Don't Blame God by Alexandra Shankland by Alexandra Shankland | Page 8

DON’T BLAME GOD

peppered with quaint Victorian stage shows, part séance part magic trick,
imploded when Edward entered stage right and delivered the message
‘showbiz style’. Drawn by the pizzazz and glitter we duly soaked it up;
loyal disciples of the new Jesus. With accomplished authority, a middle
finger and a “meh” for the critics, Edward tabled in-your-face proof of
life eternal, delivered in a fashion the average media-saturated person
could comprehend.
Any level of fakery by the new messiah and the ‘big reveal’ would have
been as sensational as the existence of soul-life itself. Had the twenty
first century’s most infamous medium peddled snake oil, he would
undoubtedly have been outed by an onlooker with their hand out for a
handsome interview fee or a passer-by, in return for their very own
fifteen minutes of fame.
We believed John Edward then detoured, we stopped wanting to
hear John Edward and started wanting to be John Edward. The
promise of fame, riches, public recognition and the perception of a
perfect life became more important than the meaning, as we got swept
away on the new wave of a new age. Until we dispose of the lights,
camera, action and ego, we will not move on to knowing fully. So here we
are stagnated in spirit, by ignorance.
Live and unplugged; this is their story as much as it is mine, a tale
that may well have been engineered by the other side for the telling or
something so truly remarkable that they became the hitchhikers of my
own personal galaxy. Whatever the answer, it is about the truth of life
without the audience, the party favours and the champagne.
A truth that resoundingly proves they are not the fortune tellers
of our bidding, paraded to amuse and enthral the masses, but an
integral and necessary part of the completion of our being.

If this turns out to be a terrible story, it’s because the truth got in the way.

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