A Dialogue between God and an Atheist
Thick fog in the head, mucus filling the nostrils, Fumes rising, steaming: blinding the sodden brain. If only a wind, out of the sterile sky, Would empty everything, would clear belief From the clogged passages. We choke and cough, Longing for cool clean air, longing for thoughts Like naked rock, sharp in the perfect distance.
How interesting. I could listen all day long.
I can hardly wait until you join My kingdom.
If you were real you wouldn't need to wait. You want me? You'd just toss a thunderbolt, Or (nowadays) block up an artery, Send a car hurtling, carefully plant a tumour In the right spot. I'd come. I'd have no choice.
What progress you have made! It makes me proud, Proud of Myself, for making you.
My God! How you deceive yourself into existence. If you were really there you wouldn't need me, You'd know it all yourself.
If I weren't here We couldn't hold this gripping conversation.
Conversation! I've never denied There's plenty of talk about God. What's history But one long loud-mouthed argument, Pulling out weapons, worse than a gamblers' brawl.
There'll always be plenty to say on non-existence. Is God an elephant? A cloud? A woman? Can he make laws he couldn't break himself? Such awkward weapons too — thurible, chalice, Chasuble, to say nothing of the concepts, Prevenient grace, three persons but one substance, Like twisted skeins, knotted around our arms, Or miracles, like turning flour to flesh . . . Oh, God has been a topic of conversation For long enough.
What else is history, what else is anything But endless conversation? Sentences Printed on silence make us up. A stick Is named a weapon and a bone will snap.
We kick at stones, they turn to words. We lurch On stepping stones of words, and bruise our bodies.
Red ochre smeared on plaster is uncovered And fills the church with God again. I listen, Take part, change, die, am resurrected, grow, The same as you.
Thick fog in the head. Passages clogged with wadding, Fluid dripping from the nostrils, swollen eyes . . .
And if the clean wind comes from Heaven, and blows The fumes of doubt away, the mucus dries, The passages are cleared of argument, Who will you thank? Who shines, and breathes, and stands
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