On the Nature and Expectations of Divinity
Storytime with Step-Pope Richard
Before we start… A Note on These Parables
This is part of the Screen Door Series.
The Cult of Brighter Days is a gloriously mismatched congregation—atheists, pagans, Buddhists, progressive Christians, cosmic agnostics, and at least one guy who swears he channels divine wisdom from raccoons.
We don’t agree on God, the afterlife, or whether pineapple belongs on metaphysical pizza. What unites us isn’t belief—it’s the shared ritual of wrestling with meaning, absurdity, and each other’s typos.
These parables are personal dispatches from inside our various reality tunnels—each one shaped by a unique screen door. Some are clear. Some are stained glass. A few are barely hanging on with duct tape and spite. But all are looking out onto the same weird lawn: Abiscoridism—a philosophy of paradox, kindness, chaos, and the occasional divine fart joke.
This isn’t a manual. It’s a potluck.
Don’t look for the one true recipe—just bring something weird and honest to the table.
NOW BACK TO THE STORY…
You don’t know these people, but I’m very familiar with their story. It’s the story of Alice and Bob (yes, obvious pseudonyms—but relax, this isn’t a math test or logic puzzle).
Alice and Bob got married and raised a family of alphabetically named children. They did all the normal things a family in their part of the world did: celebrated holidays, donated to charity, attended religious services, and taught their children to be kind—or at least nice—to others.
When a fire destroyed a neighbor’s home, they opened their doors. It was cramped, but they made space. When their religious community organized outreach for people experiencing homelessness, Alice and the eldest handed out hygiene kits and flyers, while Bob and the youngest set up tech infrastructure at the venue. The whole family cooked, served, and cleaned up the shared meal.
On the way to an amusement park, they came across a car accident. It was remote, but they had signal, called emergency services, and used their first aid training until help arrived. They missed their day of fun, but no one complained. They had been raised to do the right thing first.
Years passed. The kids grew, visited often, and brought grandchildren even after Alice and Bob needed care themselves. Eventually, Alice and Bob died—within minutes of each other, still holding hands.
A few moments later, they arrived at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter was smiling.
“Welcome!” he said. “Alice, it’s so good to see you. Bob, wonderful you could make it.”
“Is this… heaven?” Alice asked.
“Well,” said Peter, “it’s not quite the heaven or hell you were taught to expect. But yes, there’s a Good Place and a Bad Place. You’re in the Good Place.”
Alice looked around and a tear welled up. She turned to Bob. “Oh, Bob. It’s so lovely. But it could never be heaven for me without you there.”
“I’ll miss you terribly,” Bob said, eyes wet. “No punishment—not even eternal torture—could be worse than being separated from my love.”
Peter blinked. “Uh. What?”
Alice wiped her cheek. “Well, Bob won’t be going with me.”
Peter frowned. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Bob’s an atheist,” she said gently. “Didn’t you know?”
“Well, yes,” Peter said. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
Bob stepped forward. “It’s true. I never found the evidence convincing. Alice and I talked about it for years. I figured God probably didn’t exist. I guess Pascal made the better wager, huh?”
Peter shrugged. “We get that a lot. But no, that’s not how it works. You’re both going in.”
Alice and Bob stared at him.
“Are you sure?” Bob asked. “I always heard belief was the bare minimum. Isn’t that… the whole point?”
Peter sighed. “Look. The Boss—He prefers ‘The Boss,’ by the way—realized early on that Earth was a big job. He needed people down there making it a Good Place, too. You two? You did that. Were you perfect? No. But you did the best you could with the information you had. Bob, even without belief, you lived with compassion, decency, and integrity. You helped when you could, stepped aside when you couldn’t, and didn’t center yourselves unnecessarily. You did good. And more importantly: you did Good. Why would we exclude someone for asking the hard questions? It’s the results that count.”
Alice and Bob looked at each other, a little stunned—but Peter didn’t yell “Psych!” so they began to smile.
They thought back to their traditions. The religious founder they’d heard so much about had always talked about building The Kingdom on Earth—loving their neighbors, and even their enemies.
Now imagine if Bob had been right, and that death had simply been the end. No afterlife, no reward. They still helped people in a car crash. Still sheltered their neighbors. Still set up housing resources. Still passed their values on. Three generations of kindness, community support, and resistance to despair.
Bob did all that not for a prize—but because it was the kind of world he wanted to live in.
Here in the Cult of Brighter Days, Being Kind is our First Tenet for a reason. Not just because it’s right, but because—done well—it becomes its own reward.
Sometimes kindness doesn’t solve everything. Sometimes it doesn’t solve anything. Do it anyway.
If you can’t be kind, be nice. If you can’t be nice, be funny—without punching down. And if you can’t be funny… shut up. And if you can’t shut up?
Well, you know what to do.
