The sky is falling.
And God is letting it.
Because He can.
Because He doesn't care... not anymore.
He dreamed of pulling a virgin against Him in the night, using magic, of calling it a miracle. Bend or love will break you. This is true for God, too.
And so, shavings of sky spiral downward, heavy, until they hit the asphalt in the parking lot of paradise and shatter. (They paved paradise, put up a parking lot).
Mary says to her girlfriends, “I couldn’t have broken Him... I wouldn’t have broken Him... not if He were a real man. Strong, virile, a Bounty man.”
And the girls, they wonder what God saw in Mary. Did He look down and see her undressing? Was there a thud in His chest like He’d never known—was it the first time He’d felt the pounding of His own heart, the blood pumping through His veins, aching, needing, wanting? He couldn’t have known the ending, could He? Or was it just that He wanted Mary more, that the need was greater than the end? (To Hell with consequence! Because He could send it there, you know, if He wanted.)
But He had to send an Angel... an Angel!
It must have driven Him mad, caused some kind of wicked crazy inside him to learn the taste of want (red wine against soft, pink lips), and have to send !an angel!... and then watch as the woman He needed blossomed under another. Because God doesn’t turn—God can’t turn—His back. Makes you wonder if there isn’t something greater than God doling out punishment.
And Mary, she could have said, “No, Baby, we can’t. You’ll just hate yourself in the morning.” Or was Mary just that kind of woman—selfish for the want of being needed?
If she’d turned down the angel, do you think God could have gone to her then, pressed her against His chest, then left in the morning? (A cold and broken hallelujah).
But she didn't turn the angel down. And now there’s nothing but holes in the canopy of what used to be the sky.
In whose name do we pray—a broken man’s, or one who let desire take His power?
(God, sometimes you just don’t come through).
Amen.