God is dead, God remains dead. There has been no change since Nietzsche spoke; if anything, we have still not grasped the implications. We cling to the wreckage, even as the lacuna from the stricken vessel drags us down; we refuse to let go, we refuse to trust the big black sea. So I want to make you vomit, I want you to vomit belief out—we are all sick on belief, drop belief.
God is dead, God remains dead. This is so in two respects: firstly, the demiurge God—the man-like creator entity—died long ago, not even the Christians defend him; secondly, the unconditioned God that exists outside time and space yet supports reality through infinite love is dead. He is dead because he is so defined as to be irrefutable—as good as nothing, though slightly less than nothing. Nobody can show that this God does not exist; however, I notice that the men—a loose designation—who serve this God are liars. Their arguments for this God’s existence are rank with insincerity and rhetorical games—rank with, as we say today, “cope”. The God of infinite love and light is a coping strategy. He is dead—else he would have better servants, servants without lies on their lips. There is no cool ocean in their minds, only scummy thrice-used bathwater. You are hazy, brothers. Hazy.
Richard Dawkins is dead; Christopher Hitchens is dead—and good, for they were also believers; they also worshipped the God of infinite love and light, did so with exquisite sophistry. In a way, they were more deluded than the Christians. Hitchens and Dawkins looked at the ugly lying creature man and said: he is infinite love and light—he is feminism, he is socialism, he is progress. Amen. Verily, they were liars also—the most subtle theists.
What is there? First, Beyng—not a being, not metaphysical Being; not an other-place-order. If you want to find Beyng, get in a car crash; a car crash is not, per JG Ballard, an auto-erotic experience—a car crash is an encounter with Beyng; your finitude before death as funnelled through language, culture, race, and place. Go tempt death, appreciate what “is”—no scientific device has yet been devised to detect it, yet it is not in “the other place”. Second, the universe appears to be a cybernetic entity, a programmable computer, and so—as the Kabbalists always knew—the dead universe has a consciousness; it becomes a living cosmos, living light—the thing that survives in general, though your particular body does not.
The wind talks to you, the birds talk to you—you have forgotten how to listen, you have forgotten the codes. Third, insofar as this is so, it may be possible to build a being “God”—a God in the demiurgic sense, the God long abandoned by clever sophists who retreated to their less-than-nothing God of love and light. Perhaps He already sends his emissaries back to us—chariots of the God, UFOs—to aid in His construction at the end of time (if, indeed, time ends).
God is dead, God remains dead. The cathedrals and churches burn—must burn. A church is not bricks and mortar, it is held up by faith—the faith is gone, the structure must combust. It is more dignified than tourism—the soft desecration. When a Muslim woman casts a spell with the Koran she burns the page—it is fitting. Yet Islam is a zombie—it died centuries ago, yet it shuffles across the globe and cries: “Brains! Brains!” The last adherents of the God of love and light, the leftists, inured in technological luxury, call: “Come, my lovely: eat me, eat me.”
Conclusion: at the turn of the ages, a new God comes to be born—the God of Beyng. His prophet disliked technology—the old technology; yet we after-men will find a new technology within Beyng; the possibilities are obscure, but are intimated in the Möbius strip.