All about sin, and a piece of fruit

A conversation between the main character, and God.

Chapter VII: Third Sun

“You know I have about a zillion questions.”

“OK, shoot.”

With some hesitation, I ask, “Why do you allow all the suffering in the world?”

He’s quick to respond, and I get an earful.

“You blame me for that? That has got to be the number one complaint I hear about, and this is my answer—you people do it to yourselves. You can’t lay that on me. I gave you free will.”

Pointing to the garden, He says, “Go ask those two about free will. I gave them a perfect world, and what was my thanks? Disobedience, that’s what. They acted like two little brats and got punished.”

He silences the rhetoric. “You have kids, what would you have done?”

“I wouldn’t have kicked them out of the house.”

“OK, Mister Know-It-All, again I ask, what would you have done? Ground them? Or maybe put them in time out? Their single act of disobedience set the tone for the rest of you. I created only good; they are the originators of suffering, not me. You want someone to blame? Start with them.”

Reorganizing my thoughts and reminding myself who I’m talking to, I humbly reply, “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“You didn’t make me mad, Tony. You’re not the first, nor the last who wants me to fix everything. Like I said, you people do it to yourselves. If I had wanted robots, I would have made robots. It would have been a lot simpler and a lot less disappointing, now that I think about it.”

He gets up and walks away.

Under my breath, I mumble, “Wish I’d never brought it up.”

“You say something, Tony?”

I also get up and race after Him.

“But you kicked them out over an apple?”

He rolls His eyes, as in here we go again, and He is not amused.

“Can we forget about the fruit for a minute? That’s not the point—it could’ve been a Twinkie.

Again, He tones it down a little, and I think, Thank God.

About ten steps ahead of me, He says, “You’re welcome. Now, let’s start over, and I’ll try to keep it as simple as ABC. You have three precious little ones, and you gather them around the dinner table for a family meeting. You tell them they can have anything in the pantry to snack on. Everything in the house their little tummies can handle, but don’t under any circumstances touch the chocolate chip cookies—period.”

Then He begins to mimic in a child’s voice: “But why Daddy? Why can’t we have any of the chocolate chip cookies? Because I said so! Capiche? You are free to eat from any other bag of candy or goodies in the house, but not those—get it? It’s called obedience.”

Again, mocking in a child’s voice: “But why, Daddy?

Then answers Himself in a loud thunderous voice that echoes throughout this place, “Because those are the forbidden chocolate chip cookies of the knowledge of good and evil. If you eat of them, you will surely die, all because you disobeyed one tiny little rule!”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”

“You’re right Tony, after all, they are little kids. I’d tone it back a notch or two. Let’s return to the story. You go outside and do some yard work, create a new galaxy or whatever, and when you turn your back, one tempts the other. A debate ensues over should we, or shouldn’t we? Then one takes a bite and the other caves in. All at once, when they eat of the cookie, they find themselves naked and ashamed. As a result of disobedience, you toss them out of the garden because they couldn’t keep their hands off the chocolate chip cookies. If you’d like to know about all the stuff in the middle, read the book.”


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