In a mother’s womb there were two babies, one asked
the other: ’Do you believe in life after delivery?’ The other replied: ‘Why, of course! There has to be something after
delivery. Maybe we are here to prepare
ourselves for what we will be later.’
‘Nonsense!’ said the first. ‘There is no life after delivery. What kind of life would that be?’ The second said: ‘I don’t know but there will
be more light than there is here. Maybe
we will be able to use our legs to move about – and maybe we could use our
mouth to drink and feed ourselves. Maybe
we will be able to do many things that we cannot even begin to imagine
now.’ The first replied: ‘This is
absurd. Do you really think we could use
our legs to walk? Walking is
impossible. Have you ever seen anybody
walk? And the idea of eating with our
mouths is ridiculous. The umbilical cord
supplies nutrition and everything we need for now. But this cord is so short that life after
delivery will be impossible. The very
idea makes no sense.’
The second insisted: ‘Well, I think that there is
something there for us after delivery.
Of course, it might be quite different than it is here. Maybe we won’t need this physical cord
anymore.’ The first replied:
‘Nonsense! If there is life after this,
why has no-one ever come back from there to tell us? Delivery is the end of life and in the
after-delivery there is nothing but darkness and silence and oblivion. It will be the end of the story.’
‘Well, I don’t think so,’ said the second. ‘After delivery, surely we will meet mother
and she will care for us.’ The other
replied: ‘Mother, you actually believe in mother! That is laughable. If mother exists, then where is she?’
The second said: ‘She is all around us. We are surrounded by her. We are of her. It is in her that we live and move. Without her we would not – we could not –
exist.’
The first said: ‘Well, I don’t see her. Surely I would be able to see her if she was
around. So it’s only logical that she
doesn’t exist.’ To which the second
replied: ‘Sometimes when I really listen, I can sense her presence and I can
hear her loving voice calling down from above.’
Recently a journalist in Ireland interviewed a
number of children about their beliefs.
A ten-year old boy told her that he did not believe in God. He said that he believed that when you speak
to somebody it would be very rude of that person not to reply. He said that when he wears his new shoes and
asks God what he thinks of them, God is silent.
So he doesn’t believe in God anymore!
I don’t think that a ten-year old would be so silly as to think in this
way. I suspect that some prejudiced
adult corrupted his way of thinking. I
hope that that adult was not his parent.
The foolishness of prejudice is well put in a poem
by James Patrick Kenny entitled ‘The Cold Within.’
Six humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak
and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story’s told.
Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story’s told.
Their dying fire in need of logs, the first
man held his back
For of the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black.
For of the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black.
The next man looking ‘cross the way saw one
not of his church
And couldn’t bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
And couldn’t bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes; he
gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich?
Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought of the
wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned from the lazy shiftless poor.
And how to keep what he had earned from the lazy shiftless poor.
The black man’s face bespoke revenge as the
fire passed from his sight;
For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.
For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group did nought
except for gain,
Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
Giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in death’s still hands was proof of human sin.
They didn’t die from the cold without –
They died from the cold
within
They didn’t die from the cold without –
