Filed under: On Truth and Deciet
I apologize for taking time off from talking to you all about the fascinating theories I have about how the church got screwed up. But I have been setting in on a Metaphysics and epistemology class, despite my 21 other hours of class, and stumbled upon an opportunity to publish some work.
I have recently been making late night stops for coffee and the like at small truck stops off of I-70. I do this because I am just plain weird. I began to write my observations and I plan on assembling them into a piece on why debating philosophy and theology is meaningless, and how we need to embrace the physicality of God, in order to truely make Him known in this broken world. So, here is the introduction of my latest writings from tonight.
The Metaphysics of God
“I will confess that the majority of my thoughts originate from the chemical dependencies that consume me at late hours of the night, namely caffeine and nicotine. My weapon of choice is usually the bottomless cup of day old coffee from truck stops and diners all along the empty highways of the Midwest. Though I have to admit, the tales uttered from these unkempt and overweight men in tattered flannels and impressively matured beards never cease to entertain my unseasoned and adolescent mind. I suppose one has never seen so many hues of grey. Oh, how I wish I could harvest this experience so crudely articulated by these unshaven, barbaric, yet sapient ruffians that we call ‘truck drivers’.
I wonder how metaphysical the God of these hirsute creatures might be.
Some nights I would overhear a man explaining what seems to be a tangible manifestation of heavenly characters who he tends to refer to as ‘Grace’ and ‘Forgiveness’. He must spend a lot of time with those fellows while alone on the open road, for he seems to acquaint them just as well as the waitress refilling his coffee whom he calls by name. Looking around, I can’t help but think that the men he describes wouldn’t seem to be regulars in an atmosphere of this repugnance. Though, he reassures his audience that They are as present as the ‘cute little lady’ serving the entire smoking section. But as for the majority of the patrons here, I ponder if their conversations over greasy platters of life-destroying elements known as the ‘late-night special’ ever consist of philosophical questions of the existence of God.
Tonight, my server’s name is ‘Rad Rachel’. She took an extra shift in hopes to collect enough tip money to purchase a required poetry book for her evening undergraduate class. I could tell the moment I was seated that she had been here all night; the weariness in her eyes makes it apparent to anyone willing to take a moment to catch a glance at them. I wonder if poetry is worth working 5:00 to 3:00 on a school night. Or perhaps is it worth the vulgar terms I refuse to repeat in this early morning confession, or the ferocious demands bursting from her manager’s dehumanizing orifice I reluctantly call a mouth.
“C’MON RACHEL, REALLY?!!” he shouts.
I was lucky enough to engage in slight conversation as she ran between four other tables in the section.
“Would you like to hear something obscene?” she asked me.
“If I was in an orchard, I’d be pickin’ her fruit all day”, a ‘joke’ she overheard her perverse slave driver share with a seemingly unamused cook. I wonder if she read the fine print on the application for employment. You know, the part in her job description where she would routinely endure lewd harassments and rowdy eight-tops, whose intoxication leads them to conveniently forget to leave a tip.
“GET UP!” he barks.
I invited her to sit with me for a moment for a smoke break, but ‘clean up’ seems more of the essence to this high-strung taskmaster.
I regret to think that a metaphysical God is required for her imminent rescue from this tolling, phenomenal and present ‘Sheol’ –and I suppose it isn’t ironic that the term resembles our 21st century word ‘shit-hole’. I decide to stay until she gets off work, trying not to think about which semi truck they scraped the motor oil out of to make my pot of coffee. I feel like an asshole leaving this young lady a thirty-five cent tip. Maybe my kind words and questions of inquisition will bring her hope enough to get through the remainder of the week. I think I better come back tomorrow night and leave a few extra ones on the table to make up for it, as I’m sure she will return for another agonizing attempt to pay for school on pocket change from cheap truckers and stingy, unsympathetic, wannabe elitists like myself.
As I wait for her to finish up rolling silverware, I can’t help but return to my original thoughts. Should I continue to bother myself with the metaphysical God of great philosophers as Aristotle, Kant, and Kierkegaard, or even contemporary thinkers of today, Caputo and Vattimo? I venture to assert I won’t get a chance to debate my interpretations of Plato’s ‘Theory of Forms’ nor Derrida’s ‘Postmodern Condition’ between conversations centered on Kenworths, ice packed mountain passes, or the evil doings of our ‘nigger’ president. Perhaps a metaphysical God is not the God these people need to hear from tonight. Perhaps I have the chance to make this place a metaphysical-God-forsaken place. Perhaps I should return tomorrow and leave a twenty under the saltshaker.”
