How to Seek God (and Where to Find Him)
“We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme. A wonderful thing it is and the source of our happiness. We need not wait to see what others do.” Mahatma Gandhi
The horizons, which drag their claws
Through the razor
Holding the dissipating glow of
Morning, where eyes are steeped
In slowly leaden oscillations of
Looking, whilst not truly
And each inhalation is the continuous
Breath of his nostrils
And each exhalation is an
Asphalt glistens with ground
Where, ersatz stars twinkle
In a mixture of bone meal and
Stale bread, whose damp is
Stained with green bruises and
Letters, discarded from the overhead
Marquee, haphazardly spell out
Directions to the sanctuary, where
Sinner and saint are
Gathered upon scales
To hold the central axis
Upon a tenuous tipping point
All weather worn soles
A spine is held and
Upon the pages of this grave lexicon
Several schema are graciously
Assembled, for those who wish to
Seek, to find, and
Skins of continual livings and
Sheaves of perennial dyings, forge
An intimate compact
With these universal
Mechanics, to be ultimately
If their hearts be
Red, gold or blue
Or if they be
Green, yellow or black
And each commandment is an
And each remittance is an
So you say you seek God? Well, I’ve taken a look around and I have to tell you, God isn’t in here, God isn’t in the nice, comfortable building where you regularly sit and listen to a man speak. Listen to him interpret fables from an ancient book with little remaining relevance. Listen with a serious, absorbed look upon your face, which, at times, becomes beatific, angelic, one might even think to see a dove, descending to rest peacefully upon your shoulder, or his. Sit side by side in your neatly pressed suits and skirts, all matching nicely in style and color, so you can show the community how affluent you are. What a perfect family, they’ll say. So kind, with their yearly bake sale to benefit the homeless, so noble, with their monthly donation to global charities. Sit and listen to a man who booms with authority, rails with ecstasy, whose eyes light up with the joy of having your attention, every week, a joy reminiscent of when he was a class clown, or schoolyard bully. Now, he decides who gets to talk, sit or stand, and when.
I’ve taken a look around and, it turns out, I can tell you where to find God.
God has her back pressed against a bathroom door with an eye swollen shut, frantically trying to hold it closed, because she dared confront her husband for drinking away his paycheck, again. Later, after his fury is spent and he’s passed out on the floor, God applies layers of foundation over the swollen, purple flesh, feeds the kids, takes them to the bus stop, waves goodbye as they are driven off and heads to work. God looked into their frightened eyes and said, Daddy is sorry, again.
God is huddled with his boyfriend on a park bench, hungry and cold, because he decided that he had to tell his parents who he was, who he’d always been and that he’d found love.
God is sitting in a ramshackle mobile home with a leaky roof and sodden, treacherously soft particle board floors, wringing his frail hands, trying to decide between paying his rent, or buying his medicine.
God is a twelve year old prostitute, skin and bones, beneath a cake of rouge, smeared with cheap lipstick, forced into intercourse with a dozen strange men a day, smelling of filth, sweat and alcohol. God is a fifteen year old prostitute, wasting away into nothing, riddled with sexually transmitted diseases.
God is lying unconscious beneath a bush with a hypodermic needle jabbed into a collapsed vein.
So you say you seek God? Been there. I hear you. Well, God isn’t in here. He’s out there. So get into your luxury automobile with the friendly computerized voice, eager to assist, drive out of your gated community and roll up your sleeves.
The quality of faith, I have found, is not in where you regularly sit. Is not in what you read or to whom you listen, but in how you manifest the courage of your convictions.
Faith is an idea, you hold in your heart, an idea transmitted to you, through disseminated doctrine, which you make your own, or remake yourself, to suit.
But who you are is not decided by the ideas you hold, the doctrines you hold to or how you choose to conform to an external standard. Who you are is what you do, what and whom you seek out and the lives you impact.
So you say you seek God? Go find him.
The night is glittering with a thousand
Warbling voices, whose treble
And soaring tenors, are
Purloined from an act of
My eyes are focused, now
And now all the prophets are
Profaned for their bedraggled
Appearance, sitting nude or
Howling madness, contrary to the
Machine, which causes all the street
Lights to illuminate, and to
Extinguish, at the exact
Painted houses are peeled into
By a dichotomous sun
Reminiscent of an egg
Digesting its own
And amidst these gaseous marvels
We are the womb in which
Content to ruminate
Upon a promise of resurrections
Morning rushes over the rooftops
The world is ending
This day has begun
Horizons stretch out yawning
Arms in every direction and
Laughter fills the throat
How to Seek God (and Where to Find Him)
By Daniel Christensen