[Veck93]

I think what we know of the bible is so far from the original text that we don't even know what we're reading. From what I've read of it, it seems to be all based in metaphor. So what we have is an ancient book of metaphors that has been translated over and over again throughout the centuries.

And translated poorly at that.
Not all metaphor, some can be as meaningful taken literally or in both ways, the trick is to know which is which. What is physical human history and what is spiritual history, what is past, present, future…
Language sets up a natural dichotomy here. On the one hand you might want to remember the limitations of language and the very limited vocabulary of the time. Actually great concepts of quantum physics et al now explained in common language are in there but without any techy quasi scientific terms. On the other hand knowing the multiple meanings of Hebrew words and letters, similar also in Aramaic and Greek, all used in the bible, the meanings get much deeper than the surface reading or the authoritarian spin put on it by churches. And that's without exploring gematria.
Now the fun I have with it is discussing the bible with my fundie coworker / friend. We do pretty good for a while in the old testament until we both start shaking our heads wondering how the other got from the point of understanding and agreement to some weird conclusion! so it goes…

[Nameless One]

Skeptic's Annotated Bible:
http://www.skepticsannotatedbible.com/

It's easy to skip to the juicy stuff. Spend half an hour and root around. It's really quite mind-blowing.

[Sudo Make Install]

here's another amazon product with a stupid amount of awesome reviews:

http://www.amazon.com/Tuscan-Whole-Milk-Gallon-128/product-reviews/B00032G1S0/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1

[justin]

He always brought home milk on Friday.

After a long hard week full of days he would burst through the door, his fatigue hidden behind a smile. There was an icy jug of Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz in his right hand. With his left hand he would grip my waist – I was always cooking dinner – and press the cold frostiness of the jug against my arm as he kissed my cheek. I would jump, mostly to gratify him after a time, and smile lovingly at him. He was a good man, a wonderful husband who always brought the milk on Friday, Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz.

Then there was that Friday, the terrible Friday that would ruin every Friday for the rest of my life. The door opened, but there was no bouyant greeting – no cold jug against the back of my arm. There was no Tuscan Whole Milk in his right hand, nor his left. There came no kiss. I watched as he sat down in a kitchen chair to remove his shoes. He wore no fatigue, but also no smile. I didn't speak, but turned back to the beans I had been stirring. I stirred until most of their little shrivelled skins floated to the surface of the cloudy water. Something was wrong, but it was vague wrongness that no amount of hard thought could give shape to.

Over dinner that night I casually inserted,”What happened to the milk?”
“Oh,”he smiled sheepishly, glancing aside,”I guess I forgot today.”

That was when I knew. He was tired of this life with me, tired of bringing home the Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz. He was probably shoveling funds into a secret bank account, looking at apartments in town, casting furtive glances at cashiers and secretaries and waitresses. That's when I knew it was over. Some time later he moved in with a cashier from the Food Mart down the street. And me? Well, I've gone soy.

there's something fucking wrong with the human race

[Author]

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