Every day across Scotland – and even in Ireland, England, and Wales – organisations like the Trussell Trust make sure that hungry people get something to eat. Foodbanks in community centres and parish halls are in operation every day of the year, come rain or shine, even on Christmas Day and St. Stephen’s Day.
This little man’s bible, his instrument of hatred and torture, his upside-down roadmap to hellfire, was the word of his god. No doubt his slavery to it already had him living a bleak and dismal living hell, and he is to be pitied for that.
The entire thing is a lie. Security and the liberal nonsense about the oppression of Muslim women by Muslim men are nothing more than slightly more sophisticated ways of being racist.
That’s fighting talk, that is. Growing up where I did I’ve heard this language a lot. It’s the battle cry of housing estate vigilante justice, “You just tell me where he lives, and I’ll march right round there and see what he has to say for himself. By God, he’ll listen to what I have to say.”
'Blessed are you who are poor' is by no means gratitude for the cruelty and injustice of poverty, but a thanks to God that God has never ignored the suffering of the poor, but has come to be among them, and stand with them for justice and restitution.
Actually, when we take the time to read what they’ve been reading to us in church for two millennia we find that the script doesn’t match the performance; Christianity is meant to be a wee bit mental.
“We should kill them all,” as disturbing and spiteful as such words are, are all too frequently the expressions of people – like us – who are bewildered and frightened by the sense of powerlessness we have all been made feel.
Earlier today I looked into a mirror, not a real mirror but a person who was to me, for the briefest of moments, a metaphorical mirror, and in whom I at once saw all the life that was me and all the life that was him.