miracles
As a wee baby Goad, I was taught that miracles were so commonplace as to be non-miraculous. They told me that Santa Claus brought gifts, the Easter Bunny came with chocolate eggs and marshmallow chicks, and the tooth fairy left money under my pillow. The Catholic faith of my youth was the most miracle-laden religion this side of Hinduism—I grew up with old women chanting rosaries to stave off nuclear war, with holy water poured on tumors, and with stigmata-sporting masochist lunatics.
Yet as the sun sets and my balls hang lower, I find it hard to believe in miracles. First reason is, well, the concept of miracles is silly, but another good reason is the generally poor intelligence of people who are always having miracles happen to them.
I believe that God will not allow us to peek beyond the iron laws of physics to which he has shackled us like a pair of cosmic handcuffs. I believe that miracles are possible, but that only God and his cronies enjoy them, almost always at our expense. If God allows us to experience miracles, it is only to fuck with us in the long run.
