I’m all about religious tolerance. People should be able to worship whatever form of the invisible man makes the big black yawning unknown more palatable to them. If it makes you sleep better at night, I say go for it. There are very real limitations to my tolerance, though. I feel about religion as I do about sexuality. Whatever you want to do behind closed doors or in the congregation of like-minded others, as long as you aren’t hurting anyone, go for it. It’s the part where folks shake their beliefs or practices in my face that I get indignant.
The varied and ancient religions of the South Pacific islands have, for the most part, been eliminated by generations of Christian missionaries. Now that the damage is done, I feel that many far-flung missions do good by providing medical care, food, and support to impoverished populations, even if it is in the name of a god the populations never wanted. The predecessors to these modern missionaries bug me. They traveled the world to foist their own beliefs on people with traditions and mythologies every bit as old and oftentimes older than the ones the missionaries were pushing. It isn’t cool to bedazzle and frighten people with technological superiority, then use that fascination or fear to tell the islanders their ancient religions were wrong and had to be abandoned in the name of Jesus, Sunday worship, and, the biggest insult in an equatorial climate, clothing. Not just any clothing these days, but polyester. We’re talking button downs and ties here, hideously patterned full rayon dresses with slips. Slips! When was the last time you felt the need to don a slip in 85 degree 85 percent humidity? Shipping in bundles of sweets and salty snacks, the modern day equivalent of glass beads or iron nails, is another popular tactic. Turns out Pacific Islanders love salty snacks and will bust up a whole altarful of idolatrous images to get at a bag of Doritos.
Nice thing about that virulently aggressive strain of rabid Christianity rampant in the U.S. is that you can ignore most of it. You never have to pick up a Coulter book. Mega church, mega money T.V. and radio stations can be bypassed with a finger twitch so quick as to be compared with the CNS bypassing reflex of touching a hot stove, an impulse so fast it never even reaches the brain. Doors can be politely shut in the faces of earnest youngsters fervently darkening the porch with fliers on a weekend morning. One can, with a bit of creative sequestering, pretend that half our country is not rabidly, blindly Christian to the point of refusing to even entertain the idea that anything but a literal, world is mere thousands something years old dinosaur fossils were put on Earth by God to give humans something to ponder on interpretation of the good book is fatally wrong to a degree that justifies holier than though persecution.
I’m in a Muslim country right now. Haven’t been here long, but the people have so far been beautiful, kind, outgoing, friendly, open, and accepting in the same way that many Christians who practice the best parts of religions preaching tolerance and gentleness can be. Sure it’s tough getting a decent plate of pork. Yes it is boring that many of the women are swathed from head to foot, even when they swim. It was indeed odd getting used to prayer rooms instead of smoking lounges in the airport. All that stuff is fine by me, except maybe the dearth of pig products.
Even heartland churches which erect massive crosses and billboards threatening the unclean with eternal purgatory don’t hold a candle, though, to a town full of mosques sporting loudspeakers mounted to the minarets. Timex needs to come out with a Muslim timepiece that chimes for prayer five times a day and has a Mecca seeking bezel, because this cat in agony wailing piped through roof mounted speakers is incredibly grating. First round starts before sunrise and last session isn’t until after dark. It’s worse because my hotel is in the crossfire of multiple mosques playing different versions of Mohamed’s “Torturing the Family Pet Concerto in the key of C”, the wailing strains vilely dissonating off one another like a children’s hands-on science museum harmonics demonstration where the kiddies can vary the tonal modulation on two speakers to create jarring, discordant patterns of sound. If I have to listen to this stuff five times a day, I’ll soon be ready to wield a Kalashnikov myself. Okay, it isn’t fair to participate in the current irrational American hysteria implying every Muslim is part of a violent cell just waiting for the phone to ring so he can grab a dead man switch and a vest of C4 and ball bearings. But listening to Muslim call to prayer five times a day will soon have me hankering for a bullhorn and a collection of Billy Graham sermons so I can cruise the streets at dawn. Keep your religions to yourself, people, and let a fellow sleep.
