On my way home from work, I pass a church with one of those signs, the white signs that liquor stores and used car lots and fire stations tend to use—the ones with rearrangeable letters. The latest offering: GOD ANSWERS KNEEMAIL.
It seems a risky proposition for a church. The rearrangeable letters prove a perennial temptation at the liquor store near my office (ASS GUNT L!, reads the latest cheerful scramble).
Personally I find the lewd anagrams endearing in their exuberance, proof that the human race is one plucky soup of spiral DNA noodles. We are creatures determined to make something out of nothing much, whenever possible.
ASS GUNT L! gives joy to untold local passersby, providing a barely obscene riddle for us to ponder as we go about our sometimes joyless business. GLASS NUT? GAS NUTS? LG AUNTS? GAUNTLSS? For those of us who don’t have the time or smarts to attempt the New York Times crossie, well, it’s a gift, given freely and with great sniggering, snorting joy. I accept.
But no one messes with church signs, not that I’ve seen. GOD ANSWERS KNEEMAIL has been up for a while, perfectly intact. I think maybe this is because our country’s population tends to split three ways: 1) God-fearing and Rapturously wearing their clean underwear, just in case, 2) beer-drinking and superstitious, or 3) too snarky and embarrassed to be caught dead on Jesus Turf.
Where that leaves me, I’m not sure. I don’t know why I’m not violating church signs and scrambling letters with reckless abandon (DOG LOVES YOU). I think of myself as somewhere between #2 and #3, but go figure: I talk to God, and wear clean underwear whenever I can find some.
I’m no atheist. I can’t get there, no matter how much graduate education or rides on the Sad Train I’ve had. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s more than this, and that there might just be some knock-you-on-your-ass “I should have had a V-8!” sense to it all.
Yes. I am that old. V-8 commercials are a critical part of my spiritual questing. At least I’m asking the questions, whippersnapper. We agnostics think about V-8.
I like to daydream of being dead and kicking back on a heavenly tree stump with this God (whom I often picture as a wise, benevolent, well-exfoliated tranny: a little bit bearded Kenny Rogers, a little bit wigged-out Dolly, a little bit class-act Sydney Poitier. Other days, God’s a little bit Donny, a little bit Marie, and a little bit Salma Hayek; a little bit country, a little bit rock n’ roll, a little bit Fantasy Island.
I am large, I contain multitudes.
I’m hoping I’m on target, or close. I’m fully planning on hanging out with God, sitting back and shooting the poo, as it were. I have a lot of questions. I am leaking questions these days. I think you would be shocked by my questions. Raw. Raunchy. Inflammatory. Impossible. It’s hard to find humans to trade these sorts of questions with, because it can get them wondering about you and your motives.
So most of the time I sit on my hands and bite my tongue and chew the inside of my cheeks and go a little stark raving mad. But if I ever get some quality time with the Grande Dame or Big Dude of Universe University, if I manage to scale those Pearly Gates (which probably have one of those signs, defiled daily by hootin’, hollerin’ newcomers: APE GAS! REAP GAS, P! SAG R TEATLY!) God’s got some explaining to do. I’m not going to pull any punches. I’m growing weary of questions gone unanswered. There are so many juicy ones.
God and I will crack open whatever they ferment in heaven, clink whatever it is they put the stuff in, and I will be one lively monologue on that tree stump.
Look, as for Jesus? I’m sure he was a good guy. Maybe even a really good one. I’ve got no issues with him, never did. For me—like the billions of other good souls, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Swingers, that I see playing hacky-sack around here—nice lawn by the way—he just wasn’t our go-to guy. I liked talking to you directly, still do, wouldn’t have minded if Mary and Joseph had steamed up a few windows—earthenware vessels, okay—to create the guy, I know there’s beauty there. In that kind of sweat. And you know it too—I can see it in your eyes, God.
And as for Mary Magdalene, well—no disrespect—we’re past that? nice—but I hope she and Jesus did get it on, frequently—hell, loudly, even—what?—sorry, heck—maybe had a few kids, because I could have maybe gotten behind that, a guy who changed the course of history but still came home at night, touched his lover’s cheek, pinched her ass and made her laugh, oiled her hair, or whatever they did for Pantene then. I could have maybe rooted for a guy who embraced his own live-flesh-and-blood-and-vomit kids AND a carpool—cartpool? huh—of the kids of others—not just the vague, hypothetical poor children looking like smudged cherubs, needing a few fish and loaves slung their way, nothing more. I could have felt more connected to a Jesus—or a Buddha, for that matter—who gave his own kids a bath so Mary Magdalene could get to the well for a much-needed night out with the girls.
And I’m sorry, but I knew it had to be bullshit—I can say bullshit? if it’s organic? awesome—that my Jewish husband was doomed to the fiery pits of Gehenna—oh? impressed? yeah, sure, I remembered some of Catholic school, Sister Maria Madonna made it pretty memorable with the abortion freakouts in 5th-grade math class and the story about the donkey she saw fly over a rainbow because its master either did or did not believe in Jesus as his Savior, I forget—what? no, I don’t think the DONKEY was expected to take Jesus Christ as his Savior, just the owner—yes—totally!—that’s what I’m SAYING, totally!—anyway, what was I saying?
—oh, right…right…I was saying I always guessed that it came down to LOVE, man, mysterious LOVE, and not much else. Not mandatory baptisms, not the Crusades, not anything or anybody that bashed anybody else to bits in Your name, man—God—sorry—can I just call you Sydney? Excellent.
I just…what I want to tell you on this tree stump…right here and now…I loved. I mean, I LOOOOOVED. I loved hard. No good at letting go. I hope you could see that. Did it matter? I want to know. It got me in some trouble, sometimes. I screwed up, I loved too much at the wrong time, too little at the right time, couldn’t get the balance right—seriously? It wasn’t about balance? All the Zen people were talking about balance and green tea and soy so I just assumed—wow.
While I’ve still got you…I know you’re a busy Something, I’ll let you wander the grounds in a minute…do you need to stamp my hand or something? No? Well…I didn’t get my girls baptized, because that didn’t make sense to us…David had a few rabbis as ancestors, and the girls loved the synagogue…so did I when the rabbi told me I didn’t have to do a naked mikveh, but that mitzvahs were good, mitzvahs in the now were what mattered, well. It made sense. Can you understand why that made sense? Good. I thought you would.
Thanks. Thanks for this, God. I was skeptical about the kneemail bit, but—you did? you saw me kneeling those times when I didn’t have to, when I would have jumped up if anyone had come into the room?—well, okay. Bonus points for me. On a different note, did you also happen to see that time when I was online and I bought the—oh? No? How about the time when I had that particularly impure thought about—no, not that one, the one with the—oh, crap. You saw that. But I’m still here, so?—whoa. Seriously? All about love? Even the online thing?—Awesome. You’re just…you’re just so freakin’ AWESOME, Sydney. I see what the hype was all about. Sorry it took me so long.
Comments on this entry are closed.