Is God Dead?

Noah was pleasantly surprised that the waiting room was empty. Not exactly empty - there were furniture and decor, just nobody else waiting.

A large desk stood guard, the receptionist off in some other room. He noticed chairs like those in other waiting rooms he had visited, upholstered in a wide variety of solid colors. An orange couch with square arms, looking firm. All the seating looked adequately comfortable. Noah saw some old, well-used tables, each one sporting a larger than normal pile of magazines. There were no rugs softening the surface of the vinyl plank floor, made to look like wood. Lamps offered soft yellow light, with bases of geometric shapes and egg-shell white shades that all looked alike.

He chose a sea-foam green chair and sat. Noah wasn’t surprised to find it less comfortable than it looked. He glanced at the wall across the room. An 11x14 photograph of Machu Picchu hung above a yellow chair similar to Noah’s. At least he thought it might be Machu Picchu - he’d never been there, but he had seen wallpaper of the location on his computer. The picture wasn’t hung straight, the left side slightly lower than the right. 

He saw the Devils Tower National Monument in a picture over the unoccupied desk. Noah crossed himself, touching his right hand to each side of his breast and his brow, finishing at his diaphragm. The mesa, in the Black Hills of Wyoming, almost glowed in a glorious sunset. There was no doubt in Noah’s mind about that picture he had visited the Devils Tower a couple of times. Never to climb it, and not to pray or place a sacred cloth there; just to take pictures and admire the anomalous rock structure. This picture was straight, and surrounded by a frame made up of hexagonal lengths of wood.

On Noah’s left, sitting on a square table in a pool of the soft, yellow light, sat a tower of magazines. On the top issue, a Time magazine from 1966 with no picture, bold red letters set against a stark black background, screamed “Is God Dead?”

“You don’t look dead to me.” The small, young voice startled Noah. He looked up to see a boy, wearing a sports jersey over jeans, standing a few feet away. Noah hadn’t heard him enter the waiting room, and didn’t see him walking over.

“I don’t?”

“No, you don’t. Are you dead? Are you God?” The boy pointed to the Time magazine cover.

Noah chuckled. “I suppose I look like God to you. No, I’m not God. When I was your age I thought anyone who looked as old as me was dead or dying. And maybe they were God.”

The boy climbed up into the chair across the table from Noah. “But I bet you’re older than that magazine.” He smiled. “If you aren’t God, did you write that article?” Noah smiled and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t write it. But I did read it when it was new.” He stared at the young boy who looked to be about nine years old. “How old are you, son?”

“I’m Richard,” the lad smiled, “and I’m ten years old. Do I look like your son?”

“No, you don’t. That’s just an expression. Aren’t you a little young to be here, in this particular waiting room?” As soon as he said that, Noah felt foolish. Sure, he had cancer. But cancer was no respecter of age. Of course, young people suffered from that disease, as well.

“Maybe.” Richard smiled. “But I’m almost eleven. Is that old enough to be here? What’s your name?”

“I’m Noah.”

“WOW! Like in the Ark? You’re almost God.”

“No, not like the Ark. Well, my name is the same. But I’m not that old. Not quite, anyway.” As Noah smiled at Richard, the boy turned and looked away.

“Hello. I’m Richard and this Noah. Not God, and not the Noah from the Ark. Who are you?”

“Where did he come from, now?” thought Noah. “And where is that damn receptionist?”

“Hi, Richard, Noah. I’m Jackson.” White teeth gleamed in a broad, dark chocolate-colored face. Jackson stepped over in front of Richard and stuck out his hand. Richard smiled back and shook the big man’s hand. Noah stood up and walked to the other side of the room, taking a seat below the picture of Machu Picchu. Jackson frowned, following Noah with his eyes, then sat next to Richard.

“Are you a famous basketball player?” Richard asked. The top of Jackson’s head was even with the top of the lampshade, higher than Noah’s had been when he sat across from Richard. Jackson laughed, a soft, melodious sound.

“No Richard, I’m a computer programmer.”

“But you’re so tall. Are all computer programmers tall? They don’t look like they are, on TV.”

Jackson laughed again. Richard liked to hear him laugh. Noah stood up to look for a bell on the receptionist’s desk. He didn’t want to be in this waiting room any longer.

“Are all boys your age your size?” Jackson asked, his dimples deepening when he smiled at Richard.

“Don’t be silly.” Richard giggled. “Oh, I see what you mean.” He nodded up and down.

“I look tall to you,” Jackson explained, “but I’m only six feet tall. Most NBA players are taller than I am. And most programmers are shorter, I guess, at least those I know.”

Noah couldn’t see a bell. He stepped up to the desk and peered over the ledge of it, hoping to see a bell there. No bell. He went back to his seat and looked at the tower of magazines on this table. The issue on top was a Newsweek magazine, sporting an image of Jesus, and the cover story title “2000 years of Jesus.” 

This was the Jesus Noah related to most. Young, male, white, beatific, bearded, with long hair and a halo. Before reaching to pick up the magazine, he looked back at the desk. The receptionist walked through the door and stepped to the chair behind that desk. She smiled, her own teeth shining brightly from a face as smooth as a latte; and one of the same color, medium cream.

“Who’s next?” Her voice was deeper than Noah expected, but creamy and smooth. Jackson, Noah, and Richard all spoke at the same time.

“I was here first,” Noah told her.

“I was last,” Jackson confirmed.

“Are you God?” Richard asked. Her eyes sparkled, her face lit up as she smiled, and she laughed. Her voice carried the sound of wind chimes, tinkling in a light breeze.

“Why do you think I’m God?” she asked Richard.

“Don’t be stupid.” Noah pointed at the Newsweek.

“Because you’re beautiful, and you look kind,” Richard replied.

Her look grew more serious as she looked at each of them with a measuring gaze. She even frowned at Noah. “I can take one of you now,” she told them. “Then it will be a bit of a wait before there is time to see to the next one.”

“How long is a bit of a wait?” Richard asked.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Jackson said.

“I was first,” Noah reminded her, starting towards the door she came from. She paused for a long time, looking at each of them in turn.

“Let’s do it this way,” she told them. “Noah, you go through that door.” She pointed to a door opposite the one she used. An arched sign above the door said something like “smudges . . . enter here.”

“How did she know my name?” wondered Noah, as he headed toward the door. “Oh well,” he thought, “my wait is over. And I can get away from that Jackson fellow.”

“Jackson,” she said next, “please go through that door.” She pointed to the side of the room. Jackson didn’t think there had been a door there before, but he saw one there now.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Richard was here before I was.”

“I’m sure,” she smiled. Jackson responded with a “Thank you,” as he stepped up to the door she indicated. He noted a rectangle above the door, engraved with something like “smudges . . . of God.”

“How did she know my name?” wondered Jackson, as he headed toward the door. “Oh well,” he thought, “my wait is over. I hope Richard will be  OK.”

Noah opened his door. Roaring flames and heat lashed into the waiting room, illuminating the rest of the arched sign above the door: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” Like a giant vacuum, the flames sucked at Noah and pulled him into the inferno. “Mwaa, haa, haa.” Evil laughter and terrified screams echoed from beyond that door until it slammed shut. The reception room air cooled again, and the arched sign became smudged again, before the sign and the door disappeared.

Shafts of brilliant sunlight shone down through luscious trees beyond Jackson’s door. “The Story of God” read the sign above the door. Jackson’s face lit up in a bright smile as he walked through the door into a beautiful garden. The sound of birds singing wafted through before the door closed softly. Then the sign and the door winked out of existence.

“Yes, I am God,” the ‘receptionist’ confirmed for Richard, with a pleasant chuckle. “Come with me.”

“I knew it!” Richard smiled up at her beautiful face as she took his hand. Together they walked through the receptionist’s door. Before it disappeared, and before anyone else entered the waiting room, angelic voices singing “Amazing Grace” drifted through that door. A brass nameplate appeared on the ledge of the receptionist’s desk: “Purgatory.” It, too, winked out of existence.

A stooped lady, grey, curly hair surrounding a wrinkled face, appeared in the waiting room. Dorothy was pleasantly surprised that the waiting room was empty. Not exactly empty - there were furniture and decor, just nobody else waiting.

A large desk stood guard, the receptionist off in some other room. She noticed chairs like those in other waiting rooms she had visited, upholstered in a wide variety of solid colors. A yellow couch with square arms, looking firm. All the seating looked adequately comfortable. Dorothy saw some old, well-used tables, each one sporting a larger than normal pile of magazines. There were no rugs softening the surface of the linoleum floor, made to look like marble. Lamps offered soft white light, with bases of floral shapes and shades the color of sand, each with a different shape.

She chose a coral blue chair and sat. Dorothy was surprised to find it more comfortable than it looked. She glanced at the wall across the room. An 11x14 photograph of The Gardens of Babylon hung above an orange chair similar to Dorothy’s. At least she thought it might be The Gardens of Babylon - she’d never been there, but she had seen posters of the location in travel brochures. The picture wasn’t hung straight, the right side slightly lower than the left. 

She saw the Great Pyramids of Giza in a picture over the unoccupied desk. Dorothy clasped her hands in delight, seeing the one place she visited that wasn’t in the United States. The pyramids threw long shadows in the light of morning. This picture was straight, and surrounded by a frame made to look like sandstone.

On Dorothy’s right, sitting on a round table in a pool of the soft, white light, sat a tower of magazines. On the top issue, a Time magazine from 1966 with no picture, bold red letters set against a stark black background, screamed “Is God Dead?”