Anyone for a little celestial chaos? Hang on to your hats. Heaven is about to heat up! Hey, it’s not horror or sacrilege, it’s just satire!
The desire for Change maddens God even more than the most radical earthly avant-gardist. It stands to reason if you think about it. He’s been around before donkeys had years. So, here’s the thing: The Afterlife may not be what we’ve read about in the Bible after all.
There came a day when He got to work re-strategizing. Among God’s spanking-new Holy Conceptions, and the most startling, was that the two halves of the great beyond should merge, the part above and the part below. This fresh co-ed system came from the idea that since all human beings are a mixture of both good and evil, the old distribution system was dead wrong.
“It’s well in line for a theological Reload if not Revolution!” thundered the Almighty.
This Holy Change would either be an extraordinary epiphany or the Elysian Apocalypse, depending on which side of the fence one stood.
Panic and general opprobrium are not what you’d associate with the ethereal realms, but that’s what God now faced, as notions of a general re-org spread and stirred. From minor to major, a quick rundown revealed the degrees of backlash from God’s staff.
The ones closest to The Divinity were not about to jeopardize their direct line of communication. No way. Knowing these spokes-angels could be relied on brought God some relief. The first of the nine ranks, the Ophanim, also called Thrones, and the trippiest of the upper-echelon denizens, were not early adopters. When they heard the news, their rotating rings spun so fast they resembled gyroscopes.
“So you guys are good with My Plans?”
The Thrones blinked their hundreds of eyeballs and said, “Our Father—who art in Heaven—knows best.” Even though their roving eyes were wide open in shocked disbelief, their devotion was too great to challenge the Lord’s will.
Next were the Cherubim of Renaissance fame, who, in the fullness of their cherubic wisdom, stopped pouting adorably just long enough to inquire where in Heaven these changes would apply. The Seraphim, the third of the first triad, were skeptical of the new regime but limited themselves to requesting a feasibility study.
Privately, Seraphiel and Jehoel shook their heads, ruffled their many wings, and clicked their tongues. God’s novelties were almost always a product of plain idleness. Seraphiel had not seen Lucifer since before donkeys had years, not since he’d disgraced the family, and he wasn’t looking forward to hearing his brother’s snark or staring at his shaved eyebrows and spike studs.
Jehoel told him to count to ten and do some breathing, but it was a little late for that.
“That fucking guy,” sputtered Seraphiel, “When we were little he stopped at nothing to get Our Father’s Attention, be it eviscerating black cats or composing thrash metal hymns, and he was like that other prick with the fancy wardrobe, Prince: good at everything.”
“Seraphiel, seriously, get over it.” Jehoel had never cared for Prince; he preferred Josquin.
“Well, what say you to this place turning lousy with incubi?”
Jehoel only shrugged. As administrators, the Seraphim anticipated the middle triad would create a fuss, so singing God’s praises, their main gig, would have to wait until the kerfuffle had subsided. On the other hand, Dominions vs. the Incubi would be hella spectacular, but to watch.
“That’s a game we’ll leave to the Thrones,” said Seraphiel. “They do the broadcasting.”
So what’s on the middle tier? The Dominions. These are the rectifiers of wrongs, and several shades hotter than the first triad. They sparred with their peers, the red-winged Powers.
The Powers were ever vigilant lest the demonic choirs find a vulnerability to exploit. How these angels howled when they heard the news. The Powers had enough on their plates, and what kind of unholy chaos would follow in such a scenario? Their faces puckered in disgust as they flew around the peripheries, checking the Holy Firewalls. “No incubus is ever getting by me, so help me Yahweh!” said Yerathel, a Guardian of the Dominions, and Huriel, a.k.a. ‘the rod of God’, flashed a thumbs up.
The third triad, messenger angels and horn blowers mostly, found the news most distressing. As God’s spin doctors, the Archangels wanted to hear what tack they should take, griping about being on the lowest tier. Their colleagues, the Principalities, knew they would wind up tap dancing through all this on their own. God never got more explicit with them than:
“Oh, think of something. I don’t know. You’ve got this.”
The Seraphim thought it best to call a general assembly and God said he’d work it into his “busy” schedule.
“Start without me, okay?”
And so they did, but by the time The Omnipotent snuck in and got seated, the scene looked like something out of “Twelve Angry Men” at a conference table roughly the size of Manhattan.
“How can heaven and hell be bound together, conflated, or married? It’s inconceivable!” cried Zadkiel, chief of the Dominions.
A whole chorus of second-tier angels agreed, and their voices rang out in unison (unwittingly inspiring some lunatic painter on earth).
“Oh, come now!” The lowest triad was in an uproar. “What about …?” They rattled off their lists of the usual earthly public enemies.
And God spake: “Even [name of any monster] sings to his grandchildren.”
More uproar.
The archangels and principalities had the most passionate opinions on the subject because they were closest to the stink, shall we say, of humankind, the mayhem on earth. Michael and Rafael were especially incensed. Seraphiel would not take this lying down, instructing his protégé, Metatron, to take down what he was about to say. The sharpened quill dipped into the ink of ravens and blackest night.
“I will not oversee a place where the likes of Pol Pot is among us. He brought about the deaths of one million people from forced labour, starvation, disease, torture, or execution!”
God had snacks brought in, while Seraphiel cited the rest of his evidence against Pol Pot.
“Four years?” interrupted Rafael, “What about Hitler: twenty million that same time span!”
“Or Gauguin,” said Michael, who had an extensive art collection from the quattrocento.
“He abandoned his wife and five children to take child brides in Tahiti and single-handedly infect the entire island with syphilis!”
“Or Ted Bundy!”
“Or—” The angels were shouting, one louder than the other, and a furious droning came out of nowhere. With it, they felt a tremendous drop in air pressure.
“Or—” The noise was deafening.
“FACTUM EST!” roared the supreme ruler of heaven and earth. Lightening struck, and the Divine Hand stretched towards the ends of the universe. This might sound absolute in its finality, but God had to do that same trick at least eight more times, eight being His favorite among power numbers.
While these arguments persisted day after day between the nine ranks and God, the more inferior residents of heaven went about their affairs. None of them were permitted anywhere near the Management, so they remained mostly oblivious to the commotion.
Such was the complexity of the Afterworld and its many walled off communities, that if the Buddhists were meditating in one district, the Christians holding their interminable tent shows in another; the Jews dancing their celebratory Nagilas, Hindus, enjoying their lily-filled ponds, and everyone else engaged in whatever they wanted, no one group was ever aware of what any other group was doing. The Cherubim saw to that.
It was decided that the ghetto system might be a plausible workaround. Seraphiel asked God to consult any major American city on this score—one Conception out of the way.
The true Holy-Hell! moment, however, was when God dropped quote/unquote one further item of interest, his latest brainchild and Sacred Truth Bomb. He proclaimed (with trumpet blasts) that not only were Trans people justified in their insistence that they are two-spirited, but that from that moment on, God and everyone else in the Afterworld would use the new Holy Pronouns: They/Them/Their because, as They put it, no deity should be merely a Him or Her, and God shut down the Seraphim’s arguments with ease.
“Don’t be so hypocritical! None of you are cis-anything. Have I ever referred to any of you as he or she?”
No one said anything, for They had a point. Thus, the Holy Conceptions passed from being the passion project of the Almighty to the new Celestial Laws, to come into force without delay.
“And cut wings or a trip to Lucifer’s awaits those who don't agree, for last I looked, I still command here. And though we may soon turn the heat off downstairs, believe Me when I say the Evil One can fry you with just one look.”
This got the teeth gnashing, and Huriel smacked the truncheon into his fist expectantly.
The Thrones tittered. With every other rank in upheaval, it made them squirm to act as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about this. Understandably, their Hosannahs were slightly less grandiose, but they did not relent. These were the only angels positioned high enough to even broach the subject with the Holy of Holies.
“Lord, I fear the host of angels will go on strike.”
“Ha! As if angels could organize.”
“One should never underestimate the spleen of those who feel wronged.” The Throne looked beseechingly at the Lord with all three hundred and fifty eyes.
“That may be, but these are my guys. They know better than to perturb the delicate music of the spheres.”
God, above all, knew what They were talking about.
When Lucifer understood that the nine circles of hell were to be turned into a commercial center slash concert venue, he laughed his ass off. As for the pronouns, he had no objection, since he was known as Samantha (Lucy, he thought way too obvious) whenever he fancied a bit of cross-dressing, and in fact, the first time he took the stairway to heaven, he dressed in goat-hoof zip booties, black satin knee breeches, and a frock coat, over a gold lamé Christian Lacroix bustier, all of which he borrowed from Prince’s Purple Rain tour, circa 1984. By the time he got to the five-hundredth step, he was perspiring and cranky. Climbing Il Duomo was more fun.
“Heaven, the most expensive real estate in the known universe, and it’s still a walk-up? I mean, what the fuck, man?”
Lucifer materialized his Steve Tyler black leather pants and leather wings, and flew the rest of the way up. God was having his afternoon tea and Turkish honey cakes when he caught the proverbial whiff of sulfur.
“Aw, Jeez.” They had been looking forward to an afternoon free of aggravations.
Lucifer set down on an adjacent cloud and grinned mischievously.
“Don’t you ever bathe?”
“Yes, but the river Styx is polluted, and don’t deny it; I’m sick of your gaslighting.”
“What are you doing up here?”
“What do you think? I had to hear about the Eternal Upgrades from my operatives. I understand you don’t need to consult me vis-à-vis your “New Heaven”, soit disant, (Here, Lucifer turned up his nose) but you’re lucky I haven’t amassed my army and sacked this place.”
“Now who’s gaslighting who?” said God. “You’re no more likely to do such a thing than you are, or have been, to answering my many calls. For weeks now, I’ve been trying to involve you in the planning, but you’re too busy down there, doing whatever it is you infernals do all day long. I gave up trying to reach you!”
“Yes, well, I’m here now.” Lucifer materialized his Samantha aspect, but this time instead of the black satin knee breeches, she was rocking a gold whoopie skirt and headdress inspired by Janelle Monae.
“Nice touch,” God said dryly. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
Samantha a.k.a. Lucifer, minced across to God’s stately cumulus cloud and reclined sumptuously as she picked up her sixteenth century Ro-co-co gown. She sat, bending over so that her cleavage was clearly on display, pearls clacking, then arranged her skirts, la fidele underskirt, peeking out from beneath the damask friponne and modeste.
“Enough of your blasted fripperies, and stop fidgeting!”
Samantha gave her fan a sharp clack as it opened to reveal a risque boudoir scene.
“So, what’s your offer?” she said, fanning her tits, where she had affixed a faux beauty mark.
“What are you talking about?”
“You want to occupy my space, you’ll have to pay or nothing doing.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. Here’s my time-share proposal—”
“DERELINQUAMUS!” The word came out with so much echo swell it sounded like a fancy reverb signal.
“Look, I flunked Latin. And by the way, there are better effect settings. Shimmer’s a little overdone these days. Have you tried ‘offspring’? It’s got—”
“LEAVE NOW!”
“Okay, that’s so rude. Rudeness, you know, is just a parody of strength.” Samantha stood up, and walked to the edge of the cloud, morphing into a World War Two female aviator as she walked. She turned and gave God the finger.
“Later, Your Transplendency. Good luck! You’re going to need it!”
God rolled Their eyes, while Samantha-Lucifer sprouted wings and flew off.
Of course, Lucifer was right. The next few months were pure chaos, evil and insanity in New Heaven, where the entire population was subjected to so many unsavory experiences that they saw no difference between heaven and earth.
“I didn’t behave myself on earth throughout my entire life only to land up in a similar hellhole!” was a very common sentiment. Others could not get over the horror of the two states, the celestial and the damned, resembling each other so much that the dichotomy collapsed.
Seraphiel and Rafael were relieved when God finally called for a snap New Judgement Day, but it was too hollow a victory for any gloating. Heaven was a total mess. Not even the Thrones knew what to say.
“Back to the drawing board, right?” said Rafael.
Jehoel shook his head and smiled sardonically. Huriel was having the worst urge to use his club.
At the next assembly, God added something new to Their repertory of Holy Attitudes: an actual apology. This was unprecedented. The Thrones rejoiced with more zeal than a midwestern varsity cheerleading squad, and the other first tiers set off Celestial-grade fireworks. It looked like things were getting back to normal. Even Lucifer, who had enjoyed the muggings and other ways of taking advantage of unsuspecting “adventure lovers” from upstairs, was happy to not have to wear chunky sweaters just to accommodate the marks, or guests, as he instructed his minions to call them.
It would be a while before God’s Experimentations plagued New Heaven again, although the ranks were certain that next time, they would know exactly how to deal with Them.
