The Shouter

We love our dank and dreary little equilibrium zones don’t we? Love them love them love them love them love them. We love them so much. Mind you if you say that to someone they’ll probably spit in your eye. You must hear about Jesus, read about Jesus, smell Jesus and taste Jesus, says the man with the microphone. No matter where you go you can hear him shouting, even right at the other end of the square. You can hear him shouting about Jesus. Shouting about being born again. He shouts so loud, doesn’t he? He wants everyone to hear him and that’s why he is shouting so very loud. But he’s dead inside, for all his talk about being born again. He needs to be born the first time, never mind ‘again’. Don’t talk to me about ‘again’. He shouts so loud and that’s how I know that he’s dead inside.  Don’t let his smart suit fool you – smart clothes don’t mean a damn thing. People who are dead inside often wear very smart clothes, that’s their compensation. People in positions of power, people who have achieved high social status, that’s their compensation. For being dead inside. And the shouters, let’s not forget about the shouters. Let’s not forget our friend walking up and down with the microphone attached to his jacket and the big speakers. No need to ask what his ‘compensatory activity’ is, is there? Shouting about Jesus is a great compensatory device, isn’t it? A great way of compensating for the fact that you’re dead inside. Did Jesus go around shouting about Jesus? I don’t think so. I don’t think Jesus was a shouter. Shouters are always dead inside – it’s a dead give-away! If you’ll forgive the pun. He’s shouting about Eternal Life now, can you hear him? How ironic is that? A shouter shouting about Eternal Life because he’s trying to compensate for the fact that he’s dead inside. The world is full of shouters, shouting for all they’re worth. Even if this one calls it a day and shuts up there will be another one along soon. They’ll be another one along in a minute to shout in my face. “I’m dead inside, I’m dead inside, I’m dead inside…” they’re saying with their shouting. Although they don’t know that they’re saying this. And we don’t know it either. We don’t realize. They’re looking for help – they’re crying out in their distress. Letting the world know. Transmitting their pain as we all do. It’s not nice being dead inside and they’re telling us about it. It’s a torment no one can endure and that’s why there always has to be some sort of compensatory activity. Be it religion, or politics, or sport, or modern society with all its vulgar toxicity. I wonder what he feels like after he’s done with all his shouting, I find myself asking. Does he feel all hollow and eerie inside? Does he go home and make himself a cup of coffee and sit there in his kitchen feeling all empty and spooky and echoey inside after all those hours of shouting in the street? I try to find some compassion in me for him because I know that he’s a tormented ghost, because I know that he’s dead inside and crying out in his distress. I try but fail. I’ve set the bar too high – I can’t feel compassion for shouters who shout in the street about Jesus. I freely admit that – I’m not a big enough man to do that. Religion always brings out a lot of bitterness in me.

 

 

 

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