God, Covid and The Former Guy

by David Benjamin

“Four more years, because God is the one who is in control of this.”
— Kim Carter, anti-democracy protester Jacksonville, October 2020

God is bored.

I caught up with Him at a speakeasy on a dark street in South Purgatory. The dive was crawling with venial sinners. The bartender was smoking a stogie that smelled like decomposing walrus. God was drinking Stoly on the rocks with a lot of olives. He didn’t seem to notice that His elbow was in a puddle of spilled beer. I couldn’t help wondering.

“This is a dump, God. Don’t You have a nicer joint up… You know, there?”

“Nah, I made a rule, ages ago,” He grumbled. “No booze in Heaven. Really dumb. But I was younger, full of militant virtue. It was My first crack at putting together a Paradise. I mean, really, what’s a Heaven without Johnnie Walker?”

I hadn’t sat down with God since the start of the pandemic, so I had a lot of catching up to do. First, of course, I asked whether Covid-19 was an “Act of God.”

God sighed. “Hey, you know Me,” He said. “I’ve had a more or less non-interventionist policy in human affairs since the Crucifixion. But still, who gets blamed for earthquakes, cancer, wildfires, bridges falling down, bad cosmetic surgery, you name it? Somebody always says, ‘Well, it was God’s will.’ I hear that kind of excuse and it takes all My willpower not to reach for a lightning bolt.”

I tried to look sympathetic. God finished His drink, ate His olives and waved at the bartender for another round. Meanwhile, I pressed on.

“But, didn’t You create viruses? I mean, way back before the dawn of time?”

“Don’t rub it in,” said God. “Tell you the truth, I wasn’t really specific about every little thing during the Creation. I mean, think about it. It was a huge job. Talk about infrastructure!”

“So,” I asked, “viruses are what? An oversight? An accident?”

“Listen, first of all, you have to understand that microscopic life was one of My first Creations, which I gotta tell you, was boring as Hell. Microbes, bacteria, amoebae, plankton, paramecia, dust mites, cooties. One of My archangels — Raphael, I think — had the checklist. I didn’t even know everything on it. But after I’d Created viruses, right toward the end, I said, ‘Rafe, these nasty little bugs. Is this a good idea?’ And Rafe is like, “Yo, don’t worry about it, God. Viruses can’t even live by themselves. They depend on other cells. They come and go in a month.’ So I ask, ‘What’s a month?’ Y’see, I hadn’t actually Created time yet.”

God got a new drink, took a sip. “Well then, Me and the archangels got into this long discussion about weeks, months, eons, millennia, Rolexes, that sort of stuff. By the time we’d settled the concept of Time, well, who remembered viruses? And who knew the trouble they’d end up making?”

“But You’re God,” I protested. “You know everything.”

God chucked me affectionately on the chin. “Yeah, I do now. But that was the Beginning. I might’ve been Creating up a storm, but I was pretty much working by feel. I mentioned this to Gabriel — he’s My smartest archangel — and he goes, ‘Y’know, what we need here is a little light.’ Whoa! I knew there was something missing. And I’m like, “Way to go, Gabe!’ and I holler ‘Let there be Light.’”

“I wish I’d been there,” I said.

“Oh yeah, one of My best Creations,” said God. “But, in all the excitement of actually seeing things, the viruses snuck right past us. And then it was too late.”

“Too late?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s another one of My rules,” God said a little ruefully. “Once something’s Created, nobody can take it back, not even Me. The only way to get rid of it is for people to kill it off.”

“We’re good at that,” I said. “Except with viruses.”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t have Created the pesky little assassins if I could’ve seen what I was doing,” said God. “Besides…”

“Besides?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not like Covid-19 was the worst consequence of what I hath wrought. I mean — if you remember your Scripture — I was, for a while there, pretty hands-on in the areas of bloodshed, catastrophe and misery. The Seven Plagues of Egypt, the Flood, all those dead Midianites, poor old Job. But I couldn’t keep up with the awful stuff people were doing to one another.”

“Cain and Abel,” I suggested.

“Exactly,” said God. “I should’ve seen it coming. I mean, I tried to set down a few rules: ten commandments, eight beatitudes, a holy trinity, seven deadly sins. But who paid attention? People blew right past all My warnings and hated each other, slaughtered one another, laid waste to whole continents. They seem to love murdering little children, for Pete’s sake.”

I opened my mouth to apologize, but God was on a roll.

“So, I decided, let’s just boil it down to one rule. Just one. Could people be so goddamn stupid — excuse my language — they couldn’t follow one lousy rule?”

“Do unto others — ”

God cut me off, “Yeah? So, you remember it. Big hairy deal. Anybody else?” God muttered. “I even Created a Son to go down and preach this one last rule. And what do you guys do? Beat hell out of him and nail him to a cross. You invented rape, slavery, chains, thumbscrews, guns, artillery, atomic bombs, lynching. You ran six million of My Chosen People through gas chambers. You made concentration camps on the Mexican border for little kids. You had Inquisitions and blacklists. You burned innocent women as witches. You murdered Dr. King, and Medger Evers and Breonna Taylor. You burned books! Books! And now? Jesus Christ. If ever there was a country whose faith comes down to Do Unto Others before they can get the jump and Do Unto You even worse, it’s America in the 21st century. It’s Cain and Abel on crack down there.”

I thought of Pontius Pilate. “So,” I said, “You’ve washed Your hands of the whole human enterprise?”

At this, I noticed a mischievous smile in the corner of God’s mouth. I pressed Him and He confessed. Yes, He admitted, He’s the practical joker who lifted to political glory the man now popularly known as The Former Guy.

God shrugged a little sheepishly. “I’m afraid so,” He said. “When the suckers in the red baseball caps say that the Big Orange Comb-Over was sent down to them by God, they’re right. It wasn’t the Russians. I’m the One.”

“But why?” I demanded.

“For fun,” said God. “By this time, of course, I had a good idea of how sickeningly low humanity could sink. But I couldn’t resist the urge to find out if you guys could do even worse.”

“As if You weren’t sure already?” I groused.

“Honest to God,” said God, “I’m sorry I did it. I keep forgetting that humans can’t take a joke — or even recognize one. “I mean, who would’ve thought that you shmucks would willingly — no, happily! — turn a snake-oil huckster with a spray-on tan into the leader of the free world?”

“But we did. My God,” I said, “there are folks who think he’s the next Jesus.”

“Please, keep it down,” said God. “Jesus doesn’t know about this fiasco.”

“Jesus is here?”

“Not far,” said God. “He’s upstairs, hangin’ with Bobby Fischer.”

I was aghast. “Bobby Fischer made it to Heaven?”

God sipped and shrugged. “Hey, if My Son hadn’t begged Me for a decent chess partner…”