When I cursed last Wednesday and also the day I was born, I half hoped for a whirlwind to come down to the sidewalk and challenge me. At mid-life, it all seemed ridiculous. None of it was as it was supposed to have been. And none of it could tie together in some tragic way – it was torture of a thousand little deaths. It was the pain of meaninglessness.
But God tapped me on the shoulder, even as I had mine eyes focused on heaven, my palms outstretched.
“Come on,” He said, “you look foolish. Let’s get a Café Americano.”
He placed his order at Starbucks divinely – which is to say, He didn’t stumble over grandes and talls and half-caf’s and lattes. He smiled at me as I tried to follow His lead.
“This was My idea,” He noted, “I whispered it into Howard Schultz’s ear one night – the secret is to keep people baffled – it’s what makes Starbucks so divine.”
“So,” He said when we were seated in the comfy chairs,
“You cursed the day you were born.”
“Um, yeah,” I said, sipping something that was not quite what I thought I was ordering but was probably off the menu somehow.
“And you wanted Me to ask you where you were when I laid the foundations of the earth, shut up the seas with doors, etc.? To make you feel like there is an order to the universe, so that you would be comforted in at least that fact – that even if you couldn’t understand it, at least you knew there was a plan?”
“Ah, yeah,” I said.
God smiled then, leaning back deep in the leather. “It’s all a joke,” He said, finally.
“A joke? But why dost Thou contendest with me?” I blurted out, almost spilling my $4 cup of coffee. “Shew me wherefore!”
Now I continued: “What about Rwanda? What about Auschwitz? What about crack cocaine? What about George Bush?”
“Ah, George. He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” He smiled, a twinkle evident in his eye. “All that stuff was part of the lead in to the punch line.” He leaned forward over the table that looked like it could have come from Pottery Barn. “You know,” He whispered intimately, “you have to crack some eggs to make a cake.
“And you, you’re the punch line. Isn’t that great? It’s all come to you. The whole universe has been building up to this moment – when you finally would come along and get it – that it’s all a cosmic joke.”
He slapped his knee, and looked out the window, still chuckling. “I love strip malls,” He said, shaking His head in approval. “Should have had them in Eden. Would have made things so much simpler.”
“But why me?” I squeaked, overwhelmed by the burden of being the focus of History.
“Why not?” He asked, turning back, leaning into His chair again. When I continued to look dumbfounded at Him, He sighed: “Oh, alright. So it isn’t just you. It’s everyone. The world is a custom-built joke on everyone. Everything was set in motion so that every person who ever lived or ever will live will be possessed by the same moment of clarity as you. It pays to be omniscient and omnipotent. Not just anyone could do this, you know.”
I didn’t know what to say. I sipped whatever it was that had wound up in my cup that tasted like coffee and cinnamon, maybe.
“You know, there are basically four kinds of death. First, there is painful and quick. I’m thinking of car accidents, industrial accidents where people get pinned under heavy machinery or dissolved in large vats of sulfuric acid, completely random events like alligator attacks, and also the variety of quick but painful medical conditions, such as heart attacks and strokes. One might be tempted to also add things like being hit by lightning, but that sort of event actually fits more neatly into the second group – namely painless and quick. Generally speaking, if the lightning strike is direct enough, the current actually kills the victim before his brain has a chance to process the idea of ‘pain’. So the second group, painless and quick, also includes accidental overdoses, alcohol poisoning, medical errors during surgery, that sort of thing.
“Into each life I pour just enough misery to break a person before they die. The ones that go out quick don’t have much stamina – they’re not very interesting really – so I knock them off without too much fanfare. Or sometimes a lot of fanfare, but usually they’re already gone before everyone really pays any attention.
“Some of the seemingly painless ones actually fit into the third group though, so don’t go trying to categorize things just based on external observation. There’s a difference between a kid that drinks all his father’s fifth of Kentucky burbon and passes out under his friends porch and asphyxiates on his own vomit and a 50 year old man who does the same thing. Except of course that it is likely not his father’s fifth that he drinks in one sitting. The kid likely fits in the second group. He wasn’t going to be much fun, so I got rid of him early on. But the 50 year old man, he more likely belongs in the third group. Long suffering, lots of misery. A really high tolerance for liquor and pain and nothingness. Now that is good stuff. Very interesting to watch.
“Oh, and also in the third group are people afflicted with cancer – you know, the slow, lingering kind that responds to chemo at first, but then comes back. And of course there’s Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Muscular Dystrophy, and that new favorite, AIDS. Lots of others too. Some I haven't even revealed yet. Don't go spilling the beans," He added confidentially, "but just keep watching that organic food movement. Anyway, it’s remarkable what the knowledge of definite end can do to a human being. Fascinating.
“But the best group to watch are the ones that come to feel like there is no definite end – like they might live forever. Most young people think they want to live forever. It takes actually getting old to realize that’s not such a good deal. Your children die, maybe your grandchildren die. You’re alone. No one cares about you. You get stuck in some horrible institution where they tuck you into a corner and feed you gruel and want you to play Bingo all the time. And after a while everything blurs together. All the young people come and go around you. The old friends are gone. The lucky ones, you come to realize, were the ones that went young, and quick. The itches you can’t scratch build up. You can’t cut your own toe-nails. You can’t even make it to the toilet most of the time. You can’t dial a phone because you can’t remember phone numbers. And even if you could, you couldn’t really hear the person on the other end anyway. And again, even if you could, who would you call? They’re all gone – the ones you would call.
“Your body just keeps going. You can’t sleep through the night. You’re tired all day and doze off. Food tastes bland, or just bad. But your body won’t quit. So you go through the motions day after day, wondering when it will be over.
“Finally, it’s an act of will. It takes time, but it’s an act of will. You start willing your body to stop. You fade, slowly, before everyone’s eyes – not that anyone’s eyes are actually on you. It’s a long, long road. There are moments – glimmers – when you think you have rediscovered meaning – that something actually fits together. It’s like a flash of light from behind you. You turn to look, but nothing is there. And then, no, you realize you were mistaken. So you go back to the quiet project of willing your body to stop. To release you.
“Those lives,” He said, taking the plastic cover off of his paper cup, eyeing the bottom of the cup, then lifting it to drink the last dregs. “Those are my favorite.”
But God tapped me on the shoulder, even as I had mine eyes focused on heaven, my palms outstretched.
“Come on,” He said, “you look foolish. Let’s get a Café Americano.”
He placed his order at Starbucks divinely – which is to say, He didn’t stumble over grandes and talls and half-caf’s and lattes. He smiled at me as I tried to follow His lead.
“This was My idea,” He noted, “I whispered it into Howard Schultz’s ear one night – the secret is to keep people baffled – it’s what makes Starbucks so divine.”
“So,” He said when we were seated in the comfy chairs,
“You cursed the day you were born.”
“Um, yeah,” I said, sipping something that was not quite what I thought I was ordering but was probably off the menu somehow.
“And you wanted Me to ask you where you were when I laid the foundations of the earth, shut up the seas with doors, etc.? To make you feel like there is an order to the universe, so that you would be comforted in at least that fact – that even if you couldn’t understand it, at least you knew there was a plan?”
“Ah, yeah,” I said.
God smiled then, leaning back deep in the leather. “It’s all a joke,” He said, finally.
“A joke? But why dost Thou contendest with me?” I blurted out, almost spilling my $4 cup of coffee. “Shew me wherefore!”
Now I continued: “What about Rwanda? What about Auschwitz? What about crack cocaine? What about George Bush?”
“Ah, George. He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” He smiled, a twinkle evident in his eye. “All that stuff was part of the lead in to the punch line.” He leaned forward over the table that looked like it could have come from Pottery Barn. “You know,” He whispered intimately, “you have to crack some eggs to make a cake.
“And you, you’re the punch line. Isn’t that great? It’s all come to you. The whole universe has been building up to this moment – when you finally would come along and get it – that it’s all a cosmic joke.”
He slapped his knee, and looked out the window, still chuckling. “I love strip malls,” He said, shaking His head in approval. “Should have had them in Eden. Would have made things so much simpler.”
“But why me?” I squeaked, overwhelmed by the burden of being the focus of History.
“Why not?” He asked, turning back, leaning into His chair again. When I continued to look dumbfounded at Him, He sighed: “Oh, alright. So it isn’t just you. It’s everyone. The world is a custom-built joke on everyone. Everything was set in motion so that every person who ever lived or ever will live will be possessed by the same moment of clarity as you. It pays to be omniscient and omnipotent. Not just anyone could do this, you know.”
I didn’t know what to say. I sipped whatever it was that had wound up in my cup that tasted like coffee and cinnamon, maybe.
“You know, there are basically four kinds of death. First, there is painful and quick. I’m thinking of car accidents, industrial accidents where people get pinned under heavy machinery or dissolved in large vats of sulfuric acid, completely random events like alligator attacks, and also the variety of quick but painful medical conditions, such as heart attacks and strokes. One might be tempted to also add things like being hit by lightning, but that sort of event actually fits more neatly into the second group – namely painless and quick. Generally speaking, if the lightning strike is direct enough, the current actually kills the victim before his brain has a chance to process the idea of ‘pain’. So the second group, painless and quick, also includes accidental overdoses, alcohol poisoning, medical errors during surgery, that sort of thing.
“Into each life I pour just enough misery to break a person before they die. The ones that go out quick don’t have much stamina – they’re not very interesting really – so I knock them off without too much fanfare. Or sometimes a lot of fanfare, but usually they’re already gone before everyone really pays any attention.
“Some of the seemingly painless ones actually fit into the third group though, so don’t go trying to categorize things just based on external observation. There’s a difference between a kid that drinks all his father’s fifth of Kentucky burbon and passes out under his friends porch and asphyxiates on his own vomit and a 50 year old man who does the same thing. Except of course that it is likely not his father’s fifth that he drinks in one sitting. The kid likely fits in the second group. He wasn’t going to be much fun, so I got rid of him early on. But the 50 year old man, he more likely belongs in the third group. Long suffering, lots of misery. A really high tolerance for liquor and pain and nothingness. Now that is good stuff. Very interesting to watch.
“Oh, and also in the third group are people afflicted with cancer – you know, the slow, lingering kind that responds to chemo at first, but then comes back. And of course there’s Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Muscular Dystrophy, and that new favorite, AIDS. Lots of others too. Some I haven't even revealed yet. Don't go spilling the beans," He added confidentially, "but just keep watching that organic food movement. Anyway, it’s remarkable what the knowledge of definite end can do to a human being. Fascinating.
“But the best group to watch are the ones that come to feel like there is no definite end – like they might live forever. Most young people think they want to live forever. It takes actually getting old to realize that’s not such a good deal. Your children die, maybe your grandchildren die. You’re alone. No one cares about you. You get stuck in some horrible institution where they tuck you into a corner and feed you gruel and want you to play Bingo all the time. And after a while everything blurs together. All the young people come and go around you. The old friends are gone. The lucky ones, you come to realize, were the ones that went young, and quick. The itches you can’t scratch build up. You can’t cut your own toe-nails. You can’t even make it to the toilet most of the time. You can’t dial a phone because you can’t remember phone numbers. And even if you could, you couldn’t really hear the person on the other end anyway. And again, even if you could, who would you call? They’re all gone – the ones you would call.
“Your body just keeps going. You can’t sleep through the night. You’re tired all day and doze off. Food tastes bland, or just bad. But your body won’t quit. So you go through the motions day after day, wondering when it will be over.
“Finally, it’s an act of will. It takes time, but it’s an act of will. You start willing your body to stop. You fade, slowly, before everyone’s eyes – not that anyone’s eyes are actually on you. It’s a long, long road. There are moments – glimmers – when you think you have rediscovered meaning – that something actually fits together. It’s like a flash of light from behind you. You turn to look, but nothing is there. And then, no, you realize you were mistaken. So you go back to the quiet project of willing your body to stop. To release you.
“Those lives,” He said, taking the plastic cover off of his paper cup, eyeing the bottom of the cup, then lifting it to drink the last dregs. “Those are my favorite.”
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