God is completely outside this house but his mystery bounces off the retina of even the tracer creatures seeking their way through the Void without the light of Christ, who camest among us and show us our God operating on the inside beyond our sun-gazing ventriloquy.
Where is this house? It is there, balanced on the best rise on the best hill, open to stragglers and stocked with choice wine but they look not to God-ward, denying His gifts, sobbing and dirt rolling twenties, reinventing the high spots on which they were perched, ignoring the springs cleansing their soles.
And where then is God’s holy, immortal room roaming the fields and unfolding new deeps (the thought of Him coming back gives some folks… ideas). God is not conscience, and He’s not hugging trees and He dressed not in space suits at noon keeping bees. I sense God’s flower expanded, but not giving bloom a Father & son together, spinning life on a loom.
And thus is my God, more present than presence; a Theo-logos in word, and in deed, and in essence.