At the present moment, I readily admit I’d rather spend my time shopping online for a reliable used pick-up than hang out with God. Existentially, I know I’m not alone in this preference.
To be clear, I don’t mean just any pick-up. I want a humble, road-worthy little pick-up that will take me anywhere I want to go. Sadly, these are rare. In our current culture, driving a small, fuel-efficient pick-up has become a direct threat to one’s sense of superiority, a signal of submission to bigger trucks, a failure to flaunt one’s flagrant, entitled use of all things petroleum.
And I don’t mean I’m avoiding just any God. If I could find a God who would answer my prayers for a dependable rig, that would be one thing. But the God who shows up most of the time rides shotgun without regard for vehicular prestige or utility. Of course, there are times I like driving around with a good shotgun-riding God. But other times, I want a God who will take the wheel and get me what I want right now. And I want it sanctified, guilt-free, and easy; a blessing from a God who bestows blessings on those who deserve them. Like me.
If I had a little pick-up, I could buy big things and haul them around. I could load up furniture I no longer like and get rid of it. I could throw a sleeping bag in the back, drive anywhere I fancied, and take care of myself. I could escape into thingness, dislocation, and the illusion of having the right-of-way. I even imagine finding an offramp that turns me and my pickup around to give us another run at life.
If I had a God who would agree to be my Security Detail, my Bouncer, my Getter and Doer—a God I could prop in the corner to scare away the heathens and inferiors, wouldn’t that be nice? If I think of it that way, I could be God’s God.
“I don’t need a God,” God informs me in a gruff voice intended to disguise amusement. I’m neither startled nor dismayed. I grin sheepishly, my mind caught in the cookie jar of fantasized omnipotence.
“Uh, hi God,” I say. “Good thing you dropped by. It was getting a little crazy in here.”
“No worries,” God says. “There’s a pandemic of crazy going on. How about we quarantine together? I’ve got a couple of ventilators if we need them.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “I’ve got reams of bamboo toilet paper.” Shotgun God slaps his thigh. Bouncer God lets people in. Cardboard God starts a fire, and I stir the cauldron of soup and feed the sourdough starter some nice, fresh flour.
Short visits with an honest God 
When I get my beat-up truck, this will be the sticker on the tailgate, “My mind caught in the cookie jar of fantasized omnipotence”.
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Yes, the right pick-up can do that. I escape the cookie jar, but then, I seem to be drawn right back. IF you get that pick-up, you gotta share.
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Aw, good one, Rita. It makes me want to give you our pickup truck. I think we need it, though. But you can borrow it anytime.
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Thanks, Meg! I may take you up on the loan, providing the truck knows the on-ramp to another life :).
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Too bad there is not a “like” or “heart” emogi for your blog, Rita. I love reading them, but I am I at a total loss when it comes to making any sort of rationale or irrational response. Just want you to know that I always look forward to this read.
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Annie, I vastly prefer irrational responses. They’re the best. But mostly, I hope people dare to have them internally. They don’t need to go public with whatever gets tickled or triggered in their psyches. And somewhere, this is a “like” button or something, but I can’t say where, and besides, I like hearing from you, rational or not. Thanks!!
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