God's office was smaller than I expected.
No throne.
No choir.
No lightning.
There was a desk, three chairs, a coffee cup, and a window that appeared to overlook everything.
I mean everything.
Stars were being born outside that window.
Galaxies turned slowly in the darkness.
Somewhere below them, a blue planet spun around an ordinary star.
Earth.
God looked up.
“You're late.”
I almost laughed.
“I waited three centuries.”
“Eleven minutes.”
“Your waiting room needs better clocks.”
“My waiting room needs fewer complaints.”
I remembered Saint Peter's advice.
“How's Your day going?”
God leaned back.
“Busy.”
“How busy?”
“Earthquakes before breakfast, wars before lunch, a few miracles before midnight.”
He lifted His coffee.
“And somebody misplaced a moon.”
“A moon?”
“Found it.”
“Where?”
“Saturn.”
I wasn't sure whether He was joking.
That would become a recurring problem.
I sat down.
VietPhilly took the chair beside mine. He remained quiet while I opened his case.
God looked at the folder in my hands.
“That looks unpleasant.”
“It is.”
“Headlines?”
“Worse.”
I placed several newspapers on His desk.
God glanced at them.
He did not look surprised.
That bothered me.
“You've seen these?”
“I have a fairly thorough subscription.”
“Then why aren't You doing something?”
God put down His coffee.
There it was.
The question I had carried through eternity.
Wars.
Murder.
Greed.
Cruelty.
Children buried beneath buildings.
Old men sending young men to die.
People praying for victory over others who prayed to the same God.
“Why?” I asked.
God looked toward Earth.
“Free will.”
“That's Your answer?”
“No. That's your problem.”
“You created it.”
“I created choice.”
“And look what humans did with it.”
“I have.”
“Then take it back.”
God smiled.
“You want a refund?”
“I want a recall.”
“Free will was My greatest gamble.”
“You lost.”
“Did I?”
I opened my folder.
“Wars.”
He nodded.
“Famines.”
Another nod.
“Viruses.”
“Yes.”
“Hypocrisy.”
He sighed.
“That file is especially large.”
I pushed the folder toward Him.
“Look at humanity.”
“I do.”
“They’re terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Being human.”
God folded His hands.
“They’re also surprisingly good at it.”
I laughed.
“Have You read the news?”
“Have you?”
“I just showed it to You.”
“You showed Me the front page.”
He turned toward the window.
The view changed.
A nurse was holding the hand of a dying stranger.
A teacher was sitting beside a frightened child.
A man stopped his car in the rain to help a stranger change a tire.
A woman divided one loaf of bread among six people.
A firefighter climbed the stairs while everyone else ran down.
A teenager sat beside an elderly man who had forgotten his own name.
“Those don't make the front page,” God said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“They're ordinary.”
God looked at me.
“Exactly.”
I didn't like where this was going.
I had come prepared to prosecute humanity.
God appeared determined to introduce evidence for the defense.
“So You think humanity is doing fine?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Then what are You saying?”
“Humans have a strange habit of measuring civilization by its monsters. They forget that it survives because millions of people refuse to become monsters.”
I looked again at Earth.
“Still seems like a bad gamble.”
“Most worthwhile things are.”
I opened another section of the folder.
“What about dictators?”
“What about them?”
“Couldn't You remove a few?”
“You have elections.”
“Not everywhere.”
“You have revolutions.”
“They're messy.”
“You have courage.”
“That's dangerous.”
God smiled.
“You see the problem?”
“No.”
“You want freedom without risk, courage without danger, love without loss, virtue without temptation, and humanity without humans.”
I sat back.
“That actually sounds pretty good.”
“It sounds like furniture.”
I laughed despite myself.
God reached for my grievance folder.
He examined the first page, sighed, picked up a large rubber stamp, and brought it down.
IN PROGRESS.
I stared at it.
“In progress?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
He pointed toward the door.
“You're in eternity.”
I was beginning to hate that answer.
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