(September 19, 2013 at 1:00 pm)DeistPaladin Wrote: My favorite: The Tower of Babel story.
Quote:Genesis 11:4-9 And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven [1] ; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth. And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded. And the LORD said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do [2] . Go to, let us go down [3], and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech. So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city [4] .
So, to review: (from footnotes above)
1. You can build a tower that can reach into Heaven
2. Yahweh became frightened
3. Yahweh spoke to himself in the plural form
4. Languages didn't evolve, they were created spontaneously.
I actually consider that story to be an example of he evil god is.
Imagine the entire human united with a purpose, something men have lusted for sense ancient times. There purpose to build the greatest tower ever known. It must have been beautiful. But instead of seeing beauty, ingenuity, skill, and the blood, sweat, and tears of the men building it he sees fit too take it away, why? Because he feels threatened that humanity too may be gods some day. Pathetic
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
