Hey. God.
What the heck, Man? With a capital M.
What’s up?
I can’t say I’m in a position to appreciate Your handiwork, capital Y, at the moment.
Of course, I’ve always been an advocate for the direct approach.
I have you to thank for that.
This isn’t about faith, I’m not calling into question your existence,
I’m just not 100% on your M.O.
People compare you to a Father. A Teacher. A Friend. Okay.
Dad, you never call. You never write.
I’d rather have a chat than leave a message on your machine, capisce?
I’m not questioning the quality of your works, either.
But the artist usually strolls through his own gallery, yah?
A Teacher: Okay. Where are our grades? Goodness knows there’ve been enough tests.
Rather than have You teach us, again capital Y
We have ministers of a hundred different faiths telling us different things, all insisting they’re the ones that are right.
I don’t like one-sided relationships. It’s too convenient for the absentee.
Especially You! Capital Y. You get to take credit and receive thanks for all the good things that happen to us.
But we get poo-pooed for handing you the blame under similar circumstances. Sure.
I’m not angry. I’m not desperate. But I still want answers.
And I think I’m entitled to them.
You may want to talk to your PR department. “The Lord works in mysterious ways” doesn’t cut it. Not by a long shot.
You create us in your image. It’s been argued that the shape of a thing dictates its behavior. Okay.
We god-shaped mortals would like a talk.
Am I therefore entitled to work in mysterious ways, too?
You know, come across like a jerk with a superiority complex that never
shows his face, yet expects praise for the smallest of his so-called
tangible gifts?
You’re family. You made everyone I know, and everyone I don’t.
But if you were a family member, someone we knew who never came out of
his room, or took visitors, we’d be worried to start, get angry, and
eventually turn to ignoring you in return.
But! Aha! But!
You’re God. To question Your acts or lack of same is to dance with Blasphemy.