SQUISHED

“All I’m saying is this could have big implications for religion,” the cockroach drunkenly slurred.

“What implications? And who said anything about religion? I really don’t see what you’re drawing from all this.” This from a fiery termite who was pounding one leg against the bottle top table enthusiastically. It jumped a little every time it slammed its claw down.

“It’s undeniable,” the cockroach said.

“No, it’s completely deniable. Where’s the proof, huh?”

The cockroach stared sadly.

“Where’s the proof? I’ll tell you, there is no proof.”

“No proof it was an accident, either.”

The cricket in the corner interrupted. “Hold on, you mean like a divine accident or a cosmic accident?”

“What exactly is the difference?” asked the termite.

“Well, it seems like a divine accident is like something that happens because God or the gods aren’t paying attention, whereas a cosmic accident is just random probability and such.”

“Why would God not pay attention?” the cockroach asked sleepily.

“I don’t know. Maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe we assume that God is always looking out for us, in our universe, each and every one especially. But what if He isn’t that powerful, or careful?”

“What if there are other universes that distract him?” pondered the cockroach.

“Exactly. Like, God is running around between all these different universes, trying to handle everything, and He just lets us slip every once in a while. God steps away, boom,” the cricket stomped, “And now Carl’s dead.”

“Carl’s dead,” repeated the cockroach.

“OK, first off, let me stop you there,” the termite began angrily. “When you say ‘God’, capital ‘G’, you mean the monotheist God, right?”

“Yeah,” the cricket replied, following the termite’s energy with a gentle head bob.

The ladybug bartender intruded with a candle, placing it gently in the center of the bottle cap among the bugs’ drinks. “Hang on, I’m just gonna-”

“It’s fine. Alright,” the termite said, “Let me just clarify this here. Right here.”

The cricket mouthed thanks to the bartender, who nodded.

“When you talk about the monotheist’s God, you mean the omnipotent. The classical God who controls the universe and knows everything. And the generally accepted idea of this God is that He or She can do literally anything.” The termite contributed some sweeping hand motions to his speech.

“Well, yeah, but what if we don’t consider the monotheist God?” the cockroach proposed.

The termite waved his idea aside irritably, saying, “Then use a different name.”

“But that’s what we say. What other name can we use?” the cockroach insisted.

“How about ‘deity’?” suggested the cricket. He produced a cigar from underneath a wing and proceeded to light it from the candle. He puffed on it, mouth working sideways on the end.

“Yes, fine, that works. So your deity, your forgetful deity, He can slack off. But when you say God, you refer to God, that right there means that there is nothing He can’t do.”

He looked around.

“Which means He can’t slip up.”

“Well, hold on,” the cockroach said. “Who’s to say anything’s running the show?”

“We’re assuming there has to be a reason, or a God, or a deity.”

“But say there wasn’t? Say Carl died because things just happen randomly?”

“Then Carl died meaninglessly, I guess,” the cricket offered.

“Hey, man.”

“Sorry, but I think if you want to say that then you have to consider it.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll say there’s a driver for the purpose of this argument.” He took a deep draw from his tankard of fizzy brown alcohol. “But I still think the idea of nothingness deserves thought.” A brief moment of contemplative thought settled around the three bugs.

“Unless it was a divine accident,” the cricket continued.

“Yeah, unless it was a divine accident.” The cockroach considered this, then asked, “But wouldn’t that mean God’s plan-”

“The deity’s plan!” the termite interjected.

“Right, yeah, the God’s plan, that was just something HE wanted to happen?”

The cricket gazed into the candle. “Explain.”

“Like, things are set in motion at Creation, alright? And God pushes things here and there, but the Universe really has a life of its own. Things can happen randomly unless God intervenes.”

“Divine interference.”

“Yeah.”

“So does that mean that God is only all-powerful when he’s paying attention to the Universe? Plus that would mean the Universe could go on without God.”

“Right, that’s what I’m saying. He’s just nudging things in the direction He wants them to go, but the Universe is actually doing all the actions.”

“Like a creator in a big video game world.”

“Right, exactly. He made the physics engine of physics, like actual physics, and He set up the whole game and wrote the code, but He only affects select things. So glitches happen.”

“Does He still have omnipotence?” fumed the termite.

“Yeah, so He can do everything at once.”

“Then He’s all-powerful! Meaning no slip-ups!”

“All-powerful is relative. All-powerful in this universe might mean He can control everything at the same time, but then out of time, in another universe, His attention is needed so He turns it there.”

“Alright, listen,” the cockroach began, but it was interrupted by the termite.

“No, shut up, here me out.”

The cockroach flicked him in the ear.

“Ow! Listen! If God is all-powerful then there are no slip-ups in this Universe. He can go through time and fix things. He can make miracles. A deity with limitations, however, could conceivably have that issue.”

The termite began making a diagram in the air using its legs. “But if the deity could affect all things at the same time, it would have to be limited to moving along time linearly to make sense. Sure, maybe it could see all the steps that needed to happen for its divine plan to work, but it can only move through time at a rate of one second per second.”

“Omni-present, but not omnipotent,” mused the cricket.

“Yes, exactly.”

“That’s all well and good, but what about omniscience?” the cockroach said.

“Well, I see no reason why not.”

“Really? Because if He knows everything, then He could take actions now that would retroactively do what he wants when He needs to be away.” The cockroach demonstrated this by miming putting a bomb on the table and setting a timer. He made a sloppy explosion noise with his mouth.

“He sets the clock,” the cricket said.

“Yeah, He sets the clock. He sets the pieces. If He knows all, then how could something escape His notice?”

“And furthermore,” the cricket jumped in, “I think this deity has to be limited to operating within the laws of physics.”

“Why?” the termite asked.

“Well, you don’t see miracles every day, do you? Nothing out of the ordinary, physically speaking? And I don’t mean the miracle of creation, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. Except for Carl’s death.”

The ladybug bartender was wiping down glasses. The crack under the door glowed the mauve light of twilight. The three bugs were the only patrons left in the little hole-in-the-wall.

“Right, but that operates within the parameters of our physical universe,” said the cricket. “We know that happens all the time. Nothing unusual.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So then this deity who would allow Carl to die,” finished the cricket triumphantly, “Isn’t all-powerful at all! It’s just really powerful. It can see everything, it created everything, but it only works within the rules it created, and it can forget.”

“Well, when you put it like that, if that’s true, then there’s no way to tell whether or not Carl died for any reason at all.” The termite was cross now.

“Exactly.” The cricket grinned around the cigar. “My point is proven. Could have been God, could have not been God.”

“Not God. A deity,” the termite said bitterly.

“Can we change the topic? I’ve got a headache.” The cockroach groaned to prove his point.

“You could lose your head and not be dead for a while. You’ll live,” the termite snapped.