February 2005 (v7 i4)
Counting the Ways Since 1997
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In defense of creationism
by John Roper, Staff Writer

I'm a fairly smart guy. I read books, watch the History Channel and engage in an occasional semi-intellectual debate. I am scientifically progressive in promoting stem-cell research. I am open to new ideas, theories and discoveries that will better everyday life. But, there is one belief, one unshakable article of faith, to which I steadfastly subscribe: the universe and all of existence was created on Sept. 18, 1982, the moment I was born.

I know what you're thinking: "But I'm older than you, and so are my parents, and so is the entire scope of human history. And the Earth, John — what about the Earth?" Oh, yeah? Prove it. Fucking prove it, man. Am I supposed to believe that everything just sat here for thousands — even millions — of years, waiting for me to arrive?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a self-absorbed dick. I believe in things, the things that were created for me to believe in: The Godfather, Miles Davis, and Shel Silverstein. But how can you prove that this isn't simply a grand façade — a test of faith that separates the believers from the heathens?

"But, John," you say, "I remember vividly my youth in Columbia, where the locals called me Felipe. My father was a French diplomat; my mother the product of a torrid affair between two poets from Buenos Aires. The strength of these memories cannot be denied, as even now I can hear the cries of my mother as they sentenced Papa to death."

Okay, dude, that is a really fascinating story, but I posit that you were created a grown man on Sept. 18, 1982, with those memories fully formed. You and everyone else were created in media res, complete with personalities and prejudices. And your quaint notions of spirituality are tests of faith intended to misdirect you from the truth: the Universe exists purely for my edification. God has the power to create innumerable tests, many of which are pretty damn convincing. But I will not waver.

Besides, I'm not about to listen to some crackpot evolutionist. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not jumping at the opportunity to claim kin to some shit-flinging ape. When I look at a chimp in a tux on a mini-bike, I'm thinking two things: first, what a hilarious setup; second, that's NOT my uncle. Any assertion of a link between us is ludicrous. God constructed the evolution debate to challenge our faith, exactly as He placed the fossils in the ground, decayed carbon and all.

I defy you to prove otherwise — that I evolved from a stupid, stinking ape. Prove that God didn't shape me in His image: a big, laidback John in the clouds. Prove that anything existed before me.

The universe came into being when God made me on a Saturday. It's my faith, circular and bulletproof.
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