Also for a religion that is supposed to be logical, your god choose a very unlogical way to send a very important message. Instead of finding a way to communicate en masse, he contacts a select few prophets and gives them the message who then right it down. And all of these revelation happen in a small area of the globe. And it happens such that 1500 years later your holy book is written in language that even the most literate muslims can barely read, and it is not translated so benagli or albanian muslims for example, have to have it fed to them by there Imams an what not (Learning a second language is very difficult and in poor countries people are lucky if they read their native tongue.)
So it's 1500 years after the revelation of this important message, we have a holy book that most followers of the religion cannot read, and there are still places in the world that have not even heard of this god, and people constantly argue over the proper interpretation of the book. I for one would think that a god could easily guide a man to write a holy book with no need for interpretation.
Is that themost prudent way to do things by you?
So it's 1500 years after the revelation of this important message, we have a holy book that most followers of the religion cannot read, and there are still places in the world that have not even heard of this god, and people constantly argue over the proper interpretation of the book. I for one would think that a god could easily guide a man to write a holy book with no need for interpretation.
Is that themost prudent way to do things by you?
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.
