Sing Me No Psalms

Hi! This is God here. It’s so funny why we don’t talk anymore. Or at least I don’t. So, what with it being Father’s Day, pull up a chair and let Me explain.

You people have got Me all wrong. You think I’m so demanding. You tell yourselves what I want, what I really, really want, is Unceasing Worship, Eternal Supplication, Hopeless Devotion and unburnt offerings of leftover fruit and veg at Harvest Festival.

No No No-No No! The moving finger wags and moves on.

Just look at you own popular idols: Boy George, George Michael, Michael Jackson, Jackson Browne, Sir Paul McCartney and Madonna. You mob them with adulation and what happens? They run away and hide. Nowadays the only time the mornings stars sing together and the sons of God shout for joy is at one of Gob Beldoff’s global charity concerts.

You’ve been playing Hide and Seek with me for two thousand years now. Haven’t you got the message? Listen up, If anyone is going to cry “Coming, ready or not”, then it’s going to be Me. Armageddin’ through to you?

Take Destiny Angel. I’d hate to ruffle her feathers but she thinks I want your unending hymns of praise, preferably uploaded onto HymnBook.com as MP3s. She thinks I’m insatiable for Shema Yisreal, Salat and Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus. My Life! Always with the high-falutin’ overblown songs. Just let Me say this about full-blown praise: If music be the food of love, is it any wonder Goths are anorexic?

But look at it from My perspective. In My younger days, yes, it’s true, I was ambitious. Saw Myself as a bit of an apprentice Creator. And yes, I did do a bit of showing-off. Mea Culpa. Creating the world, giving it form, filling it up with apples and snakes to keep it from being void, all that. Yes, that was Me.

“And on the seventh day He rested.” You were all so easily impressed. But did it ever occur to you to ask what I did on the eighth day? The ninth day? Yea, unto the nine hundred and ninety ninth day.

Did it ever occur to you that I wasn’t just resting?

The truth is this: Thomas Chatterton, Percy “Bish Bosh” Shelley, Shirley Temple, Fred Chopin, Kurt Cobain, Ruth Lawrence and Me. We all peaked early. I’ve been ashamed and embarrassed ever since. Is it really so hard to believe? Why do you strain at gnats yet swallow camels? Leave me alone! I tell you, I’m staying in My room and I’m not coming out to play.

And yet you, My public, are insatiable. Please sir, can we have some more? You want encore after encore after encore:

Oh Lord, please smite the tsetse fly.

Oh Lord, Please make storm clouds rain alcohol down on the streets of Riyadh.

Oh Lord, Please part the waters of the North Sea so that the wandering tribe of pikeys can go back to Jutland.

Oh Lord, Please let there be enough millstones in Ireland for all the child raping clergy there to do the honourable thing.

Vengeance and Rescue. You’re an awful touchy, needy lot, aren’t you? But remember - you’re only as sick as your secrets.

Some of you think I came back as Jesus. But you misunderstood. When, after years of silence, the word on the street was that I’d Gone To Earth, you took it all literally. Really, you should hear yourselves sometime: He’s back and this time he’s got sandals! His mission, should He choose to accept it, is to save mankind – and He’s only got 33 years!

Nope. I’d just gone to earth. Buggered off for a bit of peace and quiet. Gone Fishing. You’ve had two thousand years to figure this out. That’s a long enough adolescence for anyone. You’re on your own. Get use to it. Grow a pair.

Oh, I’m still around. Fear not. Hard to be anything else, being Me and all. But - and surely you must have realised this by now - I prefer to remain behind or beyond My handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring My fingernails.

So sing me no psalms, you’re not King David. Sing me no high, hushed Glory Be’s. If you’re looking for ways to please, then be kind. Go and talk to someone who’s down. Follow My wishes and do their dishes. But don’t be showy. There’s no need to dry them with your hair.

Tell you what. I’ll make you an offer. People of Earth, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to demonstrate that you are collectively capable of not murdering a single person for one single day. Accomplish that and then I’ll pop back and say “Hi! Now that’s what I call a happy Father’s Day.”

Are you up for it?

Shalom, Salaam.

Dad.

An Icy Frigidaire

My local pub is The Pillar of Cloud. It’s a tefillin-tied house, part of the Good Shepherd Neame estate. Step inside and you’ll find the usual mix of shufflers and immortals. All are well behaved, that is to say they are nebbishy, insecure and neurotic. And that’s just the bouncers. By well behaved I also mean, well. . . you never heard tell of a Jewish alcoholic, did you?

Still, the landlord, Moshe Pitt, is strict but fair. For example, licensing hours are very relaxed from the crack o’Saturday night right through to those late Friday afternoon sundowners. Moshe says there’s only going to be one call for Last Orders - just listen out for the Last Trumpet.

So there I was with the bar propping me up, putting the heavens to rights, when I noticed a forlorn earthgirl, alone and palely loitering without intent. At my age, you learn to recognise that look on their faces. If it isn’t the physical pain of early-onset sciatica then it’s emotional anguish. Or constipation.

I gave Moshe the nod and he was over with two glasses and a bottle of five star Ambrosia faster than you can say ‘Nebuchadnezzar’s no Nimby’.

Nebuchadnezzar - the only word that Melvyn Bragg is able to pronounce better than you can.

“I’m Destiny,” I said, pushing a glass towards her. “You look glum, what’s up?”

“Oh. . . the usual.”

“Man trouble?”

She nodded. Her name was Kathryn. For all I know, it still is.

“Hey Moshe! Pour the woman four fingers of Roy!”

She looked at me suspiciously. “Is that one of those tawdry cocktails like a Slippery Nipple?”

“No dear, it’s Ambrosia. It confers ageless immortality on she who drinks it. Want some?”

She wanted some.

“It’s my boyfriend,” she said.

It always is.

“He never talks to me. Just says he’s tired all the time and then turns back to the TV. I wouldn’t mind, only it’s usually Channel 5 and that’s particularly bad for my self-esteem.”

“When Channel 5 is giving you self-esteem issues then it’s time to ring some changes. What’s the problem?”

“We’re growing apart,” she sighed. “Or rather I’m growing and he’s shrinking. The speed at which the gap is opening up between us is making me dizzier than when the hovercraft leaves Dover. I tell myself that I love him, but what I really mean is that I’m afraid of being alone forever with nothing but a hundred cats and a kitchen drawer full of expired discount coupons and service station sachets of goo.”

She paused and then with a look of quiet horror whispered “I’ve already got quite a few of those.”

“The problem is all inside your head,” I said to her. “The answer is easy if you take it logically. I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free. There must be - ”

She looked up at me like a kitten eyeing a can opener.

“Look - why don’t you move out?” I asked and started to sing a half-remembered tune from the Book of Psalms.

“Just slip out the gate, Kate; Don’t mean to be plain, Jane; Just run from the mess, Jess and get yourself free. Don’t need to be mean, Jean; don’t get in a tizz, Liz; just skip to the loo, Sue - and get yourself free. Don’t linger or wait, Kate; Don’t tell him ‘We’re through’, Pru; just head for the car lot, Charlotte - and set yourself free. Uh-huh, there must be fifty ways to leave your lover. Just hop on the plane, Jayne. . .”

“Enough!! You know all about mid-70s soft rock, Destiny, but you don’t understand my plight. I’m through with love.”

She sniffed back a tear and continued,

“I can’t move out. You see, I’ve got furniture.” She made it sound like a terminal diagnosis.

“Tell me Kathryn, do you have much in common? Is he interested in what’s between your ears or what’s between your oven mitts?”

“Oh Destiny, when we first met, we seemed to get on, so having something in common didn’t seem that important.”

“Well has he got a good job? What are his prospects?”

“He works for the transport department of the local council, polishing cats eyes to help reduce road traffic accidents and meet government targets. Oh, I know it’s not what every girl dreams of but - ”

“Perhaps he could retrain? Upskill? Re-purpose himself? A man barely alive. Kathryn, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world’s first bionic boyfriend. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster. . .” my voice trailed off.

She looked doubtful. Rightly so she sensed my own doubt.

“If only. He places no value on education. He thinks the Open University is one where you don’t have to pay to have a quick look round the quad.”

“Ah, I see - a Lawrentian. Well, is he sexy, like a jungle cat? Does he move with the ease and grace of a panther?”

She gave me a look that women only ever give to other women.

“Actually, he moves with the ease and grace of a hamster. I used to think it was quite sweet, but now I’m Googling vet numbers. Help me, Destiny!”

She took a deep and urgent draught of her Ambrosia. “Mmm, heavenly.” I beckoned to Moshe to bring the bottle back.

“Talk to me about the furniture.”

“Well there’s a wardrobe, an ottoman, two blanket boxes and a night table. But my main worry is that I’ve got one of those big, tall, heavy classic designer fridges. If I left, how would he cool his cans of Weightrose Lager?”

“Listen to me, Kate. You have to stop thinking about him and start looking after yourself. I want you to be like that fridge.”

“Huh?”

“You need to fill your heart with icy, frigid air. Got it? Lock your heart and keep your feelings there. Just for a while.”

She looked doubtful.

“And then?”

“And then I’ll come around with a couple of archangels I know. One will sit on his chest while he’s asleep and the other will shift all your gear in the twinkling of an eye. You can stay at my place as I’ll be away. Got a couple of business meetings in the land of the Philistines but my cats still need to be fed.”

She was starting to cheer up. She smiled and somewhere a magnolia tree blossomed.

“Destiny?”

“Yes, Kathryn?”

“What about you and. . .well a smart, kind, hard-working, moral and beautiful woman like yourself must surely have a fella. Or is it - ”

“- Complicated? Yeah, you could say that. He’s an older man. Much older. . .”

“God!”

“Indeed. Me and God, God and me - it’ll never work out. Don’t get me wrong Kathryn, I could go for Him in a big way. If only He wouldn’t play so hard to get. I think it’s all those unending hymns of praise he’s gotten addicted to morning, noon and night. He’s constantly receiving friend requests - these days they come digitally via HymnBook.com - or HimBook as he calls it. Sometimes He can be so distant. It’s like He doesn’t know I exist. That’s the problem with being The Creator, He’s so self-centred.”

“A typical Only Child then?”

“Got it in one! Only He didn’t invent just one imaginary friend. Oh no, He invented billions of the buggers. You’re one. So am I. If Channel 5 is affecting your self esteem then just you try coping with the knowledge that you are a figment of someone else’s imagination. Just as well He’s an insomniac. He’s imagining us talking, right now. Scary, huh? Sometimes, just to piss Him off, I hum that John Lennon song to myself. Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try. . . At first I thought I was being funny, but now I realise He just has a very highly developed sense of self-parody.”

“Destiny, are you really an angel.”

“Of course I am. I’m not just any old gorgeous blonde, y’know. Look, I’ll prove it to you.”

I carefully tipped my glass over onto the bar top until a little pool of Ambrosia had formed.

“When the surface is quite still, look closely and you’ll see me on a date with God.”

She looked at me in disbelief.




“Oh all right, it wasn’t a date. I wanted it to be, of course. Who wouldn’t adore Him? But He just thinks we’re good friends. Which we are. Anyway, I was very light on my feet in those days. Angels don’t actually need wings to fly, y’know. That’s just a fancy of you over-literal shufflers.”

“And you and Him? It didn’t er work out?”

“I may be an angel but I’m no domestic goddess. In His mansion there are many rooms. The housekeeping alone is - well you’ve simple no idea.”

She looked at me imploringly, “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“It went that-a-way,” I said, pointing towards the door. “Don’t worry, it’ll be back. Adieu.”

To Begin At The Beginning?

Salaam, Shalom. In the beginning was the word. And the word was made digital and dwelt amongst us. Shalom, Salaam.

My name is Malachetta Adonai, which roughly translates as Destiny Angel. Yes, I am an angel. But no need to be too impressed. I’m only a third class angel. I work for The Big Number One as He used to be known in His more retributive days. You know of whom I speak. He died on the cross and now He’s the Boss. Yes, that’s right, ‘Im Upstairs.

Angels. Top of the hegemony of heavenly hosts are the upper class: Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones. Very image conscious, that lot. Always wanting to get their mugs on the cover of some oil painting or other; they’re about as inconspicuous as ram-raiders in a Popemobile heading for the window of Ann Summers.

The second, middle class, division contains Dominations, Principalities and Powers. Like your own middle classes, they keep themselves to themselves only turning out for PTA meetings or ABBA the musical.

Last and least are my lot - the working class: Virtues, Archangels and Angels. We are, to use a technical term, in the world, i.e. we are your actual working heavenly hosts. We roam the city, unseen and unheard by people, observing and listening to the diverse thoughts of you poor old mortals or Shufflers, as we call you on account of your mortality. It’s a term of endearment really. Secretly, we’re a mite jealous. More on that another time.

Sometimes though, we appear to you in the guise of benevolent buddies. I myself have a great fondness for breaking bread with earthbound souls in the guise of a pasty-faced blonde sky pilot with unrealistic expectations of life. So of course I blend in perfectly.

Some of Your Angel Questions Answered

Q: Where do you come from?

A: We were created by God but are superior in nature to men. For example, a lot of us studied at Girton or St Hilda's. We were created before the heavens and all material things apart from plastic bags, dogshit and financial services trade magazine supplements.

Q: What does God look like?

A: Well He is sort of Jesus-shaped.

Q: Are you like us?

A: Yes and No. We are endowed with Free Will (except where chocolate or shoes are concerned) and are able to communicate with each other. But we do not reason as you do, for the keenness of our intellect enables us to see by intuition many things which are hidden to you. That said, life isn’t always easy when you’re an immaterial girl living in a material world.

Q: Do you die?

A: Pay attention. We are immortal and when you are immortal you don’t have to go to the gym. Sweet. Being immortal also means that when we retire, index-linked annuities truly are a Godsend.

Q: How many angels can dance on a pinhead?

A: Depends on how vindictive we’re feeling towards the mentally subnormal. Angels have bad halo days, too.

Q: How old are you?

A: In my current somatic form, as Destiny Angel, I am a blonde female pilot in her mid-20s - stationed at Spectrum’s Cloudbase - often to be found patrolling the skies, flying peace-keeping missions over the plain of Armageddon. But I feel younger at heart and am sometimes to be heard humming “I am sixteen, going on seventeen (millennia)".

Q: Do you wear make-up?

A: Well, at the Seventh General Council, the Patriarch Tarasius argued that angels might be painted because they were circumscribed and had appeared to many in the form of men. I myself always wear a heavy foundation of faith before applying some carefully concealed blusher.

Q: Do you suffer from PMT?

A: Yes. Post Millennium Tension is a problem for quite a few of us. Two thousand years and He ain’t shown yet. I mean, we’ve kept His seat warm and the table set. See, we’d always laboured under the assumption that The Last Supper was really a misnomer for The Penultimate Supper. It’s something I try not to think about too often.

Q: Have you ever had a romantic entanglement?

A: A few. In fact, nowhere near too few to mention. I still squirm about the time me and Captain Black got our wires crossed. That was before he went over to the Dark Side. He wanted a no strings attached relationship but I told him I could never be that kind of a girl. And once upon a time I briefly dated Troy Tempest, mainly because he drove a rather nifty e-type Stingray. But it never got serious because he was secretly in love with Marina, a mermaid. So it goes.

Q: Do angels enjoy the pleasures and fulfilment of a deeply committed monogamous relationship?

A: Alas, we are destined to an eternity of unrequited love, being incapable of marriage. Another of His little pranks. But before you laugh too hard, be warned the same fate lies in store for all you who labour under the illusion that, despite temporary widowhood or widowerhood, you will be reunited in the Hereafter. Think again. In Matthew 12, verse 30 it says “for in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven.” So you see, we are all ultimately in the same boat.

More on unrequited love, later. After all, we’ve got all the time in the world.