Well, here's the name of God anyway in answer to that.
I've written a play of which this is the opening speech.
At the modernization of the medieval
morality play every man as a full length comedy.
And the opening scene is the wreckage of heaven,
and God stands among his angels who circle around him.
I can't, although I'm no producer or director, I can't
these angels as being rather baggy and forlorn,
[INAUDIBLE] each with a musical instrument, with whatever
the androgynous type they can find, he or she.
Each with a musical instrument that he is unable to play.
Well, don't play.
God has a large loaf of sliced white bread
under each arm which he dispenses periodically.
When he sleeps they stand still, when they recite the chorus
they move around him.
Those of you who know the original everyman will
see some of the parallels that I have used I guess and, let's
see.
I won't prolong the chorus as I'll just
indicate than that one line, I won't repeat them.
Speech from a comedy.
Scene: the wreckage of heaven.
This is another voice that I'm not up to using,
the part I'm not capable of fulfilling but I'll do my best.
I am God, and all my creatures are unkind to me
They think of themselves.
Why don't they think of me?
I'm holier than they.
Chorus, God is lovely.
If I descended and rode through the streets
would they take off their hats?
No, they'd keep their hands in each other's pockets.
Chorus, God is out of sorts.
Or if I showed up to give a formal address including
an enormous amount of sound godly advice,
they'd turn and wriggle away like a school of fish.
Chorus, God is endless.
I burned myself in a bush once, day
and night I burned like a pillar of virtue in the desert.
I even let them watch me ride in my chariot.
Chorus, God is great.
I gave them Aaron's rod when they were on the rocks.
I played their enemies with 1,000 dirty tricks.
I let them burn rams in thickets instead
of their precious Isaacs.
Chorus, God is on their backs.
When things look so black they couldn't tell his from hers
I parted the water, saving a few,
but drowning a lot of others.
Chorus, God is feeling worse.
Didn't I die for them, hang myself,
and shed the blood of the lamb?
What more could I do?
Try it to yourself sometime.
Chorus, God is sublime.
Now they forsake me, leave me up in the air.
Sinning, thinking of pleasure, the more
I leave them alone the worse they are.
Chorus, God is pure.
They lie all night in their houses stacked
in rows, their knees pulled up, their heads
stuffed into pillows imagining new ways to break my laws.
Chorus, God is jealous.
When I show them a bad example plastered and confused,
chances are he'll be headlined and idolized.
The only law of mine they like is getting circumcised.
Chorus, God is not amused.
I didn't ask for anything impossible.
I said love me and not just once in a while,
but all men were created fickle.
Chorus, God is immortal.
I'll settle with everyman.
I had his dinner all laid out in my mansion,
but he had to try cooking his own.
Chorus, God is burning.
Just because angels are blasé and neutered,
did he think I'd be contented forever and ever playing with
Ezekiel's wheel or climbing up and down Jacob's ladder?
Chorus, God is boiling over.
I made him in my image, didn't I?
I gave him my tooth for a tooth, my eye for an eye.
How could I turn out such an unreasonable facsimile?
Chorus, God is mighty sorry.
You'll be made to see the way things really are.
If he's so fond of slaughter, I can get it
for him wholesale just by losing my temper.
Chorus, God's a man of war.
I might have shown him mercy, but nobody asked me.
The best things in heaven are costly.
Chorus, God is free.
All right he's dug his bed, now let
him lie in it 1,000 years at a stretch on a strict diet
while worms with their noses on fire pay an endless visit.
Chorus, God is like that.
I watched over him like a shepherd over a sheep
while he went bleating, and gambling,
and flocking around, and getting fleeced,
forgetting whom to worship.
Well, every shepherd knows his way to the butcher shop.
Chorus, God is in bad shape.
Come death, he has made me mad.
I summon death, for his ingratitude everyman
must choke on his daily bread.
Chorus, God is sick and tired.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]