My sleeping mind considers why the universe might exist.
|Seated in a booth in a garden restaurant, He appeared. In the button-up plaid shirt and tan jacket, the Old Man didn't look like much. I think He saves the white beard and throne for the kings of old and their subjects. He didn't invite me, per se, to join Him. Instead, His presence drew me.|
We had spoken before, so I felt comfortable—no need for formality. I sat down across from Him. "So, um, why did You create the universe?"
He gestured to the waiter, who brought us each a half cantaloupe. "Try this first."
I guess that's how it goes when He appears: people know what He wants, what He means. Now, I've had cantaloupe many times, but when God tells me to eat, I dig in.
He watched me enjoy the meal He had provided. "Pretty good, isn't it?"
"Well, that's why I created the universe. So I could do that."
Cryptic, but clear. He didn't need even Earth to have a melon, any more than He needed to spell it out. He needed a home for the people who would share in His creation. From my own experience, I understood. No creation is complete until someone enjoys it.
My head spun. Could I be that important? God created the cosmos just so He could share things with me? I thought about that as the real world came back, with the bed, the empty ice cream bowl beside me, and the cat, Mickey, in his bugs-bunny coat. I gave Mickey the bowl.
He lapped up the sweet, milky residue left behind.
As I watched Mickey enjoy, I—partaking in God's favorite activity—considered. Like any dream, that all could be attributed to thoughts bouncing in a philosopher's head, to bits of feel-good psychology that stuck together. Yet, over a year later, this vision continues to inspire new thoughts on how to live.
One thing stands out: I can't refute the idea. What more reason would you need?