There’s a queue outside the Pearly Gates today. There has been most days. With so many deaths worldwide due to the pandemic, it’s standing room only. Of course, it’s always been standing room only. But even here, a sense of order and, dare we say, bureaucracy prevails: souls are sorted by country, each sad line standing behind a representation of their country’s flag. Angels are moving through the crowd, gently marshalling the souls, most of whom look bewildered, scared, sad or in some cases belligerent.
The latter description applies to a large section of those standing behind the stars and stripes of the United States of America. Like some countries, their line is sub-divided, with roughly half of the recently-deceased standing behind a green rope, all wearing masks and keeping a respectful distance from one another. Those behind the green rope are relatively quiet; some sobs, some moans, a few expressions of disbelief that they’ve ended up here. The other side of the queue is enclosed by a red rope. Those behind it crowd together, are maskless and loud, boisterous, all shaking hands with each other, clapping each other on the back and grinning like idiots. Most wear red caps. The majority of them catcall and berate those behind the green rope, who ignore them.
Without any indication of His arrival, God is there.
He doesn’t come through the Gates. God doesn’t need the Gates. They’re for the residents only.
God looks at the long lines of people, shakes His head. Indicating the ones which are not segregated, as well as those behind the green ropes. He beckons them forward. Softly He says “I’m so sorry this happened to you, but it wasn’t your fault. You’re home now. Please enter and be welcome.”
With the sound of a million angels singing the best song ever, the Gates sigh open and, faces now shining, these people file through.
God surveys those left. All now stand behind a red rope. Many look nervous, but the overall attitude is one of satisfaction, of arrogance. Such arrogance, in fact, that one of them, a man in a white t-shirt with a picture of Joe Biden nailed to the cross, speaks before God can open His mouth. Such a thing, thinks God, has never happened before, but then, these are strange times. And very strange people.
“We’re home, boys!” The man addresses the crowd behind him, blissfully unaware, not caring that there are women in the queue as well. “We made it! We’re here!”
“Indeed you are.” God’s voice is pure Love, but there is today something… other in its tone.
“And we were right all along, weren’t we?” the man goes on, again addressing his question — more a statement really, even a challenge — not to the Almighty, but to his compatriots.
“You were,” God agrees. That tone remains in His voice though. Naturally, nobody hears it, or if they do, they choose to ignore it. They’ve become very good, experts even at seeing only what they want to see and hearing only what they want to hear.
“The virus was a plot!” He yells triumphantly. God nods.
“Trump won!” A woman in a MAGA hat yells, pumping her fist in the air.
“He did.” God folds His arms.
Emboldened by their reception, others speak up. A man in a black t-shirt with a stylised broken syringe above the words I WILL NOT COMPLY bellows “It was all the fault of them Jews!”
God agrees that it was, indeed, all the fault of them Jews.
“Jews in space with lasers!” Shouts a woman who may, or may not, be Marjorie Taylor Greene, whose tragic death has recently been announced from — rather ironically — a traffic accident caused when she lost control of her car while berating two Jewish children who were brazenly breathing her air, as if they had a right to be there.
God makes a pistol of his thumb and forefinger, winks.
A small ripple of unease passes through the crowd, but it’s quickly gone.
A long silence is broken by a very wheezy middle-aged woman, who has to use her inhaler before she can speak. The implications of her being dead and still having to do this do not seem to dawn upon her, or serve as any sort of warning.
“Trump never died!” she screams. “Fake news!”
At this, God has to shake His head.
“Oh no, I’m afraid Mr. Trump is quite dead,” He assures them.
At this, the line begins to moan and wail. They had heard the news, sure, but who can trust the MSM these days? The cry of “Fake news!” goes through the queue, a ragged protest, a denial, but it’s hard to contradict God himself. God smiles.
“Never mind,” He tells them. “You’ll all be meeting him very soon.”
The wail becomes a cheer; all faces turns towards the Gates as the word TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! echoes down the line.
To the right of the Gates, reading his novel, Saint Peter shakes his head but says nothing.
God says nothing.
The crowd says nothing.
Then, the guy who had originally spoken first says, in a somewhat hesitant voice that tries to be assertive “Uh, so, can we, you know, come in, God?”
God nods.
“Of course,” He tells them. “My love for all my children is boundless.”
Those who still have something of their wits about them (a quality frowned upon in the MAGA camp of course) notice a small smirk on God’s lips, and as He withdraws, He bends down to whisper something to Saint Peter.
Then, He is gone.
For a long time, nothing happens.
Saint Peter reads his book.
The Gates, to the consternation of the MAGAs, remain firmly closed.
Coming to what is obviously an amusing passage, Saint Peter chortles and turns the page. He does not look up.
The Gates remain closed.
From within comes the faint sound of stifled laughter.
For a longer time, nothing happens.
Saint Peter continues to read his book.
The Gates remain closed.
For an even longer time, nothing happens.
The Gates remain closed.
Eventually, the self-elected leader of the MAGAs (who in life went by the handle of KILLDEMS2021, but in truth was bullied in school and has a pathological fear of violence) clears his throat and approaches the Gate.
Saint Peter looks up.
“Yes?” His eyes are mild, but also very hard.
“Um, so, can we go in or what?” KILLDEMS2021 is used to demanding, threatening, intimidating. As long as he’s in a crowd of likeminded people. Asking does not come easily to him. Saint Peter gives him a level stare, returns to his book.
“No.”
“No?”
The word echoes around the Gates, a live thing, taken up by the expectant crowd as each repeats it, passes it on to the next man or woman, in case they hadn’t heard, or believed.
“No?” repeats KILLDEMS2021, sure he has misheard. Saint Peter, raising his eyes for a moment only, repeats the word, then goes back to his reading.
From behind the Gates, more laughter, less restrained this time.
“But… but… but...”
Sighing, Saint Peter carefully marks his place, deliberately puts down his novel and faces the man. Even though he’s dead, something warm trickles down the leg of KILLDEMS2021, a small puddle forming at his feet. Saint Peter wrinkles his nose.
“But what?” he snaps. It’s as out of character for Saint Peter to snap as it is for KILLDEMS2021 to be polite and caring towards his fellow human beings.
“But God said...” It’s not a demand now, it’s a whine. Saint Peter smiles.
“Oh, that!” He picks up his book again. “Yeah, He was kidding. The boss likes to keep His hand in.”
Shocked, KILLDEMS2021 stammers “But… but didn’t he whisper to you…?” His eyes are suddenly wide, and full of fear, the kind of fear he’s seen, and delighted in being able to inspire, in folks that ain’t the same colour as him. “What, um, what did he whisper to you?”
Saint Peter’s grin is wide as that of a shark.
“He said,” he tells him with obvious enjoyment, “that He owed me a Coke.”
KILLDEMS2021 does not know how to react to this, so he falls back on “What?”
“He owes me a Coke,” repeats Saint Peter. “See, I bet Him that you anti-vaxxers wouldn’t understand sarcasm when you heard it. And you didn’t.”
Total silence falls, then a low moaning runs through the crowd.
“So… so,” stutters KILLDEMS2021, trying to get his potato head around the concept, “so He was… lying?”
Saint Peter’s look is stern.
“The Almighty does not lie,” he warns the mortal. “He was, as I said, being sarcastic.”
This takes a little longer to penetrate the addled brain than it should, then the wretched MAGA gasps “So, Trump didn’t win?”
Flipping through his novel again, Saint Peter sighs, “No, of course not.”
“The virus isn’t a conspiracy?”
But before Saint Peter can answer, God has returned. He of course never walks through the Gates; they don’t open. He is there because He wishes to be.
“Look people, “ says the Creator of the Universe, spreading His hands, an awkward grin on His face, “I said My love is boundless, and it is. Perhaps I wasn’t fair to you just now.” He seems to consider, then says “Tell you what: you can all come in.”
A mighty cheer goes through the crowd.
“On one condition.”
“Condition?” The self-elected leader of the MAGAs looks at God with suspicion, honestly the same sort of look he used to give any black guy who might happen to walk near his personal space, which he considered to be all of the Yoo-nited States of America.
“Look, you believe in Me, right?” God addresses the crowd.
“Yes Lord,” they respond, almost as a chant.
“You believe I created you, and your world, and everything, yes?”
Another affirmative. A few hallelujahs. The odd advice to praise God.
“And you know I would never lie to you?”
Total assent. All are in agreement.
“I sent My only son — you remember Jesus, don’t you?”
Cries of “Praise Jesus!” and “Jesus is my saviour!”
“Yes, that’s the one. I sent him to save your souls and cleanse you of Original Sin.”
Applause breaks out, whistles, prayers.
“So if I made everything there is, in Heaven and Earth,” God goes on, “then it stands to reason I made this vaccine.”
Mutterings, mumblings, uncertainty. God ignores these. Saint Peter is lost in his book, but his head is shaking as if to say you’re wasting your time!
God checks Himself. “Well, obviously I didn’t make it,” He corrects himself. “But through My Power and My Grace, your fellow men and women were able to come up with a solution to stem the tide of deaths and tackle the virus. I think they call it…” He stops, looks at Saint Peter. “What do they call it?”
Saint Peter doesn’t look up.
“Science,” he says. God nods.
“Science, that’s right. Wonderful thing. So all I want you to do,” God tells the crowd, a smile on His lips, “is admit the vaccine works, admit it is My gift to My creation, My answer to your prayers. Admit that, admit — Me Almighty! Admit you were wrong, and you will all be welcomed into Paradise.”
Silence.
“Well?” God faces the now utterly hostile crowd. “What do you say?”
Silence. Saint Peter continues to read.
Then, as one, concentrated voice:
“BOOOOOOO!”
“That’s it!” God throws up His hands. “My love may be boundless but My patience ain’t! I’ve had it with you people. Go join your beloved leader! Go to Hell!”
There is a red flash, billowing red smoke, demonic laughter fills the air. When the smoke clears, all that is left are the signs and the ropes, swaying slightly in the wind.
God turns to Saint Peter.
“An eternity in Hell,” He muses. “Do you think it’s long enough for them to admit they were wrong?”
Saint Peter shrugs. “I’ll bet you another Coke it’s not, boss.”
God shakes His head. “You know, I don’t think I’ll take that bet.”