Baby: this is your daddy.

I…have no idea why.

–

Children,

This is God.

My son and I are on a motorcycle ride through Heaven, and I thought now would be an appropriate time to maybe tell you some things. Many of you have stopped talking to me, and I feel our bond is kind of tenuous, so…listen. You’ve had the Catholic Church shoving me down your throats since you were little boys and girls, and for that I apologize. It’s not strictly my fault, but without me, there would be no them, and you’d be chilling out listening to Zoroastrians do their song and dance, or worshipping the Buddha. So, for whatever part I played in this, I am sorry.

You have heard me spoken of as a kind God, as a vengeful God…as a God who hears every one of you, or as a God who has no bearing on your individual lives. You have heard me spoken of as caring or uncaring, as petty or magnanimous, and I wanted to tell you that I’m none of those things. Instead I’m like…your dad. And your dad’s dad. And his dad’s dad stretched out through time, until Adam and before him—until before there was time. In fact, I’m all of those things. I’m limitless. I’m…really arrogant, aren’t I?

Let me give you a brief history of time. It should help you guys figure out why you are the way you are, now:

Before there was speech, you guys weren’t happy. You’d grunt at each other and never get your meaning across exactly as you intended. You’d hunt the mastodons and be pissed that your mate was out with another guy. You’d hunt him down and kill him, and that was beginning to be a problem, so I granted you speech. Then you were fine for awhile. You spoke things through pretty reasonably, and everyone was on the same page.

Then one of you invented fire. It was bound to happen—I know that—but one of you rubbed sticks together or struck a flint against a rock or witnessed lightning striking tinder—I honestly don’t remember—and then there was fire. You stuck your hand in and it was hotter than the hottest sun beating down on the flat rocks where you stretched and lazed during the day, and you were burnt. No one would come near you, so you became consumed with the fire. You stuck other things in. They…stole the fire. You put water in—it extinguished the flames. You put food in: it was that much better. You digested it more easily. Your mouth would water when you put that food on the fire, and you learned to make it better, and you were slowly starting to grasp what the fire did when you were killed. By the group that cast you out. To possess the fire themselves.

For thousands of years, your species would find and develop other things—more glorious things—things that were made of parts unlike the whole. As your comprehension of the world grew, and as science took its root in your lives, you became “smarter.” Your brains got bigger. You thought you were pretty awesome.

That’s when I sent a flood to waste your asses.

Because even though you had basic communication and fewer base instincts than the animals around you…even though you had fire and invention (the wheel!) and the world was beginning to take shape around you, and even though you were slowly crafting a kingdom…even though you had potential to be peaceful and loving and gracious and hosts whose baser instincts were won over by your better ones…you still killed each other. Instead of living in harmony, you wiped each other out. You were jealous and spiteful, and instead of hugging the man who brought you fire, you exterminated him. That pissed me off.

The Catholic Church will tell you it was your false prophets and your greed and your abandon…fundamentalist Christians will tell you it was Sodom and Gomorra (like I hate my gay children…), and Republicans will tell you it was campaign finance reform. Nope. Don’t believe it, any of it. It was the killing.

You must think I’m a hypocrite, then, for sending my son to die, and I guess I have that to answer for, but…well, no I don’t. If you’re lucky enough to ever come up here (and most of you will—it’s not like we have a seating capacity), I’ll explain it to you. I’ll sit down and talk to you, and you’ll be nervous at first, but then you’ll realize that I’m a pretty nice guy, and really I just want us all to get along.

Don’t you know that I love all of you? Doesn’t that ring true? Don’t you know that when you sing to me, I’m singing back? Don’t you see me smile?

Erica: last week, your lover died from complications due to AIDS. You railed at me for a long time, and you asked me why don’t you understand? You told me I couldn’t possibly exist if I let this happen. You said he hadn’t ever deserved it—he was a kind and gentle man. Erica: do you think I didn’t know that? Do you think I didn’t grieve with you? Didn’t cry with you? Did you think I wanted to take him away from you? You said I did. You called me a bully. And that’s not true. He was just…fated to die. He had options. He’d made decisions. He had to live with them, and he did. He was a wonderful man. He was my son.

The universe is a bubble in my heart, and it sometimes expands, and it sometimes shrinks. I feel all of it.

Thomas: your father left the world, and you didn’t know what to think. You said he never cared for you, but you don’t know the half of it. Every day your father spoke to me and praised you…in that order. He spoke to me because he thought it was easier than telling you how proud he was. I’m sorry for that; I just thought you should know.

Rita: Your son is out there, waiting. Go find him.

Jim: She knows.

Alice: I will help you. Always.