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The Very Voice Of God

By Jason Marion

My friend Chris once wrote me a letter and asked my opinion of God. Chris asked me to explain god, after proving to himself that god must exist. At first, I though: "Good for him." Then it made me think. It had been a while since I had been asked a real question. I see this as a challenge. Not so much in proving god's existence, but in focusing my many views on the subject.

I know the Lord, speak to him often, and listen more. It took me a time to recognize his voice. I always wanted god to speak to me directly; the burning bush of Moses and all that. It wasn't until I demanded he show himself that I was able to understand and hear his voice. This particular evening found me unable to find a single familiar face. What I did was coax myself into a group drinking and partying at Bennigan's. Once 2 am rolled around, I was invited to come back to the origin of the party; a divorce's home off the old farm to market road. I followed the caravan and found myself doing Goldschlager shots in the kitchen when I was given an ever so sweet invitation:

"Lines, upstairs?"

I was ready for it, and almost visibly over-eager. It had been more than two years since I had been near the nectar. Those years seemed to be the worst for it, but I can only say that now, looking back. Life was simpler when I was younger. Even twenty-two seems like a child-hood ago.

"Quiet, kid's are asleep." She said, as I began to pounce towards the stairs. Probably had been asleep even when we were still at the branigan at Bennigan's. The ecstasy of cocaine and to much drink laid me alone in a certain amount of pleasure that only I seemed to be enjoying. The world was okay again, and a carefree smile could once again gain an excuse to cross my kisser, so far long from every tragedy that became more violent the longer I was alive. The longer I became one of the lucky ones that got away, there were always the disappearing faces of those I called my friends. Here I sit in ecstasy, stealing a moment of pleasure from strangers, and those I remember must be content on remaining remembered. Still, never forgotten. Sadly, this was where the joy went south, and I tried to hide it. I could not, and slammed two extra shots before slipping out the back door. The mouse of the party had his cheese, and left into the night.

I felt I was searching for something no one else knew. More exactly, I was trying to find a way to say what everyone else knew, but felt instead of say. I left feeling totally embarrassed for not even attempting to be the great guy I knew I was. The ever-convenient search for a way to tell everyone that happiness is not that far away had led me to see more about life than my current theories could handle. They didn't want to know. I could explain to them, and then they would not have to complain about it all, but could do something else instead. No one wanted to hear it. They just wanted to be heard. To be validated for their paused progression in life.

On my way out the door, I saw a girl leaning up against a car and crying. I went to her and asked if everything was okay; but I could tell that she was ready to go night-night. She could barely stand, but seemed as her shoes were glued to the street, grounding her, and allowing her to sway back and again. It would appear that is exactly how her boyfriend wanted her, and I didn't make it back to my car without talking my way out of a paper bag, for being a gentleman. I always care; it always hurts.

Now, I understand that it is important to make a statement about where you are as opposed to always saying where you will be. It makes such a change to say I know this is how I feel, and it will pass. I will be all right. My hopelessness will dissipate, and I will again, feel strong. Now, I understand. Then, I just absorbed everyone's pain, and searched out more ferocious situations to weasel out of. That really got me in the deep end. I decided that if I was damned to insist on being myself that God, whom I love and follow, should give me that extra push: a revelation; itself. Or, rather, I demanded that he reveal himself. To do so, I went to the church that had hurt me the most. Not by the presence, as by the people who were there. Even though they had treated me badly, I had always felt God there. That is part of the realization. God is there for all. Because I dove into the spirit of the lord, and felt him there; the church trapped with those still looking to believe. I never understood that. To me, save a few pure souls, everyone was treating me with the same judgment of the bully in the playground. Everyone else was right, and because I felt different, I was to be ignored... and ridiculed.

At the time, I was trying to dispel the two feelings: God is here, I feel it; and, these people care not for me but my image which they reject out of refusal to understand. That night, I insisted that the energy that fed my body, and soul, show himself. I wanted that damn burning bush right now. I wanted the evidence that would leave no doubt in my mind. At the time, I did not realize that I was asking for something that would short circuit faith altogether. I drove to the church, parked my car, and found a way up onto an adjoining roof to the original sanctuary. Yes, "sanctuary".

The church itself was the first church in this little Texas town, with many additions. It was a Quaker faith. My father, as well as those well-placed souls I mentioned earlier, taught me original belief of the building. Those who met inside, on an early Sunday morning, were not privy to a sermon, collection plate, or hymns. They collected, met, and prayed. The Quakers originated in Pennsylvania, named from William Penn, a believer of the faith. From what I understand he believed that the purity of lord was more in the individual relationship than in the community engineering. Me, and the lord. I've always felt comfortable with that. Mano e' Mano, so to speak.

I can see the early Quakers meeting at church, and praying on a Sunday morn. The intensity of the lords’ presence causes the building to begin to shake... or, to quake. The congregation, each personally connected to their relationship with God, created such an energy that the building had physical repercussions.

This was the faith I had fallen into. The same faith where I was just as teased and made fun of as ever. Understanding this, more than those I had to attend with, I remained there. The church itself, regardless of the additions, had a feeling of history. A sort of suppression in the air when you know God is listening.

With my demand cocaine raging through my head, I was determined to touch God that night. Once on the roof, I headed for the old chapel: the original place where the fig-farmers of southeastern Texas came to pray, and to quake. Later, they might congregate on the lawn for picnic supper. Many times had I heard the church’s one bell. Many times had I pulled the rope to hear the resounding sound. Tonight, I would climb the bell tower. If God resided inside, the surely the tower would be the closest point.

I crossed three roofs to reach the tower, and almost failed twice in climbing it. I was then standing on the oldest, and highest, point in Friendswood. At first, I bear-hugged it from fear. Then, I got comfortable with the gravity of the situation. Soon enough, I had my back turned to the tower, and my heels barely resting on t the four inches of wood trim. This is where I made my plea.

Curiously, this is where I waited for an hour, or so. I saw police cars pass by, and thought for sure that I was in such a situation that I could never explain. No one saw me. No one noticed. Even when I screamed in desperation, and that police car passed again. The unseen little church mouse, crying in the bell tower.

My mind was so focused on what I was demanding that when I thought "this is really stupid, climb down"; I knew the phrase had come from somewhere else. I knew it was my thought, in my head, like when reading silently, but I didn't think it was a thought I would have. At that moment in time, I began to realize that climbing up was easier that climbing down. It always is. I almost fell down as many times climbing down as when I climbed up, only I had more vigor on the way up. The gravity of the situation was not as blind now, as it was when I had so much conviction.

The thoughts in my head raced. I saw myself falling with every move, the image myself on the ground, testibly on cocaine and drink, needing not just the police but the ambulance and my parents. It almost became too much to handle. My hands must have been white, or transparent, with the strength I used to climb down. I hugged every handhold. Once over the four-inch trim, my feet dangled with no surface of the roof to provide relief. I knew the roof could not be more that four inches from my feet, by my calculations going up. Still, the images from before flashed in my mind as if I was seeing the future. Then, I closed my eyes and decided that I knew the roof was there. Logic added up to enough for me to just let go and drop down. Once I decided to let go, I felt the peace of the knowledge in my mind.

Less than a second later, my feet hit, and my hands slapped either side of the tower. Balance.

With a foothold on the roof, I let go of the tower, and sat on the wood tiles of the old sanctuary. Yes, sanctuary. I thought to myself: where did that truth come from? The fact that I was being a fool? The answer I processed in my mind hurt, even as much as knowing what caused my peace-of-mind on dropping to the sanctuary’s 40-pitch roof. The building didn't quake that night, but I did. The bush did not burn, but I did hear the very voice of God.

It shook me so much that I had to climb the roof over to the gym, where the new chapel is built into the basketball court. A building I myself had worked construction in, and bled a little like you always do when you have tools in your hand. The roof has a part of its covered walkway that makes an angle section, on a turn. A little V shaped piece of roofing. I curled up in that curve to sleep. I had enough. Although the experience did not give me what I demanded, or what I expected; it gave me what I wanted.

Later that morning a youth group met and then headed off for a function at a fun-park or something like that. Once they left I ran off the roof and into my car. Away. The mouse was, again, never seen. Black leather, boots, and all hidden in the shadows.

I knew what happened that night. I had received my wish. I was given the sign that God is a part of me. In the days to follow, despite my foolishness, it would appear even more evident.

That was when I realize that the most positive thought in my head that comes from nothing but a desire to answer a puzzle is the voice of God. When I find an answer, usually unlike what I logically predict, that is what I need to continue, it is of a different timbre of thought; it is my own thought, and still a gift. Something I could not have heard if I was not listening.

-fin-