I merge on to the highway as a speeding semi passes, and I watch a lone water drop–a leftover from this afternoon’s thunderstorm–streak across my windshield. I turn the radio up to rival the increased road noise, and the dilemma forces itself before me. Just because that woman is involved I’m observing from a distance. She’s always been up to no good. I’ve heard others call her a modern Jezebel, the embodiment of the feminist movement. If she’s involved it can’t be good. It just can’t.
The radio is playing one of her songs, at least I think it’s hers. I’ve avoided her music as much as I can. Which is really kind of ironic–my girlfriend owns three of her CDs. Apparently I’m missing something. I change lanes but don’t change the station. Just what kind of rhetoric does she espouse? I let the song play and listen to the lyrics for the first time.
Somewhere miles away a lone light is left on in the house. All you can see from the street is the dull color of the curtain pulled across the window. Inside a little girl is lying across her bed becoming a woman. To the outside observer her life seems simple and contained. Algebra, history, the mall, and boys. The first pain associated with a break up with the latter item is causing this late night sulk session. The same song is playing on her radio, speaking to listening ears through headphones, leaving a quiet and sullen house. She lets the song play and understands the lyrics for the first time.
The chords of the song resonate within and she has found a kindred spirit. Someone to commiserate with when all men see is a pair of tits. Can that really be true at fifteen? Say it ain’t so. The pain in her chest and the shame on her face say it must be so. Where’s God when I’m scared she asks the cat sprawled lazily across the floor.
Does God have a penis? It’s a question she can’t help but ask, and it has profound consequences. Driving down the highway I think it blasphemous to ask. Then again I think a lot of things are blasphemous, especially this song. But she asks it anyway. And why shouldn’t she ask? She’s been hurt by a boy thinking with his penis, and now I want her to turn to a God that by all linguistic description should have a penis.
God the Father. He. His. Him. But it’s just a linguistic tool, a metaphor, so to speak. But does a metaphor set a trend for a universe of oppression? It is just a metaphor. But why in my mind have I assigned God a gender? Isn’t it obvious that God is genderless? To define God by a gender would be diminishing the power of I AM. Yet the idea of a remotely feminine God frightens me, never mind that a masculine God is perfectly acceptable. Tell that to the crying girl who doesn’t want to confide in a masculine God. She’s had enough masculine pride.
She again listens to the words and finds her answer. Sometimes you have to rise above. If the blinking cat could speak it would have told you that. Often those who should have all the answers have the fewest answers. And those who are dismissed are the true knowers.
I dismiss a woman of unknown merits, allowing others to decide for me. And all the while I praise critical thinking. Perhaps it’s time I take my own advice. A modern day Jezebel has given a hurting girl hope. Instead of hiding behind my dogma, perhaps it’s time I address the difficult questions with more than easy answers. God doesn’t have a penis, and God sees so much more in her than a pair of tits. Exit 172 has come and I wish I could see her the way God does. I shift out of overdrive and wonder how I ended up on this high horse.