John W. Patterson

Musings of a Godhead
8/02/99



	Ah, the religion thing again, the veracity of the Scripture, creation ex nihilo or BANG-zoom, 
slurp, slither, grunt, and a walk in space, the eternal fate of multitudes -- of sheep and goat, the 
Great White Throne, the Mercy Seat, the soul, the spirit, and mortal flesh -- Christ on the cross, 
Moses on the mountain, angel messenger and demon liar, the Nefilim -- the Watchers  ďcross 
overĒ to know passion, to sweat . . . debate, swear, fuss, fume, blinded and bruised we struggle 
against the unseen, we wrestle with the Angel, we run, to laugh, to cry, to live, to love, to sing
 . . . and then die.
	
	Tear apart, obviate the Bible -- it matters not. Lock us in prison, chain us naked in the 
Siberian cold, fill our veins with psychoactive poisons and strap us down on beds of discipline -- it 
matters not. Burn us, drown us, beat us, laugh us to scorn -- it matters not. Let mushroom-headed 
aliens land and explain it all away but a remnant will turn and walk away. To the overcomer -- it 
matters not.

	For we have tasted of eternity, we have been healed, our hearts, our minds, our souls 
undeniably accessed by a love, a light, and a singular power beyond forever, outside of time itself, 
infuses our very beings. 

	This meta-reality is hidden in the depths of our spirit reborn, flooding the inner temple of the 
heart, the ancient Shekinah glory blazing anew. Jesus walks in -- pushing aside shadow, his 
healing power moves among broken dreams, diffusing our burning angers. We cannot deny this 
supernatural event. We stand humbled and awed -- changed. And we canít explain it, canít prove 
it, canít argue it -- it matters not. We will never be the same -- the infinite majesty of the Godhead 
dwells in our midst. We trust our friend -- the sheep know the shepherdís voice.

	Yet . . .

	We bumbling Christians are the hypocritical fools, the stones of a great stumbling, the foolish 
virgins, the burning stigmata on the pysche of a lost and wandering humanity -- now this matters! 
We cannot deny the evil done in the name of good. We cannot erase sectarian hatred, we must not 
ignore blind prejudice nor excuse the rampant failure of religion to convey truth. Our tradition has 
wrapped the Spirit of truth in a cocoon of concrete, chandeliers, and carpeting. We pave our 
church parking lots and let Haitian children starve -- homosexual AIDS victims die alone and we 
sing another hymn. Our feet are soiled with the filth of rebellion, our hands stained with the blood 
of our brother, and our self-righteous tongues set the world afire with the flames of Gehenna. We 
will be weighed in the balance and found wanting -- without excuse.

	And we safe-n-secure believers naively stare at the television awaiting our eternal pie-in-the-
sky delivery, our blessed hope of Rapture -- let the rest of Ďem stay here and suffer the Great and 
Terrible Day of the Lord. They had their chance. Forget Ďem.

	This is our legacy to the unbelieving world? God forbid! Has Jesusí compassion died in our 
insular huddlings? Not quite yet. For I see His love breaking forth in the eyes of children, in their 
dancing, and in their songs of faith and boundless hope. I sense the Spiritís gentle proddings in my 
tears and hear his passing in the echoes of my soul. If one generation fails to heed the call, then 
the eternal Spirit merely hands the torch of Love to the next. May these, be free of their parentsí 
self-imposed bondage and paycheck-complacent apathy. I stand guilty of my own axe-grindings 
and prophetic denigrations. I go to the the author and finisher of my faith for renewal.

	And so it goes . . . Jesus walks in once again -- healing and speaking that peace that passes all 
understanding. He moves gently among my scars and sweetens my bitterness. I cannot deny this 
simple event. I am humbled, I am thankful -- knowing I am unconditionally loved. And I canít 
explain it, canít prove it, canít argue it -- it matters not. I will never be the same -- the infinite 
majesty and tenderness of the Father has visited his creation once more -- in me, his child. Thanks 
be to the Father of grace for his unspeakably good, unmerited gift -- Jesus of Nazareth, The 
Christ, Alpha and Omega, the Son of Man, and my God.

	Give him a break for just once folks and hear that still, gentle voice. He knows your name.

E-mail me if you enjoyed this tale or would like to use it in any e-zine or hard copy publication.

Back to Prose Index
"I wanna go home now!!"