I'm well aware of what the Sermon on the Mount referred to as 'the beam' in my own eye; and the beam reminds me of one of those iron girders hanging high above the black-and-white city in old pictures of skyscrapers being built, complete with cloth-capped laborers balanced on its rivets eating their lunch or waving at the camera. But I don't know what to do about this beam. If it's removed, I know from experience that the restless construction workers of the mind will simply hoist another one into view, followed by another one, until I have the entire Empire State Building rising into my pupils. Before too long, there will be so many beams in my eye I might as well be wearing a pair of those novelty sunglasses in the shape of the Manhattan skyline.
However, for all these sturdy beams being erected in my eye, I'm not so sure there's just the single, paltry mote in my neighbor's eye. In fact, I'd say it's snowing motes across his face; an impenetrable blizzard of motes accumulating in his eyelids. And with all due respect to Jesus, I sometimes feel it's better to have an architectural wonder in my eye than a barren tundra of frozen motes. After all, you can see a lot from the top of the Empire State Building whereas my neighbor's mote storm has obviously reduced visibility to near zero. This presents a difficult problem for theologians, especially Biblical literalists. But those people have so many motes in their eyes that the motes are coming out of their ears, so I can't expect them to hear what I'm saying, never mind see my point of view.
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