GRAFTON — Yesterday, as the sun was coming up, I was out on the porch hanging laundry on the pulley line when a battered Ford pickup turned in my lane.
It was odd to have a visitor at such an early hour, and I watched as the truck slowly ascended the hill and stopped at the woodshed. An old man stepped out.
He was wearing baggy denim overalls, a tattered Carhartt jacket, muck boots, and a Red Sox cap. He was toting a canvas shopping bag imprinted with a green-and-blue planet earth and the words “Love Your Mother.”
His wrinkled skin glowed with a copper patina that might've been supernatural. His walk was sprightly. Only his shoulders, hunched as if he were carrying a great weight, suggested that life had not always treated him kindly.
“Morning, ma'am,” he said, tipping his faded cap.
“Good morning,” I said. “What can I do for you? You look a little lost.”
“No, ma'am, I'm not lost, just sorely discouraged. The Great Cosmic Mother, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, and the rest - we're all discouraged. I could use a drink of cool water, if you please.”
I was puzzled by his theological reference and decided to ignore it. Maybe he was delusional, but his manner was gentle, and I wasn't afraid.
“Certainly,” I said. “Can I get you anything else? Coffee? Tea?”
“Just water, thank you.”
* * *
I stepped into the kitchen and drew water from the tap. When I returned to the porch, my guest was sitting on the steps watching my clothes sway in the breeze.
“Blessed are those who make use of the sun,” he said. “It's a shame how much energy is wasted by those newfangled drying machines.”
“Yes,” I said. I handed him the glass of water and he drank slowly. I went on hanging my clothes.
“You don't know who I am, do you?” the man said.
I shook my head.
“I'm God.”
His voice was sweet and low. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. I turned to look at him. His eyes were dark as molasses, flecked with gold, and fathomless.
“I'm honored by your presence,” I said. “But I confess I've strayed from the fold.”
God smiled. “No one is out of the fold, my dear. That's simply human delusion.”
“I don't mean to be contentious, God, honestly, I don't, but what you call delusion, many people call their faith. They believe they're the chosen ones in the fold and the rest of the sheep are on the outside looking in and they don't deserve to come in. It confuses me. I thought you made us in your image, but it seems like we make you in our images and a lot of those images aren't very pretty.”
“Yes, that's been an unforeseen circumstance: the flaw in intelligent design.”
“I worry that you and the others must get weary,” I said. Such terrible things have been done in your names. So many hateful words put in your mouths.”
“Yes, I know. That's precisely why we're discouraged. Some of our followers are far too fractious and too certain of their beliefs.
“I'm sure I don't need to tell you that there's a faction that wants to turn your country into a theocracy. And we're deeply distressed about the behavior of Fred Phelps, that pastor from Topeka.
“My son is full of sorrow regarding these matters. Lately it's all he can do to rouse himself from bed and he's been spending too much time on Facebook, posting messages.”
“Jesus has a Facebook page?”
“Doesn't everybody? Send him a friend request and take a peek at his recommended pages.”
“What are his recommendations?”
“Historically, as you know, Jesus has always been passionate about social justice and that hasn't changed. In the past 30 years, he has become increasingly concerned about carbon emissions. He's an ardent supporter of food sovereignty and the “right to dry.”
“You mean Jesus is an environmentalist?” Then I stuttered. “A-a-a lib-er-al?” In certain circles it's the vilest epithet, and I was speaking with God.
God laughed.
“We deities shy away from labels because they're not conducive to world peace or even basic civility, but you've read The Bible.
“Jesus popped out of Mary's womb a radical. That's what made him so unpopular with the money-lenders and the military-industrial complex.”
* * *
My knees were shaking like maracas in the hands of a deft percussionist. I stopped hanging clothes, sat on the step below God, and tried to look in his eyes.
His light was too blinding. I longed for a pinhole camera, that handy device that allows a safe, projected view of the sun during a solar eclipse. As if reading my mind, God reached in his bag and handed me his welders' goggles.
“Put these on,” he commanded, and I did.
I could see him more clearly, but I realized that I'd never be able to see God's whole face. Somehow I'd have to get comfortable with mystery. I would have to embrace the daunting task of taking responsibility for my own beliefs and convictions, fears, and prejudices. It didn't seem fair to pin them on God.
He finished his water, set the glass on the step, and stood up to leave. I stood up, too.
“Would you answer another question before you go, please?”
“I'll try.”
“Are you really a Red Sox fan?”
“Of course. But I have to be discreet about it because Jesus likes the Yankees.”
“He does? Isn't it difficult living in the same house with a Yankees fan?”
“My dear, even in the best of families there is discord. We still have to figure out how to get along.”
“Thus speaketh the Lord,” I murmured as I watched him climb in his truck.
I heard him.