A rant in the key of deep irony

I can hear the objections given by the guardians of virtue who oppose what they do not understand. Who are unwilling to listen to the voice of experience and humanity. They rage from the depth of the dark souls they have become:

“It would be so much easier if they just went away. The broken ones,
I mean, the alcoholic, bipolar, exhausted screamers who dirty our
ideals; the paralytic, dyspeptic, and morally dyslexic ones, who cannot
read the holy letters, who would turn Zion into a dystopia. Even David
wouldn’t allow them in that city.

We know what should be. We have an image, an ethereal
prototypical mural projected on our soul by the spirit that reminds
us of what we strive for, the way things are meant to be. It’s called
natural law, or God’s law, or according to nature, or by design and
anyone with half a brain can see it. It serves as an encouragement
or us to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and aim for the sky.

We have ideals, unsullied, unyielding, or better put, God has given
his ideals (not hers) and it would behoove all to take them seriously.
If only you would take them seriously, conform yourself to the projected
image, you would see bounty, abundance like you have never dreamed.
The prayer of Jebez would be fulfilled in your life. And Jerusalem would
never again be destroyed and the messianic age would come in spite
of the tawdry nature of the rebuilt walls of Nehemiah.

God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve, or Gwendolyn and
Sarah, or whatever other sexual copulation tickles your fancy. The fact
that your life doesn’t match that framework, that you did nothing to
choose your reality, that the batteries are in backwards and the toys
are broken, matters to no one.”

Like pink tri-angled boys and black tri-angled girls and yellow stared children with eyes that betray and red winter coats against gray skies, they remind us of our fallen-ness, these so called broken ones, these misfits of our imagination, and we do not want to be reminded. So it would be better for some if they just went away, back into the closeted abyss where we won’t have to come to grips with our lack of hospitality.

Poor Alice, no room at the inn; the doors are all bolted shut and the windows shuttered. So the child is born illegitimately and a bright shining star rises, this time in the west, and the captives, captivity, and the jails that hold us are undone.