Motives

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“God,” I said, early one morning this week. “How can you have so many obscure names? So many exotic stories? You’re here and not here. Everywhere. Nowhere. And so far, we humans don’t seem to have evolved enough to grasp much about you. Oh, sure. We say we’re doing things ‘in your name.’ We make things up, fill in the gaps, comfort ourselves with spiritual insurance policies. Do this. Do that. Say these words. Pray this way. Torture this infidel. Crucify that one. Engage in rituals. Give lip service to words. Declare some things to be from you, others not. We make deep divisions to assure ourselves we’re on the right side of the chasm or the winning side of the wall. But we’re not, are we?”

“My, my,” God said. “Too much caffeine?”

I hate when anyone says that to me, but I’ll admit, good coffee does tend to clear the channel from brain to tongue, removing the sludge, organizing random synaptic activities into a perceived coherence I’m quite fond of.

“It’s not caffeine,” I said, with dignity. God gave me a look. “Okay, it is caffeine. But I still want to know.”

“That’s one thing I like about humans,” God said. “Most of you do, at least occasionally, want to know.”

This made me happy. Proud, even. Until God continued. “But what you do with what you think you know–your motives for wanting to know–these things almost always get you in trouble.”

“What d’you  mean?” I asked, deflated.”

“I don’t think I have to answer that,” God answered, not unkindly.

Sometimes when God puts things back on me, I get angry or sad. This time, I just sat with it. And sat with it. And, yes, sat with it. This is a good and brave thing to do.

“One of your names is Science, isn’t it?” I asked, finally.

“Yes, of course,” God said. “It’s one of my given names. It’s a path. And I’m a path. A way of knowing.”

“And you’ve picked up a lot of other names along the way, huh?”

“Mmmm. Yes, I guess. Some more accurate than others. Truth is one of my favorites.”

“When people say they’re doing something in the name of one of your names, how does that make you feel?”

“Motive, baby. Motive,” God said. “Think motive, not label. Remember, my family name, my forever name, my defining name is love. Easily mangled. Not easily grasped. Like you said, not easily grasped.”

With a deep sigh, God turned his back. This frightened me until I realized God has no back. He calmly washed his hands in the fire of the sun, and the harsh light was extinguished. The world grew darker than a womb. It was beautiful. Reality receded into mercy. I was weightless and warm, floating in the amniotic fluid of creation.

I had no mouth, but I managed to ask, “Can I stay here forever?”

“Not yet,” God said, in a voice both sad and loving. “You need to bring yourself back.”

“Why?” I asked as my fragments began to reassemble. But I knew. I knew. Motive, baby. Motive.

 

Rita Takes a Break

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As Rita’s co-author, I help proofread, but she usually takes the lead on reporting our encounters. Lately she tells me she’s been unable to locate the spiritual space she needs to write something up for you. The failings of the human race, toxically condensed in the daily news, have gotten to her. So I’ve reluctantly offered to step in.

How shall I address you? My dear wild herd of bison? Covey of spell-binders? Murder of crows? Flock of mutinous sheep? Beloved, befuddled, beholden? Partners, priests, paupers or pawns?

And how might you identify me? Sanctuary? Grove of Aspen? Dark Chocolate? Collector of Rubbish? Renewer of Vision? Thickness of Midnight? Thinness of Dawn? Wallflower, river, mountain, sky, sower, lover, fool? I guess it doesn’t matter. You know who I AM, and I’ve always known you.

Writing is redundant. I’m the Creator. I like creating, not revisiting. How about I write whatever comes to mind? Random food for thought until Rita gets her act together.

  • Did you know that I’m a recycling fanatic? Nothing goes to waste. I don’t throw things away. Of course, far more seeds end up fertilized than should ever be planted or brought to fruition. The earth accommodates this excess nicely. With your new-found consciousness, you need to learn to do the same.
  • Have you noticed that I don’t stand up for myself or insist on more than my share? I don’t try to get even. Ironically, vengeance is only safe with ME because my ways are not your ways. You get carried away when you try to get even. It backfires, and the cycle you’re in is indeed vicious. Nota bene: Revenge provides regressive relief. It never heals the original loss. Give forgiveness a try.
  • Most of you avoid thinking about mortality, but life is defined by death. Anything that does not die has actually never been alive. Death can be met with consciousness and grace. A transition made easier by forgiveness, compassion, faith, and holding hands. I’m always available.
  • Your species starves, tortures, and kills each other. This puzzles me. I’m still not sure if it’s a design flaw or something you’ll eventually grow out of. I won’t give up on you, but I’m worried you might give up on yourselves. In the meantime, if I could ask one small favor: Do not deprive, amass wealth, lie, steal, abuse, or kill each other in my name. I shouldn’t have to ask. You know better.
  • And finally, little ones, when you dare to love the serpent (that writhing mass of malice, embodied in the ignorant and insecure) be assured it will rise up and strike you. Protect your throat. You don’t need to lay down your life trying to love your enemies, but you might. Either way, I’m there.

Okay, then. That should take care of it for now. I’ll admit, this effort has given me a little more empathy for Rita. Yes, in the beginning was the Word, but these little knockoffs are awkward.

God Comes Back

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After that short break, God came back rested, full of new ideas, in one of those rare moods where I knew I could say pretty much anything that came to mind. Over the years, I’ve liked these times a great deal. I’ve asked crazy questions or pushed God for proof of something or the other, often getting dramatic responses. Rooms filling with liquid orange. Inner voices warning me not to jump. Lightening. Severe clairvoyance. One time, the face of God went by, inches from the window of my van. He was driving a semi, loaded with cars. Thanks to the ice, all hell had broken loose on I90. God made eye contact and I knew my life had been handed back again.

Today, the topic on my mind was drag queens. A famous drag queen had made the statement that we’re all God in drag. This seems unlikely. No matter how dressed up I get, I know I’m not God, even though I’d like to be. But the other direction? In my experience, when God comes by, the drag queens sigh in envy.

“You sure look happy,” I said as an opener. God grinned and nodded. I continued. “So I’m assuming you had a good vacation.”

God acted like I’d said something very funny. He belly-laughed for a while and then said, “Vacation?”

“Yeah. Remember? Your break?”

“Oh, that,” God said. “That was all about you, chickadee. I never go anywhere.”

My defenses went up, anger flared. “Don’t call me chickadee,” I said. God can make me unbelievably mad sometimes.

“I’m not blaming you,” God said. “I totally understand your frustration. Yes, I took a break, and of course, I never left. I’m still in the Garden. You’re there with me. Your substance is mine. Mine is yours. It’s just that you have boundaries. And it turns out, I don’t. I’m God.”

I stuck my fingers in my ears, sang la-la-la-la-la, closed my eyes, and staggered out of view. From a cosmic perspective, I’m sure I looked ridiculous. A whirling dervish of denial. But as any alcoholic will happily tell you, denial is useless.

After a few minutes. God caught up and tapped me on the shoulder. She was wearing bright red heels. Her platinum blond hair was piled high, her face heavily made-up. She was oddly beautiful. Oddly safe. She wrapped me in the baby blue boa around her neck, slowed the music, and we swayed in the outrageous splendor of being together, moving exactly to the beat.