late 19th century. The lunch room was underground in what most resembled a dungeon. The physical education areas were a blacktop playground with a basketball net and an indoor basketball court with an elevated ramp encircling the interior for running laps. The most popular outdoor activity was seeing who could hold their breath until they passed out. Geniuses.
Some administrator decided that we “brains” should be exposed to the real world and we were assigned to take “shop.” Since Robert E. Lee was not designed with this in mind we were sent to the shop areas of the next closest school, P.S. 79. Ours “peers” at 79 were considered by us to be thugs and juvenile delinquents, and, they in return labeled us as “momma’s boys” and sissies. No love was lost and we felt lucky that we escaped without a homicide or disfiguring assault. My contribution to the unused collection of projects made by generation after generation was a bottle opener, fashioned from an otherwise useful piece of steel in the “metal shop.” My parents were very proud.
My stint at R. E. Lee was cut short after about a year and a half when we moved to the suburbs. No longer being within the city boundaries meant a handsome tuition would have to be paid, so I became a country boy.