I’m never satisfied. So I have to make a lot of gods.
Imagine I’m a wheat farmer.
One day, I’m dying of hunger. There’s no rain to break the ground and give me frosted shredded wheat. So I pray to the rain god– Give me rain! Then the rain comes and I’m happy.
Another day, the rains fall and fall. The puddles fill up. Rivers tear through wheat fields, and I’m out of cereal again. So I pray to the sun god– Dry up the rain! Then the sun breaks through and I’m happy.
That afternoon, I get a sunburn. It could lead to cancer. It gave me a lobster-face. So I curse at the sun god, pray that the rain god stays away (water stings!) and urge the aloe god to grow me something that works by six; I have an important friend to impress. As typically unreliable is the aloe god, I ditch the healing idea and praise the makeup god for bringing me tinted moisturizer. The ice maker god, though faithful in churning out a fresh cold compress, slips my mind. Then my friend compliments my taste in music and I’m happy.
Father, when will I learn to stop splintering my view of you like a felled tree, and whittling you down into monstrous shapes, into my helpless idols? Help me lay down my disbelief like a sharpened axe, and my vain imaginations like a hardened carving knife. You’re not a dead lump of wood, but a tree that gives life. And I can’t possibly hold You in my hand like a doll. You hold me, as a branch, that you feed with your own life.
They’re idols of my own home recipe. You are my God.