I grew up with Sundays and Wednesdays reserved for church, my family faithfully in tow. Religion wasn't just a backdrop—it was woven into the fabric of my life. I have relatives who are pastors, missionaries, even a nephew who started his own church. One sister can teach the Bible like it’s her side hustle, and the other has enough zeal to reinstate commandments if needed. But, if I’m honest, every time I hear someone proclaim “It’s the end of times,” I roll my eyes like a kid hearing their mom warn, “Do that one more time…” It’s the spiritual equivalent of the boy who cried wolf, and, frankly, I’m over it.
Here’s the thing—wasn’t God supposed to show up like a thief in the night? No dramatic countdowns, no fanfare, just...bam, He’s here. That’s the script, right? Throwing apocalyptic predictions during a world crisis feels like bad improv. And honestly, so many interpretations exist that it feels less like faith and more like a choose-your-own-adventure book.
Now don’t get me started on the literal stories. Noah’s Ark? A floating zoo? The Garden of Eden? Forbidden snacks? Tell me, where do dinosaurs fit into that picture? We've got their fossil receipts, so what’s their timeline? And cavemen—why are they ghosting the Bible’s narrative? Oh, and Cain and Abel’s wives...where exactly did they come from? The Land of Nod? Sure, but where’s that on Google Maps? Are we all just one big ancestral rerun? And most importantly—out of the 4,198 religions in the world, who’s holding the definitive cosmic manual? Catholics? Protestants? Or the guy down the street who says we’re all living in a simulation?
It’s not that I’m anti-religion, but my brain likes things that tie up nicely with evidence, less loose ends and plot holes. Faith is a beautiful thing for those who find it in these stories, but for me? I’m still stuck wondering if a dinosaur was supposed to eat hay on the Ark.
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