On Tuesdays and Wednesdays and every other day, God sat in the corners of rooms. He was the meek salesman at the department store, he was the tired security guard in a folding chair at an art museum, and he was the driver you could barely see in the car behind you (it was a blue sedan) on the long ride home. He played these roles because he couldn't interfere. He couldn't interfere because those were the rules. Those were the rules because he made them up. He was allowed to make them up because he was God.
People would walk into rooms so tired of seeing God, and they would scream, but there he would be. Thieves couldn't steal and killers couldn't kill. Lovers couldn't make love. Instead they'd drop their treasures and their guns and retrieve their clothes and curse God.
Why God? Why aren't you invisible? Let us have faith instead of the darkness you bring into every room. Let us watch the light touch the walls instead of dwindling at your sickly eyes. We will write songs to you and sing them within stained-glass halls. Kill for us your son but please just let us be.
After a time, they stopped believing he was God. They started thinking that perhaps they were wrong, and maybe they were the Gods. But he killed some of them on Thursday for loving each other. So they all believed he was God and they all stopped doing wrong. At least this way, they all got into heaven.
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