My Invisible Jihad

“This sentence is a lie.”

Well, it might be, at any rate, or it might not be.  Either way, there is a certain undeniable untrustworthiness about that sentence.  It has that look in its eye that makes the old red flags bolt upwards.  ‘Cause if it’s telling us the truth, then that there sentence is a dirty stinking liar, complete with flaming pants and so forth and so on, as the case may be.

I have recently – not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, really – been recklessly accused – me! your humble narrator! – of encouraging and/or promoting – through act or omission – the ascendancy of Sharia – Islamic religious law – right here in these United States of America. 

That’s right.  Right here in the Sanitarium, even!

At first blush and if I did not know any better, this accusation by random folks pecking along at various computer keyboards in unseen locales just west of Allah-knows-where, it would concern me. It might even make me begin to wonder about myself. To question my own motives.

For to be honest, to put all my cards on the table and begin to get down to brass tacks, it is my belief that I would make an exceedingly poor Muslim. If I were a hardcore Muslim adherent looking at my own actions, I concede I might well be forced to throw rocks at my head or else take other appropriate measures. 

For to be honest and to put all those aforementioned cards on this table and begin to get down to brass tacks, I have longstanding issues with authority of any kind. It’s true!  I can send you a healthy list of references beginning with one Mrs. Miller, my kindergarten teacher whom I got fired back when I was only yay big.  Knee high to a grasshopper: Isn’t that what they say?

And so it only stands to reason – even if I knew nothing else about the matter at hand and had not looked past the name over the title of the thing – that a religion whose very name means “submission,” well, knocking on my door on a Saturday morning looking for a convert might not be the best use of some poor submissive chap’s time.

“This book is not to be doubted.”

This sentence, this first Koranic sentence, these witch’s-tit-cold opening words that the Angel Gabriel presumably chose over “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” and maybe “Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time” to kick things off in that cave with Mohammed so long ago, they’ve always struck me as a terrifically frustrating example of circular paradoxical reasoning, sort of like:

The following sentence is false.

The preceding sentence is true.

Which, incidentally, is going to be how I start off my own holy book when I finally start off a holy book of my own.  And I will start off a holy book someday, and perhaps it will be soon.  ‘Cause I have the will and I have the way, but what I lack is a disembodied voice to dictate the damn thing to me. 

Yet Mohammed had the Angel Gabriel,

And Joseph Smith had his gold rocks,

The Book of the Law came to Crowley via Aiwass,

Even Carl Jung had his daimon, Philemon. 

But I do not hear voices. Even with the heavy doses of the various and assorted drugs, I do not hear voices. Or if I do hear voices, they don’t dictate anything to me. Or if they do dictate anything to me, I cannot recognize it as something to be written down.  And it might be because, well, have I mentioned I have longstanding issues with authority of any kind?

I am a 30-year old, single, self-employed atheist anarchist.  Bowing to authority and kissing rings are not my strong suits.

Me, I might be overdue for a little submission to something bigger than myself.

If only I could find something bigger than myself worth submitting to.

I have a soft spot for certain Muslim art, for the voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the architecture in Spain, the poetry of Jalal-Ud-Din Rumi, and for those whirling dervish dudes.

Most of that art, the stuff I just now listed as stuff that I like, it’s Sufi Muslim.

Sufism is a small, mystical sect of Islam.

And Jalal-Ud-Din Rumi, the mystic Sufi poet, he once wrote that “All your anxiety is because of your desire for harmony.  Seek disharmony; then you will gain peace,” and whatever it means, I like it.  Whatever it means, it’s one of my very favoritest quotes.

Put the word “mystic” in front of just about anything, and I’ll give it a look, at least.  Put the word “mystic” in front of “feline litter box cleaning,” and there I’ll be, mystically cleaning away.

Mysticism and a good sense of humor: Seems there’s never enough of either to go around these days.

And we all seem to need someone to blame our troubles on, a reason for not being happy the way we ought be happy when we dream of being happy, in our minds. And as far as someones to blame your troubles on go, the folks dropping bombs out of airplanes on your neighbors, overthrowing your shah, and pushing you off your land to make room for dislocated Jews, well, they seem as good as any.

And as far as someones to blame your troubles on go, maybe the folks proclaiming the mother of all battles against you, ramming a plane into side of the Pentagon, and demanding five work breaks a day to pray, maybe they’re as good as any, too.

But I think y’all folks over there, with the turbans, and y’all folks over there, with the shiny belt buckles, can come together as one to find some someones we all agree are really the cause of 9/11 and all the world’s problems.  This here lynch mob we’ve formed? I think we know whose door it should really be knocking on tonight.

When we put all our cards on this table and begin to get down to brass tacks, I am confident we can collectively point to just who is to blame right here and now, so that I might not get caught in the escalating crossfire.

Madonna, abortion, and gays, oh my!

Madonna, abortion, and gays, oh my!

Don’t you see? Isn’t it obvious? Go get ‘em, boys!

Madonna, abortion, and gays, oh my!

Madonna, abortion, and gays, oh my!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day of instituting Sharia Law ahead of me, and there is so much work yet to be done.

All redheaded bloggers are liars.

This blog is not to be doubted.

The following sentence is a lie:

This blog is finished.