God

Photo taken here at Barrowfield by Marinetha Naude

“How are things going on earth?” Leo, an elderly angel, asks God.

God smiles and fondly thinks back on the seven days of creation. A difficult, but fascinating task. “Now that you ask, I think I must go and have a look.”

And God comes to earth on a sunny September day. The birds are chirping, a little stream is running downhill to a small village. In the fields, women are working who sings cheerfully. Songs about the harvest, about love, songs about wine. And God thinks: This must be Tuscany. And looks satisfied across the landscape. Walks along the road, down to the village.

In the middle of the small town square, stands a peculiar building. A dome of bricks with a tower and on top of the tower a golden cross. God walks up the gigantic stairs in front of the peculiar building and comes into a cold, draughty space with, on its walls, all these remarkable figures, mourning women with floating little hoops above their heads, an awful statue of a half naked man with nails through his hands and feet. God sees small men in black and dark brown garments walking around, carrying thick books in their arms.

“What is this?” God asks one of these sombre figures.

“What is thís? A church, it is the house of God.”

God is momentarily speechless. “If this is the house of God, why aren’t there any flowers blooming, why isn’t there water flowing, why does the sun not shine here?”

“I don’t know” the man says.

“Do a lot of people come here often?” asks God.

“Lately, less and less so, madam.”

“What is the reason for that, do you think?”

The little man whispers: “The devil…. it is the devil. He took possession of the people. The people think themselves to be God-like and would rather bask in the sun.”

Relieved, God walks out of the church and sees an old man sitting on a bench in the sun. God walks up to the old man and says: “Colleague?”

The old man greets God and says: “Good afternoon, madam. Steward is the name.”

God says: “My name is God. Glad to meet you.”

“God?” says the old man, “and to think that I’ve always thought of you as white..”


                                                                             Herman van Veen: Verhale
                                                                             (Translated into English by George Angus)