How to Know God

How to Know God

How to Know God 1080 1080 Matt Leibel

Get introduced by a mutual friend. Hang out outside God’s Hatha Yoga studio. Attend networking events for deities and aspiring deities. Corner God by the cheese plate. Casually ask Him, “What do you think this one is? Roquefort?” When He shrugs his shoulders, reach out your hand. Introduce yourself. When God tells you who He is, reply “I thought that was you, but I didn’t want to say anything.” When God returns His eyes to the selections of cheese, say “I have so many questions. But I want to let you circulate so maybe we can set something up next week?” Then hand God your business card. Assume He won’t call, but at least He’ll be able to put a face to your name when you find Him on LinkedIn later.

God won’t answer your messages for upwards of a year. Finally, you’ll get a note from His assistant saying God will be in town next Thursday in case you’d be available to grab a cup of coffee. You’ll notice that God only drinks decaf. You’ll be tongue-tied for a little while, not sure if you want to ask Him the classics like “What is the meaning of life?” or “Why do bad things happen to good people and vice versa?”, but instead you’ll show Him a picture of an okapi, the secretive African ungulate that looks like a cross between a zebra and a giraffe. You’ll ask Him “What was your thought process here?” God  will start talking about hybridity, and the importance of counterintuitive strategies in creative mammalian design, and it will be like the shy God you met at the deity mixer never even existed. You and God become fast friends. He’ll appear at your daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and compliment her on her Torah portion reading—your daughter will be mortified by the whole thing, and when her friends ask if that was God talking to her, she’ll say “No, that was just one of my Dad’s weird friends from his Men’s Group.” Then God will get busy with his own stuff, and so will you—you’ll have taken up archery and started dating again, for the first time since the divorce. You and God will continue to send each other holiday cards, and occasionally connect via Skype. But mostly, you’ll live your life indifferent to God, and your daughter will, too.

When your country is taken over by a militant anti-religious movement, and all worship of spiritual beings is banned, at first, you’ll be willing to roll with it. But when you hear the things the Government is saying about God, you’ll tell people, “No, no, He’s not like that, He’s not some false deity, He’s real salt of the Earth. Hard to get to know, maybe, but once He starts telling a story, there’s no stopping Him.” But eventually, you’ll be snitched on and turned in—by your own daughter, no less. You’ll have no real ill will toward her, you’ll know she’s been brainwashed, but still, it will irk you some. In jail, you’ll meet others who will be seeking to know God, and you’ll tell them it’s a process, and He’s super busy, which is probably why He let the whole Atheist Totalitarianism thing slide. But you guys would like Him, you’ll insist, though by now you’ll have some new questions for Him, like how could He let your own daughter betray you like this, why do bad things happen to average-ish people, can you ever really know another human, or another deity, or a statue in front of a church, or the number of grains of sand in the universe, or anything at all? Then God will appear inside your cell in okapi form, and you’ll ask Him your questions, but all He’ll have to say is “We both look pretty good in stripes, don’t we?”, and then you’ll just stand there together in silence, until visiting hours end.

Header photograph © Bif Naked.

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