God

The other day a feminist friend asked me if I really believed in God. I said I did. She said, “But you believe God is a woman, right? Or, at least, that he’s half female?”

“No,” I said. “I know that God is a man. Otherwise he wouldn’t let women go through so much shit.”

I had to wash the piled-up dishes today. I thought about what I would do if I were suddenly to become God. Let’s say God decided to pass the crown and He picked me to succeed Him. (I don’t know why He would do that. I didn’t get into the logistics of it.)

So I’d be God. At first I was thinking that maybe no one would know the difference.

People would pray to me. Some of the prayers I’d answer immediately, and the others I’d leave in my inbox for later. I’d get to them two months later, or else I’d wait so long that I’d be ashamed to answer the prayers and I’d delete them instead.

“Why doesn’t God answer our prayers?” those people would say.

People would suffer. I’d try to alleviate some of the suffering, but then I’d get annoyed that there was so much, and I’d end up ignoring the bulk of it. “Oh, quit your whining,” I’d say. “Aren’t you old enough to fix it yourself?” And I’d go off and buy supplies to make a new plant or bacteria or something.

“Why does God allow suffering?” people would say.

That’s how I thought it would be, at first. But then I knew I was kidding myself—that it wouldn’t be that way at all. I realized that my heavenly reign would be decadent, political, and totally selfish, like that of the gods of Mount Olympus.

The first thing I’d do is give all my friends little godships of their own. “I want Veronica to be the Goddess of the Hearth and Long-Distance Phone Conversations,” I’d say. And I’d dole out little powers and omniscience and things to them. Then I’d set up a really good meeting place for us all—sort of like Mount Olympus, but warmer and not so high. (Did you think I meant Hell? No. But I am afraid of heights.) We’d sit around and gossip about all our mortals, drink sacred beverages, and stash the tributes we’d raked in.

Then, once all that was set up, the real fun would begin. The temples would be built and people would start worshipping in earnest. And—I’m not gonna lie—I’d binge on some massive slaughter. Goodbye to all the rapists, child molesters, and people who’d done me wrong. Maybe they’d go in a big flood. Maybe in a plague of grasshoppers. I don’t know. I don’t like to dwell on those things.

The things I’d prefer to dwell on are the details. “This person is humble and thrifty,” I’d say. “She will win the Publishers’ Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. This person is vain and mean. Her hair will be orange for a year. This person makes me smile. I will visit him in the form of Hello Kitty and he will bear my child.”

I’d have fun. I’d throw thunder and lightning or make it rain frogs to get my point across. I’d reassume human form, go down to Earth, and test people. I’d make them prove their love.

But, then again, I’d probably get tired of that after a while and eventually become like the first god I described. I imagine a deity probably gets bored after so many years.

Was that silly and megalomaniacal? It’s only something I thought of while washing the dishes.