The Story of God

by Chris Matheson

  The wager had blown up in God’s face, humiliating him in front of all his angels; he wanted it over at this point. But Satan still did not show up to claim his victory. Why was he allowing the bet to go on and on? “Because every minute that goes by is worse for you,” popped into his head. “Because he knows you and understands your vanity and pride and is using them to make a complete fool of you.”

  “Wrong”‘ God shouted internally. “Wrong wrong wrong!” No one was making a fool of him! If Satan’s plan was to draw the bet out to make God look bad (and by the way, it probably wasn’t, that was probably giving Satan way too much credit; he was probably working on hell, that’s probably what he was doing), if he was “scheming,” well, God knew how to throw it right back in his damned evil face!

  “I will send another man into the conversation!” God exulted. “This young man will argue on my behalf with eloquence and passion. He will silence all the others and, yes, shame them. He will tell Job the truth about me and my greatness. After he speaks, Job will love and respect me again and I will win the bet!” It was a marvelous plan and it would work, God knew it would.

  The only problem was that the young man God picked to be his advocate, Elihu? Well, let’s just say he wasn’t everything God might have wished for. He talked a lot, definitely—but he was annoyingly pompous and self-important. “What I’m about to tell you is quite important,” he kept saying, and God squirmed. (Job 32:18, 33:3) “Get to the point!” he practically yelled. But when Elihu finally did get around to making God’s case, well, even then God wasn’t pleased. “He doesn’t make it sound any better or more convincing than the other guys,” God fumed.

  “I’m going to have to do this myself,” God began to understand. “None of them is arguing my position correctly, I will have to do it.” He prepared himself to do so—then had to wait as Elihu blathered on and on. “I will teach you wisdom,” he said (Job 33:33), and God considered fire-blasting him from the sky at that moment. “Don’t tell people how wise you are, idiot!” he whispered harshly. He wished the other four men would kill Elihu, stone him, impale him, anything to shut him up. It had been a huge mistake to send this little twerp in his place. Elihu was insufferable; the other men obviously hated him and God understood why. “Shut up,” he began to murmur, “shut up, shut up, shut up.”

  But Elihu didn’t shut up. “A man of sound opinion is before you,” he yammered, and God shook his head in amazement. (Job 36:4) “I think he may be the single most irritating person I have ever created,” God said, “and that is saying a lot.” God could practically feel Satan’s amusement by now. He felt hot, flushed, foolish. He knew that he had to step in and fix things, quickly.

  Finally, Elihu finished. There was silence. “This is the moment,” God thought. “This is my time.” He began to speak extremely loudly and forcefully. God had a huge, deep, powerful voice, but heaven was quite a distance from earth, so he had to yell.

  Chapter Twenty

  This was not how God had imagined the wager playing itself out, but what needed to be done needed to be done. God needed to straighten everybody out, and he was going to do so. Fine, he hadn’t planned on this, he didn’t have “prepared remarks,” but so what? He would speak extemporaneously. “The first thing I will do is put Job in his place,” God thought to himself. “How dare you question me? Did you make the earth?!” he bellowed. (Job 38:4) That felt good.

  “Not only did I make the earth,” he continued, “I made it so well that my angels shouted for joy!” (Job 38:7) Which was true; they had shouted for joy when God had created … wait … were there angels present when he had made the earth? No, there weren’t, this was a bad start. Also, was he bragging? Did he sound insecure? Should he stop right now? Was he about to go off a cliff? These questions flashed across God’s mind, but he charged on: “There is no stopping me now!”

  “I created the stars!” God thundered as the five humans gaped upward in stunned silence, obviously terrified and intimidated. “I should stop now,” flitted across God’s mind. “I’ve made my point: Don’t question me. I should stop now.” But the truth was—he was just getting started. He’d been holding these feelings of wounded pride and resentment in for a long time, he was furious about how this bet had played out—and he needed to get it all off his chest. “Have you walked along the bottom of the ocean?” God boomed (Job 38:16) and then instantly thought: “That sounded bizarre. I haven’t walked along the bottom of the ocean. Why did I say that? I don’t even like water, it scares me.” But the words were pouring out now and would not be stopped.

  “Surely you know the answers to these questions!” God yelled down at Job in a taunting voice. (Job 38:21) “Stop,” he began to tell himself, “stop stop stop.” But he couldn’t stop; he knew that he sounded mean, that he was bullying a poor sick man who’d lost all his children—a man who had been his favorite—but he couldn’t restrain himself. God felt feverish; he was literally trembling with rage. The longer he talked, the more livid he felt. And as that happened, he started to say things that he didn’t really understand. “I talk to lightning and it talks back to me. ‘I’m ready,’ it says!” he shrieked and instantly thought: “That sounds crazy.” (Job 38:35)

  “Get a grip, God. You’re losing it—you need to stop talking right now, you sound like a lunatic.” But it was no good; he was a man possessed now; possessed by hatred, rage, and bitterness. He knew Satan was laughing at him, but it didn’t matter anymore; the flood of words would not, could not, be stopped. “Who provides food for ravens when their young cry out for God?” he bellowed. (Job 38:41) What was he saying? Baby ravens didn’t cry out to him, he knew that. “Caw! Caw! God!” What, did parrots cry out to him too? “Brawk! Polly wants God!” No, ludicrous! “Why am I talking about unicorns now?” God wondered. (Job 39:9) “Do I actually believe in them? What, am I going to start talking about Bigfoot next?!”

  To say that this was going badly would have been a colossal understatement. It was a disaster. The five men were staring up at the sky with baffled and, to be totally honest, vaguely concerned looks on their faces. God had lost the wager with Satan, badly. Now he was losing a lot more; he knew that, but he couldn’t seem to stop it from happening. “Don’t get started about ostriches and horses, God,” he warned himself. But it was no good. “Ostriches are idiots!” he yelled. “They are so stupid they don’t even fly!” No, ostriches don’t fly because they can’t fly, I know that! “Horses cannot be frightened!” God thundered. The men looked up at him, confused. “Horses love battle! They say ‘Aha!’ because they love it so much!” (Job 39:22–25) I know nothing about horses, this is completely wrong!

  Job gave him an opportunity to escape this mess. He groveled on the ground and begged for mercy. “I am nothing, God,” he whimpered. (Job 40:4) “Good, I can stop now,” God thought to himself. “Job has been chastised; this can and should end now.” God paused for a moment—then realized he wasn’t through talking. He had more to say. So Job had more or less begged for mercy … well, his answer was no. No mercy! “How dare you question me!” he found himself screaming again. “How dare you question my justice! Have you a thunder-y voice like God’s?” (Job 40:9) (The third person thing sounded ridiculous, he suddenly realized. Who talked about themselves in third person? Pretentious idiots!)

  God’s mind was spinning; he thought he was about to pass out. He was talking very fast; he thought his voice sounded high and shrill and panicky. God wanted to stop talking, he really did—but the words continued to pour out of him, loud and frantic. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He had a mad, feverish glitter in his eyes; some angels were backing away from him. Now—oh no—God started to talk about behemoth, the sea monster, and instantly, instantly, he knew that was a terrible idea. He had found himself talking about behemoth on occasion before—usually after too much wine—and thinking back, he felt that he’d always sounded too excited and emotional.

  God had given behemoth a name: Leviathan. “Does Le
viathan talk to you? Could you eat him if you wanted to? Could you stuff him with metal if you wanted to? Could you catch him and make him your pet? Could you tie him up so your little girls could play with him?” (Job 40:15–31) What am I saying? What does any of this even mean? Though he wasn’t sure why, God suddenly felt extremely protective of Leviathan. “Touch him and I’ll kill you!” he screamed. (Job 40:32) I’m not making any sense, I’m flailing. This is excruciating yet I cannot stop!

  God was sweating profusely now, trembling. His mouth was dry, yet spittle was flying as he yelled. He wondered if he was losing his mind—if somehow this tiny little wager with Satan was going to undo him completely. “I’m a fraud,” screamed his mind. “I’m a bully and a coward and a weakling. I’m a sexually confused and frightened little man, desperate to cover that up by threatening and berating—but they see what I am, they always have, that’s why they don’t like me, not even the ones who do!”

  God’s mind searched frantically for a way out of this awfulness. Should he stop talking? No, impossible, he was in too deep now; he had to continue. “I can still win this bet,” he told himself; it’s not too late, I’m God, I can do anything! I will pull myself out of this by … hmmmn … yes! Continuing to talk about Leviathan! “Who can remove his clothes?” God howled. “Who can pry the folds of his jowls apart? Who can open the doors in his face?” (Job 41:5–6)

  The five men stared upward, clearly befuddled. Those were odd questions, God knew that. The point he was trying to make was, “I can handle Leviathan, can you?” But the “doors-in-his-face” thing sounded bizarre. Also, Leviathan didn’t wear clothes, obviously; he was a whale-dragon!! “I must scare the humans,” God thought. “I can still do that and I will!”

  “Leviathan can breathe fire!” (Job 41:13) “He sneezes lightning!” (Job 41:10) “He has a big neck!” (Job 41:14) God stopped, suddenly exhausted. The men were staring at the ground now, clearly embarrassed. God noticed a group of angels nearby looking at him worriedly. Something caught his eye behind them—a flash of black.

  Fifty feet away, near a tree, Satan looked at him. He didn’t smile; he didn’t do anything. He just looked at God—who knew, at that moment, that something important had changed between them. “We weren’t testing Job,” suddenly crossed his mind. “We were testing me.”

  Satan’s unwavering gaze unnerved God. He blinked and looked down at earth, where Job was begging for mercy again. God took this opportunity to attack the three friends a little. He told them they were wrong and Job was right. (Job 42:7) (“By saying they were wrong, I’m basically admitting I was wrong,” God knew. This was a first. It felt awful and he vowed to never do it again.) God restored Job’s life. Or—well, not really. He instructed Mrs. Job to get pregnant ten more times (“Have fun, bitch,” he whispered to himself), and he had Job’s siblings restore their brother’s fortune. God didn’t, in truth, give Job anything at all. (Job 42:11–13) But waving his hands around and saying that he had at least allowed for a happy-ish ending to the story and God desperately wanted that. He was, he had to admit, slightly embarrassed that he couldn’t get Job’s cows back. “They were only stolen. I’m the creator of the universe, I can’t even track down stolen cows?” he muttered to himself. Sometimes his feebleness astounded even him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Finally reflecting back on the Job disaster, God felt that he understood a few things about himself. First, he needed a break, some time off to regain his perspective. There were troubled, destructive, sometimes even self-destructive parts of him that he needed to get a grip on. Second, he needed an ally, someone he could trust to run things on earth while he recovered in heaven for a while.

  This ally couldn’t be just anyone either. It had to be family. He needed that now. God couldn’t create his own mother, obviously—even if it would have been nice to have a mother to cuddle and soothe him and tell him it was all going to be okay. (“Might some of my, hmm, ambivalence about women be related to the fact that I had no mother, or if I did, that she abandoned me in a formless void?” God wondered.) He definitely didn’t want a father. He was the father, the one and only father. He certainly wasn’t going to create a daughter, that was a laughable idea. Whatever it was that needed to be done, he wasn’t going to trust a girl to do it. No, he had to have a son. Moses had been an excellent friend and David had been like a son, but now he would have an actual son, his own flesh and blood. A son who would work for him, who would love and cherish him, and whom he would love and cherish right back. It felt wonderful to God, just thinking about it, warm and reassuring and lovely.

  But as so often seemed to be the case, for all his profound wisdom and insight, there was one subject that God never quite seemed to master: Himself.

  PART II

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Several hundred years later, God put what he referred to as “Plan B” into effect. He considered how he wanted to bring his son—Jesus was the name he’d picked—into existence. Should he create him fully formed? That hadn’t worked very well with Adam and Eve so God decided against it. Should he create a baby Jesus and raise him in heaven, then send him down to earth at the age of, say, thirty? No, he had no idea how to raise a child and—to the extent that he’d seen how human children behaved, how disobedient they often were—he didn’t want to try it either.

  God decided to impregnate a woman and have her raise the baby Jesus. But how to actually do it? Would he have sex with the woman? God seriously considered the possibility, but couldn’t seem to find a woman who sparked his interest in that way. Also, why lie? He was inexperienced—the truth was that he had zero experience. He was, in other words, a virgin. And the idea of things going badly? That simply could not happen.

  So God chose to artificially inseminate the woman; yes, that was a better idea. (Question: once the girl was pregnant, would she be Jesus’ biological mother, or merely a womb to carry the young god around in? Answer: God wasn’t sure and he felt it didn’t matter much anyway. “But probably just a womb,” he thought to himself.)

  Before God inseminated Mary (for that was the girl’s name), well … he didn’t care for that part of the process. “Onanist … Onanist,” he found himself muttering at his own reflection. God sent an angel down to earth with, more or less, a turkey baster, and Mary was quickly impregnated.

  God didn’t pay attention to Mary’s pregnancy, nor did he really care much about Jesus’ first thirty years of life. He did hear stories, apocryphal he assumed, of the boy’s behavior, how he had killed people for fun, and those made him smile indulgently and murmur, “That’s my boy.” (Thom. 2:8–9)

  When Jesus turned thirty though, the wheels started turning. Jesus started to preach God’s truth. He quickly gained followers. The boy was smart and charismatic, quite a unique personality. If he lived a hundred years, he might attract followers all over the world. Or why not allow him to live nine hundred years, like Methuselah? Let him travel the globe, spreading the word everywhere! “Great idea, Lord,” God thought to himself.

  At this point, however, a question began to insinuate itself into God’s mind: Given the seriousness of the job he was giving Jesus, did he fully trust him? Sure, he was his son—but given that he didn’t actually “know” this young man, they’d never met obviously, and given how much was riding on him, God felt that he needed to put him to the test.

  Immediately after the Job disaster, God had worried that Satan would feel “empowered” by his victory—that he would start to challenge him, or even try to take over. But it hadn’t happened. Satan had been very quiet, in fact. He had gone back to hell-building and God had barely heard a word from him since. All those worries for nothing! Satan had no real power, he was God’s employee. The idea that he was, in any sense, a threat had turned out to be completely unfounded. Satan was God’s servant and nothing more. So when God needed someone to test his boy and make sure he was made of the right stuff, he wasn’t uncomfortable in the least contacting Satan.

&n
bsp; “I need you to do another job for me,” God said the next time they met. (Hell was nearly complete and they were discussing some finishing touches. How hot would it be? Roasting. How cruel would the demons be? Merciless. How long would the agony last? Forever. Hell was beautiful, God thought—a gorgeous little world devoted solely to punishment. God adored it, and his pleasure in it put him in a mellow mood.)

  “I need you to test my son, Satan, make sure he is up to the task I have given him.”

  “How do you want me to test him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Satan. I’ll leave that to you, you’re good at that kind of thing, I hear.” God loved how airily superior he sounded.

  “Shall I torture him?”

  “This is my son we’re talking about, Satan. I don’t want you to torture him.”

  “I’ll leave that to you then.”

  God’s lips curled. What did that mean? He instantly remembered why he disliked Satan so much; he was petty, mean, small. But no matter. God was not going to lower himself to his level. “Tempt him, Satan. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “I can.”

  “Good. Then—go do it, devil!” God made a casual little “scat cat” gesture with his hands, which felt lovely. His disrespect for Satan would have been obvious to any angels who happened to be watching (and there were always angels watching when he and Satan were together, God knew that), and he enjoyed that. Angels turned and watched Satan as he walked away, which irked God a tiny bit, but not much. Fine, the guy had “charisma” (whatever that meant), but he had no real power.