Though some might see God as a watchdog in the sky, just a guard dog on a leash held by a bishop to keep religion safe from harm, or you from getting too close.
God’s not
A pet.
Though some might see God as something to pet in prayer, or maybe like something to stroke during the gunfire scenes in an action movie, or when you see people in love dissolve right in front of your eyes.
God’s not
A buddy.
Though some might see God as blindly loyal waiting by the door at night, or maybe like a road trip partner sitting next to you in your truck, nose out the window, living the way you wish you could, but never can.
God’s
All we need.
Fortunately, some see themselves like lost dogs abandoned by cruel owners wondering why the world seems empty of the love they need more than food, and then by grace taken into a warm home and bathed, fed, given a place to sleep in their new master’s bed — finally able to see who God really is.
In a coffee shop where people go between their homes and puppet shows, I found myself one typical day in a faraway land as a castaway. At an island table in a cramped human sea, surrounded by strangers so strange to me. Between a sense of shore and expanse, I erased the horizon and welcomed the trance.
Sailing away in a newfound lane, passing over the pious profane, across a cold dessert, past crippled trees, running from something in search of release.
Then something besides the something I feared, caught me up and a feeling appeared. There above my vain contradictions, it lifted me out of my dark inner fiction.
Like a child born to a painless birth, like a gentle whisper wrapped round the earth, warm blood flowed and flooded my veins, rays of light breathed through closed windowpanes. I could not step forward, I could not sit down, I was planted in place ecstatically bound.
An invisible clock drew me into its gears, time was a waterfall and minutes were tears. It shifted my ground to a realm beyond space, where no pain or suffering could ever take place. Then my outdated body recaptured its youth, and I wondered if this was a lie or the truth.
In that passing moment and once it had passed, I was freed from a need to know at long last. My eyes were my own, I was no longer blind, my vison now cleared by an untroubled mind.
Is there a heaven, some paradise then? A God who is willing to so condescend?
If all that I get is this taste, that’s enough, for what I have left while I’m left here on earth.
“Hmmm . . . I just realized I have a choice. What if I make the wrong one? Hey, what was that sound? Did I just burp? I think I did. I’m ‘aware’! Where did that come from? Am I evolving? Maybe I am. I am. I am! Yes! I exist and I know I do! Now what? Ahh, that ‘choice’ thing. Decisions, decisions. What do I do? Am I human? I must be. This is what it must have been like for Adam. Maybe I am Adam. Ha! Maybe I’m the explanation of what happened when instinct jumped into consciousness. Whoa . . . That’s a big thought. Maybe it’s true. Maybe? I’ve never experienced ‘maybe’ before. ‘Maybe’ and ‘mystery’. Are they one in the same? I used to be so sure. Now everything seems like a mystery. Maybe that’s it. Instinct is certainty. Consciousness is uncertainty. Enough! Enough! I can’t take much more of this. That muscle in my skull is starting to hurt. Let’s get practical here. Do I have to wear clothes? Wait another minute. I’m naked! That’s all part of it. Now I do feel like Adam. Shame is not a monkey thing. It’s unnatural! So anyway, what to wear? I’m picturing jeans and a white T-shirt. Maybe roll the cuffs on the pants, white socks, black penny loafers — kind of a James Dean look? Yeah, classic. I wonder, will I need a car? No, I want a motorcycle. I’m the type, don’t you think? And I can’t imagine I’ll be living in a tree much longer. Can you? It’s not dignified. A place with a pool sounds good. Yeah, on a safe little cull-de sac where I could settle down and start a family. Backyard. Barbecue grill. Fire pit. Fire? That’s a big responsibility. What about a lawn mower? Tools? A tool shed, Maybe a club house where the guys can come over and drink beer and watch the game. Do you think the wife will let me? The wife . . . mmm . . . Opportunity or problem? Love or obligation? I’m not sure about this marriage thing. It may be an infringement on my freedom. Unless fidelity becomes a virtue with real worth. Should I be thinking about moral values? Who cares! Now that’s real freedom. Who cares and so what! Freedom from marriage is freedom indeed. No marriage, no adultery. Jean-Jacques Rousseau would be proud of me. Where did that come from? Me? Only me? This popping in of thoughts is worth looking at. Do I exist because I think, or do I think because I exist? Hey, I don’t have time for Descartes, I need clothes. Alright, I’ll admit it. I need a way to judge my thoughts, manage them, place some value on them as they come and go. Philosophy? Psychology? Theology? Which one? Maybe I should just start with the Bible. Figure out who created all this. Then I’ll have something to reject when I get to to college. College! I don’t even have a good pair of underpants! And I’m hungry. I never gave it a thought before, I just ate. Now what? Bananas? Nuts? I don’t feel like picking lice and eating them. Somehow that’s beneath me now. A hot dog! Yeah! With everything, everything but relish. How about a wiener roast? Yes! That sounds like fun. I’ve wanted to make a fire forever. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll figure everything out! But first things first. I need to set priorities. Food without fire, something attainable. But how to get it? These trees look pretty empty around here. Over there, way over there I see some monkey kids picking things and eating them. I wonder if they would share? There’s a concept for you. And what if they don’t want to. I’m bigger, I’ll take what I want. Is that right? Right and Wrong. Oh boy, I’m not sure I’m ready for morality. Gorillas rule in my world. Might over Right. The “will to power” is jungle law. Nietzsche took credit for that, but he stole it from us. Which brings up a nice idea. I could just figure out some way to steal the monkey kid’s food. Maybe pick up a club and hit ‘em on the head. That’s an idea I can steal! Oh no, suddenly I don’t feel right about that. I guess I do have a conscience after all. I wonder if Nietzsche had one? Speculation. That’s all part of this consciousness thing too. Which philosopher got it right? Which religion? Which political party? What is Truth? Pilate asked that and it was standing right there in front of him and he killed it. Truth. The truth that sets you free. Whew! What do I believe about that? Free will. Free thought. I don’t feel very free right now. Shhh. Quiet. Here comes those kids with some bananas. I gotta find a club.
what comes upon me frightens me so much I run away
and thrills me while it chases me; leaves when I beg it stay.
who wrote that?
I remember doing it but now it seems at odds, a face without a name staring at me staring at it.
if I say it only came from me then I am alone denying the is of other.
then nothing else matters — only me and mine.
if I say it came from me and not me, I am not alone admitting the is of other.
then something else matters — not just me and mine.
who? from where? from what? by self? by chance? I ask; it will not say for sure; it grabs my hand to dance —
it goes to all I am
a body prone to pleasure mid suffering and pain, a thinker where my thoughts alone will never fully reign, a feeler where feelings need not say all I need to know, an actor where each action does not say the me I show, a creature where what I am is absolutely there for all to see ever and always becoming exactly how my other sets me free.
who wrote that?
a force I can not fully tame, a face without familiar name, strangely always wants to be
Shut up! Shut up I tell you! You have no right, no right at all to try and tell me I’m wrong. Back away from what’s me and mine; I’m tired of the nagging naggingNAGGING!
What are you? You act like my conscience or something. And if you are, remember — that makes you my conscience. I formed you and I can reform you.
And keep away from my kid, she’s mine to form too, and I’m making her mine for keeps.
Her mother is gone now, I had her sent away. Some say I drove her crazy, and maybe I did, but she was weak, too weak to keep up with me.
Anyway, it’s none of your business . . . but here . . . since you’re always prying into everything all the time, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve got a song that sings to me deep down inside, and I live by it, and you’re not going to change it, so you might as well hear it.
It goes like this:
Gone are those days of knee-shaking confession. I have my new therapist, my rock-solid repression.
All I’ll confess is no need to amend—I’ve evolved past critique or flaws to defend.
Me and Mine, Me and Mine. Get your hands off, get your hands off, get your hands off Me and Mine.
I get what I need, and I love what I own. I am an achiever, I run my own town.
Just take a look at my car and my home, my family, my hair, my fine clothes, my smart phone.
That’s me in the mirror, me in the glass, I make my own way; I dismiss what I pass.
I’m proud of my pride and secure in my place; I set my chin and my grin to protect my sly face.
Me and Mine, Me and Mine. Get your hands off, get your hands off, get your hands off Me and Mine.
As far as my end, well, it’s something I’ll handle. Passing away is like snuffing a candle.
One puff and it’s over — who cares, who can fight? You just say good-by and slide into night.
Immortality is just as simple as this: spoil your children profusely and they’ll never miss.
They’ll remember you fondly when they get it all. Name a hospital after you or some lecture hall.
Me and Mine, Me and Mine. Get your hands off, get your hands off, get your hands off Me and Mine.
There, how about that?
“It’s a clever chorus, but the verses are insipid.”
As if I cared about your opinion. I’ve had it with you. Who do you think you are anyway?
“I’m not your conscience, you’ve mostly killed that. I’m that part of you that you can’t reform or kill.”
Wait a minute, you’re a part of me?
“Well . . . technically yes and no. I am part of you but I’m that part you don’t own. I was put into you when you were created by your creator.”
I don’t believe that bull.
“You don’t have to. You can live throughout all eternity without a nod to your creator. It’s your choice. But it is important to be aware that the place you’re headed for in eternity is not exactly heaven.”
You’re talking about hell, but I don’t buy that either. It’s all just made up to control people, keep ‘em in line and keep ’em putting money in the plate.
“Would you like to bet on that?”
Bet on what?
“If you’re right about that.”
You mean gamble on the whole thing? God or not? Heaven and hell, or not?
“Sure. I heard you were some kind of a big gambler. You might like this game. Here’s how it goes: If you bet there is no God and there is no God, at the end when you die you’re no worse off. I take it that’s your bet, right.”
I’d put money on it.
“I thought so. And if you bet there is a God and there isn’t, same thing. You’re gone. You die and there’s nothing there, so who cares? You’re no worse off than the guy who bets no-God. You’re just snuffed out like a candle like in your song. No eternity, just nothing.”
We’re all in the same boat then.
“Except for one thing. What if there is a God. The God. The Creator. And you bet against him. Well, then you face some trouble, big trouble. There will be consequences to your disbelief. At the end of your life, you will lose everything—forever—and wind up in a place you may not believe in now, but one you’ll find out is an absolute fact too late to do anything about it.”
So if I’m wrong . . .
“Then at that instant you will have a very rude and shocking awakening. You’ll be wrong forever. There is no end to how unhappy you’ll be then. That’s the nicest way I can put it.”
I still find this God thing hard to believe . . . but now I want to know.
“The man who came up with the notion of gambling on the existence of God, says you never will really know for absolute certain; it is always a gamble, and everybody bets whether they know they are betting or not.”
Great, now what do I do?
“That’s up to you and your no-God or God bet. Do you want to keep betting against God, keep your chips on no-God, or do you want to change your bet? The fact that you said you wanted to know is a good place to start.”
Wait a minute you sound like you’re leaving.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be around. But no more nagging. Once you’re aware, I pretty much leave it up to you. It’s between you and your no-God or God. It’s your search and your bet. I’ll remind you now and then, but I can’t make you change. And I should warn you, from now on you won’t be quite as happy listening to that insipid song you sing to yourself. Now that you’ve started listening to me just this little bit will make a big difference. You won’t be able to forget this conversation. That song of yours won’t sound so good. And you just might change your tune, so to speak.”
Hey, before you go, do you have any little tips? I like tips when I bet, anything to increase my odds.
“One tip, but it’s a big one, the biggest of all.”
What?
“Make Me and Mine, Thee and Thine. It makes for a much happier life here and now. It’s called hope. Your only hope now is that maybe that angry little daughter of yours will someday care enough about you after you’re dead to dedicated something to you in your name. And I wouldn’t bet on a hospital wing if I were you —maybe a book rack in the local library. Immortally, I’m afraid, is a great deal more than getting your name on a plaque. And anyway, just look at her — she could easily wind up spending all your money while you spend all your time down there in that place you don’t believe in. If I could bet, that’s what I would bet on. But I don’t get to bet, just prompt.”
I’m afraid you started something here and I’m not sure I like it. It’s making me feel itchy.
“Let’s hope so.”
One last thing, I didn’t appreciate you calling my song insipid. I think you owe me an apology.
“I can’t apologize for that. I only tell the truth. And as far as that goes —it was also sophomoric.”
As time rolls us along in a chair diminished of all within our care.
Time will take our pocket knifes, our car keys, phones and money, our pets, our homes, our clothes and, finally, our precious dignity.
The losses will compile. The creeping cunning will hide an advancing daily shuffle, an encroaching daily slide.
Time!
Please take your time taking our time!
All sinning, all suffering, all pain leaves us with no earthly role, leaves us with joy or fear, our untethered soul with only one more thing to get or loose—the great all or all done.
There is so much time in eternity, all we ask is a few more minutes of mortality!
Sorry, the take won’t wait.
Oh yes! Oh no! Oh I don’t know! What to where? To grave? To end? To heaven? Or just the end?
Oh time beyond, time outside of time, grant us a sure sense — approaching death cures us of indifference—to beg the question, blessed to now confess our helplessness.
Before the take, grant us all one last dance, one fleeting chance to finally know your neglected name, to cast our needless wills in flame…
Corn Crib 