ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE STORY OF GOD
“Part Kurt Vonnegut, part Douglas Adams, but let’s be honest, Matheson had me at ‘Based on the Bible.’”
—Dana Gould, comedian and former writer and producer for The Simpsons
“It isn’t easy being God, as this book makes quite clear. It’s a full-time job and any screwups can haunt you for an eternity. What Life of Brian did for Jesus, The Story of God may do for the Father … or the Son, or the Holy Ghost … It humanizes the poor guy, which, after all, is appropriate since he was created in the image of man.”
—Lawrence M. Krauss, director of the Origins Project at Arizona State University and author of The Physics of Star Trek and A Universe from Nothing
“Matheson punctures the pretensions of organized religion with unremitting hilarity.”
—Jerry Coyne, author of Why Evolution Is True and Faith versus Fact: Why Science and Religion Are Incompatible
“Half the people who read this book will laugh out loud, certain Chris Matheson is a twisted comic genius; the other half will laugh silently, equally certain that Chris will spend eternity writhing in hell.”
—Ed Solomon, screenwriter of Men in Black
“The Story of God is an original, funny, and devastating book.”
—Jay Phelan, coauthor of Mean Genes
“If there is a God who wrote the Bible, when he reads this he’s going to wonder why his editors didn’t point out all the problems in his text before publication. Brilliant and irreverent.”
—Michael Shermer, publisher of Skeptic magazine, monthly columnist for Scientific American, author of The Moral Arc
“At times the story Matheson tells of God is not just funny, but laugh out loud funny. It’s thought provoking too. I loved it!”
—John W. Loftus, author of Why I Became an Atheist and The Outsider Test for Faith
“This is the version of the bible Gutenberg should have printed. Only difference is, it’s much more fun. Hilarious. Irreverent. Timeless.”
—Peter Boghossian, author of A Manual for Creating Atheists
Pitchstone Publishing
Durham, North Carolina
www.pitchstonepublishing.com
Copyright © 2015 by Chris Matheson
All rights reserved
Printed in the USA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Matheson, Chris.
The story of God : a biblical comedy about love (and hate) / Chris Matheson.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-1-63431-024-6 (hardcover)
1. God—Attributes—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.A8262S76 2015
813’.6—dc23
2015015018
To S
Based on a true story the Bible
Glossary
Gen.—Genesis
Ex.—Exodus
Lev.—Leviticus
Num.—Numbers
Deut.—Deuteronomy
Josh.—Joshua
Jud.—Judges
1 K.—I Kings
2 K.—II Kings
1 Sam.—I Samuel
2 Sam.—II Samuel
Isa.—Isaiah
Jere.—Jeremiah
Ezek.—Ezekiel
Mal.—Malachi
Hos.—Hosea
Mic.—Micah
Jon.—Jonah
Prov.—Proverbs
Song—Song of Songs
Ecc. - Ecclesiastes
Job—Book Of Job
Mat.—Matthew
Mar.—Mark
Lu.—Luke
Jo.—John
Ac.—Acts
Ephes.—Ephesians
Rom.—Romans
Gal.—Galatians
Esd.—Esdras
Rev.—Revelations
(Thom.—Thomas; apocryphal)
PART I
Chapter One
God sits by himself, alone in the darkness. How long has he been there? It feels like forever. Has it been forever? How did he get here? Who put him here? Did he put himself here? When did he do that? Around him: Nothing. A void, no light. Just him, sitting there in the darkness. Was he sitting? Standing? What was he? Wait … Was he even alone? What was that sound? Peering down, in the darkness, he realized something.
Underneath him was water; (Gen. 1:2) cold, empty, utterly lifeless. It was creepy. Where had it come from? Did he make it, then forget about it? Did he not make it? And if he didn’t—then who did? He had to have made it—yet he couldn’t remember doing so. But if he had created water (as of course he had), then why had he created only that much reality and no more? Why had he been sitting there in the darkness, above the water, basically forever? He didn’t know why—he just sort of … had. But now, for whatever reason, God had a thought: He wanted to see.
How would he do it? God tried clapping his hands. Nothing happened. He tried clearing his throat loudly, then closing his eyes tightly and reopening them. Nothing worked. Was he stuck here forever, sitting in the darkness with the lightless water swirling beneath him and absolutely nothing to do? It sounded horrible, “hellish,” as he would later say.
God had an idea.
He would speak aloud what he wished for. He had never spoken before. He thought about what he wanted to say. “Light, please?” No, it seemed weak, lacking in gravitas. “Turn on the lights?” Stronger perhaps, but who would he be making this demand of? “I want light.” Too childlike.
God sat in the darkness for another chunk of time. How long? He didn’t know; time didn’t exist yet. Then it hit him. He was sitting slumped, head in hands, listening to the water below, staring at the inky blackness around him through his fingers, when he suddenly knew exactly what to say.
“Let there be light,” he called out.
And there was. (Gen. 1:3)
God was delighted. He could do this, he could make things happen, create whatever reality he felt like. It was an extraordinary moment for him. An unwanted thought crossed God’s mind: “Was someone already there who responded to my command?” Impossible, he was God, he was alone.
“I was obviously talking to myself, commanding myself to make light, that makes perfect sense!” God told himself.
Now that there was light, God could look around. Not much—kind of a big nothingness, in fact. A void, essentially, except for the water below and, well … him. He had felt himself before in the darkness, but had never seen himself. Now he did. He had two strong legs, a muscular torso, lean arms. He felt his face—eyes, nose, mouth, ears, hair. Had he made himself this way, “created” himself—or had he somehow always been this? He didn’t know. If he had created himself, he couldn’t remember doing so—but he must have. Because if he hadn’t, then who had? It was an unsettling question; he didn’t want to think about it.
Another unsettling thing: The penis that dangled between his legs. What was that doing there? It was ugly, God thought. There is no way he would have chosen that—it looked monstrous to him. He touched it. It reacted. He scowled and yanked his mighty hand away. This thing was an abomination, he decided. Fascinating in a way perhaps, but bad—stirring certain feelings that seemed somehow … wicked. And those hanging, droopy testicles below it? Hideous. (God had not discovered his backside yet. When he did, he was not happy.)
Without even speaking, God thought, “I must be covered,” and instantly a white robe draped over him, covering his body and hiding the offensive parts. Ther
e, that was better. He could move on. He thought for a long time about what to do next, then spoke aloud again. “Let there be sky,” he commanded, because as far as he could tell, the water below him was just sort of floating in space and he didn’t like that. (Gen. 1:8) Next, God commanded land. He needed to be able to walk around, use his powerful legs, not just sit up in the sky. Land was necessary. And there it was. (Gen. 1:9)
While God was pleased with what was happening, there was a part of him that did wonder why he had waited so long to do this; why he had sat there in the dark for more or less eternity, doing nothing. It seemed stupid now that he realized his own power. “I could have done this all along,” he thought. (God was prone to self-criticism, sometimes of a harsh sort. It was a problem that would plague him for a long time to come.)
God was happy to see the dry land, but it looked so bare. There was nothing on it—it was brown and grey and dead silent. Walking around it didn’t seem like it would be in the least bit enjoyable. How would he make it better? God had a big idea. “I will make things that are alive,” he thought. “Things that will be interesting to watch, that will do things.” He began to form an idea of a creature like himself, not only alive, but also conscious—able to think, able to grasp him, know him, love him.
But he would start with simple things. “Let there be plants,” he commanded. Suddenly the land was dotted with beautiful, fully formed fruit trees. (Gen. 1:12) God looked at them appreciatively. These were very good. Later, in a moment of self-doubt, he would criticize himself for creating trees before he created the sun. But for now, looking at the gorgeous leaves and noble trunks and luscious fruit, God felt proud. “Trees are irresistible,” he thought to himself. Which gave him another idea that he filed away; they’d make an excellent test.
God looked down at his creation and smiled. Then his smile slowly faded. Given all his powers, given that whatever he commanded came into being, a bit of dry land and a few trees seemed rather small.
“Let there be more lights,” God commanded and—well, what can you say? Slowly at first, then faster and faster until it was rather dizzying, the sky began to light up with stars, literally trillions of them—trillions of trillions in fact; there was, in effect, an entire universe. (Gen. 1:14–15) God had not intended to create something this big. A universe a few thousand miles in diameter was what he had been thinking, not this enormous, unwieldy thing. Maybe when he had said, “let there be more lights,” he had been too vague. Maybe he should have been more specific—“Let there be one thousand more lights,” or something to that effect. But it was too late now. The universe was massive, filled with stars and galaxies and planets. There was probably life sprinkled throughout it, God thought, but quickly realized that didn’t matter to him at all. What happened in the rest of the universe was of zero interest to God.
No, he was interested in one world. The earth creatures who would know him and obey him were the main things—the only things. He was already thinking of them—how they would love him—how he would test them. (They would fail the test, he’d already decided. That was alright; he was excited about the idea of disciplining them for it.)
So he’d made the universe too big, so what? It was evidence of how powerful he was. Also, he had created the sun and the moon, and he liked them very much. (Gen. 1:16) That damn self-critical voice would pop up in his head later: “Creating the earth and apple trees first and then building the universe around them—good thinking, God.” He hated that voice.
Chapter Two
There earth sat, dotted with fruit trees, which now had sunlight to help them grow, which was good. But other than the trees, it was quiet. The trees and the plants didn’t do anything. They certainly were not capable of loving him, which was, God now understood, all he really wanted. The plants and the trees were, yes, “alive” … but they were so boring. They just sort of sat there, doing nothing.
God decided to fill the water with living, active creatures. He called them “fish.” He decided to fill the air with flying creatures he called “birds.” (Gen. 1:20) God liked birds at first, but quickly became annoyed with their loud, squawky voices. The smart ones, like crows and parrots, particularly irked him. “Shut. Up.” he would find himself thinking as he listened to them chatter. Before long, he would be happy to have all birds killed. God thought the fish were fine; they didn’t do anything he disliked. God also created a few sea monsters on this day. (Gen. 1:21)
God made a speech to the birds and the fish, welcoming them to earth and giving them a sense of direction—getting them off to a solid start, basically. He thought about what to say, then decided he’d found the perfect note to strike: “Be fruitful and multiply,” he told them. (Gen. 1:22) Which seemed like an excellent message … until that damned self-critical voice piped up again: “They’re fish and birds, they don’t understand you, you do know that, right?” God hated it when he had thoughts like these. They ruined what had been a highly productive day. He had planned on making more living things, but he went to sleep instead. “Also,” he lied to himself, “I’m still tired from creating the whole universe yesterday, all those trillions of stars …”
God woke up the next day refreshed, ready to continue. “Let there be tiny, creeping things,” he commanded, quite pleased with that description of insects. Insects seemed like a splendid idea to God, not least because some of them would be good to eat! (Levit. 11:22) God then created mammals, and he felt very good about them, especially cows, which he instantly knew would taste delicious. (Gen. 1:25) (“I never created reptiles,” God later realized, and that bothered him. Who did create them? “Why, the same person who created mushrooms and lobsters and crabs and snails and everything else I never mentioned—ME! Who else would have—another god? They don’t even exist, so how could they have?”)
The stage was set. There was land, water, trees, insects, fish, birds, cows—the whole planet was teeming with life, and that was good, although, you know, utterly pointless. God didn’t actually care about any of these creatures, and here’s why: Because they didn’t care about him! Chimps, elephants, dolphins, wolves—yawn.
It was time to create the creature that would love him. God had been planning this creature, the final and most important one, for awhile now. He would be called “human” and he would look just like God! God was thrilled by the idea.
“Let us make man in our image, in our likeness,” God heard himself command. (Gen. 1:26) Which was strange. Why had he said that, he quickly wondered. In our image, in our likeness? What did that mean? “Am I so pompous that I refer to myself as ‘us,’” he wondered. Or did he, on some level, think that he wasn’t alone? That there were other gods up in the sky with him? This thought bothered God a lot. He didn’t want there to be other gods; it made him mad to think there were. Because what if there were and the humans, his special creatures, somehow, perversely, ended up liking those other gods more than they liked him? (Which was exactly what would happen, God already knew in his heart.)
Maybe it was a slip of the tongue, God thought. Maybe he’d meant to say “in my image, in my likeness,” and had said “in our image, in our likeness” by accident. That could happen to anyone. He wasn’t going to worry about it, he told himself. (In truth, he worried about it constantly.)
Just as God would create man in his own image, he would also create the man’s companion—“woman,” he called her—in his image. Or, you know, sort of. Not exactly, obviously—God wasn’t a “woman,” but he would create her in his likeness … except for the fact that she was, you know, female. (“What are you, some sort of she-male?” Satan would ask him much later, when they were about to fight over the final destiny of humankind, but that is jumping ahead. Anyway. No, God was not a “she-male.” He made woman in his own image, but he was all man, what was strange about that?)
God hesitated. Why did he even need women? Why couldn’t there just be males? Why couldn’t they give birth out their anuses? No … No … It wouldn’t work; women were,
sadly, necessary. With regard to woman’s creation, God considered two options. One was to basically make her at the exact same time as the man. That seemed like a good idea; God decided to do that. Then he decided that he’d make the man first and create the woman from the man’s rib. Then he decided that he’d do both. “Can I do that?” he wondered, then instantly rejoindered with “I can do anything, I’m GOD, I can make the man first and also create them at the same time!! Watch me!!” So he did—but it was a little bit confusing. (Gen. 1:27 vs. 2:7) (The two “extra” humans that God made he put in cages, where they lived for awhile, then died when he forgot to feed them.)
The man God named Adam. The woman he didn’t give a name to, he just called her “woman.” (Gen. 3:20) She was certainly attractive; the man obviously thought so, his penis made that obvious. God did not like the way that looked.
“The first chance I get, I’m going to make them cover up,” he thought to himself. “Their nudity really bothers me.” But for now, he’d let them be naked. It was distracting, though. In the days since discovering his own testicles, God had had a change of heart. He couldn’t help but notice what attractive balls Adam had—“perfect” was the word that came to mind. Adam’s penis was very nice looking too, though something wasn’t quite right. It definitely needed a change. After thinking about it for a while, God decided the man’s penis could use one important fix. If the skin at the head of it was trimmed away, it would look even better. Good idea, God thought to himself.
God honestly couldn’t grasp what exactly Adam found so alluring about the woman. Not only was she less interesting to God (“My story will revolve around men,” he murmured to himself), he also sensed something … what? … bad about her. Something strange and hidden and disruptive. He didn’t trust her. He’d just made her and already he wondered if he’d made a mistake. “She’s going to create problems,” he thought. “She’s trouble, I can feel it.”
The Story of God Page 1
