I don’t have any problem with people who earnestly believe whatever they earnestly believe, whether it’s the end of the world is coming next Tuesday bunch or any of the religious folk. Well, except the go-to-hell boys who want to blow things and people up and take me and everybody else they disagree with along.
The ones that get me — and they’re usually politicians or preachers — are the ones who believe in one lifestyle for themselves and another for their sheep.
So: hypocrisy is one thing; denial is some else.
I grew up with denial, at least I feel like I did once Daddy died. I’m still confounded by my mother and frustrated by my own rose-colored lenses and gossamer wings that I wore as a young teenager. I didn’t know much. I didn’t ask questions. What was wrong with Mother? How did we survive? Now I’ll never know.
Denial is personal. I don’t blame anybody for creating whatever stage set they need to make it through the night. Besides, what is the dream behind the dream? If there is a conscious afterlife and I get there in a shape to ask questions, I’ll ask about the nature of reality and what does it all mean. I’m sure there’s a big Life 101 auditorium-style class on that every day in the afterlife. Oops. Maybe I slipped into denial again. Maybe there’s just dead.