Burgers

“God,” I said. “In order to believe in some absolute form of you and thus be falsely assured of a thin, exclusive salvation, a lot of people have silenced their hearts and blinded themselves. You’re aware of that, right?” God rubbed his forehead and looked out the window. I continued.  “They put basic truths through mental meatgrinders, make up twisted doctrines, call this faith, and hang together in paranoid groups, ignoring the obvious and applauding the hateful.”

God drummed his fingers together and used his sleeve to wipe his nose. The tears were real, even if God isn’t always real. The idea of absolute has the same problem as the idea of the perfect quilt when it’s chilly, the day free of duties or doubts, possessions that need no maintenance, the weedless garden…. Absolute is a nice idea but in our small slice of temporary reality, there’s no such thing. The quilt has lumps. The day has worries. Things break down and end. There may be no weeds visible, but just under that dark sheen lurk roots and seeds patient and tenacious.

In time, all things show their fault lines–their contradictions, inadequacies, hypocrisies, and failings. But what if we could move out of the constraints of time? What if fault lines are passageways?

God wavered and disappeared as he often does. “Come back,” I commanded in my bravest voice. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Enlighten me. I’m wondering if anything is absolute, and I don’t have all day. Or maybe I do, but I like you best in the morning.”

“Why?” God asked silently.

“Not sure,” I said, happy to be back in dialogue. I often chew on my left thumb when God and I visit. Today, the thumb tasted like soap because I had just washed yesterday’s dishes, and I’m not great at rinsing. I swallowed the soapy taste. “You seem fresher. More possible.”

Still no visible sign of God. “Oh, I’m absolutely possible,” he said from nowhere. “All day. Late into most nights.”

With that amorphous assurance, I put myself in motion; hung the laundry, took out the trash, wiped some dusty surfaces, touched a couple of my favorite rocks, scrubbed three fat carrots that grew despite the weeds, combed my hair, found my phone, took some vitamins, and packed the car for a trip to town.

 “What do you want to do for lunch?” I asked God, politely ignoring his absence.

“How about burgers?” God said, chuckling.

“Or not,” I smiled. I don’t like burgers. God knows this. And I absolutely know God knows. And that’s what made this reassuring. And very funny.

Bad God

Here’s how it started: I spotted God strolling in the fading garden at sunrise and shouted, “Okay, God. Get in here right now. You’re in serious trouble, old man. Serious.” If God had a middle name, I would have used it. Like, “God Henry, I mean it.”

God heard me and waved. God heard me and pointed at the sky. God heard me and heard me and heard me because I didn’t stop yelling until I had dissolved in a coughing fit from over-exertion. It was only then God approached, slapped me on the back, and helped me catch my breathe.

“Pretty upset, huh?” God said.

“Oh, don’t try that Carl Rogers stuff on me,” I said. “You know damn well you’ve got to do something about your fake followers. Have you seen them, enshrining cruelty? Greed? Millions dancing at the thought of women forced to carry unwanted fetuses to term as if that’s what you want, rejoicing about your amazing creation being endlessly “developed”? Have you noticed the air quality? The hurricanes? The fires? The poor?”

“Slow down, partner,” God said. “Last day of good weather for a while. And it looks like you’ll have your first female Vice President, and she’s from Indian and Black parentage, and she’s smart. There’s that.” To my surprise, there were tears in God’s eyes. I mellowed a little, but the image of my neighbors wearing those detestable red hats with insulting slogans didn’t fade enough. I live in a beautiful place that voters have placed in the hands of the rich and morally corrupt. I live among people unwilling to pay taxes to care for the sick, the widowed, the poor, the broken. Unwilling to even pay their fair share for the common good.

God saw my despair. “Well, honey. You all have a long road ahead. I’ll give you that. Let’s try something, O.K.?”

I nodded. With God, a nod is a dangerous thing but not as dangerous as saying no.

“Pick a neighbor with a red hat. And get the image of the face clear in your mind’s eye.”

I complied, but there was a low guttural sound in my throat.

“Now, take the face gently into your hands and let your eyes speak love. Let your pain show. Let the truth generate a kind of holy light around you both.”

My hands clenched. My eyes burned. “I can’t do this,” I said to God. “I just want to snap the neck and be done with it.”

“I know,” God said. “But then who’d pay the taxes?” He laughed at his own bad joke, extended his elbow to my imagined neighbor, and they walked arm in arm back to the garden. God offered my neighbor some carrots. My carrots. My garden. My Bad God, out there loving my damaged, vicious neighbor, sharing my harvest.

I remained outraged, but I didn’t dare summons Bad God a second time. Who knows what else he’d give away? I just watched and sipped my beer.