“You know what I like best about Homo sapiens?” God asked as she continued packing an ancient-looking doll suitcase.
“No,” I said. My tone suggested I wasn’t all that interested in what God might like about humans. We’re a disappointing lot so far, trending toward extinction thanks to profound sexism, denial, greed, over-population, and homemade security blankets we call faith systems.
God ignored my rudeness. “Could you check your weather app? I’m not sure what to pack.”
“For where?” I asked.
“There’s a galaxy just to your left. Not sure what you’ve named it…” God’s voice trailed off. She folded the bulging little suitcase shut and stood on it, which was clearly the wrong approach.
“Hey, tune in here,” God said. “I could use a little help.”
I stared out the window. I didn’t want to help. I didn’t want God to leave. I didn’t want God to stay. I didn’t want to consider the awfulness humans have done in the name of our deities, and I didn’t want to face the ways I’ve participated.
Grudgingly, I joined her and tried to position the contents so the suitcase would latch. “Where’d you find this?” I asked. It was overfilled and warped.
“Well, where does any baggage come from?” God asked with a grin, and added, “Your basement.”
Ah ha! It was a set-up; a parable to make me consider the cumbersome baggage humans unwittingly collect and drag around. God wasn’t coming or going anywhere.
I laughed and gave God a shove. She grabbed me and we tumbled backwards into the deep recesses of consciousness where humankind’s fears of oblivion are always the soup du jour. I flailed but then God reminded me that it’s best to relax and float when the liquid is this salty.
God did the backstroke and philosophized.
“Did you know that I’m the attraction between electrons and protons?” she asked. “It’s a big responsibility.” She paused, then said in a wistful voice. “I tell this to the dogs. They just wag their tails and beg for treats. I show this to the stars, and they align. But when I reveal this to humans, I’m never sure what will happen next.” She paused again. “And strangely, that’s what I enjoy the most.”
I climbed out on a rock, leaped as high as I could, wrapped my arms around my legs, and did a cannonball back into the thick soup, splashing God in the face.
“Like that?” I asked.
“Yep,” God said, wiping existential angst off her forehead. “Just like that.”
Short visits with an honest God 