Life is too short for boring stories

The little ones had slept through the night peacefully. Apparently, they had exhausted the trip to the world outside the door. What was there to discover? Yes, everything, because they stepped out like someone who sees the world for the first time, most likely because it was the first time. There was nothing that would have been uninteresting. Everything was subjected to a thorough examination, mainly with the nose. There was no grading, not distinction between important and unimportant, better or worse. Pure egalitarianism in discovery, as in life. How fast does it lose? When suddenly and completely unexpectedly a mouse sat in the meadow. Joy, the daredevil among the siblings, had not discovered her first, but he was the one who approached her. Slowly, well, but determined he seemed. The mouse, evidently aware that no danger threatened her from the small, taciturn, insecure balls, sat quietly in the meadow, her nostrils smelling up, while the dog’s snout approached in just that way. And then they nudged each other. Nose to nose. Without shyness. Unafraid. With all naturalness.

“Non-human animals do not know any speciesism,” I said, after completing our little excursion that day, and drinking the kids back to their mum. Such a trip made damn hungry.
“And also no racism,” said Jesus, “This is something that man has come up with. It is precisely the sophistication that is great. Many colors enrich life. Actually, one would think that makes the other curious. You go to it and want to get to know it, to deal with it, to finally learn one thing, because there is no difference. Basically, all people strive for the same, a happy life in the midst of those who are close to them. In this all are the same. But no, what are you doing instead? You need to introduce hierarchies, find something that is better and something that is worse, instead of side by side. White is better than all other skin colors. And what is this better-being based on? Purely on the historical development. Not because the whites are smarter or otherwise privileged, except that they seem to be better armed and subjugate the others. Actually, the story of the so-called “white man” is a single long trail of blood, a story of murder, terror and oppression. And he did not even make a difference within his own “race”, but even there the classification had to continue. Men are better than women. It was infinitely long in the mind and penetrates again and again. Returns, especially in conservative circles. Women should knit and cook and guard the children, while the man faces the rigors of life and expects a caring hand when he comes home. If it were not so grotesque, you could laugh about it. But in the end, it is deadly serious. Where it is claimed that a rape is God’s will, where the woman is punished for it, there is no room for benevolent interpretations. It’s just brutal and inhumane.”
“No, it’s not inhumane,” Mary corrected him, “It’s deeply human, after all the experience we’ve gained over the millennia, that man is cruel and brutal. Especially against other creatures, against his fellow creatures. He can hide so much behind grand moral buildings, exhaust himself in the discourse about it, it does not change his deeds, and that’s the one to measure him by.”

“And if the division of people into different races had not been enough for perversion, he had to invent something else to delineate more, the national state,” I interjected, “a piece of land through some dubious machinations became the territory, is framed by a line on the map. In the middle you put a flag and give this piece of land a name, e.g. Ireland. And the people who live in them also get their own names. In that case the Irish. And when they move out of their country and into another, they are not citizens there, just visitors. Then people in this country invoke their history and try to explain why it is so important to protect one piece of land from the others. They attribute to themselves certain qualities which, in turn, are only intended to serve the purpose of demarcation. This ensures that no one comes in the country that should not come in. You do not want to have one. It relies on nationality and its sovereignty, its affiliation and its suitability. Moreover, one is proud of it, e.g. to be Irish or German or Austrian. Some even go so far as to credit for being born in a particular country. It is nothing but coincidence. If people in Africa had gone a little harder, they say, they would have been born in Europe or at least in China, maybe even in the US. But it is their own fault if they allow themselves to be born there, in countries which turbo-capitalism, as a modern form of imperialism, has obliviously exploited, following the days of open imperialism. There are no more colonies. The dependence remains. Toggle contracts that lead these countries more and more into misery while pretending to help them. The only ones who are helped are the countries in the first world.”
“Millions of children are starving, day by day,” added Maria, “Living on the poverty line. Living in the foreign. In detention centers. In death zones. And all because the first world devours like a greedy Moloch everything that comes between the jaws. Then it is donated diligently for Christmas, so that one buys from the bad conscience. You finally do what you can. And you have to live too. Also live. Can one call life? And it’s not about assigning blame or guilty conscience, which only leads to sleepless nights, if any, because we’ve developed enough defense mechanisms. See nothing. Hear nothing. Knowing nothing. That is an option. To say that they are to blame, another.”
“And where are the churches in the game, a life-and-death game?” I asked bluntly, “They put Themselves on the side of the rich and powerful. No, they do not stand on the beach in Italy or in Greece and receive the fugitives, make sure that they survive the dangerous crossing. Not to mention that they are opening their many great possessions to receive these people. Sometimes I have the feeling that they like the role of kicking them to get them where they come from. Yes, encyclicals are written. With enormous effort and with theological sensitivity, things are said that need to be done there. Then, when it’s done and meets the requirements, retire to the full bowls in the warm. You did what you could. They always appeal to you, Jesus.”


“I am on the side of those who are in the boat, starving and freezing and dying. There I am at home and nowhere else,” Jesus explained, and we knew it was so, “That’s why the tall gentlemen in the different-colored gowns have no idea of me. They never get there, with a few exceptions. They know nothing of misery and suffering and sadness because they withdraw into their world and think that it itches, when they pray or ask forgiveness. How to forgive someone who does not do everything in his power to help, especially when he speaks in my name. Nobody can be forgiven. In every single minute they have the choice, and with every single decision they make in favor of convenience, they increase their guilt. There cannot be more freedom of choice. But the greater the freedom, the greater the responsibility. But the only thing they really are good at is denouncing the guilt of others, even the slightest offense. What a mendacious lot. That’s why Christmas will be a feast of rites for them, but otherwise empty and meaningless. Because they know nothing about the life that wants to unfold because they know nothing of the love out of which life unfolds. That’s how it was and still is, Christmas is a celebration for the little people who still know what really matters. For the truly living. For the true lovers.”

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