The Egg Theory
You were on your way home when you died. It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered that you were better off, trust me.
And that's when you met me.
"Wait, what happened?" you asked. "Where am I?"
"You died," I said matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
"There was a truck and it was skidding."
"Yep," I said.
"I... I died?"
"Yep. But don't feel bad about it. Everyone dies," I said. You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me.
"What is this place?" you asked. "Is this the afterlife?"
"More or less," I said.
"Are you God?" you asked.
"Yep," I replied.
I'm God. Few things capture our imagination quite like death. It's going to happen to us. We know it's going to happen to us, and yet we live our lives pretending that it's not going to happen. Not to us, at least. We think not right now. We run away from it every chance we get, and yet somehow we are preoccupied with it almost simultaneously.
We ignore death and worship its possibility. We write books about how life is short, but we never really live like it is.
"Who are we?"
"What do you think happens after death?"
"My kids, my wife," you said. "What about them? Will they be all right?"
"That's what I like to see," I said. "You just died and your main concern is for your family. That's good stuff right there."
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn't look like God; I just looked like some man or possibly a woman, some vague authority figure. Maybe more of a grammar school teacher than the Almighty.
"Don't worry," I said. "They'll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn't have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it's any consolation, she'll feel very guilty for feeling relieved."