Not God's Fault.... Think more

Greetings, young gents, Oskar Matzerath, the three-foot skeptic in the “Tin Drum” by Gunter Grass, hammers his my tin drum through the haze of life’s grand illusions. What does Oskar, this stunted sage of Danzig, think of God?

 

Oh, the Almighty, that cosmic puppeteer, dangling us all on strings while we scramble like ants in a spilled sugar bowl. For you lads learning to think like men, not sheep bleating for a shepherd, let’s ponder the divine with a smirk sharp enough to cut through cathedral fog. Seven minutes for Oskar, my friends, to drum out irreverent musings on the Man Upstairs. Buckle up—this one’s a heretical waltz.

 

In The Tin Drum, Oskar doesn’t exactly kneel at the altar of piety. God? He’s a curious figure, less a loving father and more a distracted landlord who forgot to fix the roof. Take his time in the church, skulking behind the statue of baby Jesus—sweet little tyrant, that one, with his plaster halo and smug gaze. He climbed into the organ loft, drumming his defiance, not because he hated God, but because God seemed so… indifferent. The priests prattled about divine love, but all he saw was a world of butchers, brawls, and his mother’s eel-choked end.

 

If God’s running the show, lads, He’s got a lousy stage manager. Oskar’s drum, you see, was his gospel—louder, truer than any sermon. When he gazed at the church’s stained glass, he didn’t see divine light; he saw colors mocking his own smallness. God, to him, was like a shopkeeper who overcharges for salvation, promising eternity but delivering only guilt.

 

He once tried praying, you know, after his Mama’s funeral—kneeled, even, like a fool in a fairy tale. Nothing answered but the wind, rattling the windows like his own doubts. The Bible says God made us in His image, but Oskar suspects He skipped the mirror when it came to him, three feet and all drum. Skepticism, lads, is his creed. In the novel, Oskar toys with God like a cat with a half-dead mouse. There’s that scene where he disrupts a Mass, drumming until the congregation’s prayers turn to curses.

 

If God’s so mighty, why let a dwarf’s drum steal His thunder? Mind you Oskar doesn’t deny Him outright—too much effort and absurd, and he’s no atheist preaching from a soapbox. No, he thinks God’s there, maybe, but He’s got better things to do than fuss over Danzig’s messes or Oskar’s broken toys. He’s a cosmic bureaucrat, stamping souls with neither malice nor care, while we mortals bumble through wars and eel suppers. For you young thinkers, this is the lesson: don’t swallow the divine pablum whole. Question it, poke it, drum on it. God might be real, but He’s no babysitter, and His silence is louder than any hymn.

 

Oskar once thought his drum could wake Him; it only woke the neighbors, and they weren’t pleased. Adulthood means facing the void—God or no God—with a mind sharp enough to cut through dogma’s fluff. Believe if you must, but keep one hand on your drumstick, ready to beat your own path.

 

And so, Oskar Matzerath slinks off, drumming a requiem for blind faith. Young men, question the heavens, doubt the divine, and keep your drum louder than any sermon.

 

 

Sound familiar?  Yeah, I’ve met many many young (and many NOT so young) people that form opinions about God without scratching below the surface observations we make.  Let’s answer Oskar’s observations with his same Tone and attitude.  You don’t have to be a Brain Surgeon to see the hollowness of Oskar’s arguments.  Here we go:

 

 

Greetings, young gents, Papa 4 Da Boys, your madrigal cynic, picking and strumming through the fog of divine debates. Oskar sneered at God as a cosmic landlord, too busy or bored to fix Danzig’s leaky roof. But today, let’s contrast his irreverent musings with the notion that God’s the measure of all things, and our doubts—my doubts—are just the sour fruit of human evil, sprouting from our precious free will.

 

Oh, what a grand yarn, as if my love song could be outshone by celestial rulers! For you lads learning to think like men, not puppets, let’s waltz through this theological tangle with sarcasm sharp enough to slice a sermon. Seven minutes more, my boys, to play this out. Let’s begin.

 

In The Tin Drum, Oskar treats God like a dubious guest at a Danzig tavern—possibly there, but not buying the drinks. Skulking behind the church’s plaster Jesus, he saw a world of butchers, wars, and eel-stuffed tragedies, and he blamed God’s silence. Why does the Almighty sit idle while we try in vain to dodge life’s cruelties? Oskar’s skepticism was his shield: God’s a distracted bureaucrat, he thought, stamping souls with neither care nor clarity. When Oskar disrupted Mass with his drumming, it wasn’t rebellion—it was a test. If God’s so grand, why let a dwarf’s tin steal His spotlight? He figured He’s either napping or finds Oskar’s chaos amusing, like a cosmic jester watching ants brawl.

 

But then comes this other view, lofty as a cathedral spire, that God’s the measure of all things—the yardstick by which truth, goodness, and even the Beauty of our efforts are judged. As if our Anything could be measured against divine blueprints! This perspective, lads, says God’s not the problem—He’s the perfection, the unchanging standard of order and love.

 

Our doubts, they argue, stem not from His failings but from the mess we make with our free will. Picture it: God hands us the keys to our souls, and we, like fools at a Swap Meet, trade them for shiny sins—greed, cruelty, or those eel suppers that haunt our nightmares. Evil is our invention, not His, born of choices freer than Heavy Metal music.Take Oskar’s church antics, disrupting prayers with his tin. In his mind, he was thumbing his nose at a God too aloof to care. But this view flips the script: the drumming wasn’t a jab at divine silence but a tantrum of Oskar’s own making, a choice to sow discord rather than seek grace.

 

The world’s wars, betrayals, and broken drums? Not God’s script, but ours, scribbled in the ink of free will gone rogue. The Bible—oh, that dusty tome—says we’re made in His image, yet we twist it with every spiteful act, then blame Him when the mirror cracks. Oskar blamed God for his Mama’s death, but perhaps it was her choices, or Oskar’s own, that invited the evil.

 

For you young thinkers, this contrast is a riddle. Oskar scoffs at God, seeing Him as a landlord who’s skipped town, leaving us to squabble in the ruins. But the other side insists He’s the fixed star, and our doubts are just shadows cast by our own missteps. There’s sense here: if we’re free to perform our own tunes, we’re also free to make a racket. Adulthood means owning that racket, not whining to the heavens when it deafens us. Believe in God’s measure or not, lads, but know this: your choices shape the chaos, and no amount of defiance drowns that truth.

 

And so, Papa 4 Da Boys slinks off, lyricist to the divine yardsticks and human folly. Young men, measure your choices, not God’s silence, and keep your drum louder than your doubts.

 

Music by Pufino