It’s a funny thing about metaphors – they never really follow through.
— Graham Greene, A Burnt-out Case
“I read what you wrote yesterday. Or was it the day before?” Axel was on the phone. He sounded as if he might be catching cold. “You’re being melodramatic.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “I am not appreciating metaphor right now. It doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to. Especially if we load it too full.”
“I see,” he said, though I don’t think he did.
“Today I am writing about scapegoats,” I said, “speaking of melodrama.”
“I look forward to reading it,” Axel said, though I don’t think he did. “"You’ll be all right (?),” he added, half statement, half question.
“I think so. Eventually.”
“Good. Call me if you need anything.” He meant that.
So, scapegoat theology: Does it work?
We lambs load our sins onto one goat and send him out into the desert to die, imaging that our sins will die with him. But we wake up six days later, and we are no different from what we were six days before. The goat may or may not be dead — we do not go out into the desert to check. But our sins have come back as healthy as ever — as if they had killed the goat and eaten the sacrifice and grown fat. Superbia, Invidia, Acedia, Ira, Tristitia, Avaritia, Fornicatio, and Gula (Gulaque), the whole damn gang.
They ride into town, six-shooters blazing. Our hearts skip a beat. We don’t know if we’re afraid or aroused. Or relieved — life is back to nasty normal.
04.21.22
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