This book of gospels and parables is not a translation of some recently discovered fragmented papyrus manuscript from the first century A.D. that theologians and biblical scholars will pour over seeking to discover if John the Baptist complained of hemorrhoids, or if Mary Magdalene caught the bouquet at the Marriage Feast of Cana. It is composed from many years of thinking and writing about religious belief that only goes back to when the author first got the courage to allow doubts and questions about faith to creep out of his subconscious into the light of reason. So it is only the result of (to be a little biblical about it) a requisite forty years in the desert of metaphysical cognitive struggle. Hence, the tenor of its chapters, and even within, will sometimes change, from somewhat scholarly, to memoir, to satire, to philosophical, to historical, owing to the fact that it takes or engages, every facet of intellection to make one’s way through a journey from the indoctrination of innocent childhood into the insistent doubts of late adulthood. At times I have employed my authorial poetic license to the point of revocation, but I hope the tonal variation serves to spice things up and provide some variety in a work that threatened to get biblical in length. Maybe someday in a far, far distant future some aliens willfind their way to a ruined and depopulated Earth and startdigging for evidence of past life. They might chance upon afragmented copy of The Babo Gospels and like the discoverersat Qumran or of other ancient texts be given to wonder who itsauthor was and where he came from. Perhaps in the confusionof translation and fragmentation they will conclude that thebook was written or inspired by a god named Babo and theywill adopt him as their one, true god and worship him forthousands of years. Why not. I hope not; it’s not a responsibilityI would want.
