The Unbeliever’s God

The problem was, they weren’t. Not even close. In fact, even in the worst case scenarios and models, these lifeforms should have transcended their primitive squabbles at least 2,000 years ago. It was beyond overdue–it was a cosmic embarrassment. His other universes, those practice runs, were doing just fine, their denizens now glorious colleagues of his. Yet this one… well, let’s just say BobTod desperately needed its inhabitants to get their act together, and fast.

Descending into this universe’s depths, BobTod was immediately struck by the silence – a silence out of sync with his projections. Of the countless planets and star systems he had meticulously designed, only one, a vibrant blue and green orb suspended in the void, showed any signs of life. Curiosity piqued and a knot of dread tightening in his cosmic gut, BobTod descended onto the planet. This was it. His Hail Mary pass. A success here could salvage his exam score. A failure… well, he might be demoted back to designing shiny rocks.

As he wandered its diverse landscapes, from towering mountains and lush forests to sprawling cities, he observed the inhabitants. There was potential, undeniably. Ingenuity, adaptability, a flicker of something divine sparkled in their eyes. However, their progress towards the higher consciousness he’d envisioned was maddeningly slow. Worse, he realized with horror, they were stagnant, trapped in a cycle of icons, idolatry, and dogma that seemed to actively hinder their progress.

A sense of urgency washed over BobTod. What had gone wrong? According to his celestial models, these beings should be well on their way to joining his ranks. Instead, they were busy arguing over whose imaginary sky-friend was the best imaginary sky-friend. It was the cosmic equivalent of watching a toddler trying to put together a quantum physics thesis. He needed them to step it up, and he needed them to do it yesterday. This wasn’t just a matter of personal pride anymore, his entire future hung in the balance. It was a moment of profound, career-altering panic for BobTod. The evolution of life and consciousness, it seemed, was far more unpredictable and frustrating than his textbooks had ever prepared him for.

Dollars to Donuts

In the world teeming with prayers whispered into the void and doubts carved into the altars of reason, BobTod arrived – not with a thunderclap or celestial fanfare, but with the discreet hum of a forgotten taxi engine. He materialized amid the ceaseless clamor of New York City, his unassuming form swallowed by the relentless tide of humanity. Yet, his heart hummed with a cosmic dissonance – an architect of universes, eager to reconnect with his creation, was about to learn that even the grandest designs were subject to the whims of evolution.

When BobTod raised his hand and willed a rainstorm to cease, he wasn’t met with gasps or awe-struck stares. Instead, smartphones emerged en masse, not to document a miracle, but to curse the break in the cloud cover that ruined a thousand selfies. When he healed a woman’s broken leg with a gentle touch, a nearby ambulance siren drowned out her cries of joy, and the paramedics were hailed as heroes. He sought the temples, cathedrals, and mosques expecting reverence, but instead found rote rituals and half-hearted sermons. The idea of a God was far more palatable than the messy, unpredictable reality of one.

News cameras jostled, pundits speculated, and the internet exploded with conspiracy theories. BobTod, the proclaimed deity, was dissected on blogs, reduced to viral memes, and ultimately dismissed as a hoax or a publicity stunt. Amid the clamor, a select few sensed the discordant note in reality’s symphony. There was the disillusioned theology student, the quantum physicist grappling with unexplainable data, the late-night radio host who had fielded too many calls that whispered of the impossible. They saw not a messiah, but a puzzle – intriguing and perhaps a little threatening.

But even their interest didn’t escape the watchful eyes cloistered within the Vatican. In chambers steeped in hallowed tradition, a Cardnal named Rossi, his faith as weathered as the ancient texts he cherished, saw not divine intervention but a direct threat to centuries of order. Rossi understood that belief, true or not, was a potent force, and BobTod’s mere existence was a fissure in the carefully constructed dam holding back a torrent of doubt and upheaval.

A plan was hatched, whispered in confessionals and cloaked in righteous intent. When BobTod, growing ever more bewildered, attempted to replicate the parting of the Red Sea (choosing an unfortunately crowded beach in Miami), he was swarmed not by reverent followers, but by men in unmarked vans. BobTod, with the power to alter reality at his fingertips, allowed himself to be bundled away. He’d spent eons nurturing universes with meticulous care, but failed to comprehend a far more complex force – the human capacity for fear-driven self-preservation of dogmatic beliefs.

Death to the Heretics

Imprisoned within a Vatican cell, cold stone beneath his bare feet, BobTod reflected. He was not the wrathful deity of ancient scripture nor the benevolent wish-granter of modern pop culture. He was a cosmic caretaker, bewildered by the evolutionary path his cherished creation had taken. The prayers hadn’t reached him, not because they were insincere or he wasn’t interested, but because they had been aimed in the wrong direction altogether. The interrogation chamber lay deep within the Vatican, a chilling contrast to the sun-drenched piazzas above. Stone walls wept with a chill that had little to do with the room’s temperature, and the only light emanated from a single harsh bulb glaring down onto a bolted metal chair. It was here BobTod found himself, not frightened, but distinctly curious.

Cardnal Rossi entered, Sister Elena a silent shadow at his side. Rossi was a bear of a man, his voice capable of booming pronouncements or uttering soft, chilling threats. Yet, as he studied the unimpressive figure seated before him, doubt flickered in his eyes.

“Who are you?” His voice was a rumble, designed to intimidate.

BobTod, hands neatly folded in his lap, blinked. “You know, the name’s BobTod. I was quite clear about that during those… rather entertaining and enthusiastic demonstrations.”

Sister Elena stepped forward, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Do not play games, creature! Your tricks, your illusions, they are the weapons of the Adversary, meant to sow discord and lead the faithful astray. I cast you out Satan, Exorcizo te, creatura pessima, in nomine Dei omnipotentis!”

A giggle escaped BobTod, surprising even himself. “You’ve got the wrong guy, I promise. Well, I mean, you have the right guy, wrong title. No horns, haven’t misplaced my pitchfork… I even quite like the smell of incense.”

Rossi slammed his fist on the crude metal table. “This is blasphemy! We will not tolerate…”

“Torture?” BobTod completed the sentence for him, still smiling. “Look, I’m really happy to go back to my cell, but all this drama is a bit unnecessary. I’m not your big bad, I promise.”

Elena hissed, a rosary clutched so tightly in her hand the cross trembled, “Lies! The work of Satan is deceit!” She thrust the crucifix towards BobTod, her Latin incantations rising in pitch. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”

BobTod watched, fascinated. It was a bit like watching an amateur theatrical performance, earnest but fundamentally misguided. When Elena paused dramatically, expecting him to recoil, he merely asked, “Is that the bit about casting out demons? Quite lovely rhythm, mind you.”

Rossi, his initial bluster fading, sank into a chair with a resigned sigh. “This…” he gestured helplessly at BobTod, “is unlike anything the Church has encountered. Even in our longest history.”

BobTod nodded sympathetically. “Look, I understand the shock. Finding out cosmology isn’t quite what your book club discussed for the last few millennia can be jarring. But I’m harmless, honestly.”

Elena, however, was not about to submit. She produced a vial of holy water, her movements filled with the desperation of true belief confronted with the inexplicable. “I command thee, unclean spirit…” She flicked the water towards BobTod, who, to her outrage, simply sidestepped the drops with a chuckle. The water sizzled harmlessly against the stone floor.

Frustration edged Rossi’s voice. “Perhaps… less overt action is needed. We know of practices, ancient and… less orthodox. Perhaps they will reveal your true nature.” He motioned for Elena to retreat, a plan forming in his troubled mind.

BobTod, still oddly entertained, watched as Rossi left the chamber. The idea that centuries of tradition and unquestioned faith were about to be pitted against his cosmic knowledge brought a fresh wave of giggles. If those two, with their holy water and Latin pronouncements, were the best the Church could offer, well, perhaps he did have a chance at explaining the admin panel after all.

Time to Meet Your Maker

The studio lights glared down, transforming the talk show stage into a modern-day inquisition. Rickey Gervais, with his sardonic smile and a well-worn copy of a religious text, settled into the guest chair across from a flustered priest. Beside him, Richard Dawkins, his voice as precise as a scalpel, dissected the Vatican’s official statement on the BobTod phenomenon with controlled outrage.

“The Vatican calls him an imposter,” Richard scoffed, “yet the evidence, however extraordinary, demands investigation, not imprisonment based on centuries-old dogma!”

They were an unlikely duo – the atheist comedian and the evolutionary biologist, united by a shared passion for truth and a healthy disdain for unquestioned authority. The audience hung on their every word, the tension palpable, reflecting the broader societal rift between faith and reason that BobTod’s unexpected arrival had brought to the surface.

“I agree,” Ricky quipped, flipping a page of the religious text with mock reverence. “I really don’t get it. Atheists have been demanding evidence of a higher power for ages now, and what does the Church do when it finally shows up? Locks it up and throws away the key!”

The priest, a man who looked as though his usual morning coffee had been replaced with a shot of pure lemon juice, sputtered, “Mr. Gervais, this… entity’s claims are blasphemous! It’s an affront to…”

“Hold on,” Richard cut in, his gaze unwavering, “Let’s leave blasphemy out of this. The Vatican claims sole authority over interpreting the divine. Yet, here we have what appears to be a genuine cosmic architect, one who can back up his claims with, shall we say, irrefutable demonstrations. Are you seriously suggesting your institution’s pronouncements trump actual, demonstrable reality? This is what you’ve been claiming for centuries, God exists – now that he’s shown up and we can scientifically verify his claims, you’re moving the goal posts!”

The priest fumbled for words, his face flushing an alarming shade of red. Ricky, sensing an opening, leaned in, a devilish glint in his eye. “Look, Father, I get it. This whole BobTod thing rocks the boat. But isn’t your faith supposed to be about the pursuit of truth? Or is it just about maintaining control?”

The audience erupted in a mix of applause and gasps. The priest, visibly reeling, retreated into familiar rhetoric, spouting dogma that sounded increasingly hollow against the weight of Richard’s irrefutable logic and Rickey’s irreverent wit. It was a televised car crash of faith versus skepticism, and as the show concluded, one thing was undeniable – the world was watching, and BobTod, wherever they were holding him, had dramatically shifted the game.

After the show, amidst the buzzing crew and the lingering scent of stage makeup, Rickey and Richard retreated to a quiet corner. “This is too big to ignore,” Rickey mused, “There’s a real danger here. If the Vatican believes this… ‘imposter’ threatens their power, who knows what they’re capable of?”

Richard nodded, his brow furrowed. “But even if we assume he’s genuine, what exactly are we dealing with? A cosmic being with unfathomable powers…”

“Or a very clever trickster,” Rickey finished, a glint in his eye. “Either way, someone has to find out.”

Breaking the Law

A plan began to coalesce. Dawkins, with his academic connections and reputation, could rally scientists and scholars curious but wary of being associated with the “BobTod Circus.” Rickey, with his charisma and media savvy, could keep the story in the public eye, fanning the flames of genuine inquiry under the nose of sensationalist reporting. But they needed more – people who could navigate the shadows, who understood how institutions like the Vatican kept their secrets and exerted their power.

That’s how they found themselves huddled in a dimly lit pub, across from a grizzled ex-journalist with haunted eyes and a laptop full of leaked documents, and a young hacker who could slip through digital firewalls like a ghost. This motley group was bound together by something more than a desire for the truth. It was the defiant flicker of skepticism, the belief that there was more to reality than met the eye, even if it took an imprisoned ‘god’ to reveal it.

With meticulous planning, they mapped the perimeter of the Vatican complex where BobTod was being held. The hacker wormed her way into the security systems, revealing shifts of guards and hidden surveillance. The ex-journalist identified key figures and potential points of entry, his cynicism tempered by a hunger for a truly earth-shattering story.

The night of the rescue was a symphony of calculated risks. A distraction here, a cleverly forged document there, exploiting every weakness revealed in the surveillance. When they finally reached BobTod’s cell, the weary figure huddled within stirred, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Rickey couldn’t help a quip, “Sorry if we’re not quite the angels you were expecting, but you’re not exactly easy to pray to.”

Once secure in a hidden safehouse, the questions tumbled out. BobTod, still disoriented, explained as best he could. He wasn’t the God they envisioned. There was no grand plan, no heaven or hell. His name was really BobTod, and he was a junior assistant cosmos architect. His job – to seed a universe, ensure the conditions for life, then sit back and let evolution do its thing, occasionally nudging civilizations towards the path of ascension.

“Ascension? You mean… like your kind?” asked Richard, his ever-present curiosity overriding his skepticism.

BobTod nodded. “It’s the ultimate goal – for a nascent universe to develop consciousness complex and powerful enough to, in a way, join the ranks of architects themselves.”

Then came the moment that changed everything. “Look, I get that this makes no sense,” BobTod confessed, “But to prove I’m not… what do you call it? A charlatan…” He lifted his hand and with a gesture, the room was bathed in starlight, constellations swirling on the ceiling. “This,” he said, “is your universe’s admin panel. You have the same control over your reality that I do.”

The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the hacker’s stunned curse. They had gone from rescuing a man to rewriting the rulebook of existence. But within hours, the ethical battles had begun. Could they use these powers to heal the world, or would they become the very thing they had risked everything to fight against?

Their decision was pragmatic, yet bold. Armed with the truth about BobTod, a ‘God’ made real, and the undeniable power of the admin panel, they would form a new movement. They called it GodOlogy: a pursuit of the divine through the lens of science, a way to use their knowledge to expand human understanding and challenge the corrosive dogma that had led to BobTod’s imprisonment in the first place.

In The Beginning there was Tod and He was Good

The makeshift GodOlogy headquarters, tucked away in an old warehouse, was a world away from the Vatican’s ornate silence and the restless clamor of the city. Here, the air crackled with nervous energy as the team prepared for their upcoming public demonstration. Yet, in the center of it all, a quiet conversation unfolded between BobTod and Rickey. The comedian, for once, had abandoned his usual smirk in favor of a look of intent contemplation.

“So, assuming all this,” Rickey gestured vaguely at the scattered whiteboards and humming computer screens, “is as real as it seems, tell me about you. Not BobTod the cosmic architect, but… before. Did you believe in Gods? Did you pray, go to some alien equivalent of church?”

BobTod smiled, a wistful softness entering his eyes. “Ah, you see, that’s the thing… I grew up on a small farm. We tilled the land, raised those funny sixteen-legged goats, mostly kept to ourselves. Planet’s name was AlbatrossButt. Not glamorous, I’ll admit.” His chuckle was quiet, self-deprecating.

“Religion,” he continued, “was all around us. There were the Moon worshippers, the ones who thought sentience first sparked in a particularly shiny rock, the Fire-is-Life people… oh, and the ones convinced that the universe would end the moment the Great Cosmic Snail finished its nap. Every damn village had a different theory.”

Rickey listened, an uncharacteristic silence descending on him. It was both unsettling and oddly comforting to imagine BobTod as a simple farmer, a concept both mundane and utterly surreal.

“When I…” BobTod hesitated, searching for the right words, “when I passed on from that life, well, none of the theories held true. No pearly gates, no fiery abyss. I remember waking, disoriented in what you’d call a medical facility. Took some time to understand – the universe, my existence, wasn’t a done deal of creation. There was structure, order, systems in place… systems someone had to build.”

“And you wanted to be one of those someones,” Rickey finished, an odd sense of understanding dawning.

BobTod nodded. “At first, I was what you’d call the grunt labor. Geologic design, mostly – types of crystals, composition of asteroids, that sort of thing. A lot of trial, a lot of error. Then, one of my senior-level school projects…” he trailed off, a sheepish grin touching his lips.

“Well? Don’t leave me hanging, man!” Rickey prodded.

“Okay, okay… I was trying different combinations, experimenting with some carbon-based structures. It was a theoretical exercise, all done in simulations, mind you… Next thing I know, the project crystalizes, and not just crystalizes, bursts to life. Single-celled organisms at first, but boom – there was evolution in the making.”

BobTod’s face lit up with an irrepressible joy. “It was messy, chaotic, beautiful. Got me promoted out of Geology and fast-tracked into architect school… and well, the rest you’ve witnessed firsthand.”

Rickey stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then he burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the warehouse’s bare walls. “So, all this time, we’ve been debating a divine creator, and he’s a glorified lab tech who got lucky on a school project!” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “You know, this is either a truly cosmic joke or the most inspiring thing I’ve ever heard.”

BobTod leaned back in his beanbag, his simple robes settling around him. “Maybe a bit of both, Rickey. Maybe a bit of both.” And as the world outside readied itself for a glimpse into the structure of reality, somewhere in the building, a farmer-turned-God and a comedian shared a moment of unexpected, deeply human understanding.

“Okay, okay,” Rickey finally relented, slumping on the floor opposite BobTod. “I’m going to need the big picture here. This universe creation thing – is it like, a one-time event? Is there some almighty God-with-a-capital-G who started it all?”

BobTod chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound. “Well, that’s the tricky thing about being around for a good chunk of infinity. It gets hard to remember exactly where it all began. As far as anyone alive—well, existing—can recall, there’s always been… something. Universes popping in and out of existence, beings like myself tinkering, others ascending… It’s all a wonderful cosmic dance.”

Rickey’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “Wait, others like you? So, it’s a whole cosmic office job?”

“Something like that,” BobTod admitted sheepishly. “There’s a structure to it all, of course. Systems in place, a chain of command of sorts. We even have a president up for re-election at the moment, though no one quite remembers what she ate for breakfast yesterday, much less how this whole shebang got started.”

He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “It wasn’t always as organized, mind you. Records from way, way back are either lost or… well, those who were around back then aren’t keen on remembering. Seems things got a bit messy. This newer system, with junior assistants, proper simulations, and all that, it’s streamlined the process a bit.”

Rickey stared at him, speechless for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “So, we’re not the pinnacle of creation chosen by a divine being, we’re just a moderately successful work-in-progress from a cosmic intern who’s just happy things haven’t exploded yet.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Now that, that I can believe.”

Where Science Meets the Divine

The world, long accustomed to the comforting din of entrenched beliefs, was suddenly forced to confront a discordant note – the irrefutable evidence of a universe shaped by an unseen hand. GodOlogy, launched in a maelstrom of debate and fervent curiosity, found its footing in those first exhilarating and bewildering weeks. Rickey Gervais, with his impish grin and relentless wit, disarmed audiences with a new kind of sermon, one delivered from the stage of a repurposed lecture hall rather than a pulpit. Richard Dawkins’s precise explanations pierced the veil of the miraculous, revealing the elegant complexity behind seemingly impossible events.

They released meticulously documented reports of BobTod’s existence, interwoven with scientific theories that both supported and expanded upon his story. Videos streamed online, demonstrating minor manipulations of the admin panel – controlled mutations in laboratory specimens, precise astronomical events occurring on command. The responses were as chaotic and multifaceted as humanity itself.

Scientists, initially skeptical, grappled with both the potential for groundbreaking discoveries and the unsettling shift in the paradigm they had dedicated their lives to. The faithful were thrown into turmoil. Some clung desperately to dogma, their worldview a fragile house of cards in the rising storm of evidence. Others, long harboring quiet doubts, felt a strange mix of vindication and wonder. Yet, in quiet labs and bustling online forums, a new generation of thinkers embraced GodOlogy’s call for curiosity, recognizing it as a bridge between the known and the yet-to-be-discovered.

In the shadowed chambers of the Vatican, Cardnal Rossi surveyed the escalating situation with a troubled heart. His faith was absolute, unshakeable, but he was not a fool. GodOlogy threatened not his belief in God, but in the Church as the sole arbiter of His will. Sister Elena, ever at his side, her voice a soothing balm to his righteous anger, knew the Church had weathered schisms, heresies, and the slow erosion of its power as science stretched its boundaries. But this? This struck at the very heart of their authority.

The Vatican’s counteroffensive rippled out, subtle at first. Sermons warned against false prophets bearing gifts of technology rather than spirit. News outlets with sympathetic backers questioned the legitimacy of GodOlogy’s evidence, raising the specter of elaborate trickery. And in an unmarked back room, technicians hired from the murkier corners of the digital underworld probed relentlessly for any weakness in the admin panel’s defenses.

The world, however, held its breath for the first direct confrontation. It came not in a hallowed cathedral, but on a seemingly ordinary London street. Rickey and Richard, leaving a televised interview, were set upon by men with eyes devoid of any divine light. A gunshot rang out, followed by a scream, but it was not Rickey or Richard who fell. A ricocheting bullet, an improbable malfunction of the gunman’s weapon, and a suspiciously well-placed pothole that tripped a would-be assassin led to a swift and confusing arrest. The news ran the security footage in an endless loop, fueling speculation that GodOlogy was not just preaching, but actively protecting its own.

This brush with danger galvanized the movement. They understood now the lengths to which the Vatican would go, the true cost of challenging age-old power. It also reinforced the inherent protection the admin panel offered – not against debate or doubt, but against those who would wield violence to silence the pursuit of truth.

With this newfound resolve, GodOlogy widened its circle. Renowned paleontologists joined, their meticulously studied fossils taking on new meaning in the context of a guided evolution. Theologians of various faiths engaged in spirited debates, finding surprising common ground in the idea of a cosmos designed for the ultimate emergence of the divine. BobTod, initially bewildered by the maelstrom his quiet arrival had unleashed, proved an invaluable asset. He acted as a bridge between pure science and the lingering human need for something akin to faith, however unconventional.

The Vatican launched a desperate gamble – an international smear campaign alleging moral bankruptcy within GodOlogy’s ranks alongside a relentless hacking assault on the admin panel itself. Yet, their operatives found themselves outsmarted by a tech-savvy team motivated by more than profit. The disinformation fizzled when faced with a movement built on the bedrock of provable evidence. Every time the Vatican struck, their actions seemed to backfire spectacularly, as if an invisible force countered their every play.

Frustrated, Rossi sought a direct confrontation. It was he and Sister Elena who cornered Rickey and Richard in a borrowed university lab. His voice boomed with a fury born of true belief, “You wield power you cannot comprehend! This… this thing you play with is not meant for mortal hands!”

It was Rickey who stepped forward then, a smile playing around his lips. “Correction, Cardnal. Its power was designed for precisely that – the very evolution that brought us, questioning and flawed as we are, to this moment. Your God, our BobTod, set the game in motion.”

Before Rossi could respond, a team seemingly conjured from thin air materialized, neutralizing the threat. The team was comprised of GodOlogy members – scientists, philosophers, even a former special ops soldier drawn to the movement’s promise of protecting knowledge, not destroying it. Word of the confrontation leaked. The world watched, transfixed, as Rossi faced the press the next day, issuing only a cryptic statement about misguided souls and the enduring power of true faith.

GodOlogy decided it was time to move from defense to a far bolder display. They chose an open field, a space that could safely hold the anticipated crowds. There, they would use the admin panel not for parlor tricks or self-aggrandizement, but to heal, and to reveal. The chronically ill walked away whole. The boundaries of known physics bent just enough to birth celestial phenomena that filled the night sky with awe-inspiring light. And amidst it all, the quiet figure of BobTod stood, an unassuming reminder of the genesis of their extraordinary moment.

The world didn’t change overnight. Deeply rooted beliefs don’t transform so easily. Yet, looking back, that night marked a turning point. The movement that had begun as a daring gamble was now an undeniable force. Rossi and those within the Church who saw the writing on the wall initiated a slow tactical retreat, still fighting, and clinging to tradition trying to convince their newfound rivals and followers they were following Satan and would burn in hell. Rickey and Richard, exhausted but alight with purpose, gathered their ever-growing team.

Theirs was a long journey, far from over, but as BobTod reminded them with a gentle smile, they had all the time in the universe (well, if they could at least ascend in the next thousand years that would be great, he wanted to turn this project in on time).