An Interview with God Page 4

  Paul sighs and stares at some distant object past God. “Okay, question ten. Does free will exist? And how do we reconcile our ability to choose between our own and God’s will?” He knows this question cannot possibly have a simple and concise answer.

  God takes a deep breath and heaves a sigh. “Finally!”

  Paul waits for the answer to begin, but God says nothing else. “Finally? What does that mean?”

  Seeing another opportunity for both stating the obvious and injecting some humor, God says, “Well, I believe it’s an adverb meaning ‘at last.’” Knowing full well the young man is working hard to fight off an eye roll, He explains, “What I mean, Paul, is you’re finally asking Me something that you care about personally. I think you would be far more passionate about writing this series if you asked your own burning questions.”

  Paul gets defensive. “No, I care about all the questions.”

  “Maybe. But you care about some answers more than others.”

  “It’s not about what I want.” Paul’s tone is now more confrontational.

  God presses, “Really? Are you sure? Then to your point, I repeat, does free will exist? Did I force you to come to this meeting, Paul?”

  The young journalist displays his quick wit. “Would I know it if You did?”

  Once again, God shows Paul who is actually in charge of direction. “That reminds Me of an old joke. A disciple goes to his rabbi and asks, ‘Rabbi, why do you and all the other rabbis always answer my questions with another question?’” God raises his eyebrows to indicate that the riddle is actually for his response.

  Paul drops his pen on the table and shrugs. “I give up.”

  “The rabbi replies, ‘So how should we answer?’”

  Paul purses his lips and slowly nods with an okay-I-get-it-but-I-don’t-like-it attitude.

  God seems a bit disappointed. “You didn’t laugh at God’s joke? What does that say about free will? . . . Therefore, of course, free will exists, Paul. And everyone really does know this is true. I’m not showing up, nor have I ever shown up at anyone’s door forcing them to comply with My wishes. With the many documented interactions, you won’t find that scenario anywhere.

  God continues, “The entire foundation of human law depends on the existence of free will. In fact, just try going before a judge when you’re charged with a crime and blame your actions on ‘God’s will.’ They might send you to the asylum instead of jail because they know you made your own choice to commit the crime. Now, can we then say every human act is a matter of free will? Of course not. No more than you can use free will to grow back an amputated limb!”

  Paul takes in the words like cold water on a day in the desert. But he’s still a journalist, so he comes back with, “All right, let me get this straight. So then stuff happens and God says, ‘Hey. Don’t look at Me.’”

  “No. You have to understand that My will and human free will are not necessarily contradictory, because they are not two versions of the same thing. But they can indeed fit perfectly together. In fact, that’s My original design. What I desire for your life can become what you desire for your life. And free will is still fully exercised.”

  “Yeah, but if I can’t tell where Your will begins and my will ends . . . See my dilemma?”

  God pauses, sizing up the young man’s question. “Oh, I think I see. So is the real problem that you don’t trust My plan? Or that you don’t trust yourself?”

  “Great! So if God’s got a plan, I’m covered, right? I should’ve just stayed in bed this morning. Because for all I know, that’s part of His plan! Your plan, I mean.”

  Like a father trying to teach the art of reason to his child, God responds with polite admonition to Paul’s cynicism. “That’s not what I’m saying. And you know it.” He points to the chessboard, ironically situated between them. “Look here. In chess, there are rules, give and take, but the pieces can never occupy the same space at the same time. That’s a lot like you and Me. People make choices, and those choices have consequences. If having to first know My will were necessary for every human action and decision, how would anything ever happen? You’d be paralyzed every morning, trying to decide if I want you to have eggs or cereal. If I want you to wear your blue shirt or your black shirt. See it?”

  Still fighting the logic and overthinking life, Paul fires back, “So trying to know God’s will is . . . what? Just some waste of time?”

  “No, not at all,” God patiently says. “I’m only telling you what you already know. You have to make your own choices and then live by them. However you may have arrived at making them. For example, when you traveled to Afghanistan, which aspects of My will did you consider? Did you just assume, ‘Hey, anything goes, so why not accept the assignment?’ or did you decide you would involve Me in your decision?”

  Getting so deep and personal is making Paul angry. But God knows it is.

  Paul tightens his lips, then blurts out, “Um, I think it was slightly more complicated than that.”

  “Of course it was! You traveled seven thousand miles into the middle of a war zone, Paul. And war changes people. You see death and the worst that humans can do to one another every day right in front of you. You had to know a trip like that would have consequences for you, for your marriage. Or did you think you’d be different? Some kind of exception?”

  Paul starts to put the pieces of God’s line of reasoning together, and the entire interview begins to come into focus. This is where He was headed all along. Finally, he admits, “I guess I was hoping that God would look out for me.”

  “Just hoping?”

  “No, I prayed. I prayed for my own safety and that You would watch over the soldiers I was with, and bring them all home . . . alive. I asked You to take care of my wife, Sarah, and that she would be okay and be strong while I was gone. I prayed that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. I guess I prayed a lot more than I even realized, but—”

  “So, Paul, were your prayers answered?”

  “Well, that’s a hard question. Certainly not a simple answer. On some of them, yes, but on more than I had hoped, especially some of the major requests, I’d have to say no.”

  God’s expression becomes serious yet compassionate. “Would you like to talk about that, Paul? About the soldiers who didn’t make it? Or anything else you’re struggling with right now?”

  Paul decides to ignore those questions and drop back to his best defense mechanism. “What is this? Are You the complaint department for life?”

  God shrugs as if to say, Whatever you need Me to be right now. Not wanting to return to the stock questions, He then says, “Well, I heard I was needed and I came. So on that prayer, you did get a yes.”

  “Has this turned into an intervention?” Paul says, half-joking and half-sarcastic. “Or was that Your plan all along?”

  Graciously but honestly, God responds, “Well, yes, to answer your question, but not in the clinical way you’re thinking.”

  “How do You know what I think?” In the heat of the moment, he forgets to whom he is speaking.

  God pauses, clasps His hands, and peers at Paul for a moment. “Let’s save that for tomorrow.”

  “This is a very weird interview,” Paul confesses.

  “Well, that’s exactly why, the majority of the time, I just do the listening.”

  Paul reflects a moment. “But not today, right?”

  “No.”

  With his head spinning, Paul feels like they are now officially at a standoff.

  Then God breaks the silence. “We’re almost out of time. ”

  Paul grabs his phone and hits the home button. 9:28 a.m. “So, are You here to help me?”

  God continues, “Well, let Me ask you something . . . Why did you agree to meet with Me? Really, why?”

  Doing his best to look as if this is all business, Paul answers, “What? What do you mean? It’s my job. This is what I do.”

  God appears skeptical. “Is that right? That’s the reason? Someo
ne tells you they’re God, that they want to meet, and you say, ‘Sure, why not’? Just like that? I could have been a crazy person. Maybe even dangerous.”

  Paul fumbles for an explanation that sounds more convincing than his first response. “Well, I am a journalist. The opportunity sounded intriguing. I thought it would make a good story . . . a great story for that matter.”

  “Do you still think that?” God asks softly.

  Paul considers the question. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I had something in my head as to how this would be, but it’s been different, and now You’re telling me it’s about something else.”

  “Yes, well, but its certainly not been boring, right?” God grins proudly.

  Paul returns a slight smile. “No, certainly not. It was supposed to just be an interview, but there’s way too much of me in it. I’m the writer. Never the story.”

  “Why complicate it, Paul? Why can’t we just call it . . . a conversation? Wouldn’t that help?” God wants to put this into a simple context for His young friend to accept.

  “The Herald doesn’t have me on the payroll to have conversations. I have to conduct interviews for the purpose of getting stories written. I’m not even sure I have enough in our first thirty minutes to get started.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To just get the interview?”

  “I don’t know,” Paul responds. “Why are we here?”

  Again, God tries to reach out. “You needed Me, son, so I came and I’m giving you My full and complete attention in a way you can see, hear, feel, and sense it. A simple thank you would be fine.”

  Paul realizes that if He were God, that would be a very valid point. “And I’m grateful for what You’re doing. But why do I deserve this? With all the needy people out there, why me?”

  “Don’t you, Paul? Deserve this? And why not you?”

  Once again, Paul tries to put everything in a box when God is going for freedom. “So You’re here to save me then?”

  In His best rabbinical answer yet, God responds, “Do you need saving?”

  “Well, doesn’t everyone?”

  “Sure. But we’re going to try something a little different this time. I’m going to help you.”

  “Help me with what? I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t,” God says, ending the back-and-forth. “But you will. Looks like we’re out of time for today.” He stands up and extends His hand. “See you tomorrow?”

  Paul doesn’t protest. He just stands and instinctively reaches out his hand. As he clasps God’s grip, the young reporter suddenly feels a strange warmth in his soul, momentarily overriding the chaos in his life.

  God repeats, “Paul? See you tomorrow?”

  Paul realizes he needs to answer. “Oh yeah. Sure. Same time and place?”

  “To be determined. I’ll let You know.”

  Paul draws back his hand and instinctively rubs it with his other fingers, like he felt something. Different. Unlike anything else his hands have ever touched. His expression takes on intensity. “Seriously, what’s this all about?”

  God smiles knowingly, reassuring. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. I promise.” He looks at Paul in the same way a host looks at a guest walking out their front door, politely waiting until they are in the car to head home.

  Paul says goodbye and walks deep in thought to his bike. As he begins to unlock it from the fencepost and unwrap the chain, he hears a strange, indistinct sound, like its right in his ears yet far away at the same time. Somewhere between radio static and a soft whisper. His eyes widen as he stands back up, looking all around for the noise. God is nowhere in sight. The table where they sat is empty, the chess pieces gone.

  What Paul is hearing, feeling, thinking, and sensing is not of this world. As he glances up, the leaves on the trees seem a brighter green. The sound of the breeze is almost musical. The conversations of people walking nearby are oddly comforting. The layers upon layers of grief, confusion, betrayal, doubt, and pain piled up in his heart suddenly feel like a bit less of a burden.

  Paul places his lock in his bag, throws the strap over his shoulder, and snaps on his helmet. As he rides away, the truth hits him. That odd sensation he’s feeling that has been a stranger for a very long time is . . .

  Hope.

  Chapter Three

  Front Lines to Front Page

  Paul rides toward The Herald’s offices in Manhattan, where he hopes to spend the rest of his workday. Back onto his usual and familiar route, his intensity would normally make him hyperaware of the bumper-to-bumper traffic and masses of humanity. But something is very different in this moment. His mind is swimming in a sea of endless thoughts—some offering great clarity, while some seem annoyingly random.

  Paul’s heart isn’t fighting off the questions as it has been since his return from Afghanistan, but rather starting to consider that his faith that began in childhood might transfer to something far more real and practical today than he had previously suspected.

  He had always had this uncomfortable sense that he could somehow control his relationship with God, moving it in and out of his life as needed, like some kind of cosmic cruise control available for him to activate on demand. But now the reality is sneaking up on him: he is indeed not in charge at all.

  In his twenty-eight years on the planet, nothing truly difficult or devastating has happened to him or to those around him—until recently. Life before Afghanistan hadn’t been perfect by any stretch of the imagination, with plenty of disappointments and failures. Up to this point, he had escaped many of the crises he had seen other family and friends go through. But now the tables had certainly and unexpectedly turned with Sarah, with Matt, with his job . . . and even with God.

  A mere thirty minutes of trying to navigate his interview with the Creator, and he has more questions than he left with this morning. Paul can’t decide whether what he’s experiencing is the afterglow or aftermath from the past hour. Regardless, a new perspective is seemingly being offered. Same life. Same problems. Different view.

  While Paul’s legs robotically pedal and his hands tightly grip the handlebars, his mind drifts a million miles away. Not a recommended mental state for a bike ride in New York. He approaches a busy intersection, and the light turns red for his direction. As he keeps traveling and the cars on his left and right begin their advance, the scene plays out like a Jack Black comedy. He passes through completely unscathed, inches from several cars that narrowly miss him in the middle of the intersection. And an equal miracle, there is no honking, no shouting, and no pointing with middle fingers, as if the drivers don’t even see Paul. And he certainly doesn’t see them.

  Paul pulls up to the bike rack outside the renovated industrial building and snaps back into reality. As if waking from a dream, he realizes the trip from the park to his office seems like a blur. No memory of the ride at all. He decides it might be best to not think too much about what just happened—and what didn’t just happen. He also realizes he has brought new meaning to the phrase distracted driving, now applicable to even those who ride on only two wheels.

  Paul locks up his bike and starts for the door, then glances up at the embossed plaque on the building. The Herald – Online. “Okay, focus, focus, focus,” he whispers in an effort to inspire digging into his work for the next several hours. After opening the door, he strolls down the hall. Just as he starts to remove his helmet, he says under his breath, “Maybe I should leave this on a little longer until I see how things go?”

  The ultra-modern office with its maze of open cubicles furnished in equal measure with built-in desks and computers is the home of the newspaper’s online division. While it’s highly functional for efficiency in some of the most outrageously expensive real estate on the globe, Paul has often likened the experience to working at an aquarium—from the inside. He walks toward his assigned workspace, glancing around at the people there. One by one, they look up to see who’s going by,
initiating stares as if to say, What’s this guy doing here?

  The setting feels oddly strange to him and vastly different from the tents of brown camo where he worked in Afghanistan. He arrives at his desk and stores away his bag and helmet, then picks up a large stack of mail and various papers dropped off for him, scanning through for anything important.

  Paul sits down, and his eyes immediately fix on the framed picture on his desk of himself and Sarah. The shot was taken in much happier days, when they seemingly had no cares in the world. Well, they certainly had plenty of cares then, but they were so in love that it didn’t much matter.

  Instinctively tapping the space bar on his keyboard with his index finger to wake up his Mac, Paul starts to scan through unread emails. But he doesn’t click on any of them. Instead he grabs his phone and opens his recording app to see the file he saved and named God One. Just as he’s about to hit the play button, the landline phone on his desk rings. Startled, he picks it up. “Yeah, Paul Asher.”

  “Hey, it’s me,” a young woman says.

  The voice is soft, feminine, and not Sarah. Paul immediately feels uncomfortable. “Oh, hi.”

  “So what happened this morning? Did she leave? Like left you?”

  Paul grows even more nervous. “I don’t know. Ummm, I don’t know.”

  Picking up on Paul’s obvious mood, she says, “You sound . . . a little . . . uh . . .”

  “Sorry, I just got in,” he says. “I’ve had a really strange morning.”

  The lead editor, Gary, a striking and impressive African-American man around forty, walks up unbeknownst to Paul. He has an enthusiastic and upbeat sense of humor that suits his keen intellect and commanding nature. Gary is a great boss, and Paul likes working for him.

  In the reflection on his computer screen, Paul sees Gary standing behind him. A mild panic sets in as he spins around in his chair, offering a forced patronizing smile.