YOU KNOW THE PREACHER LIKES THE COLD

Stepped into a church
I passed along the way.
Well, I got down on my knees
And I pretend to pray.
You know the preacher likes the cold
He knows I'm gonna stay.

- The Mamas and the Papas, California Dreamin'

It's weeks like these that try a man's soul. Unrelenting cold, bitter winds, buckets upon buckets of precipitation transforming a once-future paradise into a land of frozen desolation. During such trying times, most house-holders insulate themselves inside their homes and crank up their fancy furnaces while they sleep comfortably in their beds. During these same nights, the wandering homeless would be lucky to find a non-denominational shelter for the night. I prefer the middle path, so when my air conditioner/heater stopped working last spring, I let it stay broken, while I learn to re-acclimate myself to the vagaries of the natural world.

Which I can't say I've been thoroughly enjoying, this winter. So it's no surprise that I've come down with a miserable cold - which I've been suffering all of last week. Didn't even go to work three days outof five - it was that bad. The congestion built up in my head nearly unbearable, can't breathe, can't sleep, massive headaches. I usually prefer not to indulge in the tonics and elixers of the corporate snake-oil merchants - but every man has got his breaking point. After a couple days of not being able to breathe or sleep, I caved in and bought a few bottles of Robo-Tussen and Ny-Quil. Which, besides from their pleasant synthetic cherry-taste, were useless. But this essay isn't about Big Pharma.

Due to the unrelenting boredom, I make some attempt at going about the normal business of my life. But food turns sour in my mouth. Voices and sounds, muffled as if by layers of cotton, are barely discernable. The world itself is literally coated in ice, as I maintain an invisible barrier around myself to prevent the transmission of this wretched disease to my fellow-man. And at night, fever torments my mind, inducing night-long delusions where escape seems nigh-impossible.

The New York Times today is reporting the death of Denny Doherty, formerly of the Mama's and Papa's. Today we remember those 60's folk-rock heros who tried to warn us about the dangers, not of the cold, but of our own weakness to the cold, and what we might be willing to give up, in order to escape it. In the face of increasingly severe Global Climate Change and the increasing amounts of pain and suffering it will inflict on populations throughout the world (with third world countries expected to bear the brunt of if), it's important to draw a line in the sand when the Christians come proselytizing. As far as I'm concerned, anyone who says, "convert or die" may get me to sign some papers and profess allegiance to the Pope in Rome, but they can't stop me from pretending to pray. And they will never get me to believe in a god that cares for the little ones only if they give up their true beliefs.

References:

http://www.christianaggression.org/