A Conversation with God (Part Three)

(N.B. This series is a work of fiction and not an expression of my own beliefs.)

Hello, hello!

You know, the more I do this, the more I come to dislike my tone of forced bravado. It's not disrespect, God. It's...awkwardness more than anything else. Have you ever noticed that some people use swear-words as euphemisms? Really, they do. If they want to name a body part that's taboo, or a bodily function that's taboo, they kind of get over the awkwardness by being much blunter than they need to be. They're being crude because just using the proper word seems even cruder. Well, that's what this is like.

But it's beginning to seem embarrassing now. Juvenile.

The more I speak to you, God, the less I question whether You are there. I mean, I'm not really sure if there is a God in the-- in the normal sense. I'm not so sure you're out there. Oh, I don't mean that you're within me in some kind of narcissistic way. I just mean...that when we use the word "God", I can't help feeling that we're talking about something that's real. The word doesn't refer to nothing at all. How could it? It wouldn't even exist as a word if it referred to nothing.

You're something, God. That's as far as I can get. As for what you are exactly, it beats me. Maybe a permanent feature of our mental landscape. Maybe the ghost that haunts humankind. I know that sounds pretentious. But what the heck. Maybe you're something so far beyond our understanding that the only thing we can do is attach a tag to it-- "God"-- which will do as well as any other word.

The thing is, I don't think we can ever get past you. I don't think we can ever get over you. Atheists? Give me a break. I've never met anyone more God-obsessed than anyone who goes around calling himself an atheist.

Put it like this, God. I walk into a gallery and I look at a landscape, or a still life, or maybe a...well, an animal picture, let's a picture of a horse, a chestnut horse. And maybe there isn't a single human figure inside the frame, and yet...and yet the artist is in every single brushstroke, every single square inch of that picture. The whole thing is full of his emotions, his view of the world, his ideas...his whole soul. That's what You're like. You're nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be encountered, and yet....you haunt everything.

God, I'm going to use one of my favourite clichés. You're the elephant in the room. But you're an invisible elephant. It's awkward for everybody. The atheists and secularists and bright cheerful scientific materialists try to ignore you completely. And as for the religious people, they want to ignore the fact that you're invisible. "What about the elephant?", say the religious people. "Well, what about the fact that we can't see him or touch him or smell him?" say the secularists. And everybody takes turns coughing and shuffling their feet.

And you know what the worst part of it is? You can't just leave it at that. At least, I can't just leave it like that. I don't know how to be an agnostic. That's like writing "case closed" on the ultimate riddle of existence, and putting it away in the filing cabinet. And then-- what? Move on to something else? Take up ornithology? Read all of Charles Dickens? Work on your bucket list? What wouldn't be an anti-climax, after this?

I know what they'd say, the agnostics, if they were here now. They'd say, "We're just being intellectually honest. The data is insufficient. The human mind isn't up to the job. It's like trying to break into Fort Knox using nothing but a hair clip and a charming smile. Let it go and concentrate on what's humanly possible. Oh, and drive safe, and stay away from drugs."

But you know, I don't think there is really such an agnostic. I think agnostics are just cosmic fence-sitters. I think they like dithering about You. I think they want to live in a universe that's kind of balanced between atheism and God. Don't get me wrong. I see the appeal. I very much see the appeal. You get the best of both universes that way. All the freedom and...and all the clean straight-forwardness of the atheist universe, and all the mystery and meaning of the God-made universe.

But it's so maddening, at the same time. It would be like having an itch on the front of your nose for your whole life and never to be able to scratch it.

And the thing is...how do these agnostics know what counts as data? How can they really say they've ever put the matter to bed, that they've ever exhausted all the evidence? Who the heck knows what might count as evidence, anyway? It's not a detective story. It's not a crossword puzzle. It's not a court of law. You don't have to play by our rules, do You, God? The nature of this case is that anything at all might be relevant. You might have left Your DNA anywhere. We'd have to send every blade of grass and every paperclip and every strand of hair to the lab to be tested. For a start.

My poor brain. Well, sleep doesn't have any respect for the mysteries of the cosmos. I have to submit to the agnosticism of the duvet... if You're really out there, God, I have to say, this whole sleep thing was a masterstroke of Yours. Limited liability, every single day. Can you imagine what we'd have made this world into if we didn't run out of battery every sixteen hours or so? And we get annother roll of the dice, every night. Well, I'm going to roll mine now. Keep an eye on me, OK? Bye for now.

A Conversation with God, Part Two

(Not to be taken as autobiographical.)

Hi God, it's me again. You busy? Got time for a good old chinwag? Good.

I have to admit, I'm beginning to look forward to our little chats. It kind of gives me a kick that nobody knows I do this. I think my friends and family would be shocked. I know my mother would be pleased but somehow, I'd be more embarrassed to let her know than anybody else...she'd get the wrong idea. She's start with the St. Anthony's medals again.

I've never actually told her that I'm not a Christian. Come to think of it, I've never told anybody that I'm not a Christian. Nobody's ever asked. It's not something you talk about it polite society, or even in minimally polite society. It would be like talking about your underwear. Actually, it would be a lot easier to talk about your underwear. You could pass that off as a bit of outrageous humour, in the right company.

So, if I'm not a Christian, oh God whose existence I entertain, why do I kneel before a little crucifix to do this? Well, why not, after all? I mean, my grandmother gave it to me. It has a tang of holiness off it. I wonder how often she used to it to pray...I like to think about that. It would be a shame to put it on a shelf somewhere.

Come to think of it, I really liked my grandmother's brand of religion. She didn't do anything...tacky. She had one holy picture in her house, and it wasn't a very big one. She never spoke about God, as far as I can remember. She spoke about Mass and priests a good bit, but, you know...anecdotally. Like you'd speak about the people you saw on the bus. But she went every day.

I can remember going with her. She would talk about family or the news until the priest appeared, and then she'd start talking about them again as soon as we were out the door. Never any God talk. And the Mass itself, she'd go through like it was her morning limbering-up exercises, or doing the washing. No cheesiness. Zero cheesiness. It was only when she'd light a candle at the statue of Mary-- that awful statue of Mary-- that she'd show even the slightest flicker of emotion. That being, she'd close her eyes for two or three seconds, and whisper under her breath. I always assumed she was praying for her husband. And that was it. And then there was a little tub of ice-cream for me.

I was always so glad to get out of that church. And now...and now I find myself slowing down when I pass a church, looking in. I don't know what stops me from going in. Maybe I don't want to be a hypocrite. Maybe I'm afraid of what might happen. Maybe I'm afraid of what might not happen.

I mean, I like Christians. I don't have anything against Christianity. But, you know God...this is the thing. The idea of You seems like an open question to me. There's arguments for it. I mean, something had to get the whole cosmic ball rolling, didn't it? And the whole show seems uncannily...dramatic. And then there's us, the lord of the animals, matter aware of its own existence. There definitely seems to be something going on there. So, God...maybe.

But it's quite a jump from a Vague Power Behind the Universe to a man performing miracles and rising from the dead and turning into a piece of bread and wine. Please don't get me wrong, God. I'm not one of the mockers. Only overgrown teenagers sneer at organized religion...if you think Holy Mass is nothing but a ridiculous piece of play-acting, well-- you're basically a soulless cretin. I mean, I wouldn't go to a deserted graveyard and play loud rock music even though I know the corpses aren't going to be bothered by it one way or the other. It would be crass. It would be out of place. And I wouldn't take Communion even though I know it's just a piece of bread. Because it's not just a piece of bread, is it? Not just.

I even wonder if my grandmother was a Christian. Somehow I doubt it. I think she was a believer. God, I think the churches are full of people who believe in You and who aren't that pushed about all the other stuff. If they lived in Qatar, they'd go to mosque instead of church. If they were Jewish, they'd go to synagogue. But they're Irish Catholics and there are Catholic churches everywhere so they go to Mass, and they recite the Creeds without a moment's hesitation. Virgin birth? Sure. Resurrection from the Dead? Gimme some of that. Second coming? Fair enough. It's like signging the Terms and Conditions that you're supposed to read carefully but that nobody ever does.

Maybe that's the humble thing to do. Maybe I'm being narcissistic, worrying about my own integrity. Who cares? Do you care, God? Would you prefer that I just dutifully trudged along to Mass and left all the details to You? Would that be more child-like and trusting?

(Long silence.)

You know, God, sometimes I wish this conversation was more interactive, although....oh, I know how it goes. You're probably talking to me and I'm not listening. I remember yesterday, having my lunch in the little seating area of the Spar on College Green...I was looking at the news updates on the TV screen hanging over the door. And I was sitting there eating my chicken and coleslaw roll-- you know how I like my food, God-- and drinking my tea and looking out at the street outside, and....and....well, how am I supposed to put it? That I was suddenly overwhelmed by the presence of God? Well, that would be a flat-out lie. No, I was overwhelmed with the presence of life. It's as though I suddenly realized that all those news headlines on the TV screen were really happening, somewhere, in real actual places I could get on a plane and go to...and that the people walking outside were all real people, too, who were going to go to real offices and go home to real families, just like my family, maybe even weirder....and man, that roll tasted good, especially the coleslaw. I find a chicken and coleslaw roll a deeply spiritual experience. Well, people are always talking about sex being a deeply spiritual experience, why not lunch?

Anyway, I didn't exactly feel the famous Presence of God. But life seemed-- such a big deal to me at that moment. Such a delight, so much a delight that it was like a fire that I couldn't stand to close to or I'd get burned. I felt like if I had this feeling every moment, I wouldn't be able to bear it, it would be too intense. And-- well, and I felt that this was how things are supposed to be. It was like I was hearing a tune, and you don't have a tune without-- well, You know. I guess You've heard all this before.

Probably I should have had this feeling while looking at the stars at night, or listening to children playing skipping games, or standing beside a waterfall. I feel a bit ridiculous, having it while eating my lunch in Spar. But there you go. God has a sense of humour.

Although actually, scratch that last bit. I hate thinking of You having a sense of humour. It makes You too cute. I don't want You to be cute. The people who talk about God having a sense of humour are the same sort of people who put "If you tinkle when you sprinkle" signs in their bathrooms. They're the sort of people who hang up photographs of a cat trying to get his paw into a fishbowl. I mean, God bless them all, but.... I didn't mean a sense of humour, God. More...a sense of irony.

My knees are hurting. Maybe that's another signal from you. And I'd better put some order on the kitchen. Catch you later, Pops.

A Conversation with God, Part One. (Not to be Taken as Autobiographical.)

OK, God, OK. Here goes. Aaaaaah.

This is insane.

Here goes anyway.

Oh Almighty and Ever-Living and—and Resplendent God, I have to say that I don’t believe in You. Please don’t take it personally. I don’t have anything against You. But… well, you haven’t given me anything solid to go on, have you? I wish you would. Nothing would make me happier than to get some sign, something I could grab a hold of. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying You have to send the Archangel Gabriel. I’m sure he’s got bigger fish to fry. But—- something. A cup-cake on wings. A whisper in my ear while I’m getting off the bus. A daisy uprooting itself and hovering in the air for a half of a half of a second. Something.

So, I don’t believe in You, but—well, here I am anyway. Crazy, right? What the heck. Nobody else listens to me. The winos who babble incoherently at the back of the bus make polite excuses and leave when I sit down beside them. Jehovah’s Witnesses run screaming from my door. Telemarketers remember that they left the gas on…I’m sick of really existing people, anyway,. None of them want to know. At least You want to hear me God. Why get caught up in pedantic questions of existence or non-existence? Ha.

(Long silence.)

You know what? Christians are always saying that You’re not an old man with a white beard. That’s always what they say—“People have this picture of an old man with a white beard”, they say—and then they laugh in a very irritating way and say that of course nobody would believe in a God like that. But, You know, I want you to be an old man with a white beard. Who’s going to stop me from imagining You as an old man with a white beard? And I don’t want You to smile, either. I’m sick of everybody smiling at me. Every single face on a television screen or a billboard or a shop is grinning at me…what does it mean? What’s it worth?

(Silence.)

No, You’re not smiling. You’re an old man with a white beard and You’re not smiling. You look a little bit like Sigmund Freud and a little bit like old Mr. Casey who used to teach us woodwork. You’re wearing a tweed jacket and you’re smoking a pipe, and sitting in an office full of leather-bound books. You listen to me and every now and again You take Your pipe out of your mouth and fill it again.The air is full of pipesmoke. There’s a window beside you and it opens out onto a deserted landscape, a hilly rocky country with nothing but a windmill on the far horizon. It’s cold and grey outside. It’s not picnic weather and it’s not picnic country. I don’t want a picnic weather God.

Well, God, how do I explain myself? I’m not on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I’m not at the end of my tether. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m a well-nourished, well-paid, healthy, psychologically balanced young man. Despite what I said about Jehovah’s Witnesses, I do have friends. We do things together. As for women….well, I’ve never been in love, but I thought I was, and I’m beginning to suspect it’s pretty much the same thing. I could be in a serious relationship within a month if I wanted to.

So I guess this is the point where You’re used to people saying, “I had everything I thought I’d need to make me happy but I just feel empty.” Poor God! How many clichés must be poured into Your celestials ears every night! OK, OK, I know You don’t think like that. I know nothing I say would surprise You anyway. I can see how ridiculous it is to try to spice things up for someone who knows everything that has ever happened and that ever will happen. Now I come to think of it, that must be boring beyond all words. Thank God I’m not God. Imagine having all eternity ahead of you and no surprises in store.

(Long pause.)

What—what happened there? I felt a shadow, a shadow of a shadow of a shadow, of an anxiety that I might be blaspheming. I guess I’m not the hardboiled unbeliever that I thought I was. Not quite. Or not yet.

(Another long pause.)

And you know what? I kind of like that. Even if God is the ultimate delusion, the Big Daddy of delusions—why shouldn’t I be a little bit deluded? How can anyone prove to me there is anything wrong with that? If I could see reality with cold eyes—what would I see, except a pointless parade of two-legged creatures frantically eating and working and mating, for no reason at all? And even when it comes to thinking--- what’s so noble about thinking, really? We think because we can’t bear not to think. It’s as mechanical and compulsive as a baby sucking its soother. What’s the difference between doing a crossword puzzle and doing philosophy? Ultimately, the only point is to keep the mental wheels turning. At all costs. Don’t let ‘em stop even for a moment. The assembly line has to keep moving. The silence has to be drowned out with music and chatter. The schedules have to be filled. The engine has to keep running or it will freeze over.

And me—- don’t you think I know how dangerous this kind of thing is, what I’m doing here right now? If you stare at the wallpaper long enough, you see pictures in it. How long can you play with the idea of God before…before you fall in? It’s all very funny till somebody loses their mind. Or what they lose maybe is—their sense of embarrassment. Their sense of the ridiculous. It’s like the time I was in the locker room where everybody was wandering around naked—you’re awkward as a pair of left-footed boots for a few minutes, and then—then suddenly you don’t care anymore. You just saunter around like everybody else and you wonder why you felt weird about it. God is like that, I bet. I can see how it happens now. You end up meeting an old friend and having a sane, cheerful, normal conversation before—-whem!—suddenly you say something about God or about Jesus with a straight face, and you’re not kidding. And your friend does a mental double-take and looks a little more carefully at you and—wham!—he realizes you’re not kidding, too. And he’s embarrassed. But only for a moment, or maybe a few moments at the most. Then he’s already assimilated it—already filed you away as a God botherer. He won’t be embarrassed anymore. He’ll even smile inwardly when you mention God, or Jesus. He’ll have a vague sense that there’s something very worthy about it, something deserving of respect, like…like an endangered koala bear, or something.

But who am I fooling, God? Am I not just looking, positively looking for the Exit door to Reality? Am I not just standing on the edge of the field, hoping to be asked to play?

Well, maybe. Maybe I’m flirting with You, God. I just don’t know how I feel yet, whether I’m really up for anything long-term, a commitment—-I’ve been hurt before, you know. I’d rather not talk about it. Let’s just take this one date at a time, OK? We’re both having a good time. Are you having a good time, God? I’ve had a wonderful time. You’re such a good listener. But now—well, my knees are hurting. And I’m tired. Think about what I said, OK? Just think about it.

In the name of the Father, and the…and the….oh, well, I’m not there yet. Over and out, for now.

An Idea I Had

Yesterday I was praying in Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Church, University College Dublin, as I do on most workdays. It's a very plain, airy church, the kind I find highly appealing. (I feel choked by too many columns, corners, shadows, side altars, and so forth.) As I knelt there going through my usual list of intentions, and trying to keep my mind from wandering as it is all too prone to do, it struck me (as it often does) what a very dramatic situation prayer really is-- especially a solitary individual praying in some deserted place. (People drift in and out of UCD's church, but very often I'm there all by myself.)

Prayer is perhaps the most simple and yet the most far-reaching of all human activities. I always love it when the parish priest in Ballymun says, at the beginning of Mass, "We put whatever is going on in our life, all our worries and problems and issues, on the table of the Lord". Prayer is completely wide-open. Nothing is irrelevant. All the screens of circumstance, of place and time, of convention and communication, fall away, and the solitary soul stands naked before God.

It struck me that a solitary man praying (out loud, for the most part) would be excellent material for a one-man play. What part of a man's life wouldn't float through the mental sea of prayer? What external drama could not be mirrored in that inner chamber? What adventure is more exciting, more consequential, than the adventure of faith?

(I often think that I could make much better arguments against religious belief than I ever hear even from even the most militant of atheists. So that would be an interesting thing to throw into the mix, too, as this solitary character at his prayers works through doubts and difficulties.)

I don't know if anyone has ever done this before. In any case, it should be fun. I think I might even post it here as I write it. I've written all my life but writing this blog is by far the most fun I've ever had writing. Those who read it are extraordinarily indulgent of my more adventurous (possibly read: pretentious) posts. And knowing that there is somebody reading is a huge boost. (I know from my blog statistics that people seek out this blog by name, most days. And I'm honoured.)