The Trouble with God Page 4

  God remembered feeling at this time that at least part of the problem with Jesus pertained to the version of his story that was being told by that insufferable little twat, John. “‘In the beginning was the word and the word was with me and the word was me?’ (NT, Jo. 1:1) Pretentious crap.” And then there had been John’s nauseating coyness. Talking about laying his head on Jesus’ chest (which he had called his ‘bosom,’ gay) and then asking in that barfy, mewling little voice of his, “Who will betray you, Lord?” (NT, Jo. 21:20) “I should have made John the traitor, so I could have watched his guts explode instead of Judas’s,” God mutters to himself. (NT, Acts 1:18)

  One thing that John had gotten right was that God and Jesus had a deeply, shall we say, imbalanced relationship. “Look at all the times Jesus talks about how much I love him in this gospel,” God had pointed out to Gabriel. (NT, Jo. 3:35, 5:20, 8:54, 10:17, 15:9, 17:24) “A lot, right? Now look at the number of times he says that he loves me. (NT, Jo. 14:31) Once, right? It’s insulting, Gabriel, it really is.”

  God had begun to suspect at this time that Jesus was, in some very subtle ways, criticizing him. “If you only love those who love you, what’s good about that?” Jesus had asked his followers (NT, Lu. 6:32), and God had instantly bristled: “I only love those who love me. (The truth is, I don’t even love them, but never mind that.) Is Jesus judging me for that? And what about him saying, ‘Hate your father’? What the hell did he mean by that? (NT, Lu. 14:26) Did Jesus hate me? For what possible reason?”

  It was around this time that people had started to accuse Jesus of being an overweight drunk. (NT, Mar. 11:19) God hadn’t thought that Jesus was either overweight or an alcoholic, but he definitely hadn’t minded hearing these things said. “The Fat Drunk,” God had started to call Jesus. “What kind of nonsense is the Fat Drunk spouting now?” he would ask Gabriel in a fauxjocular voice. (“I’m going to kill the Fat Drunk soon,” is what he had actually been thinking.)

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Once God had made the decision that Jesus was going to die, he had quickly sent Moses and Elijah down to tell him what was going to happen. The two of them had flown down out of the sky and landed near Jesus and God had hoped going in that their conversation might be a little more, you know, casual, a little bit less rushed, that Jesus’ death might come up more organically. But instead, Moses had landed and pretty much instantly blurted out, “You’re going to be killed, Jesus.” (NT, Lu. 9:31) Jesus, looking stunned, had stared back at Moses, speechless. The three men had stood there for a few moments in uncomfortable silence before Moses and Elijah had turned and walked away.

  Seeing the horrified look on Jesus’ face, God had thought, “I need to say something to him,” so he quickly took the shape of a cloud (which had felt awesome, by the way; it had been way too long; God really enjoyed being a cloud) and called out, “This is my beloved son, listen to him!” He had said it loud enough for three of Jesus’ nearby disciples to hear him. (These disciples, incidentally, might have been dreaming this entire event [NT, Lu. 9:32]; it sort of seemed like they had been, in fact … but you know what, no, they weren’t, this all actually happened.)

  Later, thinking back on how he’d cloud-spoken to Jesus, God felt slightly self-conscious. “I’d just had Moses tell Jesus that he was going to die; what was the point of my telling three disciples who already listened to Jesus that they should listen to him?” “That was kind of a non sequitur, wasn’t it?” God had asked Moses when he returned to heaven. When Moses sort of hemmed and hawed a little too long, God beat the shit out of him again.

  Then things got genuinely difficult.

  The night before Jesus was going to be killed, he dropped to his knees and begged God for his life. (NT, Mat. 26:36–42, Mar. 14:35–36) God stared down at his son, feeling deeply conflicted. “Why does he have to die?” God suddenly asked himself. “What’s the point?” A long moment passed, and then God suddenly exclaimed, “I’ll let him live! I’ll let him live for a long time, in fact! I’ll have him travel the entire world, journey to every continent, let him spread my word everywhere! Who knows, maybe he will even get married and have children! How would that be a bad thing? It wouldn’t; it would be wonderful. Grandchildren—great-grandchildren—family—that’s what this is all about, not killing your own son, who on Earth would do that?”

  God knew how the humans thought, obviously, how desperate they were to believe that he loved them. They would tell themselves the story that God had killed Jesus because he loved them so much, he knew that. But that was patently ridiculous. “The truth is,” God had realized, “that if I actually cared for mankind at all, I would allow as many of them as possible to get to know Jesus. Also, if I had any positive feelings for Mary (no matter how badly she may have treated me), I would never force her to watch her own son being tortured to death, that would be … well, honestly, that would be hateful. The truth is, if there is any love inside of me, any at all, I will spare my son. And you know what, that’s exactly what I will do! Don’t cry, Jesus, I will act out of love now, like a father would. Don’t cry, son, I will spare you!”

  Eighteen hours later God stared silently down, barely blinking as he watched Jesus die. “Why have you forsaken me?” Jesus had whispered near the end. (NT, Mat. 27:46) God hadn’t moved a muscle. “He knew the plan,” he murmured to no one in particular. “He did know the plan.”

  But why had Jesus’ death needed to be so damned cruel? Why so excruciating? Why so humiliating? Had Jesus really needed to be spat upon? Had he really needed to be mocked with, “If you’re the son of God, why don’t you fly down off your cross?” Had he really needed to have some naked man following him around? (NT, Mar. 14:51–52) (“What the hell was that about anyway?” God had demanded, but no one had known. When one angel had suggested “a proto-streaker,” God quickly made that angel’s eyes blow out.) “But honestly,” God had wondered, “why did Jesus’ life need to end like that? Why couldn’t he have just taken poison like that irritating old prick Socrates? Why did I give Jesus the kind of death I subjected Jezebel, whom I despised, to?”

  To cover his deep discomfort about this moment, God had suddenly glowered down at Earth and, feigning fury, caused a huge earthquake. (NT, Mat. 27:51) When that hadn’t been sufficient to express his fake-rage (“My son,” God had cried out; “My SON!”), he brought some skeletons to life and had them strut around Jerusalem for a while. (NT, Mat. 27:52–53) That had thoroughly terrified people, which God had liked. “You killed my beloved son, now deal with an infestation of moldy skeletons!” he had bellowed down at Jerusalem.

  But there was one thing Jesus had said near the very end of his life that God had found he simply couldn’t get out of his mind. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do,” Jesus had murmured. God hadn’t known what to make of this remark; he remembered thinking that it didn’t make any sense at all. “If they know not what they do, then why would they need forgiveness? Wouldn’t the one who needs forgiveness in that case be the one who does know what he is doing?”

  God lurches to his feet. “I don’t want to think about that anymore,” he tells himself. He wavers unsteadily for a moment, then starts slowly back toward his palace, which is now visible in the distance.

  CHAPTER NINE

  But the moments that had bothered God the most during Jesus’ life had all involved his son’s various interactions with Satan. Every time Jesus and Satan had connected, it had made God queasy. To start with, during the “temptations,” why had Satan repeatedly implied that God was not Jesus’ father? (NT, Mat. 4:3–6) This ugly suggestion, to be honest, had bothered God for a long time. “What difference does it make who Jesus is related to on Joseph’s side?!” he had frequently thundered to Gabriel. (NT, Mat. 1:2–17) “Why is that relevant to anything? Joseph is not Jesus’ father—I am Jesus’ father!” These so-called genealogies had infuriated God. “They shouldn’t even be in my book,” he had fumed. “Why would anyone in their right mind think that Jose
ph was Jesus’ father? What, just because he and Mary were married? ‘Ohh, Mary’s husband must be the father of her child?’ It’s utterly laughable.” (As to where all these nasty doubts regarding God’s paternity had begun, the answer had been sadly obvious to God: “Mary. It had to be Mary.”)

  But the truth was that Jesus had made similarly annoying insinuations. “If God be glorified in the Son of Man,” Jesus had announced, “God shall also glorify him in himself and shall glorify him.” God’s first reaction to this statement had been to snort derisively. (NT, Jo. 13:32) “What the hell does it even mean? The boy is talking gibberish!” But afterward, God had found himself fulminating about something else: Why did Jesus so often refer to himself as the “Son of Man?” “Stop calling yourself that, alright, Jesus? You’re not the Son of Man; you’re the Son of ME.” But Jesus hadn’t stopped; he had referred to himself as the “Son of Man” all the way to the bitter end (NT, Jo. 13:31) and it had basically pissed God off every single time.

  It’s true that Jesus’ semi–non sequitur response to Satan’s first temptation (S: “If you’re the son of God, why don’t you turn that stone into bread?” J: “Man does not live on bread alone.” S: “… Wait, what?”) (NT, Mat. 4:4) had made everyone in heaven laugh and cheer. But the bigger question was, why hadn’t Jesus taken that opportunity to prove that he was God’s son? “I specifically gave him the ability to do magic tricks with bread, Gabriel! (NT, Mar. 6:38–44) Why didn’t he do one when Satan challenged him? In the same vein, why didn’t he jump off the temple and let angels catch him when Satan suggested he do that? Okay, fine, technically there were no angels nearby to catch him, so Jesus would have been smashed on the rocks below, so maybe he was right to go around that one, but still, why didn’t he at least contradict Satan? “I am the son of God, devil, stop saying that I am not or I will turn you into a pig!” Which was another thing Jesus could have done to Satan at any time, obviously. (NT, Mat. 8:32) (God had enjoyed it immensely, by the way, when Jesus had made demons pop out of people and fly into pigs; he had adored it when the demon-possessed pigs then proceeded to drown themselves. “Well played, son,” God had nodded proudly as he watched the demon-pigs go under the water for the final time. “Beautifully played.”)

  But the most disturbing temptation by far from God’s point of view had been Satan’s final one: “Rule the world with me, Jesus.” (NT, Lu. 4:5–7) Why had Satan thought this would be tempting to Jesus? Why had he believed that the two of them teaming up was even a possibility? Work with me? That was Satan’s temptation? It had made no sense. And yet … Satan did know how to tempt; it’s basically what God had created him for. So what he said was never exactly meaningless. Had Satan known something—perhaps sensed something—in Jesus? A kind of personal ambition, a hidden desire to actually have power over the entire world? “Could Satan be right—could that be what Jesus truly wants?” God had asked himself before suddenly stopping in horror, recalling that Jesus had already openly stated that this was, in fact, exactly what he wanted. (NT, Mat. 25:31)

  Why hadn’t Jesus attacked Satan at that moment? Pushed him off the mountain or bashed his head in with a rock or at the very least punched him in the face and yelled: “You’re evil and God is good and I will never ever partner with you, Satan, now GO STRAIGHT TO HELL!” All Jesus had said to Satan was, “It is written that thou shall serve only God.” (NT, Mat. 4:10) “That’s the only reason you’re not teaming up with him?” God had sputtered. “Because it’s written that you can’t? What, if that wasn’t written, then you’d do it?”

  More dark questions had started to nag at God: Why was it that when Jesus exorcised people, the little devils who popped out had seemed to more or less worship him? (NT, Lu. 4:41) “Why are demons obeying Jesus? That’s what I want to know!” God had demanded, staring down in stunned disbelief. Some people on Earth had even started to suggest that Jesus and Satan were partners by this time! (NT, Lu. 11:15) Why, God had even heard rumors that Jesus was planning on visiting Satan in his home, hell! (NT, Mat. 12:40) “He’d better not,” God had rumbled ominously to himself. (Knowing that he would anyway, obviously.)

  But the most confounding moment of all from God’s point of view had come near the end, when Jesus gave a soggy piece of bread (aka his “body”) to the person who would betray him—Judas.(NT, Jo. 13:26) (“And by the way, don’t even get me started on that whole ‘eat my body, drink my blood’ thing, Gabriel. What, was Jesus a vampire or something? Not that vampires were real, obviously. They were not. Giants [OT, Gen. 6:1–4], wizards [NT, Rev. 22:15], zombies [NT, Jo. 11:44], talking horses [OT, Job 39:19–25], ghosts [OT, 1S 28:15–16], skeletons [OT, Ezek. 37:5; NT, Mat. 27:52–53], dragons [NT, Rev. 12:3–4] and sea monsters [OT, Job 40:15–31], yes, definitely. Vampires? No, no way.”) But the truly disturbing thing about this moment occurred just after Judas ate the sop. At the exact moment Satan entered into Judas, Jesus looked Judas in the eye and said, “Do it quickly.” (NT, Jo. 13:27) And God had instantly thought to himself: “What the hell did that mean?”

  “Do it quickly?” Had Jesus been implying that God would have dragged things out and made him suffer even longer? (“At that moment, you know what, I definitely would have!”) Had this moment been a glimpse of some kind of clandestine relationship between Jesus and Satan? Had God’s man Paul been in on things too? If he hadn’t been, then why exactly had Satan defended Paul, even to the point of beating up some priests and tearing their clothes off for him? (NT, Acts 19:13)

  What had been the meaning of this strange complicity between Jesus and Satan? This question had weighed on God for several hundred years, until one day he had suddenly known the answer. “I don’t think Jesus was my son,” God told Gabriel.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “It stinks,” God mutters, nearing his palace. It’s the smell of rotting bodies and it’s dreadful. There are dead wise men on the ground (NT, Rev. 4:10–11)—dead angels—dead eyeball-monsters. (NT, Rev. 4:7–8) This is something no one tells you about heaven: Bodies decay very slowly here. God has tried repeatedly to burn the bodies, but all he’s ever managed to do is create a noxious cloud of black smoke that’s drifted right back into his palace and made him violently ill, so he’s given up.

  Heading toward his grand exterior staircase, God wanders past what had once been an ice rink (NT, Rev. 4:6) but is now basically an empty dirt oval. His lion eyeball-monster lies dead on the ground, its many eyes seeming to stare up at God as he passes. He tries to avoid the eyes—but there are so many of them. (“Why did I give them so many eyes? It’s like I can’t ever get away from their gaze.”) At the top of the staircase, God stops and stares dully at his palace. It is deathly still, utterly deserted. In the walkway before him is a small pile of dead wise men, their necks and bodies twisted, their faces contorted into grotesquely smiling rictuses. As God kicks them out of the way, their bones snap like twigs.

  Entering his front door, God stops and cocks an ear. “Oh no,” he instantly thinks to himself. “Not again.” God hears footsteps racing toward him. It’s only been a few days since the last appearance; they are coming closer and closer together now. The footsteps get nearer and nearer and then, suddenly rounding a corner, skidding, wild-eyed, and completely out of control, a man appears. He has shit smeared on his face and in his beard; his penis is erect and he is sprinting directly at God. “Test me, Lord,” he cries out deliriously. “TEST ME!”

  “Ezekiel,” God mutters disgustedly under his breath. He hates this man; he has for a long time. Back in the day, Ezekiel had made God sound like some kind of depraved pervert. The whole “dom/sub” thing that Ezekiel had implied existed between God and Jerusalem? That had been infuriating. “I’m going to collar you and put a ring in your nose, Jerusalem?” (OT, Ezek. 16:12) “Yeah, you like those golden dildos, don’t you, whore?” (OT, Ezek. 16:17) “Fine, you have nice breasts and an attractive snatch, but you are a damned whore, Jerusalem?” (OT, Ezek. 16:7) God had not talked like that! Now it’s true that he ha
ted whores and he definitely thought golden dildo usage was abominable, but telling Jerusalem that it had nice tits? Absolutely not!

  “The problem with ‘prophets,’” God had frequently groused to Gabriel, “is that people don’t realize that they’re sometimes speaking for themselves. After I choose a prophet (and why I chose this Ezekiel whack-job I have no idea), people seem to think that every single thing they say is coming from me, but you know what, it isn’t. Sometimes a lot of it, honestly most of it, is all them. Like Ezekiel instructing Jerusalem that it was ‘the whore that paid rather than got paid’ for instance? (OT, Ezek. 16:31–34) Okay fine, I actually did say that one because it was true, but all that ‘horse-cock’ nonsense? (OT, Ezek. 23:20) I used that term one time, Gabriel, one time!”

  “Test me, Lord!” Ezekiel cries giddily, charging at God. God suddenly throws out his powerful right arm, violently slamming the base of his palm into Ezekiel’s nose and driving the bone up into his brain. “Die, shit-eater,” God hisses under his breath. Ezekiel’s body stands motionless for a moment, then suddenly starts to hump the air (sickeningly, it happens every time), then stops, teeters for a beat, and falls flat onto its back, its stiff little erection popping straight up. God grabs Ezekiel by the hair and twists his neck roughly until the head pops off, then roughly throws the head down a trash chute. But it’s pointless and God knows it. It doesn’t matter what he does anymore; it won’t be long before Ezekiel’s back again.

  A moment later, God collapses heavily into his throne. A long moment of silence and stillness passes. Then a soft voice begins to murmur in God’s ear. “You are wonderful, Lord,” the voice purrs. “You are perfect.” It is God’s talking throne. Originally, the throne had merely “rumbled” (NT Rev. 4:5), but God had quickly trained it to speak in full sentences: i.e., “You are excellent, Lord, you are beloved, you are worshipped by all, etc., etc., etc.” The throne was correct in all of these statements, obviously. But still—God had by this time come to hate it. Once God had tried to “kill” the throne, but when he hit it with a sledgehammer, it shrieked like an old woman, so he stopped and never tried to kill it again. It was still his best and most comfortable chair and he didn’t actually want to destroy it, so he let it be, the price being that it would occasionally not stop talking. “You are marvelous, God,” the throne murmurs. “You are omni-benevolent.” Once God had adored this word; it had made him feel, well, honestly, tingly all over. At one point, in fact, during a particularly difficult stretch with mankind, God had actually started writing “affirmations” to himself and “I am omni-benevolent” had been his very favorite one. Now, however, he finds that he despises the word.