Israel

I envy God.

I want and all his omniscience. I know coveting is bad, it's clearly marked and labeled in big black marker on the clearance table for sins. Still, I'm thinking that in this case, God might give me a pass.

I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about it, and I think I know how I want that conversation to go.

“Peter,” God will say in that cosmically passionate and booming baritone of his.

“Yes?” I’ll try to be very nonchallant, push my long chestnut tresses from my eyes glance up at the ray of light piercing the mountains of grey clouds continually hovering over my head.

“Don’t worry about it,” He’ll say in reassuring fatherly tones.

I don’t know exactly how this conversation will really go, since it's very hard to envy someone for having something you already have, it is clear that I'm not omniscient. Yet, even lacking all-knowing insight, I know that there are many profound things that can be said about life, and perhaps at some point I will share some of them. For now, I won't be offering any profundities for your pondering. It isn't that I don't want to, or even that I can't, it's just a matter of timing. Sometimes, when one says things at the wrong time, it just creates problems.

While I can state unequivocally that timing is not everything, having seen many things that lacked timing all together like my uncles Grand Torino which sat dead in his driveway with a broken timing chain for years, it is still something. Perhaps that proves that timing is not everything, but it also proves that sometimes, without timing all you have is a big mess.

My last big mess started on the 12,239th day of my life. Auspicious I suppose in that it was June, warm, sunny, and pretty much as perfect as a day could be. I took that as a sign and decided I should enjoy the day. I hopped in my car and headed off to Merrymeeting Lake in the foothills of the White Mountains of Newhampshire, like any rational human being would.

Don't take that to suggest that humans are rational because I am fairly sure they are not. Still, rational or not, we like to believe we are, and faking it is second nature to most of us.

Which begs the real question, what is man's primary nature? Primal-man, what was he? Who was he? Was he a Stan or a Bob, or perhaps an Elmore? Maybe he was a Gordon. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I am fairly certain he was probably a Gordon. I'd bet that Gordon had an intensely interesting story and his grandkids were quite impressed.

Perhaps Gordon was a mime, maybe he didn't tell his stories at all. Maybe he acted them out by the fire on the shores of some lake in Africa long before the desert invaded and laid low the trees and grasslands.

I can almost see his arms wildly gesticulating an intricate game of charades to teach and amuse his friends and kin.

"It was a cold and rainy day... no… night… no… day..." the little brown-eyed blond boy yelped with the sublime glee indigenous to rabid platypi and boys with attention deficit disorder.

Gordon's deep brown eyes, mystified by the lack of intelligence inherent in his progeny, bulged out as his fingers danced rain in the air and softly showered the idea of lion-esque royalty perusing a field of gnu.

"Wait, wait, I’ve got it, it's raining at the mall and Barbara's mascara is running," his older sister guessed this most unlikely image tens of thousands of years before reality could reflect it.

Gordon paused, realizing his story was being mutilated, he sighed and dismissed the herd of gnu and the powerful lion.

Wrapped in a thought that floated neatly out of their reach, he smiled, and found a new story to share with them. But now even that story is old, and his grandchildren dead fifty thousand years worth of long hard days.

Here we are, separated by thousands of miles of land and water and thousands of years of time. Between us a million theories on the nature of man, and really, none apply. The only important question left is: How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

I think Aquinas was on the correct path. Maybe he just didn't have the proper tools to perform the right experiments. Perhaps even now, hundreds of years later, we still don't, because I've yet to see the scale that could measure the weight of an angel, and I've never been to the dance contest and seen an angel with a number and a poodle skirt.

I'm sure it's moot though, in all the experiments throughout history, angels have repeatedly refused to dance on pinheads. Yeah, I know, so what? You'd think that, and again, any rational person would probably think that, I know.

But the more I think about primal-man, and his grandchildren at that ancient fire more than 18,250,021 days ago, the more I believe it's a lot more complicated than that. Of course, really, it's always more complicated than that.

The complications are even more clear to me since I met this Angel named Ichabod at the lake. As I said, the weather was perfect, and perfect weather is always a good time to perform pinhead experiments. Randomly, he showed up wearing these navy blue angelic robes and a huge-assed halo. Since I am a quiet guy, and try to maintain a certain level of decorum, I didn't mention the size of his halo's ass. It just seemed that the best bet was to just shut up, you know, let the angel say whatever it was that God sent him to say, and let it go at that.

You can be critical, that's fine. When you meet an angel, you do your thing. You don't have to be nasty. Hey, look, I hadn't met a lot of angels, and that just seemed the likeliest reason for his arrival. I just figured I'd assume it was all about a message, and deal with him the best way I knew how. Now I admit, I didn't think this assumption was a huge leap. I was sure he was going to say something wise and life altering.

Then, of course, I realized, this wasn't exactly what I was expecting. The more I looked at him with my rather ordinary hazel eyes, and the more his bright blue eyes watched me perform my experiment, the more I could tell, he wasn't much impressed with my technique.

"I'm not much impressed with your technique," he intimated through exceedingly thin lips in typical angel-monotone.

"Ok." I sighed, but I thought it was kind of rude to just offer that observation without any solutions or suggestions on how to improve my technique.

"How would you do it?" I asked.

He smiled politely, "I wouldn't."

That seemed terse, and, once again, completely unhelpful, so I asked, "Why not?"

Ichabod rolled both of his eyes individually then flipped his surfer-boy-blond hair to the left side. "I shouldn't tell you this, it being one of the great mysteries, but it is against union rules to dance. But really, don't waste any pity on us, it's all ok, we can sing all we want."

"The angels have a union?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes again, this time in tandem, with all the verve of an angel high on his own apathetic passions.

"Dancing is awfully fun, maybe you should renegotiate that clause next time the contract is up," I suggested.

"Our contract has a long way to go before it expires," he replied.

"How long?"

"It's good for all eternity, and one day."

I thought this seemed a little excessive, "That seems a little excessive."

I paused for a moment to think, and then continued, "Maybe Management would consider re-opening the agreement."

"Management, being a sole proprietor and happy with the terms, isn't keen on re-opening any agreements," Ichabod said, "just ask Moses."

I left that alone. It's just not wise to get into Union-Management arguments. And, though I figured it was probably a moot question I wondered out loud, "How are your health benefits?"

With a droll look he said, "Adequate."

"How much does that cost you?" I pondered.

He sighed, "Life on the material plane."

I thought it was a little steep, but I just smiled and nodded politely. When talking to a 'Union Angel' there is little else to do.

"Are you saying that there is no material component to an angel?" I asked, in that conversational sort of way, just like any random stranger might ask.

He didn't reply. There was this long awkward silence, and I decided to break it, "I'm just thinking this conversation could really go a long way to resolving an age old question."

"You don't really need to know the specific number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin, only whether the number is finite or infinite, I know," he looked rather annoyed.

"So..." I started to go there.

"Don't go there," he said.

"Umm..." again, I started to go there.

"Don't go there. I knew Aquinas, you're no Tommy Aquinas," He took a tone.

"Well, you don't have to take a tone..." I squished my face at him, hard.

"I'm not taking a tone," he snickered condescendingly.

"Clearly, you were taking a tone," I continued squishing my face.

He rolled his eyes, "Sorry, but sometimes there are just mysteries."

"Like why a perfect God would send his perfect son to save his imperfect creation?" I inquired.

"Yes." he looked blankly at me.

"Like why does a perfect being create something imperfect?"

"Yes." he looked blankly at me.

"Like how many licks DOES it take to get to the center of..."

"No. 2,423 licks by the average adult male. No mystery, just a lot of lazy people." he looked blankly at me.

"Yeah, I've noticed that about people, I wonder why a perfect God would make so many lazy people," I decided not to mention the imperfect angels.

I suddenly realized we'd slammed hard into another awkward lull in the conversation. I can't say I hadn't seen it coming.

After a little more chit and a little more chat I realized that Angels are really boring. Not just the kind of boring you find at your average dinner party. The standard 'guy-who-drinks-too-much' or the 'family-friend-in-the-Laundromat-industry' kind of boring, but a whole new level of cosmic boring. Angels are a wholly unexpected kind of boring that can only be expressed in long mathematical equations that require dozens of years of university training to comprehend.

I offered him a cheese doodle.

He said, "My cholesterol is high. I really better not."

"Whatever," I said. I don't think one cheese doodle would have done any harm to a celestial being -- a messenger of the one true God.

"Well. Have a good eternity or whatever. Bye," I turned and walked away.

Other than mild retardation from years of dealing with excruciating boredom, the only other reason I can think of that he didn't want the cheese doodle might be that his health plan makes treating high cholesterol very difficult and expensive. You'd think it'd be cheap and easy to get a few pills, but with the wrong prescription plan it can be hell. I'm awfully glad I'm not a member of the angels union.

All in all, Ichabod, as a representative for all angels, didn't make a good first impression.

Meeting an angel for the first time had a peculiar effect on me. I lost my faith. All my faith. I didn't misplace it, and it wasn't really stolen, but upon meeting Ichabod, holy messenger of the one true God, my faith was gone. I am now faithless.

Don't go all ballistic on me, I'm not saying I met an angel and stopped believing in God, I'm saying I know. Faith is about not knowing, but choosing to believe. Choosing to believe without proof.

I am now absolutely certain there is a God. Hey, I met an angel. So, why would I need faith?

And yet as reassuring as that is, I have to wonder, was I better off with faith? Perhaps there's a good reason God does not manifest himself all the time. I mean, besides the obvious tedium of constantly parting the red sea for every person who might be a bit skeptical.

There is always some guy trying to goad God into action, I can almost imagine that conversation. "Yeah, um, God? You there? I didn't think so. Whatever. It's not like the Red Sea couldn't randomly part anyway."

The big biblical booming voice blasts from above, "You think so?"

The tiny tinny voice of man whispers, "Who said that?"

"Me," explodes from the heavens.

"Me who?" a man asks with a mouse like squeal of fear and awe.

"Me. God. And the Red Sea does not 'randomly part' ever."

Now with a little bit of swagger, "I know. I was just trying to get you to do it."

"I don't work that way. I'm not into random."

I wonder how tempted God is to squish us like bugs. I know that I'd be really tempted.

Imagine multiplying conversations like that by six billion, it would not only be incredibly annoying, but also a colossal waste of time. I'm pretty sure God isn't into colossal wastes of time any more than randomness. Everything seems to have a purpose. It's all very orderly.

I guess that is why it was no surprise to me that 104,729 is a prime number, since it also happens to be the exact number of seconds that passed before I saw Ichabod again.

"Hey," he droned in angelic monotone.

I said what anyone would say in my situation, "Hey."

Ichabod made small talk, "How you been?"

"Good, you?" I wasn't inclined to encourage him, but I'm not rude by nature.

"Not bad," the small talk seemed to flow rather easily from his holy-ish tongue, and it almost sounded like he was interested.

But, he's an angel, and I knew nothing good could come of this conversation, so I tried to ignore him. Not in the rude, 'I'm ignoring you' sort of way, but in the, "boy am I busy, I can't even take a second to stop to shake your hand" sort of way.

The problem of course is that he's a messenger of God, and God keeps all his people very informed, "What you doing?"

"Nothing." looking as busy as possible as I admitted the complete truth. What's the point in lying to an agent of the Supreme Being?

"Looks like something," he pointed out subtly indicating his understanding of the situation.

"Why would I lie to an angel of the lord? It's just that looks can be deceiving," an answer, I thought was of exceptional quality really, all things considered.

A silly sort of half-grin sidled up to his face and hitched up, "Yes, like the Loch Ness Monster."

"I know, it's funny how much a log can look like a plesiosaur," I offered a pleasant smile and nearly even a wink.

"No." He was stern and absolute.

I knew it was a bad idea, but I asked regardless, "No?"

"No." He was firm, and offered no details.

I looked at him. It seemed to me rather rude to be so absolute and firm without offering any details.

"What?" he asked me.

I am pretty sure he was feigning ignorance; even a guy with big fluffy white wings wearing a navy robe and Birkenstocks can't be that moronic.

I looked at him some more.

"What?" he asked again.

I just rolled my eyes, cracked my neck, and said, "Never mind."

I went back to working on nothing.

Something flickered in the back of his brain, like a man reminded of his hunger by a growling stomach, he blurted out, "I was wondering what you're doing Friday night."

I am not gay, so, the idea of a date with a male angel really didn't hold my interest, but it just seemed like a really bad idea to blow him off without at least listening to what he had to say, so I answered him, "Nothing. Why?"

"Do you want to go see some wrestling?" Ichabod played idly with the golden tassels on his sleeve.

"No, not really," again, I went with honesty.

He sighed in the slightly condescending exasperated way a babysitter not being paid enough might, "You really should."

"Why?" I asked.

"He wants you to."

When talking to an angel, there's this really strong desire not to sound impressed or overly interested and excited, but, unfortunately, messages from God are by their nature, pretty interesting. I pointed up, "He meaning...?"

Ichabod nodded, "God."

"God wants me to go see some wrestling?" I shook my head incredulously.

"Yes," he nodded.

Ok, with that cleared up, I figured we'd just clarify the rest of the conversation, "The Loch Ness monster?"

"No God," Ichabod once again proved he had the mental acuity of a roasted pepper.

Through gritted teeth I said, "Yes. I know that. But the Loch Ness monster: not a log?"

"No, a much larger plesiosaur than you'd expect," he went on assuming things about me again.

"Oh." I decided not to press the point any further. There's just no way to express to an angel the nature and scope of a man's beliefs.

"Here are the tickets." he handed me 2 balcony tickets at the Fleet Center.

"These seats aren't very good." I pointed out as the image of a serious nose bleed danced in my head.

"They're good enough." Ichabod droned.

I paused for a moment, but decided against saying anything. One would think God might have better seats, but, then again, this is God we're talking about, seeing as he knows everything, and sees everything, it's really not relevant where he's sitting.

"He won't be sitting with you." his reponse just close enough that I think the stupid angel read my mind.

"That's so like him." I didn't say aloud.

"How would you know?" his words hung in the air with one of my very best glares.

"I don't see him waltzing around down here on Earth, sunning on the beach or going to strip clubs." I pointed out to the moron.

"He likes cribbage." Ichabod started to look a bit irrate.

"So, you're saying if I played more cribbage, sort of traveled in cribbage circles, I'd see him more often?"

"No." he preened his golden hair, and stretched his wings just bit.

"So what is the point?" I scratched my chin.

"He asked you to go." he said as his aura brightened.

"And just like that, he expects me to drop everything and go?" I didn't really need to ask the question, but I did for appearances sake.

"He's God."

Leave it to an angel to state the obvious.

"And?"

"You don't have anything better to do Friday night anyway."

"That is beside the point."

"No, not really. It is the point."

Resigned to my fate, I asked the obvious question, "Do I need to bring anything?"

It was too late; he was gone. I didn't even see his wings flap.

"Your toothbrush, 4' of string, a tuna sandwich, your leatherman and 12 black jellybeans," a big biblical booming voice blasted from above; it wasn't Ichabod.