Where art thou God?

Me too. I am wondering and wandering, roaming through the passages of time, incidentally knocking with the shoes of my childhood at the gates of my curiosity, university diploma, screeching windows of draft wind and strings of the fabric of the Universe. Where would a man amidst a speckle of a dust in a whipped stardome of the Milky Way galaxy find the creationist. The guy with a grey beard, presumably with glasses as a symbol of wisdom, maybe even smoking a pipe of peace ,sending billows of nebula across the width of the 15bn starlight years of eternity. With the white sheets of innocence or a robe tied around the whole girth of his majestic body with a sparkling trail of a Halley comet tying up the scattered stars. I have travelled an odyssey of time through the first fires set by savages, till the same fires were used to burn the newfound clay to make the first bricks. The first cornerstone of weapon foundries and libraries. Fences and defenses. Polemics of Murphy`s laws and first equations of calculating volume and displacement of square objects. The same brick that would later be used as a foundation for churches. The residency of God himself, his attorneys, popes, and pulpits. Would my master be dwelling within the confinements of those pinnacles pointing to the direction of the proposed originator of the cosmos? Would he be sitting on the cross along a crow observing the ground go into ground by itself? Imagine, and not all the people, but our heavenly father silently observing us and shining his benevolent forgiveness to each of us, whether delinquents, cheaters or procrastinators . Somewhere in the corner of every church reclining in an aspen tree chair. Slender people in slander chapels. Is He really there? Would he know the details of everything, like the scientists of the theory about everything, would he know your secret thoughts , your libels, jealousy and the secret handshake to cheat out of tax code? Yet ,somehow be unaware of the bloody foundation of the Christianity itself, the slaughters of heathens and their children, the bribery and pedophilia, the mysticism and little piggy banks for the hogs at the goblets and holy grails of the sacred wine . Be unaware, and honor with his presence the churches we have built to worship . The dumpsters of our sins. The teeming corridors of our filth. He marches invisible , and takes the throne, like a Santa Claus, taking us on his lap and allowing us to whisper our clandestine thoughts. Holding on himself a 300 pound men who have come to divulge their secrets about killing their daughters, harassing their wives and betraying their countries. Adulteries and sodomies, tears and hangovers. And the long awaited candy, the forgiveness, the free ticket to Lapland. The capital of redemption. You should see their smiles, the falling shackles from their leftovers of pricks of conscience. The sighs of relief. And the absurdity of the routine. How later, the next Sunday, they would return rolling in their squeaking wheelbarrows of sins. Not all of them would fit in the barrow. Some would be tied with bloody towels, with ropes, the slaves once hung themselves in an act of desperation, with smirks and pulled strings of their puppeteers. The plenitude and overproduction on weekly basis. Yet God would be humble sending his absolution to everyone, whether white, black ,red ,blue or an incidental pedestrian having walked in to shun the morning drizzle of rain. Everyone would admit his failures, underlining the commandment he had flunked under . With red ink ,of course. Stamped and approved, his ubiquitous tap of the new testament would stand as a legal tender for your backstage pass back to your mundane life. His forgiveness would wipe your last crocodile tear of your wrinkled cheeks, and the small swaying brass cross chained to your neck by a blue ribbon would be an admission for next Sunday` oral pageant and the green incandescent light in the purgatory would blink`redeemed`. Yet I don`t believe that the conductor of the symphony of the Universe, the architect himself would bore himself to death listening the burping sounds of sinners, their predatory instincts of killing, their sickening weaknesses and absurd worshipping of totems. Those transgressors, including me, live our lives as if we would never die. And die ,as if we never lived. We ask mercy for our love for power, but never beg for power to love.

Yet he is there. Near the church of oblivion. Next to the wheat field in a drowsy tree canopy leaning forward a rural sparrow singing for the meek little one, the melody that can fly. The God would conduct an opera and each ear of wheat would listen and dance in a synchronous pattern sending waves of assonance and harmony along. While the people would quench their thirst for sermons and symbols some yards beside, inside the brick house bludgeoning the limericks of divinity. He would caress a bee buzzing its baritone to a cornflower incidentally invited to the choir. The almighty is there. In a child that grabs a stone and stretches it against the sky envisioning a starship in his upcoming Columbus days. He is in a mother giving her life away for the cherished baby drowning along in a mudslide, who in her last shrieks would trust it to the people while slowly being eaten by lava of inevitability of the river. God is in a man, in our founding father, who would prefer to die as a gentleman, than survive by ambushing and stabbing from behind. Is God in church ever? Sometimes. Rarely. Window shopping.

He is in the poor ones, if their poverty is sustained by their conscience. The scarcity of purity. He is in Carl Sagan, those dreamy eyes of unraveling the conundrum of woven star fabric and clusters of grapes, sorry, galaxies. He is in Jacques Yves Cousteau taking the plunge in abyss of mysteries of oceans. In Indira Gandhi who was the good shepherd of her lost ewes. In the eyes of Ron Paul who loves his country more than he loves himself. In tears of happiness, and the salt of pain of injustice , in those, who wouldn`t cry of a lost wallet, but would of an empty heart. He is within me and you, the seed of righteousness, the notes that go along. Smaller than an atom yet bigger than the whole universe. The water colour that can not be studied, but only painted. And when you see him marching his paint on the verge of the horizon mildly mingling the burgundy red with the navy blue and scattering albatrosses around the face of sun, you can feel that he is within you too. Da Vinci blushing. He is on the scaffolds of skyscraper cleaners admiring reflections of cirrus, and on scaffolds of the doomed , with Joanne D`Arq and knights of round table, with round kegs in the square holes, and square bricks and round apples falling on head of Isaac Newton. He is in the sincere eyes of your mother, engraved in your memories forever, in her labor wrinkled hands and graying hair whispering farewell to the secularity. He is in a dog who would stand a hopeless attack against a grizzly to protect his owner and bleed its mutilated body away for a noble veracity. He is in lanky fingers of Stradivari, and fat shoulders of Michael Jordan slam dunking the Spalding in the centre of a quasar. Whenever you find someone in your life more important than you to yourself, be dead sure, you have a seed of Him within you, and you will live. Standing on the shoulders of a giant. The giant, that prefers to reside inside a simple heart, a human organ, not a house, or church organ. Amen. By Jurcix, Oct. 2008