The life of a worm

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Here theology.

I knew a worm. Let me describe a worm.

Drank. Drank too much.

The mouth of the bottle moved its lips a hypnotic serpent.

The two would kiss. Terrible taste. Pseudo love. Nirvana for Dummies.

The worm hated this relationship. In some sense even succumbing he would not succumb.

Would say: I know God means better for me.

Now the moral folk would look at him and shake their heads.

To preserve their holiness would move away and try to shut him out from -- what?

God's grace?

But what did the rich know, in effect, about God's grace? Even Protestants now thought they'd achieved their own prosperity by their own hands. Forgetting Luther they were digging themselves up by their own root.

Meanwhile the worm drank because.

Exclusion. Bad memories. Habit.

A depression that Christians claimed to be sin. Wilderness blues.

Too deep even to explore. But God was there.

Even in depression God was there.

The worm never lost his grip on God and with his worminess even had more to grip with. A grip on God's goodness. God's presence in places mere humans wouldn't go.

The worm would often say: I want to stop kissing the bottle and kiss God instead. And this is possible!

And this was even what the drinking meant.

The drinking was a fervent wish not to drink.

Imitation and perfection seemed to be out of the question. The worm could only love God and pray.

So now the question: what were God's own feelings about this worm?

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