In 2024—believe it or not, or believe it and pity me if you’re comfortably atheist—I remain as open to the notion of God as ever. In fact, I want to be the next prophet. This is not an easy goal. For life is too short, the task is too absurd, and I’m too simple. I am merely a 34-year-old woman who lives in Brooklyn Heights, employed in finance, and armed with a degree in Economics from a tier 367 university—not exactly the prophetic figure that God will take seriously. I highly doubt I'm the Mohammed due for a visit from an archangel or the Saul who will witness the literal light of heaven.
But it’s also a bit unfair of God to expect me to believe just as much as those prophets when I have never been privy to such explicit revelations.
Extraordinary measures are necessary to better my odds of encountering God. This is a superficial blog post that is only concerned with the circumstances and activities that will lead to meeting God. It is about the “manufacturing” that will get me to the “meaning,” not the meaning itself.
Below are a few examples. Some of them involve slight adjustments to my daily routine, while others are decidedly unconventional.
I must wake up at 4 a.m. every morning if I’m going to achieve the intimacy I’m looking for with God. I don’t try to be productive or anything. I just listen to music, dance, read, write, walk.
I must always have a clean apartment. I find it hard to imagine that God will stop anywhere near an apartment that smells of onions or has Ikea furniture (God really hates Ikea). So I got rid of all my Ikea furniture—luckily, I didn’t have many. My apartment looks and smells really nice. God will be impressed.
I only wear organic fabric. I would prefer to meet God in silk. So, as much as possible, I’ve been avoiding any fabric that is not silk (Especially at 4 am).
Every time it rains, I go to touch and dig fertile soil after rain. Touching the core of the earth is a counterintuitive way to touch God in the sky. I have managed to do this a few times this year. I’m sorry to report that I didn’t find God. However, I dug up a uranium mine by mistake, and now I’m a billionaire and own houses in all the expensive places (except the Hamptons. The vanilla nature of people there clashes with my avant-garde teenage sensibilities. Additionally, I don’t want to be the only brown billionaire in the Hamptons. I’m afraid I’ll get mixed with the commoners or, worse, the millionaires). Anyways, back to my net worth. In addition to homes, I’m now the sole owner of all Mongolian Przewalski’s horses. I own all 1900 of them. With the rest of my net worth, I plan to get a convertible car, invest in AI, and put some money aside so I can build a place of worship for my future religion all over Africa. Someone needs to save the poor kids in Africa once and for all. I think it will be me.
Oh don’t worry. I'm not abandoning my roots. I'll forever be the respectable daughter of a nomad beduin from the Arabian desert. And if religion is a language, Islam is my mother tongue. Trust me, I prefer re-engaging with familiar Islamic practices over trying to become a prophet myself. I’m going to Hajj this June. This Ramadan, I attended all the midnight prayers at the mosque, standing behind the Imam I knew from my youth. It was beautiful. Tears flowed freely during prayer—not just mine but those of everyone around me. While they cried out of love for Allah, my tears were for my lost faith, my lost self, and my lost past.
Anything else I should do?
As I continue this journey, I’m fortunate that, as a new billionaire, I can explore these existential questions from the comfort of my private jet, writing this post high above the earth and alone (well, except for the pilot and two attractive Estonian flight attendants). God, it’s 4 a.m., and I’m wearing silk. Please come and meet me.
