Christianity is a psycho sexual disease.
While the Christian God hates practically everything that is good, beautiful or useful: The one thing He hates the most is a healthy attitude to Sex. This God, and his followers have had the most ridiculous views of women and of sexuality. This as we all know derives from a dysfunctional sexuality. However, I anticipate!!! The facts first:-
Christian Views on Women and Sexuality
1) Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law. And if they will learn any thing, let them ask their husbands at home: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church.-Paul [I Corinthians 14:34-35]
2) But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.
-Paul (I Tim 2:12)
3) It is not permitted for a woman to speak in the church, nor is it permitted for her to teach, nor to baptize, nor to offer [the eucharist], nor to claim for herself a share in any masculine function-- not to mention any priestly office.
-Tertullian, (160?-220? C.E.), Adversus Valentinianos
4) The sentence of God on this sex of yours lives on even in our times and so it is necessary that the guilt should live on, also. You are the one who opened the door to the Devil, you are the one who first plucked the fruit of the forbidden tree, you are the first who deserted the divine law; you are the one who persuaded him whom the Devil was not strong enough to attack. All too easily you destroyed the image of God, man. Because of your desert, that is, death, even the Son of God had to die.
-Tertullian, (160?-220? C.E.), The Apparel of Women
5) Bow your heads to your husbands--and that will be ornament enough for you. Keep your hands busy with spinning and stay at home--and you will be more pleasing than if you were adorned in gold. Dress yourselves in the silk of probity, the fine linen of holiness, and the purple of chastity. Decked out in this manner, you will have God Himself for your lover.
-Tertullian, (160?-220? C.E.), The Apparel of Women
6) For the preservation of chastity, an empty and rumbling stomach and fevered lungs are indispensable.
-St. Jerome (340?-420 C.E.)
7) Nothing is so much to be shunned as sex relations.
-St. Augustine (354 C.E.- 430 C.E.)
8) A woman has no control over herself.
-Martin Luther (Letter to Several Nuns, 6 Aug. 1524)
9) The natural and proper timidity and delicacy which belongs to the female sex evidently unfits it for many of the occupations of civil life....The paramount destiny and mission of women are to fulfill the noble and benign office of wife and mother. This is the law of the Creator.
- The US Supreme Court, 1873, upholding an Illinois law which prohibited women from becoming attorneys
10) A woman cannot be a priest because our Lord was a man.
-Pope Paul VI, 1977
11) Both the Magisterium of the Church. . . . and the moral sense of the faithful have been in no doubt and have firmly maintained that masturbation is an intrinsically and gravely disordered action. The deliberate use of the sexual faculty, for whatever reason, outside of marriage is essentially contrary to its purpose.
-Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1994
12) Odo of Cluny stated “To embrace a woman is to embrace a sack of manure.”
The Original Sin
Jesus Christ, we are told is the Son of God and came here to die so that we could be absolved of our sins. Which sin are we talking about? It’s the Original Sin that of eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, instigated by the talking serpent. The Christian God wants everyone to be as idiotic as himself.This is the Original Sin and is propagated through the sexual act, and it is for this sin that Jesus Christ died, so that we can all go to Heaven. A comical sacrifice from an idiot for an entirely fictitious, ridiculous crime. However, the point stands:- It is the sex act which was so grave a sin that the Son of God had to come and die. St. Thomas Aquinas (The patron of all Catholic educational institutions) claimed that Masturbation was a bigger crime than Rape. Yahweh killed Onan for the sin of masturbation. Catholic priests, as well know are supposed to be males, and not allowed to use their penis for any other purpose other than urination. The Nuns (Mother Teresa for example) have the status of spouses of Christ. The hanging messiah has got the biggest harem of all time, but judging solely by the permanent scowl on the Teresa face isn’t particularly good at his job. Before we get into the “All religions teach the same truth nonsense”, let me remind the reader that this is not so. Other religions, notably the Pagan ones, Hinduism, The Hellenic Religion, The Incas, Aztecs, African Religions,.. have a perfectly healthy view of sexuality. It is Christianity with it’s sexually diseased founders that suffers from this problem. The Shiv Lingam is worshipped by Hindus; the Lingam is kept atop a container called the Yoni. The word Lingam in Sanskrit means Penis while the Yoni is the Vagina. The worship of The Lingam & the Yoni comprise the Male and Female part of the procreative energy, and is worshipped all over India. The Incas went about naked, and developed a brilliant civilization, as did the other indigenous people of the Americas both North & South. This Original Sin business and the idea that the Penis of a priest only supposed to be used for urinating, and is a semi-vestigial organ for that species is strictly a Christian and allied religions nonsense. The Hellenic Gods and Goddesses weren’t of the impotent variety either. The dalliance of Ares & Aphrodite had been sung around, and enjoyed for ages, before Christianity put an end to such sinful businesses. I have got quite a few Christian friends who seemed eminently surprised and properly shocked to hear of Gods having genitals. The idea of Gods using their genitals was of course the highest possible filth. That always leaves me to wonder what this spouses of God business is all about, and what do Christian couples do on their honey moons. Dip the Messiah on the Cross in Honey and Moon Bathe him I suppose. Easter used to be a fertility festival dedicated to the Eostara and the Bunny and the Egg are fertility symbols. In case some Christians find it too difficult to understand let me make it clearer. The Bunny is a symbol of procreation via the original sin method (that of sex), and so is the egg. The egg is produced by the Cock indulging in sex with the Hen, and then a baby chicken is the result. This is what celebrating fertility is all about. The Cocks and Hen presumably didn’t need the serpent to incite them, or maybe the Bible writers forgot to note it down. The Easter Bunny and the Egg have nothing to do with a Godman coming back to life after a Saturday interregnum unless some hidden text in the Bible suggests that He ate a rabbit and an omelet or two on the Saturday inside the tomb. What Sex is all about:-
Curiously enough, one of the finest descriptions of the sexual mood and it’s significance that I have read about is from a lecture of that great physicist Erwin Schrodinger.
“To Western ideology the thought has remained a stranger, in spite of Schopenhauer and others who stood
“To Western ideology the thought has remained a stranger, in spite of Schopenhauer and others who stood
for it and in spite of those true lovers who, as they look into each other's eyes, become aware that their
thought and their joy are numerically one -not merely similar or identical; but they, as a rule, are
emotionally too busy to indulge in clear thinking, which respect they very much resemble the
mystic”
One of my favorite love poems is this one by TS Eliot.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No!I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind?Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No!I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind?Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
T. S. Eliot
The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana is a Hindu classic on the subject of sex and it’s enjoyment. Unfortunately, it contains absolutely no sex positions befitting a lover hanging perpetually on a cross. Absolutely useless for the spouses of Christ.
http://www.sacred-texts.com/sex/kama/index.htm
The Christian God hates condoms, He wouldn’t allow it even if it would protect against something as deadly as Aids. I once asked a Bishop about the reason, and he said it (The Condom) has exactly the same effect on God, as the act of offering a comb to man with a completely bald pate. Why doesn’t He hate pedophiles with an iota of the vehemence with which He hates condoms? Well, said the Bishop: “Women have to be satisfied, else it can be so embarrassing”, Children are …
The Vigin Birth & perpetual Virginity Nonsense.
Joseph is of course the laziest man in history. The man went out and married a pregnant woman. Doesn’t have to keep awake till late at night. The Virgin Mary ?, Well, She didn’t really have an option, did She ?. Besides, if you have a husband like Joseph, what is the harm ?
And, yes St. Valentine’s Day. It’s the Roman Festival of Lupercalia. It’s intended to celebrate love between two consenting adults. Saints as we know are not allowed to use their penises for any other purpose other than urinating. So Saint Valentine’s Day ???. Protect your children against the Paedophiles.
