God Who?

“How did God come into being?”

I was in early grade school then so my brain could still not think of a poignant answer. I simply thought of his parents. “God’s mom and dad made him,” was my response. That’s not exactly how I said it but I knew I meant the same. That’s one beauty of childhood. They don’t answer questions to impress. They simply answer them because they are asked. But sure enough, this answer labored another question. “Who created his mom and dad?” Of course, my second grader self had an answer ready. “God’s grandparents made his mom and dad.” Again, that’s not exactly how I said it but I knew I wasn’t referring to sex or human reproduction. You see, that’s another beauty of childhood. They are prompt to answer as many questions as they can so long as the time of interrogation does not trouble their playtime. Whether or not the answer is accurate doesn’t really matter. And when they don’t have words to say, they can simply leave it at that and move on. I was no exception.

And then years passed, my tiny voice started to crack and facial hair started to appear, though unnoticeable. Yet. I also found some of my folks cute and myself unattractive because of those damn pimples. Then the long suspended query magically popped up in my head. “Who created God, the creator of all there is?” It’s good growing up, we make better sentences. Better sounding. Purposeful words. I paused, I did not know how long. I thought, “I don’t know.” That’s one good thing about growing up. You know you can ask for help. And we often have somebody ready at our disposal. So one breaktime, I decided to pass the burden to my seatmate. He was good. He went to church regularly. He never missed praying with eyes closed at our lunch table. He smiled at me and quoted, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” And now another player in the story, the Word. What hell the word was he talking about? I considered. At least, I could cross out God’s mom, dad, grandmas and grandpas. I told myself, “Yeah, right.” That’s another way of me saying, “You did not answer the question.” but not aloud. You see, religious people tend to have hair-trigger temper and self righteous reactions at times. So I decide to always get along despite being told that their church transforms into a rocket ship that can bring them into safety in case of an apocalypse. “God bless us all,” my seatmate added.

Few years after that, I learned about the bible, the believers and the non-believers and the other sectors with their separate unique belief systems. These things were too much and too complex. My original question seems to have a reproductive organ of its own. So will my soul be recycled right after my long-awaited demise? Or will I simply and literally rot in the ground? Or will I either enjoy eternity in heaven or suffer in perpetuity down in hell? Who knows, really.

Another years passed. I got my heart broken many times and my money wasted on inessentials. Some old people died. I had sex and I loved it. I even imagined owning a house and a car and having sex in both. And to no one’s surprise, the same old question represented itself. “Who created God and his Word?” I did not bother answering it this time. That’s the beauty of adulthood, you can do whatever you want. That’s exactly what I did. I was bothered no more.

I’ve been on this wheelchair for God knows when. It’s become an extension of my remaining self. Like a shadow of an old man with fragile backbone. Decades have passed. Most of the people I’ve known in my early years are now probably decomposing. An exciting natural mummification six feet under. Great. Looking forward. I can still see and smell all right but my tastebuds and ears seem always in frequent exhaustion to perform at their best. So I just leave them at that. No worries. That’s the beauty of dying. You can act as a child again but with minimal tears and tantrums. I know my days are numbered.

I’ve come full circle and yet I still haven’t heard of a profound answer to my question. How is there God? And one realization. The beauty of all the unanswered- Not only does it make you feel grounded, it also makes you understand that you don’t just sprout like a weed in the vastness of this universe, that there’s something or someone else allowing things kept undiscovered, either unintentionally or otherwise. Because to tell you frankly, if nothing or no-one more supreme is out there, then all questions, in a literal sense of the words, shall be long answered. It’s the unknown that makes us wonder about the beyond. The more the unknown is in existence, the more real this God is becoming.

Oh, another beauty of dying: You believe your own faith and boy, you’re sticking to it until your last breath.