If God Had a Name, What Would It Be?

Alanis Morissette (whaddafuck, is the freakin’ spelling correct?) has always been one of the artists in the music stream whose songs I find engaging and thought-provoking. And that is saying something if it’s one coming from a friggin’ introverted lad who has very little music inclination except playing a classic Beethoven or some ramdom Eraserheads cover in his PSP in full blast to lull himself to sleep.

The title of this entry I borrowed from the lyrics of one of her more popular songs and I was reminded of it just this morning because of some nomad-slash-descendant of god who jeezuzchrist scared the hell out of me for barging into our door without any introduction. The man was in his late sixties, I presume (perchance even in his early seventies already) and his emaciated body, his old checkered polo and his pleated pants — an iconic fashion statement of a decrepit decade forgotten — created a familiar image in my mind, that of frail and forgotten folks mistily looking at some abstract canvas in the veranda of some social institutions for the elderly and the destitute .

He looked at me like a poor, tired dachshund with beady eyes and asked the inhabitants of the small two-floor apartment in Carola if we could at least gawd-bless-our-soul spare him a few minutes of our precious time. I stared back without any response and I did not mean to be rude. It’s just that I was about to finish Jessica Zafra’s take on digital versus manual cameras written in Manila’s most read broadsheet (or so it claims) and I didn’t want to be distracted by any gawddamn thingamajeesm much more, hear a long litany of some whaddaheck-are-you-talking-about gospel the content of which I verily know already — yes, I know that I am a sinner (who is not?) and yes, I know that I need to change my wicked ways and yes, it has to be real quick as in screaming A-S-A-P or else I will be forever condemned to live in the abyss of smokin’, scorchin’ flames of hell but who the the freakin’-good-arse saint are you to judge me so go find someone else because I know what I’m doing and I don’t need your help, thank you very much. I was supposed to politely refuse the bland offer but Tina, our apartment matron by silent agreement and Neng’s sister, ushered the old man in.

Don’t get me wrong.

I am not against any prophet blatherskite wandering around to spread the good word of whoever friggin’ gawd they believe in. That is their life and if they decide to dedicate their existence converting atheists or agnostics to be one in their league then so be it. I respect the dedication, the toilful duty, the faithful trudging to the supposedly right path. I am not an atheist nor an agnostic and I believe that Somebody up there is responsible for this whole crappy macrocosm. While scientists believe in the Big Bang theory for the universe’s creation, I still think an Omniscient Being is behind all the burst that started it all or more accurately, that Omniscient Being created the great galactic ball that blew up, thus creating the galaxies and universes and the infinitesimal whatever-is-freakin-out-there that our modern-day Einsteins have not yet discovered.

So, yes, Virginia, I do believe in God. Albeit without a particular name at that. Which brings me to dear grand-pappy preacher who moved the heavens and earth to convert Neneng, the only inhabitant in the apartment who was too kind to lend the old folk her ears, into their league. As I have expected (I have had a lot of eerie encounters of this kind of if-you’re-not-one-of-us-you’ll-be-doomed-the-fuck-I-don’t-freakin-care scare tactics disguised as biblical discussions), the old man whipped out his Bible from his black, laptop-sized bag and began putting a lump in Neneng’s throat by telling how the entire humanity is so just a few inches away from being burned to death and the only way to get out of such hideous abyss is to repent and change for the better, like she even needed the telling (of course she already knows it, she’s a freakin’ PUP freshman for chrissake). In between stutters, he asked the adolescent to read this verse and browse through that passage and I was wondering if he could read or whether he needed a gawddamn cataract operation for his left eye.
And then came the cue to his evangelical propaganda. Dear Mr. Religious Folk asked Neng, based from what she read and understood, what the name of our dearly beloved god is. Neng who is, I believe,  of Christian background uttered Yahweh without batting an eyelash. Dear Mr. Religious Folk smiled, that kind of grimace that told you he thinks you’re lost and you’re doomed to go to hell and it is his responsibility to guide through the right freakin’ path to eternity gawd-bless-your-soul, and subtly claimed in the most non-condescending way possible that it was incorrect. Lo and behold, God’s name according to him, and there should be no other way to call the Guy Up There rather than this monicker, is Jehovah. You either call Him that and reap the glories of eternal life with him and his flock of believers who shall be, he claimed, the only people saved from among the sea of sinners on earth or you receive the wrath of abomination, your soul wandering endlessly in the pits of doom and agony.

Bingo! It was more than enough to have my ears go on flamin’ fire. Whaddafuck! The only reason why I was civil and humane and most reserved to this evangelical wacko is because he was old and gray and stuttering, the kind of people you don’t want to hit or do some blunt barbarism with. By the looks of him – receding hair line, silver hair strands tucked in an exposed scalp layer , rows upon rows of wrinkled skin and crow’s feet under the eyes – he has had his fair share of life’s shit and crappiness. And I don’t want to add more to that. So what should a restrained young man who begs to differ with an old man’s pointless point of view do? I don’t know about you but what I did was to go upstairs, lock myself in the room, and sing with the great reggae revolutionary Bob Marley. 

I am aware that you don’t delve into the topics of religion and politics during beer drinking sessions lest you get mobbed or smashed with the booze bottle. These are the sensitive matters proponents of both sides of the fence have an unending array of defensive expositions, rebutting everything the opponent might counter, guarding the very principle that they believe in tooth and nail. If you don’t want to risk ruining your birthday bash and instantly get a ruckus out of, it is imperative that you and your friends stick with performing an Eraserheads encore with your guitar, shamelessly lambasting cryptic Paraluman while oblivious of a berserk neigbor’s rant that the apartment compound is “not a forest but a building.” I

n the same manner, I only wished the “wandering prophet” of The-Only-People-Who-Shall-Be-Saved should respect our beliefs as well. The idea that he and his religious group shall be the ONLY earthlings worthy to be saved from the sinner tag, much more insisting that the Guy Up There should ONLY be called Jehovah, is in itself preposterous. If this is the case, what do you call the rest of the world’s pious and devout who happen to call  the Omniscient Being Allah or Buddha or Jesus Christ or Indra?

 When you believe in something that does not have any fool-proof, logical explanation, or that seems to defy reason and science, when you value that something and embrace it without looking for any corroboratory evidence or ancillary grounds, that is called faith. When you shove that friggin’ faith to someone else’s face though, you risk your life and limb.