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.