NEW FICTION: How Superior is the Supreme Being?

Photo by laura adai on Unsplash

Editor’s Note: We hope you enjoy this first fictional offering from Alec Ott. His writings will appear regularly at GOTD and we’ll be announcing in the coming weeks when his upcoming science fiction book trilogy will be available.

The glorious Sunday morning sunshine backlit the stain glass windows of St. Joseph’s Church in Crescent Springs, Kentucky. Before kneeling again in the first pew at Sunday mass, I had just spoken the words, “I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

Meanwhile, at that very moment in Washington, D.C., a large disk-shaped craft appeared in the skies, shocking and surprising all who witnessed it, especially the military monitors of the skies over our nation’s capital, who had seen nothing on their instruments until that very moment. After slipping down effortlessly through the air, it came to an abrupt stop, millimeters from the ground of the National Mall without quite touching it. The ship, now suspended in position in front of the National Air and Space Museum (and in clear view of the Capitol building), seemed to give birth as a large silver-clad being separated itself from the craft. By this time an amazed and fearful crowd began to form around the circumference of the ship. The being by its tall stature and outward display of technology gave every appearance of a race far superior to our own. He (although it was not entirely clear whether he was a biological creature with a particular sex) surveyed the people with an air of supreme and serene confidence.

Far away from all this, still in church, I pondered and prayed with my hands clasped firmly in front of my face while a procession of fellow believers passed by my right side in a line to receive what I had just received: a small, white disk in the appearance of bread. I could hear the voice of the deacon repeating “The Body of Christ,” as he administered the Communion to each who presented themselves to him.

Back in Washington, two F-18s roared over the National Mall, flying in low from a direction behind the Capital. The crowd below, so mesmerized by the Visitor, barely flinched as the jets’ engines assaulted the air around them with the thunder of military might. Armor-clad police and military personnel armed with M-4 automatic rifles merged with the crowd of on-lookers, steadily taking their places in front of them in open confrontation to the Visitor, this illegal alien who had not entered the country via an established port of entry with a visa and passport.

Five-hundred miles away, still occupied in church, I gazed at the sanctuary before me, still adorned with a multitude of colorful flowers from Easter. The golden tabernacle stood ajar in its place behind the altar as its contents were being distributed to the faithful. The altar candles flickered; the sanctuary lamp glowed red. Futilely I tried again to understand what I believed I had just done. I had just eaten in the accident of bread what Catholics believe to be the real body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ. I had thus taken the infinite author of life into my lowly, human body.

Right then, back on the National Mall, the military and police had made some progress in pushing the crowd away from the Visitor and his ship. His attention was above them; he glanced up into the sky as the two F-18s, still in close formation, began a second pass over his position. Just as they were directly overhead of him, the awful roar of their engines abruptly stopped, and the sleek jets simply paused in the air, fixed in position in the sky. Upon realization of this fantastic occurrence, the crowd below cried out in dismay. And, as this was occurring, an unseen Apache attack helicopter was approaching covertly from a few blocks away, using the trees along Constitutional Avenue as a cover. Seconds later a Hellfire laser-designated missile screamed up and over the treetops on its way with extraordinary rapidity towards its target.

Meanwhile in Kentucky, I was participating in the conclusion of this ancient ceremony of the Mass, a tradition continuously practiced for 2000 years, with antecedents of our religion going back thousands of years prior to that. “Thanks be to God!” we responded to the priest’s exhortation, “The Mass has ended. Go in peace.” I stood as the altar servers, deacon and priest started down the main aisle to the music of the recessional hymn. As I watched the robe-clad procession pass me by, I tried to imagine what a typical modern, secular man might be thinking upon witnessing these proceedings in our little church. He would probably find it particularly old-fashioned and ridiculously out-of-step with modern living. “Hadn’t we all progressed past such outdated beliefs about worshiping gods? Hasn’t scientific thought replaced all that?” I believed he would have muttered to himself.

Back on the National Mall, the Hellfire missile sat frozen in place in the air (and quite unexploded) not ten yards from its intended target. Above this, the F-18 pilots sat in their cockpits uselessly, their jets remaining locked in place in the air. Just then, everyone within a certain radius of the ship began to hear a commanding voice speaking in their heads and in their own language. “It is useless to fight me. My powers are far too superior to be coped with by your primeval weapons. Even so, I am not here to fight you. I have come as your new ruler. Having abandoned your other primitive gods (as I have observed of you during my long journey here), you evidently seek a new one more in keeping with your desire to live in a modern world.”

A short jump away from all this continentally speaking, as I genuflected to the altar, I began to consider the question from my imaginary secular critic of religion. Had we developed and progressed beyond a need to worship a god in this day and age? If there indeed existed a superior, God-like being, must we relate to him in this god-to-man fashion, where we worship him, pray to him, go to a church to offer sacrifice? Why did we think of God as, well, as God?

“I am almighty,” the Visitor on the Mall explained as the two jets above him exploded in a blinding light. As the flash from the explosion faded and the crowd collectively recovered their sight, the powdery remains of the F-18s rained down like dust upon their heads and shoulders. “I’m also merciful,” the Visitor added, as two men in flight suits and helmets appeared nearby him, unhurt on the ground, seemingly from nowhere.

As I made my way down the center aisle, I began to think of the answers I would give to my agnostic modern friend. I could just hear him asking, “So why do you worship an invisible god? One who does not make his presence known. Where you need to have faith in order to believe in him.” My first response was imagining the scene of the Nativity, a baby lying in a manger, a mother gazing at him lovingly.

 “I have come to make my dwelling among you,” the Visitor continued. “No longer will your god be an unseen one. There will be no matter of belief when you worship me. Freedom of religion is no longer necessary. I am now your god—I have chosen that for you.”

God has revealed himself, I would respond to my invisible friend, in a way that he sees fit. We understand that he does not want to remove our freedom of will, and that we get to choose him freely.  I imagined the scene of the Transfiguration, where the full glory of Christ showed through—his face shining like the sun and his clothes becoming white as light itself. Only three of his apostles were permitted to see this.

“I am benevolent when my worshipers do not anger me,” the Visitor revealed. “I am fearsome when angered.” As he said this a dark shape covered the sun and instantly it became night. In the twilight of his own making, the Visitor surveyed the crowd in satisfaction. He made a quick glance at the Capitol as it abruptly crumbled to the ground. “Principalities, thrones and powers are no longer necessary,” he proclaimed.

As I proceeded out of the church into the morning sunshine, I could just imagine my friend uttering a related question, “That’s all very well, but why a Church? Why can’t one worship him on one’s own?” In response, I thought about the very concept of a church. On one level, it was a community of believers, on another, it was a formal institution with the deposit of the faith. Then it occurred to me: It’s the Church because God himself developed with us the very concept of a church, and saw fit to found it. “You are Peter and upon this rock I will build my church,” Christ said to Simon, son of Jonah, “and the gates of the netherworld will not prevail against it,” he added.

Back on the Mall, the crowd no longer needed any prompting to remove itself. For the past several moments, people had been fleeing in all directions away from their new self-proclaimed master. One old woman remained. Clad in her Sunday-best hat and dress, she stood there fiercely clutching her purse to her chest. “Thou shall have no other gods before me!” she called out boldly. The Visitor, amazingly able to discern her weak voice within the din from the fleeing crowd, looked at her curiously, somewhat taken aback at the impudence of this small creature.

Keep in mind, I added to my imaginary friend, as I got into my car, the God I worship is not just another god, he is the Supreme Being. He is infinite with no beginning or end. He’s not just powerful—he is might itself. He is not just merciful—he is infinitely merciful. He is the Logos, the principle of divine reason and creative order. He’s the author of all existence, the Universe (and the Multi-verse, if that indeed existed), and all the things within it, including all other superior beings.

“God is the Creator of all that exists, both seen and unseen, who is infinite beyond all time,” the old woman exclaimed. “Do you even make this claim?” she asked. There will be more like her, the Visitor contemplated. Perhaps not too many, he hoped. “If not, that means He created you too!” she added. “He’s your God too!”

I lingered before starting my car. I was reminded of a quote from G.K. Chesterton, which I quickly looked up on my phone. It read: "If I am asked, as a purely intellectual question, why I believe in Christianity, I can only answer, ‘For the same reason that an intelligent agnostic disbelieves in Christianity.’ I believe in it quite rationally upon the evidence. But the evidence in my case, as in that of the intelligent agnostic, is not really in this or that alleged demonstration; it is in an enormous accumulation of small but unanimous facts.” I thought this summed up my position quite well, and much better than I could have articulated myself. My imaginary friend might have been impressed, had he actually been there to hear it.

As I drove home, I resisted the urge to listen to the news on the radio. It was Sunday, after all, and I preferred to remain in my little world a little bit longer. The news would wait until Monday.