The Good Book

She fingered its delicate pages. It had a great deal of weight for such a delicate thing.

The pages were lighter than most. So easily torn. It survived many years but could it survive fire? Could it withstand water?

So many interpretations. So many translations. So many voices cast out. How much was lost in the translations? How much had been lost over time? Can any text maintain its integrity over thousands of years at the hands of so many?

What of the voices cast aside? Not every tale that was written for it has been told. The great men who created it also omitted pieces of it. If you don’t tell the whole tale, is it still worth fighting over? Would you risk your life on half of the truth? Would you risk someone else’s?

So much righteous blood has been shed. So much land stolen, so much currency controlled, by the men who wield the word. The pen is mightier than the sword. The book is mightier than its truth. Its authority has been enough to destroy as many lives as it’s saved.

Man is not perfect. Neither is his book. All it takes is a spark. She saw the light.