Talking to Myself Talking to God
I’ve been talking to God a lot lately. Which is weird because I’m also prone to questioning whether God really exists and asking myself if he did exist, what would he really look like?
I don’t buy into the streets of gold and thrones and castles depictions of God. To me that is just wishful thinking on the part of materialistic people, a lot like the God, Gold and Guns crowd.
And the jealous God of the Old testament? That seems like a strange kind of deity to me– a jealous God. I think that is man’s assignation of ego to the idea of God to make him more like us. It’s a function of our own enormous egos. It’s a “certainly God would be like us” way of thinking to which I don’t ascribe.
I like to believe he would be more like our dogs–loving us unconditionally and without reserve and dancing around furiously when we come home. And asking nothing more from us than long walks in the woods with Him.
Now Jesus is much more palatable to me. He is loving. He is infinitely forgiving. He is a healer of the sick, a feeder of the hungry, a forgiver of sins and a carpenter. I like men who make things with their hands. I think it’s a sign of good moral character.
I have a long history of thinking about God. When I was four or five I sat on a rock in the backyard one day, quiet and alone, looking up into the bright spring sky with it’s fluffy white clouds. I was trying to form an image of God. I was picturing a handsome white haired old man with a flowing beard dressed in blue robes, because if he lived in the heavens above us, he must be the colors of the sky.
Or maybe I had seen a picture in a book or was transposing Charlton Heston as Moses onto my God image. At any rate, He looked a lot like Gandalf, only neater. He looked like Gandalf all cleaned up for Aragon’s wedding ceremony.
I wasn’t raised in the church but was taken there on Easter sometimes. I was taught to say The Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary before going to bed when I was quite young, but that wasn’t really talking to God.
That was just something you did in case you died in your sleep, most likely smothered to death by the evil sandman who came in the night and threw sand in your face, or the tooth fairy accidentally breaking your neck trying to get at that tooth under your pillow.
When I was a young woman, I found religion in a serious fashion, which was a necessary step in becoming a fully functioning human being having done some damage along the way, mostly during some tumultuous high school years.
I talked to God all the time for years. Until I left the church, disillusioned by the exclusivity of the evangelical movement and the assumptions that God didn’t like Democrats, environmentalists or liberals. Guilt sometimes kept me from talking to God as much as I had during my tenure as an evangelical.
But I’m over that now. I talk to God again without a lot of guilt. I’ve decided that God is somewhat more like my dog and a lot less like the popular images of him in the church these days. And if I am wrong about that, I imagine that He is big enough to forgive me.
Right now I need to talk to God a lot because someone I love is in a fierce struggle and there really isn’t much I can do for them. They are very far away, literally and figuratively, but I can pray. And I do.
So I’ll keep on talking to God, even in the midst of my doubts, whether I know he is listening or not. Why shouldn’t I?
Hell I talk to my old man all the time knowing full well he isn’t listening. That’s been going on for over forty years.
And it hasn’t stopped me yet.