God is everywhere. This is something I tend to overlook when I'm going about my day. When I'm at work, the gym, the grocery store, my car, etc I'm not thinking about where God is at that very moment. I'm too busy worrying about finishing my paperwork or getting the treadmill near the AC vent or buying the right kind of peanut butter. I forget that God shows up all time. God is in the ordinary, the everyday, and even the unlikely. I was reminded of this when I was re-reading one of my favorite poems, "The Hippopotamus". One hand, the poem talks about a hippopotamus in it's everyday life. But on the other hand, the poem talks about God and the church. The first time I read that poem, I remembering thinking that it didn't really make sense. How can he write two lines about a hippo eating from a mango tree and then about the church being one with God? It doesn't have to make sense. Now I'm sure there is some kind of analysis that the hippopotamus can be a metaphor for something that makes perfect sense to the literary critics. But I like to see the poem as a way of saying to us that God can come out of anything. He shows up, no matter what, any time, any place. So when you think that God isn't there, think of the hippo. I bet you'll start seeing things a little differently.
The Hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
T.S. Elliot
