An Interview with God Page 6

  He glances at the Bible and the words of the psalmist again. The writers expressed a great deal of honest frustration and anger about life and faith. But they also took out their emotions in the words of a prayer-song, not by smashing a loved one’s prized possession.

  He then realizes the sting in his right hand. A shard from the cup is driven into his palm. When he pulls it out, blood pools around the cut. He goes to the bathroom sink to rinse the gash.

  Water mixes with his blood, creating a diluted red tint going down the drain. The bleeding eventually subsides, and he wraps a washcloth around his hand. When he looks up, Paul meets his own eyes in the mirror. Staring himself down, he thinks how his response to his own build-up of neglected emotions and feelings caused a wound that, although small, still drew blood.

  What a simple analogy to his entire life right now. But he also somehow knows what he just experienced was likely only a small crack in the dam, a sign of the deluge behind the wall that he has been trying to avoid. Something had indeed been triggered in his spirit at the chess table that morning during the interview.

  His self-stare and deep thoughts are interrupted by the sound, the sensation he heard in the park. Like a thousand voices whispering at once. Ominous but not frightening. Awesome but strangely calming. Once again, Paul looks around trying to determine a source, but there seems to be none. Hoping with all his heart that maybe Sarah has come home.

  “Hello! Is someone there?” Still holding the washcloth on his hand, Paul cautiously walks around the apartment.

  No one is there.

  His frustration returns, and standing in the middle of the living area, he calls out, louder this time, “Hey! Talk to me! Who’s there?”

  Thump, thump, thud echoes off the ceiling, as the muffled voice of his neighbor above shouts, “Hey! Quiet down there! You moron!”

  But the familiar belligerent words coming through his ceiling only reinforce Paul’s growing concern about the source of the sound he’s hearing. Matt and some of his buddies from Afghanistan talked about hearing strange voices, auditory illusions, upon returning home, as some of their battle-induced trauma. Am I experiencing the same thing? Or did their stories plant the idea in my head? Are these coming from within or outside me?

  Then as quick as the mystical sound came, it slowly trails off and stops. Nothing. Silence. Only the faint light from the kitchen penetrates the darkness.

  Confused and irritated, beginning to question his sanity, Paul lifts the washcloth to check his cut. Blood stains his palm and the off-white fabric. He stares at the wound. What is it about bloodstains that don’t look like anything else on the planet?

  Exhausted from the day and the emotional tug-of-war with no clear winner, Paul collapses onto the couch.

  The next morning, with his cut neatly covered by a large bandage, Paul rolls his bike out the door, secures the locks, and starts down the stairs.

  “Morning!” Bobby’s greeting startles him out of his half-awake state. The super is now painting the wall he was patching yesterday. “Hey, Paul. Is Sarah staying in today?”

  Not wanting to go there, Paul just lies. “Yeah.”

  “She not feeling well? Hope she’s okay.”

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine.” Feeling super uncomfortable with the cover-up he has now begun, Paul speeds up his exit.

  “Let me know if I can help out in any way,” Bobby calls after him as he’s wheeling out the door. As the superintendent of the building, he feels not only a need to look after the building, but the people who live there as well. His heart really isn’t to be nosy, but to be a good neighbor. Which is why Paul feels so embarrassed about outright lying to the man. But he’s not ready for anyone to know she’s gone.

  Riding out of his usual street route and following the maps on his phone, Paul heads into territory he hasn’t seen in a long time. The old yet familiar sights start to unpack memories that have been stored away for many years.

  He slows his bike at arriving in the Flatbush area of Brooklyn—the address God gave him for today’s interview. The location—the second of three—is ironically at a venerable historic venue known for legit New York stage productions. Large enough to hold a profitable crowd but small enough to not have a bad seat in the house. The name? . . . wait for it . . . The King’s Theatre.

  Paul looks up at the classic white-lit, manually applied black-letter marquee to see the current production is entitled This Way. His memory flashes back to the morning before when the chalk marking at the park alerted him to the meeting spot with the same exact words. He makes a mental note to do a web search later to see if there’s actually a production of that title going on at the theatre right now. You know, just to check for accuracy . . . or maybe coincidence.

  Jumping off his bike, Paul does a quick scan of the area. The box office booth is empty. No cars out front. Actually, the place looks closed down. The only stationary object on the block to secure his ride is a parking meter that offers little resistance to a thief. But as always, he does his best to make the chain looping as difficult as possible to undo in a hurry.

  He walks up to the doors at the main entrance, anticipating them to be locked. To his surprise, one opens freely. Slowly peering into the darkened foyer of the theatre, he allows time for his eyes to adjust. No signs of life. “Hello? . . . Hello? Anyone here?”

  Silence.

  Paul carefully moves through the lobby, his footsteps making no sound on the dense, heavy, and obviously outdated carpet. The next set of doors lead into the theatre seating, and he walks into the heart of the ornately adorned, impressive structure. This venue was built back in the day when production didn’t have state-of-the-art sound systems to get the words of the actors all the way to the last row. So from the enormously heavy velvet curtains on the stage to the intentional angles of the dark wood walls in the rear, everything was designed for the human voice to project on its own ability.

  Paul starts to walk down the gradually sloping aisle amidst the sea of empty seats. The dimmed house lights cast a muted ghostly hue on everything. He looks straight ahead at the stage, and there in the warm wash of spotlights stands God. The reporter in Paul immediately notes His clothing. The dapper suit and tie are the same as yesterday, with his hair being once again perfectly in place. What an ironic, almost humorous metaphor this scene appears to be.

  As Paul nears the stage, he sees it is evidently set for a production with a subtle yet classic kitchen table and chairs center stage, the kind a ’90s family TV sitcom would have used for their nightly gatherings and comic crisis intervention. But then the thought strikes Paul. The set is uncannily similar to his home growing up, almost as if this was done intentionally. No way. That would just be too weird. Right?

  Shaking off the furniture re-creation, he walks up the steps and looks at God. “So, You work here?”

  God smiles as if the question amuses him. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, my mom worked here . . . at this theatre. Like a long, long time ago. Should we even be in here?”

  God ignores both the connection and the question. “Come. Join me, Paul. Sit down.” Once they’re seated at the kitchen table, God takes a long, concerned look at his young friend. “You don’t look so good today. Is everything okay?”

  I’m sure I look like a man who slept on the couch last night, whose life is falling apart, and who’s hearing strange, untraceable voice-like sounds, so yeah, I bet I look like I feel today. But he answers God in the same diversionary manner that he has been answering everyone who asks lately, whether they’re sincere or not. “I’m fine.”

  Pushing back more, God asks, “Oh, and what happened to your hand?”

  Paul keeps running interference and avoids the question. “All right, sir, we should get started to not waste any valuable time today.”

  God can’t seem to turn off His parental concern. “You know, we can skip today and finish up tomorrow, if that’s better for you.”

  “No, that’s okay. Abso
lutely not. Like You said yesterday, ‘I’m here, You’re here, let’s talk.’ Just pick up where we left off and, you know . . . carry on. Okay?”

  God holds his gaze. “Actually, in the spirit of total transparency, so to speak, you didn’t look so good yesterday either. I’m very concerned about you, Paul.”

  Paul pulls his phone out of his messenger bag, pretending to ignore the comment, and opens the recording app. “About yesterday . . . I think we got off track. I was trying to be professional, but we veered too far off the course I had mapped out for the interview. I apologize for that.”

  God leans back with a look of pleasure. “I think you were incredibly professional yesterday. And I told you so. Remember?”

  The reporter in Paul steps up. “Yeah, thanks, but I somehow became part of the interview. Well, for some of it I became the interview, and that’s not supposed to happen. This is about You, not me. So let’s get back to You, keep it there, and make this not only a great interview but an incredible piece to publish. Shall we?”

  God says nothing, but just keeps looking at him with that slight smile and compassionate demeanor.

  Paul waits a moment, looking up for agreement, and then finally presses on, “Right. Good. Okay. Here we go.”

  God’s eyes seem to scan the table and chair set, then move back to Paul as if to say, Nice touch, don’t you think?

  Paul nervously looks around, not wanting to let on he has most certainly noticed. As he taps the red button on his app for the recording to begin, the house lights dim ever so subtly and the stage lights brighten on the set. The exact way the theatre lets the crowd know the production is about to start. He chooses to not question what just took place, even though he can’t explain it. “Day two. Interview two. It’s Thursday, June second. Paul Asher interviewing God.” Folding his notepad over to a fresh page, he jots a note at the top. “I think we covered most of the basics yesterday. Let’s start right where we left off, okay?”

  God jumps in, “Yes, you asked Me why I was here, I believe.”

  Paul takes the cue. “Yes. So tell me, why are You here? Why an interview?”

  “Today, Paul, I’d like to talk to you about salvation.”

  Awkward silence—for Paul. Oh, man, here we go. He might as well just work with it and navigate the best he can. “Okay, sure. Good topic. Great choice. What exactly do You mean by salvation?”

  “What do you think I mean by salvation?”

  Paul starts feeling exactly how he felt the day before at about this same place in the interview. Once the conversation turned, he never regained control. He looks up from his notes with a not-this-again look.

  God explains, “My goal here, Paul, is truly not to be difficult. But we should establish what you think salvation means before we can discuss it. Right? Especially in the culture where you live, salvation and even the way to salvation, means many different things to different people.”

  He nods. “Yes, it does. It’s very personal. Deeply personal.”

  God adds, “The most personal element in someone’s life. In the end—and I mean literally in the end—there’s not a more delicate and individualized decision than salvation. It comes down to just you and your soul. Can’t get more intimate than that.”

  Paul, already feeling better about the intel he’s gathering today, nods again. “Hard to argue with that assessment.”

  “So when I ask what salvation means to you, Paul, it’s only to help Me answer your question properly. That’s what we’re here for, right? You ask the questions and I provide the answers?”

  Paul breaks into a slight smile, enjoying that last line especially. “Okay, yes. Salvation means different things to different people, but since I’m a Christian, I’ll answer from that perspective, from my own worldview.” He pauses, thinks, and clears his throat. “Salvation is returning to a state of perfection in the presence of the Almighty. And absolution from sin . . . forever.”

  God smiles approvingly. “Very nice. Great concise definition. You got right to the heart of the matter with no religious fluff whatsoever.”

  Paul has his first proud moment in quite a while. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  God leans forward on the table, clasping His hands in front of him. Paul reads the body language and braces himself until finally the Almighty says, “But you side-stepped several thousand years of disagreement over how you actually get to such a state in the presence of the Almighty.”

  “Well, when I was a child, my parents led me through a prayer to trust Jesus as my Savior. So, I’m covered.”

  God raises his eyebrows. “Hmmm, are you sure? Certain?”

  Paul is completely thrown by such a question. After all, this is not some agnostic questioning his declaration of belief but God Himself! All he can answer is, “What does that mean?”

  Unpredictable, God answers, “Nothing. Just asking.”

  The pride and comfort level of only a few moments ago are now completely gone. Paul’s frustration roars back. “As I said earlier, I’d like this interview to be about You, not me. And I answered your question. So . . .” Yet again, awkward silence—for Paul. He jumps in, “Salvation? My question?”

  God looks away for a split second, and then comes right back to Paul’s eyes. “Okay. Let Me try this another way. With a metaphor this time.” He raises his eyebrows as if waiting for Paul’s acceptance of a new explanation.

  “Uh, okay, sure,” Paul mutters.

  “First, I hope this analogy won’t offend you or your readers, but, just for the sake of discussion, let’s pretend I’m the manufacturer and you are the consumer. Tell me, how would you rate the product?”

  Every time Paul thinks he’s tracking with the conversation, God seems to turn right when he anticipates a left. Yet another question for me, and yet another I’m not at all certain of how to answer. He grimaces, asking, “Salvation as the product? Are you kidding me?”

  “Oh no. I’m not kidding. No joke at all. Let’s just call it market research, shall we? I’m sure you’ve done this before. Pretend it’s another online survey with the question ‘How do you rate the product?’ Feel free to take a moment and think about your answer. I’ll wait.”

  Paul looks down at his app running, recording the annoying silence. Officially having enough, he blurts out, “Come on now, this is nuts.”

  “Oh, is it? Humor Me. Let’s find out. How would you answer that question?”

  “Okay, okay. That is an interesting and rather modern metaphor. I’ll give you that. And I don’t think my readers will be offended. In fact, some people kind of treat salvation like a product these days anyway. So . . . to answer, on the one hand, it’s the greatest product ever. Redemption from sin. Reuniting with God. Opportunity for abundant life here. Paradise for eternity. After a lifetime on Earth, wow, who wouldn’t want that? If that product doesn’t sell itself, nothing ever will.” Paul is a bit surprised by his answer. Apparently, he does still have some grasp on the basic truths he believes. Even if right now they feel almost impossible for him to engage.

  God smiles. “Glad you approve. And another great answer.”

  Thinking hard, he continues, “But on the other hand . . .”

  “Uh-oh. What?” God interjects.

  “On the other hand, it’s the only product I can think of where proper use involves returning to the Maker, or Manufacturer, as you put it. And there’s only one way that can happen.”

  “Yet, everyone wants to go to Heaven . . .” God says, gesturing with a drawn-out hand motion.

  “But no one wants to die,” Paul finishes. “Exactly. But I think that slight, uh, complication is mitigated by the fact that everyone will die, so it’s really just about the when of the product, not the what.”

  God appears visibly pleased with Paul’s honest analysis. “You’re good at this. Whether your journalistic skills or your faith or a bit of the mix, those are good thoughts.”

  With a smirk, Paul hopes that comment signals the end of this weird e
xercise. “Maybe I should have been a marketing major. Probably far more money and much less risk. So with that, let’s keep moving.”

  “But is that it? What else?” God inquires. “What are we still leaving out?”

  Paul’s shoulders, along with his countenance, visibly sink. “Really?”

  God kindly smiles to indicate, Yes, there’s more to this. “Paul, the one aspect you left out is the same one I mentioned in the first place. The how. Or let’s call them the instructions, to stay with our metaphor that seems to be working.”

  “Okay, but really, after this, we have to move on.” He sighs and looks at the time on his phone.

  God nods in agreement.

  “Good. Well, the instructions are widely available. The Bible’s a best seller, year after year. So that’s good. But . . .” Becoming a tad agitated and much more animated, Paul continues, “I think the instructions are . . . well, a little confusing.”

  God’s response is quick. “No one ever said understanding My will would be easy. I certainly never made that promise.”

  Paul appreciates the compassion. “Sure. But simply knowing God’s will really isn’t the problem, is it? The Scriptures are . . . full of rules.”

  God looks up as if to ponder, then back at Paul. “I can think of ten . . . just right off the top of My head.”

  Paul ignores the obvious humor. “Yeah, but that’s in the Torah, the Old Testament. The New Testament seems, well, feels different. You gave us Your Son. The focus wasn’t so much about rules then as much as our being able to have Christ’s righteousness. That’s a game-changer.”

  God smiles. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Finally feeling like he might be on a roll in what was supposed to be God’s interview, Paul continues, “Jesus was super clear. Like in John 14:6. ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.’”