My World isn’ Ending; How’s Yours?

I’m having a real “Dr. Strangelove” kind of feeling, here. Harold Camping is declaring that the ‘rapture’ is going to happen on Saturday May 21 at ‘suppertime’.  

That’s today, folks. Nice knowing you all. (Tips hat and leaves)

Are you kidding me? No pun intended, but god I hope you are, because this is just plain ridiculous.

First of all I’ve seen his chain of reasoning and let’s just say it’s pretty weak. Based on assumptions that one day to God is a thousand years to us, plus the claim that Noah’s flood took place 7,000 years ago and finagled with some rather odd bits of numerology, the claim is shaky at best. If you’d like to see it for yourself, go here:

Between the mix of assumptions about the Hebrew calendar, using metaphor as fact (St. Paul’s comparison to a thousand years and a day) I could only shake my head in an instinctive rejection of the headache that was working its way over my skull.

First of all the term ‘Rapture’ doesn’t appear in the Book of Revelations.  Not even once.  

Secondly, in the Gospel of Mathew Jesus states very clearly that none shall know the time. So there.

Thirdly, rational people know that while the world will end, yes, we have at least five billion years before the sun expands and eats the inner solar system before collapsing.  Hopefully by then we will have either gotten out into space or evolved into something else, so why worry about it?

Look, folks, let’s at least be a little rational about this.

If the end of the world occurs, it is far more likely to happen because we as a species screwed up, rather than a divine hissy fit. A deity is supposed to be omniscient and omnipotent, so why would he make a race that he knew would piss him off so badly he would end up destroying it anyway?  That rationale sounds more like a kid building a sandcastle just before the tide comes in, just to see the waves take it apart. Not very godlike, if you ask me.

At 6:00 pm local time I intend to be grilling on my porch with a beer in hand and watching the birds play in the newly blooming crab apple tree in the yard. I may even sing a few bars of “we’ll meet again” just as a nod to past visions of the Apocalypse.

Which were also wrong, just as this one is.

Find your peace, friends.

Rev. Zita (the Unraptured)

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