Who hasn’t wanted to give god the middle finger at some point in their life? I would venture to say that most people have given him the middle finger at some point and probably on several occasions. The fact is, while this is probably wildly unpopular, that if he does exist, what the fuck is he doing up there? Why does he just watch us destroy ourselves? I know, I know. Free will = pure love. Really? If we let our children do whatever they wanted at the age of 2 would we call it a demonstration of our love as a function of our having given them free will? Of course not! That’s absurd. But evidently god gets to pawn off his laissez faire style of governing as love. I’m calling the bluff. I’m calling bullshit.
So here’s the deal,
I want you to go baby creation on me.
Make one of those little crying creatures
that want to nurse your bosom
because it cannot think—
because it only knows it ought to
suckle whatever enters its mouth.
Somewhere around the age of three or four
(when it has the ability to reason)
say to it, “You are on your own
because you have free will now.”
Tell it that you have to let it
enter the world’s burning circus on its
own but that it will be just fine because
this is free will and you love it,
but you have to abandon it because
this is freewill.
This is the only testament to your love.
Tell it you will not be available to
take it by the hand or
whisper left when it endeavors to the right—
that you will not be there to wipe tears
or hand out tissue or teach it how to eat
an ice cream cone in summer heat.
You will not be there to show it the way.
You will never hold its hand again.
Tell it you will not be there to
explain life’s mysteries—
to unclutter the confusion boxed in its
head like thousands of puzzle pieces from thousands of puzzles.
Look into its eyes and soul.
Say, “This is free will, this is for you, I love you.
Now go lose yourself in the wayward world
you cannot survive.
Go be alone in the stark landscape of no-choice-is-right, no-person-is-trustworthy, you-are-not-good-enough and you-will-be-damned.
Go be the fruit ripening on the tree
until you fall to the ground next to the other fruit, bruised and rotting,
trying to explain why the farmer
walks through the orchard every day but never kneels to pick you up.”
Admit you are the farmer.
Once you have satisfactorily explained this,
tell it you will not be there to help
navigate labyrinthine dangers
(because you love it) but you have
written a manual (easy to understand).
Explain that the manual is only 2,000 pages in length
and if it is decrypted correctly
it will have all the answers—
the ones about life and death and survival
when loneliness, depression or guilt
creep through the garden gate—
the answers about what to do when the
people around it vanish and succumb.
Tell it not to fear
because you will be listening
if it sings to you from the correct hymnal—
if it tries to talk to you when you’re not there.
Tell it to stop being faithless.
Admonish it with the words of men
who have paltry cause for doubt.
2,000 pages of translated stories.
The questions will come:
Which hero or doubter or sinner or possessed, hackneyed naysayer am I?
Let the requests return empty.
Just figure it out.
You ask me why I cannot worship your god.
I am still trying to figure out
why he left me once I could reason.