I asked Mister Big, this morning, if He’d attended Harvey John’s burial the other day in Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

“I don’t go to burials,” He said.  “If I did, I’d be doing nothing else.”

I told Him I wasn’t surprised, really—I’d only gone, myself, to reconnect with some old friends. The reason I’d asked, I said, was that I’d come away from the service wondering if a loved-one’s prayers for the soul of a dearly-departed ever win that soul a last-minute reprieve from the fiery furnaces of Hell—not so much in a case like Harvey’s, I added, but when it’s been a close call, like when a soul’s fate has been decided by just a couple too many sins, for instance. 

“I don’t answer prayers, period,” He said, “for the souls of the dearly-departed or for anything else. Not anymore, anyway. I gave it a go early on, curious as to where it might lead, and where it led was to people living for hundreds and hundreds of years, all along the way siring offspring who did the same, which led to massive over-crowding and all the problems that came with it, which led, in turn, to their praying for an end to immortality, a return to simpler times. When they weren’t praying for this, they were praying for that, and it would ever be thus. I had universes to create and countless other things to do—Infinity is a big space to fill—so I stopped answering prayers altogether. Stopped cold. Haven’t even listened to one in centuries. And I’m surprised how few have noticed. I could have stopped long before I did.”

“You might have created another couple of universes by now.”

“There’s no rush.”

“Is it true that we’re created in Your image?”

“No. You are nothing like me. But humankind is not alone in believing me a grander version of itself. All but one of my creatures do the same. The bird imagines me a bird—the fish, a fish—the pig, a pig—the frog, a frog. And how could it be otherwise? Could a human confide in a frog? Could a fish worship a pig? No. Each, quite naturally, believes me a likeness of itself.”

“All but one, You said.”

“Yes, all but the dog—the dog imagines me a human.”

“Many believe You don’t care, in the least, what happens to us, that You have no involvement in our lives whatsoever.”

“If that were entirely true, I wouldn’t be talking to you, but, in the main, they’re right—I don’t intervene in the lives of my creations. I’m a creator, not a manager.”

“As You know, I’m a creator, myself.”

“So you know what I mean.”

“Indeed I do. I can barely manage myself.”

I asked if He’d ever checked out my creations. “They’re no match for Yours, certainly, but You wouldn’t expect them to be, either, and I’d love to know what You think.”

“I checked them out right after our last chat and among my favourites is your depiction of me tooling around the Great Beyond in a VW Beetle with a dog on the roof, which is no more off-the-mark than the myriad other depictions of me but, unlike them, is distinctively off-the-mark—it has become my favourite depiction.”

“May I quote You? Your testimonial would certainly boost print sales, which, believe me, could use some boosting—I’ve yet to sell a single print of that one.”

“You’d have to be me, I think, to truly appreciate it, but if you think it might help, go ahead—quote me.”

“It is believed You watch over the sparrows, know when each has fallen.”

“Yes, there are many take comfort in believing so. But if I were to watch over any birds, it would be the starlings. I love to watch the starlings.”

“I do, too. How do they do that—the murmurations?”

“Your split-second is a starling’s second, so what seems to you a masterfully-executed orchestration of precision flying at great speed is, to starlings, a leisurely-performed flight of fancy. The sea turtle’s experience of time is very different—what seems to you an hour, seems to them a quarter-hour. All creatures, whatever their life spans, experience it lasting the same length of time.”

“A mayfly’s 24 hours of life seem as long to that mayfly as 75 years of life seem to me?”

“They do. Were it able to recount them, a mayfly’s adventures would fill volumes.”

“Do You mind that I call you Mister Big? There are many insist that I’m blaspheming and trivializing You.”

“In believing me the least concerned with so trivial a matter, it is they who trivialize me. As it happens, I rather like ‘Mister Big’, much prefer it, in fact, to ‘God’. It’s less sombre and mysterious, much less likely to inspire worship.”

“You don’t enjoy being worshipped?”

“What need have I to be worshipped? Absolutely none. In assuming otherwise, they assign me qualities they revile in themselves and, while believing me omniscient, persist in reminding me, over and over again, of their gratuitous adulation.”


“Are You, in fact, omniscient, as they believe?” 

“Ask me anything.”

“What was my first dog’s name?”

“I’ve only now learned you had a first dog—so there’s your answer. And that’s how I like it. Knowing all would consign me to an eternity of no surprises, of never experiencing the joy of discovery or the thrill of watching what I’ve set in motion evolve.”  

“Was it You said 'Ignorance is a bliss’?” I joked.

“I can’t recall, though I’d like to think so—it’s quite punchy.”

“I like that You’ve a sense of humour.”

“I wasn’t kidding.”

“Is there a Heaven?” I asked

“Yes, there are many, but only for the living. Heaven is mankind’s creation, not mine. Have you, yourself, ever imagined one?”

“As a child being raised in a Christian home, I envisioned Heaven being an eternity in church—a place I could barely stand for one hour a week—so I never aspired to get there and, since early childhood, have never believed it existed.”

“What would your Heaven be like if you had one?”

“I don’t know. But what comes to mind, right off, is that forevermore is a very long time, so I’d want there, always, to be something to look forward to. In many ways, I suppose, it would resemble my childhood with an embellishment of later passions. It would probably smell like early Spring. There’d be of dogs, and laughter, and country fairs, and ball games in a market square, and a billiard parlour, and a nearby golf course, and horseshoe pits in a shady spot by a river, and a woman, of course, to love and share everything with. Oh, and there’d be a great place for wings—mustn’t forget that.”

“Were you ever a believer in the Biblical me?”

“I’ve a memory, as a young child, of being at church and hearing the minister say we were in God’s house and, looking around, thinking I’d spotted You behind the piano. So I suppose, at that stage, I was a believer in the Biblical You. But it never really took hold and, soon as I was free to do so, I only attended church for weddings and funerals. Early on, this occasioned a few bouts of guilt but little more, and it was probably unrequited guilt that led to my dreaming, at the time, that my Uncle Carl had invented a booth I could step into and talk to You. Terrified, I stepped into the booth and, unable to think of a single thing to say, woke up in a cold sweat. I joked, later, that, being omniscient, You had probably appreciated my silence—I had spared You having to listen to what You already knew and You probably wished others would follow my lead. Turned out I wasn’t far off the mark.”

“How do you imagine me right now?”

“I imagine You a grander version of myself, of course, but only to ease conversation. I’ve long ago accepted that You’re beyond my ken. I tried and failed to imagine nothingness, then tried and failed to imagine something arising from nothingness and, from this, concluded that something must always have been here and that You are that something. Beyond this, my imagination fails me.”

“Perhaps you should call me ‘Something’ rather than ‘Mister Big’.”

“If it’s all the same to You, I’ll stick with ‘Mister Big’.”

“It’s all the same to me.”

“How can I be sure this is You?”

“You can’t. I might be a figment of your imagination.”

“You do sound a lot like me.”

“I speak to each in his own voice.”

“Or so I imagine.”


Mister Big and I