There are thousands of religions, and a remarkable number assure us they have the correct instructions for worshipping the correct god.
If yours alone is right, the others have made a terrible mistake. Fortunately, you were born into the right family, in the right place, and received the right information. An extraordinary stroke of luck.
Then someone in authority tells you God needs money.
This is where I have a question.
Why?
He can create a universe. She can answer prayers. It can know every thought you’ve ever had, including the ones you hoped hadn’t been recorded.
But somehow, the account is overdrawn.
Now, a church needs money. Roofs leak. Electricity costs money. People who work deserve to eat. Tell me we need to repair the furnace, and we can discuss the furnace.
But tell me the Almighty needs my lunch money, and I have a few follow-up questions.
Why can’t God create money?
Perhaps that would be counterfeiting. Fair enough. Even the Supreme Being may prefer to avoid a conversation with the Treasury Department.
But what about all the money people have lost?
Bills tucked into books. Coins behind sofas. An envelope put somewhere so safe that its owner died without finding it.
Surely an all-knowing being knows which Bible contains a forgotten fifty.
Send an angel. Retrieve the envelope. Check the sofa.
I’m not asking for another universe. I’m asking for a modest recovery operation.
And if asking that question gets me threatened, shunned, or shown the door, we have arrived back at the acid test.
Can I question the authority?
Can I decline the collection plate?
Can I leave and still be treated as someone worth loving?
Because if God can do anything, but I must skip lunch to keep him solvent, I’d like permission to examine the books. 
