The Never-Ending Adventures of God: Life looks back.
March 13, 2014 § 5 Comments
What had he done?
Having turned life loose, God was stunned by the speed and avidity with which it flashed across the universe.
Where he worked purposefully, deliberately, life rushed in.
Brainless, thoughtless, it ran rampant and amuck.
And yet, as he watched, it seemed to be changing, becoming more intricate, more nuanced and capable.
The equation that was life, learning from its own failed solutions, kept squaring in its complexity.
Life did more than replicate, it improved. It learned.
But where he created something from nothing, life could only create using the raw materials he had provided.
Combining and recombining, it used and reused. Because it could not make something from nothing, life made do, its work-arounds astonishing and often pleasing.
But that making-do was not always pretty. Life fed fiercely on itself; new life consumed the old.
He had anticipated death, but not the sorrow he now felt watching life flicker, vivid one moment, gone the next.
The brutality caused him anguish too. In order to live, the living swallowed each other whole, and moved on, always hungry.
He had created the inert and lifeless as well. It too sparkled, it had beauty. But matter, was just matter without the tingle of life.
It was that tingle that kept him awake, expectant, and leaning forward, amazed.
God poured himself a glass of water, then looked at it long and hard. The water had assumed the shape of the vessel into which it was poured.
Life seemed to do the same. Life assumed the shape of a single pulsing cell. It assumed the shape of a multi-celled frond that turned with the passage of a sun. It assumed the shape of a creature that walked on four legs, then two.
And he thought, if life assumed the shape of the vessel into which it was poured, maybe it did so over and over. Maybe the shape was not as important as the persistence with which life continued, that death was just a reallocation of life, something passed cell to cell, hand to hand, being to being.
As he watched, the scintillas of life were growing more and more interesting. Of course, as God, he could reel in the long line of time and see any point along the continuum, but he reserved the right to be surprised.
And surprised he was.
Suddenly, he became aware, he was not just an observer. He was also being observed.
His creation was blinking up at him, trying to follow, with its limited consciousness, the thread back to the source.
Looking up at him, his creation seemed to both admire and fear him.
Neither seemed right.
That he was in the picture at all was not part of the plan.
He had created a universe that free-wheeled, one with which, having established the basic mechanisms, he would not intervene.
But he did feel the ache of compassion for all he had created—and the beings looking back and wondering turned toward his compassion, just as they did toward daylight.
Encouraged by this thing they could not eat, breathe or hold in a hand, they then looked down again and went about their business. But he would catch them, again and again, looking up.
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