Creator: (n) a person or thing that creates.
The top four things, in order, that wear out my soul in order, beginning with Number Four:
- Serious discussions that end up with people pouting.
- Feeling sorry for myself because I’m stuck in traffic.
- My own intolerance showing up, exposing me for the fallible son-of-a-bitch I sometimes am.
And now, Number One:
Incessant barking, preaching, complaining, questioning and postulating on the subject of God.
Is there a Creator?
Let me be blunt—I only have one reason that I want a Creator. It’s because it makes me feel more valuable.
Without a Creator, I have to envision that I am a stop on the evolutionary chain, somewhere between protoplasm and infinity.
Yuk. I don’t want to feel that way.
It makes the other three things I mentioned even more aggravating. Traffic seems more congested, my intolerance tends to have some deeper meaning, and for some unrealistic reason, getting serious about ludicrous matters makes me feel grown-up.
I need a Creator because I need to feel created, so that I will want to be creative.
Did you get that?
Creator, created, creative.
When I don’t feel created, I have no desire whatsoever to change my circumstance when bitching about it seems to adequately fill the time.
I do not find that believing in a Creator makes people better, and that disbelieving makes them worse. But sometimes, cuddling up to the idea that we are purposely constructed by a divine order does make the journey seem a little sweeter.
Otherwise, we begin to look around the room, the nation and the world, rolling our eyes, thinking internally: Hell, is that all there is?