One of the greatest frustrations about being the only chosen one in four generations is that there is no one to tell me what to do. I’ve only centuries-old scripture to guide me, pored over by learned priests and eager revolutionaries who decide what those scriptures mean based on their own desperate hopes. None of them have felt God’s own power rippling through their bodies; none of them really know.
It seems to me that when God decided he wanted to communicate with humankind, he could have come up with a much better plan.
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