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?