Things in Heaven and Earth

Winslow crossed Bishopsgate and started down Brushfield Street.  At the end glowered Christ Church, blasting in all directions either waves or particles (depending on scientifico-theologico interpretation) of the Power of God.  He gamely breasted the barrage, analogous, in his personal experience, to a tsumani of spiritual gelatin.  But why, he wondered, would a deity, whether authentic or ersatz, obstruct access to his/her/its precincts by inspiring fear and trembling, when the most blinkeredly secular of mortals knows that a little sugar makes the sacrosanct go down?  Yea, as he entered the alley of the shadow, Winslow kept his eyes fixed on the Christ Church steeple, coolly taking the measure of its accusatory prowess even as it towered with ever greater perpendicularity over his approach. 

          At last he and He squarely confronted each other at Commercial Street.  Winslow doubted if anything was to be gained by contemplating the inscrutable façade, hence reserved his active animadversion for the steeple.  Slick surfaces and straight edges!  What could be their purpose save to deny disputants the slightest spiritual handhold?  “Why,” he challenged, “does the steeple offer no decorative comfort?  Why only the numbing rigor of divinity incapable of flaw?  Where is Your mercy, Your compassion, Your forgiveness?”  Useless to expect a reply, he reminded himself, it being the privilege of power to suffice in silence.

          He was hardly surprised to find rivulets of solemnity oozing out beneath the church doors and cascading down the steps to Commercial Street.  There, eager scavengers scooped it into bags decorated with Union Jack, Tower Bridge and Houses of Parliament.  They accosted passing tourists with clamorous commands to “Bring home a bit of British phlegm!  Impress your friends!  Buy it now!  Be first on your block to own some!”  The more sophisticated tourists insisted upon peering into the bags, upon which their faces lengthened perceptibly as they hastened to pay in silent sobriety.              

          Winslow climbed the steps, taking care to avoid treading on lumpish sermonical segments scattered about.  His entrance into the church was greeted with a multidirectional celestial baritone intoning, “Looking for someone, buddy?”          

          “As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied briskly, “I’ve been told this is the kind of place where You hang out when not otherwise engaged.”

          The Voice responded with a purr of satisfaction, “Here, there and everywhere, Mac, and all at once, too.  Which part of that is too subtle for your humanoid understanding?”

          “All I can say is, you sure are one lucky deity,” countered Winslow, thinking it best not to respond to divine-level snidery, “what with personalized accredited accommodations available throughout Your very own tax-exempt ecclesiastical network!”       

          “Now that you mention it, nice digs, don’t you think?” said the Voice, motioning around brain-to-brain.

          Winslow thought he saw an opening for a dig of his own.  “If You’re really who You’re supposed to be, You wouldn’t have to ask what I think.  You’d know.”

          The Voice threw back its metaphoric head and chortled through the ages.  “Of course I know, but it’s such a kick to hear humans acting out what they think is free will, when everything they say, do and unfailingly foul up to kingdom come—don’t hold your breath waiting for that, by the way--is totally predestined!  By Yours Truly, in case you still haven’t caught on.”    

          Winslow licked his lips uneasily, aware that this Entity, as he decided to label it, was no slouch at close-quarter canoodling.  “Sure, it’s easy to make fun of humans,” he nervily countered, “but You’re the one who created them, remember?  Sounds like a pretty grave booboo to me!”