Saturday, February 1, 2014
Sometimes I listen to local radio on Sunday mornings, and what I find is a bunch of dueling preachers. In fifteen minute rounds, they share their special spin on salvation, the correct road to heaven, and how everyone else is going to hell for not feeling the way they do or believing what they believe. I once had a preacher who believed that everyone's relationship with their God was a personal relationship and that the best you could hope for is to spend your life making that relationship better and closer. That you should stake your territory at the foot of the cross and stay there. Sort of a Zen view and I liked it. I don't find that around much anymore. Don't get me wrong. I'm not knocking these preachers and their beliefs. That would be me practicing what they preach: exclusivity. There's another little irony for you: the most inclusive man to ever walk on this globe has been boxed and bracketed over the last two thousand years into objective exclusivity. Go figure.
Anyway, enough of that. I was listening to one real-full-of-himself fellow carry on one Sunday and this just happened to be maybe one of the most perfect late summer mornings we've had in a long time. The sun was buttery yellow, the sky was liquid blue and powdered with cotton candy clouds. You just wanted to eat the day. And then take a nap. I was in the middle of the country with no sounds but real sounds. God sounds. I reckoned that it was fairly close to heavenly. As I sat there, this came to me:
Radio preacher says God's on a throne
Gold it is
Surrounded by 24 elders and a finely feathered choir
Guess he should slip out here to the country
Hear Him raucously barking in a murder of crows
Watch him glide through cornfields
Tickling tassels and stroking stalk tops
See him fingerpaint light and smudge in shadow,
Yellow, blue, brown and green
Smell him in wood smoke and cedar sap.
I think he slips his throne on Sunday mornings
Hauls on a pair of holey overalls
And chills in the country till it's time for church.