“You’re pretty thick-skinned,” I tell God as we sip our morning beers. “I’m jealous.”
God sighs. “Don’t be ridiculous. My skin is so thin it’s translucent. You can see my veins pulsing.”
“Ugh!” I exclaim. “I don’t like talking about veins.”
“I know,” God says. “So let’s talk about that man on the news that got you all riled up.”
“The one who said time is money and money is everything?” I ask. “Because yeah, I hated that. For your sake.”
God laughs. We clink bottles and watch as the river rises and the earth gasps for breath. How much money would it take to clean up our mess? To feed a billion children? What does it cost to build tanks, drones, and bombs? How much, God? How much money to defeat evil or save a single soul?
God raises an eyebrow. “Money does not buy redemption or defeat evil.”
“I know,” I snap. “But it buys food. And weapons. Like Mark Twain said, I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.”
“So you’re saying money is everything?” God asks.
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” I admit.
God’s cadence slows. “Money and time are seductive, addictive distractions, but time is not money, and of course, money is not everything. Money might buy you votes or a short journey through the house of distorted mirrors, but life eventually comes down to focus and flow. Acceptance and gratitude. Servanthood and humility. Depending on motive, a vow of poverty can be as pointless as vaults full of gold.”
I gaze at the Servant on my sofa who repeatedly urges me to choose generosity and compassion. She’s a willow with rotting roots, a hatched egg in a dislodged nest, erosion, eruption, and an ever-expanding circularity.
“Are you on my side?” I ask.
“No,” the Servant says, laughing again. “Are you on mine?”
“I would be if I knew what your side was,” I say.
“Well-said,” the Servant nods. “But I need no one on my side. I’m God. You need to be on your own side. The side that might save this little planet you call home and this funky species you call human.”
“But we need help!” I say, anger rising in my throat.
“Yes, you do,” God agrees. “That’s why I’ve sent the drag queens, the nonbinary, the folk of color, the truth-speakers, the scientists, the artists, the poor, the meek, and the gentle.”
“But they aren’t enough,” I say, despairing.
“So it appears,” God agrees sadly. “So it appears.”
Short visits with an honest God 
Oh, I dunno. Think back to the whole time thing plus patience, and finesse.
It’s all there, as you’ve noted. All the people, all the functions. One of the places our collective imagination tends to fail is how exactly in detail we get from this to that… what if we really have no idea who the Allie’s are, how many and how much of the next way of doing things is already underway, among people. When I try to factor in the motivation behind what journalists are getting through to us, what is and isn’t depicted in media and our various silos, well I end up back at local. Household, even. I see a lot of change at these levels, of the sort that is inevitably movement creating. I’m frustrated with the ongoing cruelty though. Geeze.
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Yes, getting from what we can imagine to putting that in practice is a huge journey! Thanks.
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