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Of God
There are a million words for God, and I have heard so many of them. Throughout the wide universe are scattered more churches, more priests, more disciples than I could ever hope to count in thousands of years. No matter what race, no matter where they lie in space, no matter what they know, none can stop asking the question why? The only answer that any have ever come up with is God, and so they name Him and praise Him and wonder who He is. I think it is quite strange that I, and only I—a young, foolish, and cruel boy—have the answers. I never asked for this and I don't deserve it, this combination of reward, punishment, and responsibility. Nothing that I did in life ever made me deserve this. Thy name is God, cruel and innocent creature: child still, living always, and the one that loves me more than anything else in creation. And I do not know why. I do not know what luck or chance it was that drew Him to London, England, to that very tube station on that very day at that very time, or what it was that made Him chose me and take me. I do not know why I am wanted and valued and trusted with this great responsibility of coming to understand God. I know only that it had happened and that I must take this task very seriously indeed. Back on Earth, when I was nothing more than a stupid boy, I thought I knew the creature that was God so very well. I did not know His name, that was true. I did not know what He did or where He had come from. But I thought I knew His nature, His personality, and that special look in His eyes that seemed to cast light into mine. We were strangers, but we were intimate strangers, and I would have sworn on my life that I did know Him well. I was wrong. Piece by piece, bit by bit, God has revealed more of Himself to me and I have learned that He is nothing like I thought. There is more to God than a light-skinned, dark-haired man who answers all of the questions put before Him and knows all the philosophies of the mind. He is still that being, but there is much more to Him now. There is immaturity in Him, even after billions of years of life. All the time I have known Him He has grown ever childlike, ever wondering and still more wondersome, more and more young, and I have begun to wonder if He will ever grow old at all. I have the answer to the question that a million civilizations are asking. The God that they worship, the God called a million names by a billion zealots and devout worshipers, He does not sit high on a throne coolly regarding the mortals below Him. He does not hear the desperate prayers of men and use His divine will to grant them. God, He is a selfish, insolent, guilty child. Yet He is divine. His eyes still light mine, His words still sooth my ears, His touch still delights me, and that is something that no amount of spoiled childhood can taint. That dichotomy of His is one of countless pieces of the truth that is God, the truth that fascinates me. Others whisper and pray and hope for the simple breath of God, and I, bit by bit, am learning every piece of Him, within and without. Why I do not know, but I have been chosen. Others name Him, create Him, use Him as that explanation to satisfy their questions; I know who He really is. This is a responsibility, this learning of the true nature of God. It confuses me and it threats me, for I am sure it will prove to be a larger task than I can handle. It is more than I can do. They stumble over thousands of names for Him, and I use none, but only I know God for the rest of the universe has no idea what or who He is. Marvelous being, and He terrifies me. Forever will not be time enough to understand Him. |