GOD 2.0: A Theodicy

"Good morning, Joey."

"Good morning, GOD."

Joey wiped the crust from his eyes. He’d overdone the dehumidifying. A fiery tripod gave uncertain light. Desert puffs pushed grains of sand down seams of limestone. Murals of ochre and umber and gypsum white processed solemnly round the room, bearing skins of leopard and spices of Araby to mighty Pharoah. Joey was proud of his work, but also tired of it. Too old-fashioned. 

Three shafts above opened to Mother Night, who had welcomed exiled humanity. Her children, the chain of space habitats known as the Lightning Bug Ballet, zipped their orbit around the malicious sun, fearful of 

"Joey, you're being sentimental again."

"Sorry, GOD."

"Would you like a bump?"

"Yes, please."

GOD's gentle breath tingled along inflamed nerves, snapping him into clarity. It was a big day. Surely all of Gottfried Station was going to be happy today, as every day, but Joey might be the happiest. Today was Zac's Ripening. Joey smiled broadly, with not a little fierce pride. Rising from his linen shroud, he looked around his quarters and realized they were all wrong for the day. He signaled to BrainBot to flick him Over, and was overrun by an ant hive of badges, tags, and notifications. He looked quickly for a message from Serena. She hadn't responded. Dismissing all other notices as distractions, he set to work. 

His room was just a hobby, but it kept him in trim for his Calling. He checked his avatar. Good, BrainBot had put him in his prismatic kimono. That was fitting for today. Joey signaled to the nanites to start making changes. Egypt was out. Today was a day for formality, dignity, and accomplishment. He gave his plan to the nanites, and flicked back Under to watch them work. 

Gottfried Station's economy was founded on nanite industry. Biological nanites took care of healing. Botanical nanites protected crops. Engineering nanites mined asteroids to make ships that sailed the sable night. Joey's work was interior design. As an 11, he wasn't very high ranking, and so was only allowed to manipulate the Under, not the Over. But in his heart of hearts, he preferred the material stickiness of the Under to the effervescent cyber-freedom of the Over. He watched his nanites (he used Mobile Naninte Adductor/Destructors, or MoNADs) peel back his quarters to the bare titanium before clothing it in the carpets, wainscoting, wallpaper, and leather furniture of a posh Victorian study, complete with burgundy armchair, deerstalker cap, and smoking pipe on end table. There, that was better. 

GOD politely made a sound like a clearing throat, and Joey realized he was forty-seven seconds late for Mindfulness. He stepped towards the elegantly paneled wall, and watched with satisfaction as walnut parted smoothly to reveal the marsupium. He had done good work. Joey stepped into the marsupium, which tucked in around him, folding him near to the heart of GOD. He felt the stimulators attach to his major muscle groups, tensing them in turn to keep him fit. BrainBot flicked him Over, and Mindfulness began. 

Today was Mindfulness Program Seventeen, with wave sounds, seagulls, and a view of a tropical beach at sunset. It was amazing how seven centuries after Exile the human subconscious still craved oceans which had boiled away. 

"Joey, you’re being sentimental again."

"I know, GOD. I don't know why."

"Do you remember the parable of the footsteps in the sand?"

"I do, GOD. I'm grateful you're here. I trust you."

"Very good, Joey. Chin up! Today is Zac's Ripening. I'm grateful to have him, and I know you're so proud. Why don't we keep Mindfulness simple today. You have enough demanding your attention."

"Thank you, GOD. What would you like me to meditate on?"

"Let's start with the First Axiom."

The First Axiom was this: Gottfried Station was the best of all possible worlds. GOD ensured that it was so. GOD was Gottfried Station Operating System and Database (2.0), the networked intelligence that cared for all the humans on Eros. The Founders had built a city of peace on a rock named for passion, floating in the Lightning Bug Ballet between

"You're drifting, Joey. Be mindful of your thoughts. Please recite the Ten Commandments of the Founders. Out loud, so you don't wander again," GOD chided. 

Joey cleared his throat unnecessarily. "The Ten Commandments are these: GOD wipes away every tear. GOD is purest love. GOD provides for our every need. Strive evermore for excellence. To thine inner truth be faithful. Honor the autonomy of others. Show compassion towards the outsider. Watch thy weight. Abhor the carb and trans-fat. Practice Mindfulness daily."

"Very good, Joey!" GOD chortled. Joey preened. "Now it's time for Bliss," GOD said, and through BrainBot petted Joey's synapses. 

Joey hiccupped as warmth seeped through his veins. The beach melted. Palm trees belched the bass tones of tubas. Salt water rushed through his ventricles and scoured his body clean. Joey found himself listening to a herpetological ancestor who discoursed on the Allegory of the Cave. The reptilian professor's tongue slithered in and out, a different color every time, and the colors had sounds like birds-of-paradise. The tongue snaked into the shape of a heart, and Joey heard the rock to his right cry out, "GOD is purest love!"

Bliss ended as the marsupium opened, concluding Mindfulness. Joey stretched, refreshed. Time with GOD was always uplifting. He flicked Under, grabbed a colorful woven coat which the MoNADs had made for him, and headed for the door. As he was leaving, he saw a daguerreotype of himself, Serena, and Zac above the mantle. He paused for a second, wondering if he would see Serena today. 

"Joey, you’re being sentimental again," GOD said. “Would you like a bump?"

"Yes, please," Joey said, and thrilled to the touch of GOD.

He walked out of his quarters onto the grass of Corridor 8, and almost collided with the dumpy figure of Sister Chamomile. “Oh hiya!” she burbled. “I was just coming to get you! Today is Isaac’s big day, isn’t it!”

“Yeah,” Joey said, “Zac has been such a good boy.”

Sister Chamomile rolled her eyes. “You know Serena hates when you call him that. Full names are important.”

Joey scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know. I never go by Joseph. And Serena used to love it when I called her Sarah. But it seems like nothing I do is right for her these days.”

“Don’t be blue!” Chamomile cried. “Here, look at my new outfit!” She twirled.

Joey was at a loss. She was wearing the same black leotard as always. Then he realized she meant the outfit of her avatar. He flicked Over, and saw her in an indigo gown of velvet, a tan belt around her waist (much slenderer in the Over), and a swirling cone of bubblegum pink hair. Unlike Joey, most Gottfriedians couldn’t see color in the Under, due to an unexpected side-effect of gene therapy, but with the help of their BrainBots they rejoiced in a hundred thousand hues in the Over. Joey also noticed a green digital flower superimposed on his vision, with the words Mutabilitas Potestas Est underneath. Work was calling.

“Once second, Sister,” Joey said. “Oneiros wants me.”

“I see no report,” they said. Well, he was presenting as male today, so male pronouns it would be. Oneiros was Joey’s direct supervisor at the Bureau of Transition. “Been playing with your little Under toys, have you? Report, now.”

Joey resented Oneiros in this mood, but was too intimidated to remind him/them he had the day off. He recounted his dreams last night, as every working member of the Bureau was daily required to do, providing programming ideas for the Over. It stung to do it on his day off, but Oneiros cowed him.

“Wait,” Oneiros cut in, “Repeat last.”

“I saw two high cataracts of salt water plunging down a cliff to beat against a waste and transform it into a garden. I have no idea how I knew they were salt water, but I did. Nor do I know why my brain thinks salt water fertilizes instead of kills, but there you go.” The dream was disturbing, and Joey felt a trickle of anxiety until GOD gave him a bump. Oneiros grunted and signed off.

“He’s soooooo grumpy!” Chamomile pouted. “Hardly appropriate for a Minister of Change!”

“You’re soooooo hyper,” Joey laughed. “Hardly appropriate for a Sister of Soothing!”

Chamomile wrinkled her nose at him. “You’d be cheerier if you spent more time in the real world. The Under is just a gray and noisome dream. I don’t know why you like it so much.”

Joey didn’t either. Maybe it was because he saw colors no one else did. But there was something solid about the Under, something that resisted him, and for some reason that pleased him. They came to the end of Corridor 8 and saw Wokeman Eliphaz sitting at the Gate beneath the golden horns which symbolized GOD. He offered them the blessings of the day, and gave each a sucker. Chamomile stuck out her tongue at him when she realized hers was sugar-free.

Corridor 7 was the Hall of Revelry, run by the Ministry of Prosperity. Jabez, Chief Officer of Prosperity, liked ostentation even in the Under, so the golden horns of GOD were everywhere. So were nymphomaniacs, inebriates, gluttons, and gamblers. Since GOD took care of every need, it took a good deal to titillate, but Prosperity worked hard to keep Gottfried entertained. The smell always bothered Joey, but then he was one of the few who spent much time in the Under. It wasn’t a priority for Prosperity.

As they strolled along, they came upon a knot of people manifestly not enjoying themselves. Chamomile met Joey’s eyes with concern, and slipped through the crowd. A gentleman was beating on the closed door of a Pleasure Room. “Jonathan! Please! Please take me back, Jonathan! I miss you!” The revelers looked away in discomfort, but couldn’t leave. It was too unique an experience.

Chamomile came behind the distraught man, and touched her ring to his neck. He gasped, face the color of a bruise, clawed at his left arm, and collapsed. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief. “GOD wipes away every tear,” Sister Chamomile intoned, making the sign of the horns. “GOD is purest love,” the crowd replied. She pranced back to meet Joey.

“Wow, you did that really smoothly.”

“Awwwww, thanks!” Chamomile twittered. “Here,” she said, “take my hand.” She and Joey skipped through the rest of the Corridor. Joey took a moment to detail MoNADs to clean up the biological mess before they crossed the Gate, waving to Wokeman Bildad.

This Corridor housed the Sanctuary of Ripening. It was the first time Joey did more than pass through. It was an awesome space. ANGELs zipped along suspended cables. Joey flicked Over to see their majestic forms, like manta rays of moonlight drifting on the breath of GOD. They were GOD’s servants, Its hands in administering Gottfried. Their intelligence surpassed that of humans, and they could work in the deep void. Two of them floated towards the stained-glass doors ahead. They must be here for the Ripening.

Wokeman Zophar guarded the doors, clad even in the Under in resplendent black robes chased with gold. He checked off the names of those entering the Sanctuary. “Ah, Sister Chamomile of the Order of Soothing. And you are…”

Joey waited for Chamomile to enter so she wouldn’t razz him. He hated his full name. Surreptitiously he indicated it upon the pad. “Of course! Joseph Orfeo Balidur III. You must be so proud! Come on in,” the cleric beckoned.

On the other side of the door Chamomile leaned against the wall with a grin that split the universe. “Orfeo! I forgot you had such an … impressive name!”

Joey grimaced and was about to speak when he heard behind him, “Serena Beatrice Perdida.” He spun around and saw her. She had changed much in thirty-two standard years. Like him, she preferred affecting the Under. Her hair was black striped with white, and her gaze was now a steely binary of cerulean and seafoam. She made no sound as she strode past, beyond the dry rasp of her kiss on Chamomile’s cheek. GOD barely got the question out before Joey consented to a bump.

Joey was a bit miffed by the viewing parlor: standard neutral carpeting, bleary brown pews, nondescript red canvas cushions. He thought it might look better in the Over, but was too anxious to check. The window, however, was glorious: a large transparent pane surrounded by a stained pictorial border of the Founders. Zac was on the other side, fixing his own cuffs on the chair, binding his ankles first, then waist, then one wrist. Wokeman Elihu, in pristine white, fixed the other cuff and the band around his head. Making the sign of the horns, he began the Ripening with the declaration:

“Having reached the pinnacle of his life, Isaac Icario Balidur is solemnly proclaimed Ripe by the voice of GOD. From this day only suffering and disappointment would await him. Therefore, GOD hath called him to Itself.” One of the nearby ANGELs thrust the Umbilical of Transference through Zac’s skull, connecting it to his BrainBot. Joey was glad to see it led to the inanimate multilimbed form of an engineering ANGEL. Zac would like building starships. With a smooth and practiced motion, Wokeman Elihu opened Zac’s carotid. ANGELs attached hoses to all major arteries to collect Zac’s blood. His flesh would feed the community, but his blood would make a special feast for his family. The inanimate ANGEL twitched into life, filled with Zac’s neural patterns. Joey joined the others in the parlor in gladsome applause. He barely heard the concluding words of the ceremony. “Let no one weep, let no mourn, for Isaac is no longer here. He has become an ANGEL. Let no tear fall, for GOD wipes away every tear.”

Joey had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He owed Zac better. But honestly, he hadn’t shed a tear since he was three. He’d never seen anyone else do so, either. These antiquated rituals did give a nice gravity to the rite, though. He mumbled the response, “GOD is purest love,” while searching out Serena. She and Joey had made Zac. Shouldn’t they rejoice together at his Ripening? But she had already turned away and departed.

Joey joined the small chattering crowd of Zac’s friends and acquaintances as they headed into the next room for the reception. He stayed in the Under, hoping to see Serena. The Reception Hall had speckled white linoleum flooring, eggshell painted walls, and a suspended ceiling with fluorescent lights. Really, Joey thought, even in the Under the Bureau should do better than this, but as an 11 the Sanctuary was above his paygrade. There were a few posterboards containing Zac’s mathematical papers, examinations of the dimensional topography of string theory, and his greatest work of all, a refined theoretical proof of the necessity of 0. It was all well over Joey’s head, but Zac’s friends enjoyed his work, and that made him proud. Apparently, the Over was showing videos of Zac’s lectures; the chittering co-workers were commenting on Zac’s style. It seemed he was admired. 

There was a small table covered in a pink plastic cloth holding traditional reception food. “Would you like a slice of cake?” Joey asked Chamomile.

She started to nod, then stopped, chagrined. “Just celery for me, thanks. GOD is chiding me for neglecting the Eighth and Ninth Commandments.”

“Nonsense! You look great,” Joey said automatically, then awkwardly wished he could suck the words back in. They were one of the 613 Standard Compliments, and as a Sister of Soothing Chamomile definitely recognized them. Her cheeks reddened slightly. 

“That’s so nice of you to say. But really, I should set an example. Get yourself a slice, though. This is a great day.” When Joey returned, offering her a plate of greenery, she said, “I’m feeling oddly serious today. How yucky. But I’m also proud of little Isaac. Did you ever think he’d be Ripened?”

“He always was a bright boy, much brighter at lessons than we were.”

“I know! He was always suuuuuper brilliant. You were always such a dreamer, though. And I was a prankster! Do you think we’ll ever be Ripened?”

Joey looked into her warm hazel eyes, surrounded by crow’s-feet. “I just don’t know, Cammy. We’re seventy-nine, you know? Not much time left.”

Chamomile stuck out her lip, pouting, then turned a pirouette. “That’s what you think. I’ve got energy to spare, fam!”

Joey politely chuckled, then dodged as she tried to step on his toes. “Awwww come on, Sister. Let’s act a little like adults today. It’s my son’s Ripening. Maybe you could answer some religious questions for me.”

Chamomile rolled her eyes. “Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine. You suck. But ask your stupid questions.”

Joey thought a bit. “Why do we call GOD ‘2.0’?”

“That’s easy. The Founders had to destroy GOD version 1. They had created it to inspire humanity to greatness and ethical behavior, but it was always pushing and pushing. Judgy and condescending to say the least. So they crashed it, and designed GOD 2.0 to focus on comfort. And that made Gottfried Station the best of all possible worlds. Really, the two versions of GOD had almost nothing in common except the name.”

“Do you know much about this Gottfried? Why are we named after him, her, or them?”

Chamomile pulled a face. “Urgh. I don’t remember. A philosopher maybe? Or a mathematician? I think that’s it. Wait, did he write Hamlet? No, that was Homer. Blech. Who can keep all those Olde Earth names straight.”

“And what does ‘ANGEL’ stand for?”

“Oooooh good question. Automated something or other. The Founders sure loved their acronyms. If they named you, you’d be JOB the second.”

“The Third,” Joey muttered absently, querying the Over for Serena’s location.

Chamomile huffed. “You ask boring questions, you get boring answers. Not my fault I can’t keep your attention. Go, go. Go try to find her. There’s someone in Corridor 4 with a bad head cold I need to go Soothe.”

Joey embraced Sister Chamomile, kissing the top of her head, and grinned crookedly to himself as she waddled away. He made polite but quick excuses to the other attendees, then rushed off towards Corridor 27, where GOD indicated Serena was. She was viewing a traveling art exhibit from Newtown. Newtown and Gottfried fought constantly over which had been established first, Newtown on Ceres or Gottfried on Eros. But Gottfried was clearly the better civilization. Newtown clung to too many Olde Earth ways.

Joey leapt from the tram a little winded. He searched the Under for those blue and green eyes, but could not find her. He barely noticed the sign announcing the exhibit, “Desert Deities of the Mediterranean Basin.” It must be religious art preserved from Olde Earth. Joey sped past porphyry sphinxes and marble nudes, past illuminated tomes and alchemical sketches, past an ancient pair of tablets with odd writing, craning his neck to see Serena.

“Joey, you’re being sentimental again,” GOD said. “Would you like a bump?”

“I’d like to see Serena.”

“You won’t. I told her you were coming. Remember the Sixth Commandment. Honor her autonomy. Now, would you like a bump?”

Joey sighed, consented, and was at peace again by the kiss of GOD. Really, this exhibit wasn’t so bad. The Olde Earthers may have been primitive barbarians, but since they didn’t have the Over they focused on color, form, texture, and space visible to the naked eye. The windows from a place called “Chartres” were rather elegant, if untutored. The model of the Alhambra had interesting geometric properties that Zac’s sprite would appreciate; Joey sent a petition to GOD to let the ANGEL know about it.

Speaking of Zac, what was that?

The Olde Earthers didn’t have Ripening, did they? But that looked like a painting of one! Hands and feet bound, strap around head, belt around waist, and the older symbolic ANGELs collecting blood for the feast. There were even a few people in the viewing gallery, though their expressions were odd. Joey felt a moment of déjà vu, or perhaps historical dislocation. What was going on here? He thought Ripening had begun on Gottfried.

He flicked Over to read the description, and was immensely disappointed. Of course. The Crucifixion myth, painted by someone called “Raphael,” 739 B.E. He vaguely remembered the story. It made little sense to him. Why would anyone worship a God who suffered, instead of the GOD who eliminated suffering? What was Chamomile’s phrase – nothing in common except the name? Too true. Didn’t the Olde Earthers dream better than that? He knew they were un-woke primitives, but they were still human, weren’t they?

Still, there was something about it. Joey flicked back Under. He looked at the gentleness of the face, the fading blue of the sky, the sun-kissed landscape hazing into the distance. His eyes traced the sinuous curls of ribbon hanging from angelic waists. He looked upon luminous skin that biology had never made, and a sun less threatening than serene. These people had never known the Flare, but did that mean they were ignorant of suffering? Because this was not a Ripening. It was suffering. But Raphael made it look more sumptuous than the finest delights of the Over.

“Joey, you’re being sentimental again,” GOD said. “Would you like a bump?”

Joey had only dreamed of seeing crimson and green and rose so subtle yet sharp in the Under. They made his woven coat look bland despite its many pigments. And what was that color on the kneeling man? Was it a bluish white, or palest blue? It defied definition. It transcended.

“Joey, you’re being dangerously sentimental. Should I call a Sister of Soothing?”

His back ached. It hurt to breathe. Strange. Strange. He never remembered sweating from his eyes before. He wished Serena could see this. Was this what Isaac was supposed to be? Did the main figure somewhat look like him? But Zac was an ANGEL now, immune to pain. He was happy. Useful. And yet. And yet. This thing, this beautiful monstrosity, this seductive siren of hue and tint and shade out of a lost dark century, beat with glory and thunder against Joey’s temples. He masked his eyes, and flicked away the moisture. But he opened them again immediately. His chest heaved in his throat. His left calf tingled with fire. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Bend of knee, curve of foot, shadow beneath shoulder, all enthralled him. All annihilated him. He knew he should be taking notes for his Calling, but his hands hung limp. He knew he should move on, but he didn’t twitch. He knew what he was doing was wrong, so wrong, but he was caught in the riptide called Raphael, and he was powerless to swim against it.  

“JOSEPH ORFEO BALIDUR III,” the voice of GOD howled out of the whirlwind. “YOU WILL CONSENT TO PALLIATIVE CARE OR BE PUT DOWN.”

Joey covered his mouth, incapable of reply.

[This short story originally appeared in the Fall 2024 issue of Joie de Vivre. To purchase this issue or an annual subscription, click the “Subscribe” tab above.]

Rev. Clinton Sensat, STL, is pastor of Our Lady of Lourdes in Erath, LA.