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You don't seem to understand.
This is not opinion or bias. These are -facts-. Factual historical evidence that the Jesus mythology heavily influenced and borrowed everything from older Sun worship.
That's not opinion.
I looked at both sides with an open mind. Both obviously contradicted each other. Both provided reasonable sources. You just happen to appreciate ES's view more. Or maybe his view fits your view so you sympathize with it. I don't know but I didn't feel his contradictions were any more legit than MH's.
As a matter of fact MH posted. ES responded and MH responded back with additional sources.
Other than preference I don't see how his response was any more valuable than the others.
You don't seem to understand.
This is not opinion or bias. These are -facts-. Factual historical evidence that the Jesus mythology heavily influenced and borrowed everything from older Sun worship.
That's not opinion.
It is God's Word, not mine, that you are rejecting.
I am not at all insulted that you do not believe me. Rather, I feel for you because of all I know you are missing out on.
For what does a man profit if he gains the whole world but loses his soul?
seriously guys, go smoke a joint or pop a blue pill, you will see angels, spirits, god......thats what i hear from pill poppers...
Chapter III
IT WAS A RIMY morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there all night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now I saw the damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort of spiders' webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade. On every rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh-mist was so thick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our village—a direction which they never accepted, for they never came there—was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I looked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience like a phantom devoting me to the Hulks.
The mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that instead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me. This was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and s and banks came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly as could be, “A boy with Somebody-else's pork pie! Stop him!” The cattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils, “Holloa, young thief!” One black ox, with a white cravat on—who even had to my awakened conscience something of a clerical air—fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and moved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved round, that I blubbered out to him, “I couldn't help it, sir! It wasn't for myself I took it!” Upon which he put down his head, blew a cloud of smoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind-legs and a flourish of his tail.
All this time, I was getting on towards the river; but however fast I went, I couldn't warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted, as the iron was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I knew my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there on a Sunday with Joe, and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that when I was 'prentice to him, regularly bound, we would have such Larks there! However, in the confusion of the mist, I found myself at last too far to the right, and consequently had to try back along the river-side, on the bank of loose stones above the mud and the stakes that staked the tide out. Making my way along here with all dispatch, I had just crossed a ditch which I knew to be very near the Battery, and had just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man sitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded, and was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.
I thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast, in that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on the shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but another man!
And yet this man was dressed in coarse gray, too, and had a great iron on his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that the other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat, broad-brimmed, low-crowned felt hat on. All this I saw in a moment, for I had only a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at me—it was a round, weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself down, for it made him stumble—and then he ran into the mist, stumbling twice as he went, and I lost him.
“It's the young man!” I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified him. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had known where it was.
I was soon at the Battery, after that, and there was the right man—hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all night left off hugging and limping—waiting for me. He was awfully cold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face and die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry, too, that when I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it occurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my bundle. He did not turn me upside down, this time, to get at what I had, but left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my pockets.
“What's in the bottle, boy?” said he.
“Brandy,” said I.
He was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious manner—more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent hurry, than a man who was eating it—but he left off to take some of the liquor. He shivered all the while so violently, that it was quite as much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his teeth, without biting it off.
“I think you have got the ague,” said I.
“I'm much of your opinion, boy,” said he.
“It's bad about here,” I told him. “You've been lying out on the meshes and they're dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too.”
“I'll eat my breakfast afore they're the death of me,” said he. “I'd do that if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is over there, directly arterwards. I'll beat the shivers so far, I'll bet you.”
He was gobbling mincemeat, meat bone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen. Some real or fancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the marsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly—:
“You're not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?”
“No, sir! No!”
“Nor giv' no one the office to follow you?”
“No!”
“Well,” said he, “I believe you. You'd be but a fierce young hound indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint, hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!”
Something clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock, and was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.
Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, I made bold to say, “I am glad you enjoy it.”
“Did you speak?”
“I said, I was glad you enjoyed it.”
“Thankee, my boy. I do.”
I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating, and the man's. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction of somebody's coming to take the pie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate it comfortably, I thought, or to have anybody to dine with him, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of which particulars he was very like the dog.
“I am afraid you won't leave any of it for him,” said I, timidly; after a silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making the remark. “There's no more to be got where that came from.” It was the certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint.
“Leave any for him? Who's him?” said my friend, stopping in his crunching of pie-crust.
“The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you.”
“Oh ah!” he returned, with something like a gruff laugh. “Him? Yes, yes! He don't want no wittles.”
“I thought he looked as if he did,” said I.
The man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and the greatest surprise.
“Looked? When?”
“Just now.”
“Where?”
“Yonder,” said I, pointing; “over there, where I found him nodding asleep, and thought it was you.”
He held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his first idea about cutting my throat had revived.
“Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,” I explained, trembling; “and—and”—I was very anxious to put this delicately—“and with—the same reason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn't you hear the cannon last night?”
“Then, there was firing!” he said to himself.
“I wonder you shouldn't have been sure of that,” I returned, “for we heard it up at home, and that's further away, and we were shut in besides.”
“Why, see now!” said he. “When a man's alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin' all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees the soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round him. Hears his number called, hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’ and is laid hands on—and there's nothin'! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night—coming up in order, Damn 'em, with their tramp, tramp—I see a hundred. And as to firing! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad day—But this man;” he had said all the rest as if he had forgotten my being there; “did you notice anything in him?”
“He had a badly bruised face,” said I, recalling what I hardly knew I knew.
“Not here?” exclaimed the man, striking his left cheek mercilessly, with the flat of his hand.
“Yes, there!”
“Where is he?” He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of his grey jacket. “Show me the way he went. I'll pull him down, like a bloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file, boy.”
I indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and he looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet grass, filing at his iron like a madman, and not minding me or minding his own leg, which had an old chafe upon it and was bloody, but which he handled as roughly as if it had no more feeling in it than the file. I was very much afraid of him again, now that he had worked himself into this fierce hurry, and I was likewise very much afraid of keeping away from home any longer. I told him I must go, but he took no notice, so I thought the best thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw of him, his head was bent over his knee and he was working hard at his fetter, muttering impatient imprecations at it and his leg. The last I heard of him, I stopped in the mist to listen, and the file was still going.
Or any less valuable. So, you're probably right...because I agree with him, I give him more benefit of the doubt. Works both ways though, doesn't it?
Ultimately I think this can be simplified into the following disagreement:
Non-believers approach the accuracy of the Bible as false until proven accurate.
Believers approach the accuracy of the Bible as accurate until proven false.
And neither side has (or will) produce enough compelling evidence to convince the other side to change their mind.
THE MOST RECENT Extra Stout posts
1) B2B asked him
"Out of curiousity I'd like to know what ES thinks is the single most compelling piece of evidence supporting the existence of Jesus. I'm not talking about God just a mortal man named Jesus who was the son of God....magical powers and all.
I don't want 5, 6 or 10 things. Just the one single most compelling piece of evidence."
2) Extra Stout responded by using P52. He generously and misleadingly said that P52's age was ~125 CE.
3) I came with the facts about P52.
A) It's debated heavily. The -estimation- for P52's age is around 125-170 CE. Much different picture.
B) The estimation -is based on hand writing-. The style of the script. Papyrologists themselves have said this is not an accurate way to estimate age. Scholars have said, because of this, we have to say that P52 could have been written even around 250 CE.
C) Extra Stout says I am no expert, I don't know anything compared to papyrologists. He goes on to quote a scholar and leaves the rest out.
D) I post the rest of the quote and the papyrologist says exactly what I did.
That is not compelling evidence.
That's just the latest rebuttal to anything Extra Stout posts. He has no leg to stand on.
----
There were other times Extra Stout was proven incorrect, severely. He behaved in an intentionally misleading manner.
Funny I feel the same way. Its sad to me that you'll never experience true freedom and self understanding because you surrender to something fictious instead of surrendering to your own inner self. To me you've lost the ability to reach your true soul. At best you'll reach the soul expected by another. It saddens me further that you'll never have the strength to reach your full potential when all of lifes doings and undoings are left up to the hand of god.
Last but not least you may never truely appreciate the entire scope of man because you fail to realize that when its over and you die there is nothing left other than an empty lifeless vessel. So you'll never be able to go back and fulfill your own destiny at your own hand.
Our views on each other aren't so different.
The fact that "I love Me some Me" completely ignores my responses and rebuttals to Extra Stout is very telling.
You follow your claim of facts with statements like "estimation" and "could have been written." Those don't strike me as factual statements, but rather fancy guesses.
And, his estimation is neither generous or misleading, he just took the side that supported his argument. You agree that 125 is with the "estimated" date range, no?
His evidence was as compelling as yours, if not more. So if you dismiss his, you should dismiss yours as well...and we're back to square one.
Chapter IV
I FULLY EXPECTED to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me up. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet been made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the house ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon the kitchen door-step to keep him out of the dust-pan—an article into which his destiny always led him, sooner or later, when my sister was vigorously reaping the floors of her establishment.
“And where the deuce ha' you been?” was Mrs. Joe's Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.
I said I had been down to hear the Carols. “Ah! well!” observed Mrs. Joe. “You might ha' done worse.” Not a doubt of that I thought.
“Perhaps if I warn't a blacksmith's wife, and (what's the same thing) a slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear the Carols,” said Mrs. Joe. “I'm rather partial to Carols, myself, and that's the best of reasons for my never hearing any.”
Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dust-pan had retired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a conciliatory air, when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her eyes were withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and exhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper. This was so much her normal state, that Joe and I would often, for weeks together, be, as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders as to their legs.
We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had been made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not being missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive arrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of breakfast; “for I ain't,” said Mrs. Joe, “I ain't a going to have no formal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I've got before me, I promise you!”
So, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on a forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of milk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the dresser. In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and tacked a new flowered flounce across the wide chimney to replace the old one, and uncovered the little state parlour across the passage, which was never uncovered at any other time, but passed the rest of the year in a cool haze of silver paper, which even extended to the four little white crockery poodles on the mantelshelf, each with a black nose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and each the counterpart of the other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the same by their religion.
My sister having so much to do, was going to church vicariously; that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good cir stances, than anything else. Nothing that he wore then, fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and everything that he wore then, grazed him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young offender whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken up (on my birthday) and delivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the outraged majesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being born in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality, and against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I was taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make them like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the free use of my limbs.
Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside, was nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs. Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman said, “Ye are now to declare it!” would be the time for me to rise and propose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure that I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to this extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.
Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble, the wheelwright, and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe's uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.
The time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and the company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large shining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud of, indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could only give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he himself confessed that if the Church was “thrown open,” meaning to compe ion, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church not being “thrown open,” he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he punished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm—always giving the whole verse—he looked all round the congregation first, as much as to say, “You have heard our friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this style!”
I opened the door to the company—making believe that it was a habit of ours to open that door—and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. I was not allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.
“Mrs. Joe,” said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but choked, and had that moment come to; “I have brought you as the compliments of the season—I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine—and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.”
Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied, “Oh, Un—cle Pum—ble—chook! This is kind!” Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he now retorted, “It's no more than your merits. And now are you all bobbish, and how's Sixpennorth of halfpence?” meaning me.
We dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts and oranges and apples, to the parlour; which was a change very like Joe's change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister was uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally more gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I remember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue, who held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married Mr. Hubble—I don't know at what remote period—when she was much younger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough high-shouldered stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some miles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.
Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn't robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in at an acute angle of the table-cloth, with the table in my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak (I didn't want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain. No; I should not have minded that if they would only have left me alone. But they wouldn't leave me alone. They seemed to think the opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me, every now and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched up by these moral goads.
It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation—as it now appears to me, something like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third—and ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful. Upon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice, “Do you hear that? Be grateful.”
“Especially,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “be grateful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand.”
Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, “Why is it that the young are never grateful?” This moral mystery seemed too much for the company until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying, “Naterally wicious.” Everybody then murmured “True!” and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal manner.
Joe's station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when there was company, than when there was none. But he always aided and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at dinnertime by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being plenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.
A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some severity, and intimated—in the usual hypothetical case of the Church being “thrown open”—what kind of sermon he would have given them. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that he considered the subject of the day's homily, ill-chosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects “going about.”
“True again,” said Uncle Pumblechook. “You've hit it, sir! Plenty of subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their tails. That's what's wanted. A man needn't go far to find a subject, if he's ready with his salt-box.” Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval of reflection, “Look at Pork alone. There's a subject! If you want a subject, look at Pork!”
“True, sir. Many a moral for the young,” returned Mr. Wopsle; and I knew he was going to lug me in, before he said it; “might be deduced from that text.”
(“You listen to this,” said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)
Joe gave me some more gravy.
“Swine,” pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his fork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian name; “Swine were the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as an example to the young.” (I thought this pretty well in him who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.) “What is detestable in a pig, is more detestable in a boy.”
“Or girl,” suggested Mr. Hubble.
“Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble,” assented Mr. Wopsle, rather irritably, “but there is no girl present.”
“Besides,” said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp on me, “think what you've got to be grateful for. If you'd been born a Squeaker—”
“He was, if ever a child was,” said my sister, most emphatically.
Joe gave me some more gravy.
“Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “If you had been born such, would you have been here now? Not you—”
“Unless in that form,” said Mr. Wopsle, nodding towards the dish.
“But I don't mean in that form, sir,” returned Mr. Pumblechook, who had an objection to being interrupted; “I mean, enjoying himself with his elders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and rolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he wouldn't. And what would have been your destination?” turning on me again. “You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according to the market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would have come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped you under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his frock to get a penknife from out of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would have shed your blood and had your life. No bringing up by hand then. Not a bit of it!”
Joe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.
“He was a world of trouble to you, ma'am,” said Mrs. Hubble, commiserating my sister.
“Trouble?” echoed my sister, “trouble?” And then entered on a fearful catalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the acts of sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had tumbled from, and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I had done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I had contumaciously refused to go there.
I think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with their noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in consequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle's Roman nose so aggravated me, during the recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it until he howled. But, all I had endured up to this time, was nothing in comparison with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the pause was broken which ensued upon my sister's recital, and in which pause everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with indignation and abhorrence.
“Yet,” said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the theme from which they had strayed, “Pork—regarded as biled—is rich, too; ain't it?”
“Have a little brandy, uncle,” said my sister.
O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table, under the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.
My sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle, and poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man trifled with his glass—took it up, looked at it through the light, put it down—prolonged my misery. All this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were briskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding.
I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his glass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the brandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and rushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window, violently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind.
I held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn't know how I had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and surveying the company all round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down into his chair with the one significant gasp, “Tar!”
I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be worse by-and-bye. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day, by the vigour of my unseen hold upon it.
“Tar!” cried my sister, in amazement. “Why, how ever could Tar come there?”
But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn't hear the word, wouldn't hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all away with his hand, and asked for hot gin-and-water. My sister, who had begun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in getting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and mixing them. For the time at least, I was saved. I still held on to the leg of the table, but clutched it now with the fervour of gra ude.
By degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp, and partake of pudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding. The course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the genial influence of gin-and-water. I began to think I should get over the day, when my sister said to Joe, “Clean plates—cold.”
I clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and pressed it to my bosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend of my soul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was gone.
“You must taste,” said my sister, addressing the guests with her best grace,” you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook's!”
Must they! Let them not hope to taste it!
“You must know,” said my sister, rising, “it's a pie; a savoury pork pie.”
The company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said—quite vivaciously, all things considered—“Well, Mrs. Joe, we'll do our best endeavours; let us have a cut at this same pie.”
My sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appe e in the Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that “a bit of savoury pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do no harm,” and I heard Joe say, “You shall have some, Pip.” I have never been absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that I could hear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of the table, and ran for my life.
But I ran no further than the house door, for there I ran head foremost into a party of soldiers with their muskets: one of whom held out a pair of handcuffs to me, saying, “Here you are, look sharp, come on!”
That's MISLEADING. YOU HAVE TO POST THE ENTIRE ESTIMATED DATE RANGE.
THAT WOULD BE TAMPERING WITH FACTS TO SUPPORT YOUR ARGUMENT
Fits right in line with Christian history.
Also, it's under HEAVY DEBATE. Scholars are saying the actual date range can even be from 125-250 CE.
What also is not an opinion is the faith that Jesus Himself strengthens in my heart each and every day.
Let every man be a liar. My God is true.
I think this thread proves that people would rather embrace their harp while sitting on a cloud instead of doing a little critical thinking.
Nobody here is rejecting just God just for sheets and giggles. Most people here just want truth.
It's not anymore misleading than the 'facts' you provided about pre-Jesus deities, including the cir stances surrounding their births, and symbolism. Again, if you reject his argument based on these standards, you must do the same for yours.
Considering that it is, as you say, "under heavy debate" gives credence to the fact that 125 is a relevant possibility. If it were not, no debate would be necessary (especially a heavy one).
does anyone else get the image of AL sitting there with her fingers in her ears going "la la la I cant hear you la la la"
sheez
What was misleading about the facts I posted about the pre-Jesus sungods?
Oh, that's right. You read Extra Stout's bull propaganda post and didn't read my rebuttal.
Do you listen to yourself? YOU CANNOT POST just -125 CE- and leave out the actual estimated date range. That is misleading understand? It can be 125 CE or 170 CE (or even 250 CE).
Are you trolling? Seriously now
I've said that numerous times. Sometimes I enjoy talking to her but in the end you have to come to terms with the fact that nothing no matter how logical it may seem would ever sink in.... even be considered.does anyone else get the image of AL sitting there with her fingers in her ears going "la la la I cant hear you la la la"
sheez
She won't and never will read any point made.
For the record, I know that Heaven is not full of a bunch of people sitting on clouds with harps. It is a majestic a million times over.
The sitting on a cloud with popcorn picture is just something that helps make me smile from time to time.
It's 100 years because I arbitrarily used 150AD as the date where we start having manuscripts of the Bible. The Ryland Papirus (P52) could date as early as 125AD and some have suggested it could be from the turn of the First Century.
So now we are talking about less than 70 years and not 100. And then there's Clement I's letter to the Corinthians, said to be written around 90 AD, where he quotes several passages from the Bible. Clement I was the fourth Pope and was ordained by St Peter in Rome.
But again, the true question that needs to be addressed is when and how did Jesus' life get corrupted from the time he died to the time it was put on paper (papirii)?
Does the conspiracy start with Paul and the Gospel writers? Or were their texts corrupted by the next generation of copyists?
IMO, there is to much evidence that what the NT was written in good faith and is true. So the only question left unaswered is: Was Christ really the Being he claims he was? Or was he a lunatic, a lier that dupped millions?
As far as Plato and others work. I've offered no opinion on their existence. I don't know the nature of their work. If it envolved the supernatural I'd likely question it.
This is probably the biggest obstacle that lies between you and Christianity. You are enslaved by the material world. Your motto is probably "Seeing is believing". It appears that you will not give the supernatural a chance, and Christianity is all about the supernatural.
I believe the God of the Universe over mere man- sounds like common sense to me.does anyone else get the image of AL sitting there with her fingers in her ears going "la la la I cant hear you la la la"
sheez
I won't believe anything contrary to God's Word, true.
However, I do regularly read all your rants and sincerely enjoy the unique perspective and sense of humor that God created you with.
I'll give the supernatural a chance. I love it...sometimes even obsess over it.
Was Christ really the Being he claims he was? Or was he a lunatic, a lier that dupped millions?
I'll entertain that line. I do think its possible that a man Jesus existed. Just not in the capacity that he's thought of in todays times.
you hear that, b2b? it's gods unique perspective and sense of humor.
you plagiarist.
Read it, and concluded that yours was the bull propaganda post.
Do you not read your own posts? YOU CANNOT POST that Osiris was born of a virgin (which is false, Isis was not a virgin at the time of his conception), that Dionysis turned water into wine (which he did not, he filled empty barrels with wine, not turned water-filled barrels into wine-filled barrels), or that Krishna was the "Shephard of God" (he was the Shepherd-God, because he was a Shepherd by trade) and expect to be treated as someone who provides nothing but facts. Your posts were just as misleading (if not more, considering you made stuff up) as what ES provided in rebuttal.
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