If one yearns to see the face of the Divine, one must break out of the aquarium, escape the fish farm, to go swim up wild cataracts, dive in deep fjords. One must explore the labyrinth of the reef, the shadows of the lily pads. How limiting, how insulting to think of God as a benevolent warden, an absentee hatchery manager who imprisons us in the 'comfort' of artificial pools, where intermediaries sprinkle our restrictive waters with sanitized flakes of processed nutriment.
She needed help, but God was in a meeting whenever she rang.
You wonder if God doesn't have an answering machine to screen out the prayers of the venal and the boring? And in which category has he placed you?
Something has got to hold it together. I'm saying my prayers to Elmer, the Greek god of glue.
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