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

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)

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. There, 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.

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)