Come here, all of you who can't breathe anymore!

The Mad Preacher climbed onto the trash can, that was his pulpit. A group gathered around him. He stared at them for a while, and then he shouted into the crowd:

Come here, all of you who can’t breathe anymore!

Come here, all of you who have been damned!

Come here, all of you who have run away from God because you’ve been told over and over again: God is a monster, a sadist, a barbecue guy who takes pleasure in creating creatures only to grill them like sausages. Told so often that you came to believe it was your own voice … and your own voice was the voice of God.

Come here, all of you who no longer wanted to lug your faith around because it contradicts everything you know about the world.

Come here, all of you who have been “collecting good deeds” up until now and are constantly afraid you haven’t collected enough. People, life isn’t a Pokémon game where the goal is to collect something.

Have you been told that God doesn’t love you?

Have you been told that God hates you?

Have you been told that God is really, really mad at you?

But, Mad Preacher, haven’t you heard the Great Scholar Blah?

But, Mad Preacher, haven’t you heard the Sharia-Scholar Blub?

I’ll tell you this: “I heard them very well, really.” But hey, I had to mute them to hear God’s melody, to listen to the songs of the universe. And I had to shoo them off my dance floor so I could dance in peace, out of joy.

It feels so good, how wonderful it is … hop, hop … Come on, dance with me. On our dance floor there’s no judgment; we’re not looking for a superstar here, and certainly not a super Muslim.

Come here, all of you who’ve never danced because you haven’t heard the divine melodies yet, who have never let yourselves be led by the songs of love.

Until now, you’ve only heard noise, just static, just Khhhhrrrschhhh … Khhhhhrrschh.

But, Mad Preacher: “Music is haram!”

Shut the fuck up, I tell you!

You are music yourself, you dumb piece of matter! You’re vibrating all the time; you’re a collection of waves, a collection, a HEAP of quanta that vibrate … you are music and an eternal cosmic dance.

Come here, all of you who suffer from your own fear.

God does not hate.

God is not Mustafa from the barbecue stand.

You’re afraid of a caricature of yourselves, of your fathers.

You’re afraid of tyranny. I’m laughing my ass off. How can anyone believe that God would be like that?

Who sold you such a God?

The pied pipers who feed off your fear?

The brokers of paradise who tell you that you’ll get a place with God only through us? Only through what we’ve concocted?

The faith-marketing experts who want to convince you of a “true” doctrine?

The performers who sell you psychosis as the fear of God?

Come here, all of you who can’t breathe anymore!

Come here, for the breath of God is everywhere.

He climbed down and ran off down the street.