Dear Israelites, To those of the Jewish faith, My chosen people,
It is auspicious that you have chosen this day, 22nd May 2015, as the date for the Irish Republic’s marriage referendum as not only is it the wedding anniversary of the blogger who has kindly allowed me to to address you via his site, but it is also exactly 3,200 years, to the day, since I finished dictating the Torah, letter for letter, to Moses.
I remember it well (being omniscient I remember most things well) – Moses and I were sitting atop Mount Sinai (or Mount Horeb, if you’re reading a different chapter; we were a lot more lax with mountain back then) with the Torah laid out in front of us, chilling with a few beers. It had been a difficult few weeks; I’m a bit of a perfectionist, Moses wasn’t the fastest writer, we’d lost a whole day arguing whether it was ‘beget’, ‘begat’, ‘begget’, beggat’, ‘bagget’ or ‘begeterated’, I’d had to ban Moses from asking ‘Why?’ all the way through Leviticus and I’d left chapter 34 of Deuteronomy until last – which was a mistake.
I suppose that it’s only natural that a few beers and having your all-powerful God dictate the details of your own ironic death to you will make a man a little maudlin, and so it was with Moses that afternoon.
“If you know everything then how does it all end?” he asked, after a great deal of cogitation. I told him.
“What does ‘collateral damage’ mean, who’s ‘Katie Hopkins’, why was she being ‘neutralised’ and what is ‘weaponized small-pox’?” he asked. I tried to explain.
“It all sounds very different in the future,” he suggested, “Are all these rules…” he waved at the Torah, “…still going to be relevant?”
Thirty-two centuries on and you’re still asking the same question. Jesus. No, not you, I was just cursing. Seriously, come on people – I was telling the Israelites what they wanted to hear. If I dragged one of you lot up to the top of a mountain to dictate a new bible it would be all about how cycling through red lights is punishable by death and cursed is he who talks during the Game of Thrones season finale. If you’ve been trekking through the desert for 40 years, like Moses’ people, then, let me tell you, you’re pretty fucking sick of Aron and Ben, who’ve got a much smarter tent than anybody else, a great social life and always cook the most amazing food. You want those fuckers to die, even before you’ve had to listen ‘Coat of many colours’ 5 times a day for 12,000 fucking days!
If you think every word of mine is divine unbreakable law, as applicable to modern day Ireland as it was to an Iron Age desert tribe then good on you, that’s a real ego boost for me, and you can be sure that I’m not going to hold a couple of tattoos, hair-cuts, pork sausages and non-Kosher nibbles against you personally, right? That would make me some sort of vengeful God, and I’d have been sure to mention that somewhere.
I don’t like to speak ill of the dead (mainly because they’re all over the place up here), but I can’t help feel that Jesus attracted entirely the wrong sort of people. He thought that all of my rules were old hat (2,000 years ago, people – that’s how long ago they were past their shelf life!) and went with the simplest message he could, “Love everyone”. It takes a special kind of person to see that message and think, “He’s right! I should love everyone! Man, those gays are going to burn in hell!”
Which, I suppose, is my way of telling those of you who can vote to vote ‘Yes’ today. Go on, do it, and I promise the next lot of commandments will pay special attention to people who always drive in the outside lane.