Digging Holes In The Ground Looking For God

I think I might be a theist. If I’m not, it sure was a waste of time spending my day excavating the flower beds looking for the holy creator underneath my wife’s rose bushes.

It all started on a Friday afternoon. I was working from home, whiling away the hours until the weekend, I was in the midst of letting my sixth cup of tea brew and let my gaze drift from the teabag to the window above the sink. I dropped my spoon immediately and ran to the back door, for a man had just strolled into my garden with a spade on his shoulder and planted it in the earth, like he owned the place. Given the all-black outfit he was wearing, I assumed he was some kind of cat burglar who had inadvertently arrived several hours early, or possibly something more nefarious, like a rapper, or possibly an MC. But as I burst out into the garden my heart was settled by seeing a white collar around his neck, it was merely the local priest, Father Tomkins. Nevertheless, this wasn’t the middle ages, clergymen can no longer stroll into your garden and start digging up your turf whenever they please, so I had to make my feelings known and get him off my land. I opened my mouth to shout but before I could get the words out, I felt something. The divine love of God had touched me deep in my soul the second I tried to speak. Taken aback by this feeling I had never experienced before, I sank to the ground and wept at the feet of Father Tomkins. It was at this point that he noticed me.

“Hello child.” He spoke, it was a bit patronising and brought me right to my senses, so I straightened up, dusted myself off and replied.
“What is going on? What are you doing in my garden?” I said.
“I am not doing anything, my child. I am simply a vessel for God’s majesty and brilliance, to do with me as he pleases.”
“I think you must be confused because I’m not a child by the way. But oh my God, that’s great! That’s why I can feel this divine presence coursing through my veins. This must be how the virgin Mary felt when Gabriel appeared to her! Am I the subject of an immaculate conception?” I felt the part of my body where a womb would be and satisfied myself that it felt the same as normal, not necessarily proof positive, but I like to think that if I had spawned a womb, I would feel it.
“No child, it’s nothing to do with you.” My head sank. “You have been caught in the splash of the mission that God has issued me with. God has told me that he is stuck, buried underground somewhere in our neighbourhood. That is what has brought me here, the closer I get to him, the more I feel it. Can you feel it too? We’re getting warmer.”

He buried his spade in the soil again and, right on cue, I felt another burst of God’s love filling me up, and he was right, it did certainly feel like it had come from the direction in which he was digging. He continued to make progress while I watched on, occasionally criticising his form.
“Your technique is getting a bit sloppy, are you sure you’re a vessel?” I said.
“Quite sure. No matter where I go and what I do, I will continue to feel God’s love bursting through my arms.” At that he rolled up his sleeve and showed me his arms and they did indeed look fit to burst. Veins were throbbing along his impressive muscles and it was clear that God’s will was working that shovel with more brute force than technique. Not to criticise a man of the cloth, but I could tell that he would take all day to dig down deep enough to find God at this rate. I went inside to grab my pickaxe and join him in his efforts. Every now and then I would lean on it in a casual manner so as to invite questions or maybe a compliment about my physique, but Father Tomkins refused to be drawn in, he was absolutely not going for it. Therefore I kept my admiration of his biceps to myself, they were really the work of God anyway and so it would be slightly disingenuous for me to compliment the vessel.

As the afternoon drew by I was silently picking away with my axe, softening up the ground for the priest to shovel dirt out onto my patio, it was really making a mess of my backyard but I was never one to complain, if we could find God then I dare say it would all be worth it, he would probably just magically clean all my paving slabs and throw in a few gold ingots for my trouble, but that was a big if. Nevertheless, the feeling was infectious and I was starting to believe, I was evermore intoxicated with zeal the deeper down we dug and could not wait to feel the loving embrace of this man, and by this man I mean God, not Father Tomkins.

Belief or not though, it mattered little when digging for God. It’s very much a results business. You can put in all the hard work you like but ultimately it only matters when you bonk your pickaxe on something that feels remarkably like a skull and you hear a heavenly voice saying ‘Ow my head!’ I wonder if God would feel pain if I whacked him in the head with my pickaxe, I mentally put a pin in that one as something that would either be answered imminently when I caved his skull in, or it would be something that I could ask the priest next time we have a lemonade break.

I couldn’t help but think that maybe if my wife had been home she would have brought out some lemonade for us by now, she had always been far more willing to engage with the local community than me, but she was gone now and we were to remain thirsty until Father Tomkins offered to run in and get some. It gives you a lot of time to think, when you’re digging in the garden in almost-silence with an almost-stranger, and my wife was never far from my mind. Maybe that’s why I was joining in this farcical endless adventure. Maybe I just needed an escape. But maybe, just maybe, I actually believed in what we were doing here, and knew that we would eventually find God, if we could only just keep digging for a few minutes more.

Dusk was breaking by the time that we took our first rest and the priest was yet to break a sweat, he was a machine. I figured the power of Christ was compelling him, but it transpired later that he was actually in the gym every day when he was not tending to his flock, which is most of the time in this increasingly secular Western world of ours. Maybe in the middle east where they still take religion seriously the clerical class wouldn’t have time for this kind of thing, and that’s their loss, I’m sure the people would give a lot of support to the digging imam. Matter of fact, I wish I was digging with an imam right now, it would probably mean that I would be digging through fine, soft sand, a damn sight easier than this hard British ground. An imam could also only be better company than this mute priest that was I wasting my day with. As the priest brought out the glorious respite of a fresh glass of lemonade, a thought occurred to me, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t considered it earlier, but it would make our mission so much easier.
“Why can’t God dig himself out?” I asked.

“Who says he wants to be dug out?”
At this I swore wildly at the priest, threw my pickaxe at his head and chased him off my property. The damn fool convincing me to give my precious Friday trying to hunt for a God that is tunnelling about beneath my garden trying his best to avoid us. I won’t be letting a divine sensation guide my actions again anytime soon.

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