York, 27th August 2018...
See that old guy – portly, bent and balding – with his grizzled white beard and black-plate Stratocaster – playing cosmic licks over a crunch-bass, slick-drum backing track.
And mm, shall I go off-piste? Shall I picture the invisible? Cos his guardian angel, grooving behind and around him, murmurs “Go, go, that phrasing is so beautiful.”
And shall I shift further off norm and follow the angel’s phone upstairs? Cos what is God saying? “Look! Look! I made him! Isn’t he beautiful?”
And yes, oh yes, he is – that portly, bent and balding busker. His guitar soaring like soft mountains over a landscape of crunch-bass, slick-drums below him.
I drop a coin in his case, say thank you, and go my way, floating on music. And everywhere I go God is saying “Look, I made her! Isn’t she beautiful?” (ordinary mother, plodding along)
“Look, I made him! Isn’t he beautiful?” (ordinary bloke, whistling and limping) “Look, I made her! Isn’t she beautiful?” (ordinary everyone, any gender, any age)
And all their angels are celebrating, because here and there – right now – are genuine chinks of light. And light is what angels feed on.
So yeah, rock on, portly busker! Rock on, my beautiful brother!