Assuming God is practical

If a man returns from the realm of death and tells everyone that there is a heaven beyond, the atheists would, upon hearing the exultant cries of the Christians, reason it highly plausible that the man had not actually died; that some small strain of consciousness remained, and by itself labored in the darkness to construct an illimitable land of fantasy. Conversely, if the man returns from the realm of the dead and tells everyone that there is no heaven beyond, only a timeless void, the Christians would, upon feeling threatened by the imperious conviction of the atheists, rely on the exact same reasoning: that the man had not actually died, and thus could not have seen heaven.

In either case, both factions remain within their camps. Neither would admit of the falsity in their belief.

Now suppose that this unusual episode was engineered by God so as to educate us on the truth. Wouldn’t he then have failed? Seeing as how no one is willing to change. So it is that God may employ no such extravagant means to communicate the truth; which even if he does, we will not be able to distinguish it from the products of worldly chance. If one takes a single occasion of extraordinariness to be a sign of God, or be convinced that it forms the key to an immortal truth, then he is only fooling himself. The possibility of error is as stupendous as the infinity of knowledge. God, through his omnipotence, will know this. He will know that should he attempt to tell us the truth about the universe or about himself, or what is beyond our conception, he is bound to fail. Yet he does not, and cannot, fail.

Because everything seems to be about “practicality”

I can nearly envisage a future
where things of the truest pleasure
are reluctantly forgone so that we may
pursue what is more relevant to this day
and age, and not be encumbered by a knowledge
that society does blindly fail to acknowledge.

It is a future where most will gladly convene
as wrought parts of a purposeless machine.

Discovery of the human life, the limits of thought
and the truth about everything will be brought
down to the measly field of a nighttime hobbyist,
and there till the end of time it shall subsist
in stifling solitude, never allowed the chance
to explore beyond its naive surficial glance.

Art, too, in both images and words, is not spared.
In the harsh, cold climate it is indifferently bared.
No sooner will it freeze and be buried deep
beneath the ice; where it shall, unnoticed, sleep
until someone realizes the ridiculous humdrum
of society’s mechanical strum,
and then seeks to unearth, like an eager archeologist,
what society had so ignorantly dismissed.

I am not looking forward to that dismal future.