Love: A line of credit you’ve given very few people access to that has no spending limit, that despite your current situation, one way or a thousand installments after, you will eventually pay the balance.
God: A monosyllabic reminder that Mankind invented language, and when language fails to name something, the fallibility is in the vocabulary, not the universe.
Death: A superpower life discovered early on that allowed us to not just learn from our failures, but eat them up for supper also.
Cruelty: Doing to others, solely without second thought as you have had done to yourself. Severe lack of story. Caught up in some moment. A tangent. The overfermentation of desire. The flex of weakness.
Trust is a sail.
Faith is a paddle.
Hate is what anger becomes when it matures. Be careful not to make an enemy of hate.
The word enemy is a doorway for the hateful. Make them fuss at you through a window,
a good word for that is called a neighbor. Hate is a season. Hate is a debit account.
Once it’s spent it’s done and gone. The overdraft fee on hate is criminal.
God is a memory that predates subatomic separation.
It is preproton. Preneutron. Preelectron. It existed.
Prior to what we call the universe.
And it is or was an entity comprised of pure consciousness.
Outward. Radiating expression and thought. You were there.
What I mean when I say the word I was there. Just indistinguishable.
God is a memory, like love, of a time, for lack of a fancier term,
back when we were still all one thing. And the instance
that was once affectionately called the big bang,
was the day this solidarity was broken. Up.
Into unending electrified pieces.
Like mothers into birth.
Soldiers into battle.
Christ and his cross.
God also learned the initial crucial lesson of growth and evolution.
The first lesson of life.
How much more we can achieve if at some point we concede.
We gain more through this loss than never-ending millennia
of nothing but consumptive, hungry living.
God had everything. And nothing,
Suspended in frosty isolation. Dreaming puritanical thoughts.
No fractured reality like puzzle pieces peppered in. No equals.
No friends. No criticism. And God made a decision.
To give life a shot. It died.
And I believe in God.
I believe the universe is its corpse.
As far as life after death.
There is nothing to fear.
What do we believe? So we’ve skipped right past knowing, have we.
To have faith. Or be had by one. Buyer’s choice.
To the chagrin of mainstream religion.
God gave dominion broken up equally among all the living.
And doesn’t much care who wears white collars.
It isn’t likely to care too much about any one us at all.
Just lucky to be lumped in with the rest of the universe.
If language fails to articulate the relationship we have with our creator.
The flaw is in language.
We are here. We exist.
Some thing. Some it.
Some process led to all this.
God is the three-lettered word we use to discuss whatever that is.
Whatever It it turns out to be. Or doesn’t.
Even if It only happened once.
And now It isn’t in existence.
There will be a tomorrow.
The sun doesn’t rise to convince me.
I can see it in the stars.
The entire earth is turning.
If we take our lives at face value, as in, we assume,
almost all creation came about the same way we did,
then we have a clear precedent for the possibility of making a thing,
damn near conjuring it up from spare parts
and convoluted yet meticulous genetic instruction,
yet still not understanding it in the least.
God could be out there begging pretty please.
While we proud-child our way out of the room.
God may be all knowing, all seeing, held breath disbelieving,
still unable to change a thing without unsettling the child sleeping.
Whom we are grooming for the wild.
Who can not live its entire life within the dense jungle growth of family.
Saplings don’t grow tall in the shade of giants.
Only where they fall.
Our deity may be very much the same thing to us as our parents.
Different. Person to person. Story by story.
The source of our entire existence. Out there.
Driving to work. Or playing golf, or church, or retired,
or buried somewhere.
If our universe is grooming us to go out and re-invent worlds of our own,
it makes sense for our farmer to be more hands off.
Our great, almighty, omnipotent, gracious, loving creator,
just waiting on a postcard.
What am I doing with my life, calling it mine.
Other men’s names stitched inside my clothing.
Other cities on my lunch beer. Long list of strangers
in my phone. Mine. Maybe. But really not mine alone.
Sharing as a way of life. As ethos.
Let us use sharing as the mortar between bricks and see how well it sticks.
Community. Built of what? Out of unity? Out of punity? Of you and me?
Didn’t read that on the receipt. And I know the price.
But the cost is lost. On me. My. Mine.
I can dig as deep down as I like, what will I find,
a mine for a mind is a noble thing to displace.
Dirt. Rock. Endeavor and effort.
All misplaced and wasted.
If I can not own it, then it must be truth.
And within truth, I am included.
Though I have no name, mine or otherwise,
stitched inside my self.
My Maker could be the pure embodiment of understanding.
Doesn’t make It any better at branding.
Just because an organization leans on a word over and over does not mean the word begins and ends with them. The word God for example, or the word love, defined solely by their most common associations, are deduced to simple dichotomous choices. To believe in or be in or nothing at all. But in truth, regarded as they really are, definitions never fully known, neither God or love is a choice we would make. We wouldn’t even use them the same way. Different altogether, bigger than, beyond, buried deep above our heads. The way we talk about weather. If we were honest, God would be another thing to complain about with strangers. And love, forecasted, right there beside the storms.
Let me tell you the reality of God is just an idea.
Fictional treasure is envied but never stolen.
See, prophets will be killed,
martyrs who turn idol can be taken,
but ideas are intangible. As real as unreal.
Strength enough to shape and change existence,
with enough intelligence to know not to physically exist within it.
And in this internal manner,
God, The Concept,
I don’t care for gift-wrapped rights. I’d rather have the fight. Besides, they never give the good ones outright. Like the ability to mess up once or twice and come out of it without a spinning record playing scratchy music in some judge’s office forever somewhere. Or to take stock of what all the world has to offer, before substantiating it into federal categories of access and control. I’m supposed to believe in God we trust, when my entire life a nonlethal, nonpoisonous plant has been condemned to extinction by my own government. I don’t know what you’re saying with closed eyes and hands folded together, but I assure you, there is a more powerful form of prayer. To any entity that fancies itself creator. Speaking just from my experience, there would be hell to pay if I caught you tearing pages out of my journal. Literally. Literarily. And eternal.
And yet, that is what we are hypothetically doing to a creator every time we build systems that only speak legalese. Like the world is locked, laws are keys, and without a lawyer on hand, it’s just safer not to touch anything. But I have more faith in the status of existence. Compared to its own inventions, the human being is a better system. Creative, flexible, great at independent study, plays well with others. We are born with our rights. In fact, I would go so far as to write, anyone who ever even tries to put them down on a piece of paper seeks to own you, in some way, if not today, then slowly over time. You. Your children. The entirety of life. Like it was a book we could go through and edit, lines to cut, or whole pages in clumps torn out altogether.
But that is not the nature of the universe.
Our creator is not a writer. It’s a chemist.