The woman in the featured image for this post is named Glenda Moore. Superstorm Sandy ruined her life.
The bodies of Glenda’s two toddlers were found today after they were literally swept from their mother’s arms by the water. She had just enough time to remove her children from their carseats before she was overwhelmed by the waves, and after the SUV they’d driven away from their flooded home in was trapped in the rising waters.
After her sons were washed away, Glenda went door-to-door looking for help and for shelter from the storm, but no one would help her. Ultimately, she took what little shelter she could from a front porch for the rest of the night, alone.
Just keep that in mind for a second.
Think about Glenda Moore’s night spent watching God and then read about the sociopathic
vultures pastors and clerics who’ve said this hurricane was sent to teach those toddlers a lesson for their poor choice to near near the gays/ close to where some guy blasphemed, thus pissing off a rage-filled, lazy, apparently drunk deity.
What I’ll never understand is the impulse to worship such a monster. I’ve been asked before whether, if the speaker could prove God existed, I would become a Christian? Would I accept Jesus as my personal savior? Would I sing his praises and subscribe to their newsletter?
Hell no, and this is why: Such a being with the ability but not the will to prevent a tragedy – or worse, a being with the ability and the will to cause such a circumstance – is one that morality compels me and any thinking person to oppose at all costs.
Such a deity is a moral monster.
So I read about people who worship toddler-drowning shits and I try to fathom the emotional baggage that’s required for that level of moral depravity. The fear that one day, such thinking might start to make sense to me, actually keeps me up some nights. If I believed in a soul, this is what losing it would look like.
It’s worth mentioning the obvious to any Christian, Muslim or Jewish readers: even if you don’t believe God sent this particular storm to murder these particular children, remember Noah and the flood that drowned the world. Take a moment to imagine all the Glenda Moores whose names were not written down in any of the begats of Genesis, who watched their children swept away and spent their final minutes or hours swimming desperately, exhaustedly, through the rain and in the dark, looking.