Come, let us bow down in worship,
let us kneel before the LORD our Maker.
You can bellyache and moan at the Great Comptroller in the sky all you want. And let’s face it: there’s a ton of stuff to bellyache and moan about. If you’re me, you do it as a profession. But that can take you only so far. Eventually you have to own up to the fact that God is God and you are so not. Eventually you have to flush your gripes, grousing, and bellyaching into the septic tank of irrelevance. Eventually you have to drop to your bony knees, plant your face, and acknowledge that your fabric was fabricated; that you, O man, were man-u-fac-tured. You are an uplifted dirt clod whose very dirtness is the inexplicable product of unfathomable Power. Your every molecule, every electrical pulse snapping from nerve cell to nerve cell, each cerebral spark that gives rise to emotion, will, and mind—everything was made by Someone Else. Ultimately you must acknowledge that you are simply—and profoundly—a creature.
Then, once you get that into your ego-chubby head, you realize that, in spite of his questionable behavior, in spite of his quirky persona, in spite of his maddeningly elusive game plan—you realize that the guy who zipped you together is so great, so exalted, so freaking beyond you that the only thing you can do that makes any sense at all is to throw your paltry self to the ground and honor, glorify, admire, adore, adulate, celebrate, deify, esteem, exalt, extol, idolize, laud, love, magnify, praise, respect, reverence, sanctify, and venerate him. You realize that he’s the only being in the universe who qualifies for the title of GOD and that you need to slam your supercilious soul down at the feet of inexpressible Majesty. You understand, finally, that you understand nothing, nothing at all about what it means to be God, nothing at all about the nature of reality, nothing at all about anything. You know jack. You are categorically clueless, infinitely ignorant of how the cosmos ticks or even of how your heart remembers to beat. That you can think at all is a mystery you will never solve, not in a million years, not in an eternity of contemplation.
Yet you yourself are completely comprehended by this same being, a being so supreme, so transcendently marvelous that all you can do is fall before him. This being, for whom even the idea of being itself is woefully insufficient, cannot be circumscribed with thought or catalogued even by sanctioned praise. To you he is unutterable Glory, inconceivable holiness, the very ground of self. Even your adoration evaporates in the fiery ether of his eternal presence. He is unapproachable light, ineffable radiance, the incandescent fact of the matter. Nothing is commensurate with him except his own Word.
And that Word is what fells you. The Word never not uttered slays you; it crushes you with the weight of infinite density into a singularity of awareness, a mere abstraction of apprehension, a glyph of being whose existence consists only in being known. You cannot cry out, even for annihilation, for you are suspended in a glittering shimmer of belief. In this moment—and nothing exists for you but this moment—you are a fully realized creature, and you bow before your maker and your God.
And it is enough.