Okay, I’m out. I’m packing my motorcycle and heading to the mountains of Mexico for a camping trip of indefinite length.
That’s what I’d do if I were in Jeremiah’s shoes anyway. Enough already! He’s been proclaiming judgment, judgment, judgment for so long it hardly seems true anymore, or at least ineffective. The people hate him. They’ve conspired to kill him. And still God presses him on.
Me? I’d be whining to God from 9 to 5; and in the evenings I’d be outfitting my Moto Guzzi.
Yeah, my Moto Guzzi v7 Special, a simple, lightweight, bullet-proof machine with Italian sexiness. I found a deal on it recently, like $2000 off for a new one, only it’s a 2013 model and thus the discount. It’s a fairly common bike, so aftermarket parts are readily available. The real clincher for me was the ease of outfitting this bike into a scrambler, you know, a bike that can handle rough fire roads–post-apocalyptic roads–as easily as it can handle the interstate. The 5.8 gallon gas tank helps too: who knows how easy it is to find gas stations in the Sierra Madre–or how readily gas will be available after the apocalypse?
So, in my evenings, after another day of wearying and unproductive work, I’d eat a quick dinner usually involving a fried egg, over easy, and some vegetables–meat too whenever one of my roosters would get too feisty–and head out into my garage to tinker. My excuse at first was creativity. “I just need a creative outlet, honey,” I’d tell my wife. And I’d tell myself that too. But I think it really was always a plan to escape south of the border into early retirement, albeit a tacit one–plan, that is, not retirement (although, come to think of it, a tacit retirement does sound nice).
Anyway, now it’s fully outfitted for the wilderness. And–Lord help me!–if I have to spend one more day proclaiming judgment to these stiff-necked people; if I have to tell them one more time that God’s dark servant Nebuchadnezzar will soon bring an army and wreak havoc and desolation; and–unlucky for Babylon!–that God nevertheless still loves his stiff-necked people and therefore Babylon, his dark servants, will in fact become a barren land not even fit for jackals–so help me I will just ride off to the south!
The Guzzi’s ready after all, loaded up in the garage with a full tank of gas.
But it’s late. So I’ll just sleep on it. Just one last time.