As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. (Psalm 42:1)

Talk about a dysfunctional situation. Why I stay in this bipolar partnership with the deity is beyond me. If he were a normal supreme being he’d be a heck of a lot easier to deal with, but normal is not the first thing that comes to mind when it comes to God. Actually, normal isn’t even the last thing that comes to mind. There are lots of things God is, but normal is definitely not one of them.

So here I am in this—oh, let’s call it a relationship, though other words also come to mind, like self-immolation, spiritual psoriasis, cognitive dislocation, binge religion, soul purgation, contemplative root canal, transcendental neurosis, willing suspension of disbelief, call waiting, and metaphysical prune Danish, to name just a few that immediately pop into my head. Anyway, this relationship with an invisibility that’s not even a part of the universe, for crying out loud, and I’m trying to make a go of it as best I can. And being decidedly visible myself, not to mention 60% water and 40% dirt (which makes 100% mud), this makes for some serious issues right at the start. Even when all my religious cylinders are firing I get pretty dismal spiritual efficiency. Most of the time I just sputter from water hole to water hole, looking for signs of life and wondering where the heck I’m supposed to be going.

God doesn’t exactly make it easy either. Trying to make things work with him is like playing croquet in a minefield. Or maybe like trying to find a wi-fi connection in Death Valley. No, it’s more like trying to floss your teeth while riding buck naked on the back of a thrashing bull through a blizzard in North Dakota just after a hemorrhoid procedure. One minute God’s Mr. Balm of Gilead; the next, he’s Flaming Wheel of Death. One moment he saves your keister from some terminally lethal faux pas, and a couple of minutes later he’s letting you simmer in the cesspool of stupidity. And for a divinity who’s supposed to be everywhere, he sure can make himself scarce when the poop flies. The dude is a bona fide schizoid supreme being of the first order. No wonder we’ve got issues.

So why do I put up with this guy? I mean, he’s not the only deity in town. Sure, he’s got a corner on the burn-your-face-off creator gig, and he’s got the best all-around redemption plan that I can find. But some of the other gods offer more immediate gratification and are a lot hipper to boot. Some people go with deity light with at least a third less religious baggage than your normal deity. You can even opt out of the divinity plan altogether if you want. Lots of folks do and seem to do pretty doggone well. There are clearly too many alternatives out there for God to sit on his laurels.

I guess when it comes down to it, I have to admit that, in spite of God’s glaring deficiencies and often maddening quirks, he’s really got a hold on me. Geez. Even saying that gives me the heebie jeebies. I hate religious hooey like you wouldn’t believe. But though it grates me to the core, I have to admit that this totally wacked out divine being who calls himself the Lord of Hosts has got me by the throat. I can shake; I can bitch; I can sing those abused lover blues. He ain’t loosening his grip. The transrational CEO of the cosmos has got me in a major headlock. I’m hanging on a spiritual meat hook and he ain’t asking how he can make me more comfortable.

I might as well face it, I’m addicted to God. Hope he’s happy about it.


2 Responses

  1. wow… dude you just made my day! this is my first article here and can’t wait to dig deeper!

  2. Well Fred, I always suspected it, but I am pretty sure we are on the same program. Either that or we’ve both been hoodwinked by a “phishy” counterfeit god. Either way we’re pooched.

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