Every morning he would set the breakfast table for his wife.  With all the sanctity and precision of a priest setting out the chalices and cloths, he would arrange her coffee cup, spoon, and napkin.  Then he would brew the coffee and carefully pour milk into the little cream dispenser, and take out the sugar and some extra spoons.  When the coffee was finished brewing he would pour some into her cup and cover it with a little lid to keep it warm until she woke.  To complete this little ritual he would remove her favorite sections of the newspaper (the crossword puzzles) from the bundle and set them by her place.  He did this every morning for the nearly fifty years they were married. 

Once there was a young man who went around saying, “sorry” all the time.  He said it for practically everything he said or did, even good things.  He said “sorry” so much that he would joke with those around him by saying “sorry” for saying “sorry.”  It became such an ingrained thing that he would even find himself saying “sorry” when it didn’t make sense in a conversation.  And of course, he said, “sorry” when he didn’t mean it.  In his efforts to live out this false humility, he annoyed many people, and he became truly sorry when one by one those people stopped hanging around him.  One day, alone, looking in the mirror, he said, “sorry,” and realized he hated who he was, both on the inside and the outside.  “What would happen,” his reflection said, much to his surprise, “if you loved yourself?”  And then the mirror shattered, sending shards of glass whirling around the room.  He tried to duck and shield his face.  He fell to the ground.  When he heard the last of the glass raining down around him, he got up and looked into the mirror again.  The mirror was completely intact.  And the image he saw was an angel.  He wept, and from that day forward, only said “sorry” when he really needed to.

One day I found God sitting on a park bench in Flourtown, Pennsylvania.  He looked depressed as he tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons.  Taking a deep breath, I sat down next to him.  He barely looked up as he moved his bag of bread over to make room for me.  We sat in silence a long time.  I wondered what to say to him.  He looked so sad.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke first.

“Nice weather, eh?”

“Yes, you made a pretty sky,” I said.

“Me?  I didn’t make the sky look pretty.”

“You didn’t?  I thought you made everything.”

“That’s a myth…Well, no, let me use a different word:  “lie.”  “That is a lie.”

“Lie?”  I said surprised, “What do you mean?”

“Why do my children so willingly give their power away?  This sky,” He said, gesturing towards the late afternoon autumn sky, “the people of this town made it.  They’re collectively in a good mood; they’re living right, so the sky is clear, sunlit, full of fluffy white clouds.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, “You’re not suggesting that the collective moods of the citizens effect the weather?”

“Effect?  Make.”

“Make?”

“Make?”

“We make the weather?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you make?”

“Oh, I make the raw ingredients for the weather.  I make you.  I make a lot of things.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“Listen God, You’re telling me some pretty outrageous stuff here.  It’s not that easy for my finite mind to grasp all this.”

“Finite mind?”

“You’re the infinite one.  We’re the finite ones.”

“Says who?”

“You did, didn’t you?  In the bible someplace?”

“Never.”

“OK, so now you’re suggesting I have an infinite mind, like yours.”

“Not suggesting.  Telling.  I gave each of my children a spark of my own mind.  That makes your mind infinite.”

“Yes, but where did I get the idea that my mind was limited and yours unlimited?”

“The people who write that sort of thing are scared of their own divinity.  They can’t handle the responsibility.  Even worse, many can’t handle the joy, the sheer joy of being unlimited.”

“So they put words in your mouth and say you say things that you didn’t just to justify their own beliefs?”

“More or less, yes.  People are always giving me credit for things I didn’t do and devaluing themselves.  They do something great and say, “Wow, look what God did!”  But I didn’t do it.  They did.  They blame me for disasters, wars, abuse, everything—good or bad.  I didn’t create victims.  I created princes and princesses.”

“Is that why you look so sad?”

“Yes.”

I looked out over the growing flock of pigeons as his bag of bread crumbs was never ending.  He handed me a piece of bread to throw to them.

“Is there anything else you need to talk about?” I asked, chucking the bread into the sea of coo’s and glimmering feathers.

“I’m tired,” said God, “tired of people using my most common name, and twisting it to mean such horrible things.  I created people not so they would believe in me, but in themselves.  The sad truth is most people do not truly believe in me.  If they did, they would lead wonderful, unlimited, joyous, creative, compassionate lives.  If they only for a few seconds everyday took the time to remember how powerful they are, how I just want them happy, how I don’t need their praise, how they have it within themselves and the people around them to have everything they ever needed to be happy.”

As He spoke, great tears formed in his eyes and trickled down his face and into his beard of stars and snow.

I put my hand on his.  He broke down completely, sobbing like a baby. 

I held him in my arms for hours; so long the pigeons began landing on us.  He cried all night, and I held him all night, wondering at the mystery of it all.