Well, I admit that my thinking goes not to some possible god
with undefined attributes or abilities
because I'm not moved to have an opinion of such a god.
I think in terms of the god about whom I was taught.
I remained religious long enough to receive my "first communion" at the age of seven, I think it was.
It didn't last much longer than that.
Although I went to public schools, I was packed off to the nuns
for whatever the hell they called it.
I will take a moment to look up the forgotten word.
Found it. catechism
There, the nuns, in a reasonably friendly way,
while wearing the medieval penguin costumes
that they used to wear in those days,
taught me about a god who was, at the same time,
all-powerful and all-loving.
What's more, I had an invisible organ in my body which,
unlike all the others, would not die with the rest of me.
It was called a soul, not spelled like the ones on my feet
which were, apparently, very much mortal.
That soul was going to live for eternity
regardless of whether I was a mensch or a total prick
but the pleasantness of eternity was dependent both on
believing in this god,
and what's more, unlike what the "protestant" infidels
that I would likely meet as an adult
thought about it,
I had to do MORE than believe.
If I remember correctly, I had to eat either fish and chips
or meatless pizza on Fridays.
There may have been more to do,
but we're talking seventy years ago.
and those nuns are all now eating fish and chips in heaven,
I would have to imagine.
So there it is, pretty much all of it.
The world in which I would awaken,
which at the time included a baby cousin dying of leukemia,
not to mention a Red Sox team that won not many more games
than this summer's fucking Red Sox team
was supposedly created by a god that loves us all, completely,
and had the power to build any kind of universe that he saw fit,
Then he stuck us in this one to show his love.
Nobody is perfect, Frank, but the genes I received from my parents
were good enough to give me a somewhat functioning brain.
If the above story made sense to the seven year old me,
that is embarrassing enough.
I'm sure that I must have had some doubts then.
When it makes sense to adults, Frank,
we have a serious fucking problem.