What are the angels doing? he demanded.
I squinted and looked at the head of the pin.
Just milling around and doing nothing,
Much like a hive of idle honey bees.
They're dancing, you damn fool, the angel said.
When I looked close I saw it was true.
The sounds they danced to were inaudible
But order and rhythm guided their movement.
The stately dance, which at the time I thought
To be some form perhaps of jazz ballet
With aleatoric choreography
That shuttled and shuffled gavottes and bourees
Directed by a hidden Markov chain,
I now recognize to be, by virtue
Of improved central processing unit,
The Fibonacci sequence of integers
Graphed on pinhead in intricate mazes,
Eccentric, intervolved, yet regular,
More regular than most dancing you'll see
When most irregular and random it seemed.
And here is proof, he said, of God's power,
And here is proof of your new ability
To see the power at work in all things,
Even on the smallest of all dance floors.
Prophet minds see more than meets the eye:
Observe angels foxtrot out their praise
Of Godhead's tightly programmed machine!
And why do you sometimes say God, I asked,
And sometimes Godhead? Which is correct?
It wouldn't do at all to get it wrong
Since I know how miffed a god can get
If even heathens mispronounce his name.
Teach me the way to make the proper sounds:
I'll rememorize them in my hourly chants.
Some say God and some say Godhead,
But Godhead is the more descriptive term,
For as Maimonides has always argued,
To ascribe limbs to God is just absurd,
Yet to conceive God to be dismembered,
To be only a legless, armless torso,
No matter how magnificent and manly,
Is positively too grotesque for words,
While to believe that what remain, the head,
Is also absent, amounts to atheism
And sheer sacrilege, if not heresy.
Highest authority supports my argument.
As David said, is he who made the ear,
And who made the eye himself deaf and blind?
Nor should any true logic attempt
A contradiction of the apostle Paul,
Who saw through a looking glass darkly
Divine nature revealed in his own soul.
How he achieved this feat is unknown,
But it was a shocking breach of security.
Somehow he had bypassed the whirlwind,
Bypassed anti-eavesdropper comets,
Gained entry to the divine database
And decoded God's private language.
Only God's spirit knows what God is,
And it knows that God is in fact a head;
Godhead is a head, a cephlapod,
To which same well-defined class belong
The squid, octopus and chambered nautilis.
God's head is far more handsome a head
And far more carefully coiffured a head
Than, for instance, the squid's, but just the same
It is absolutely, indisputably,
A functional and morphological head,
A head to which sinews are fast attached
And from which the world like a puppet dangles,
A cranium crammed with perfect knowledge
Recapitulating all of creation,
Real and imagined, in one, continuous,
Bursting, epiphenomenal brainstorm.
And to these truths it might well be added
Just as a fine diamond needs a setting,
A mouth manifestly requires a head,
Unless given over to Cheshire smiles,
And Godhead is nothing without a mouth,
As I in this angel's office attest.
Liber Jonae Contents