An event of this magnitude should have had a more appropriate name.

Actually, it did originally. I think it was called An Appeal to The True God, From All of His Children, Anno Domini Two Thousand Twelve. But David Letterman called it "Godathon" one night, and between him, the promoters and the rest of the media, Godathon just sort of stuck. Catchy, anyway. Without the stupid name, it might never have taken off.

The first I heard about it, was on a newsbreak, between commercials, a full year before it all went down. A somewhat liberal minister in San Diego, wrestling with whether or not to marry a homosexual couple, finally cracked under the pressure. This was far from the only tough question which he no longer felt that he could give an authoritative answer to, and decided it was best if not only he, but everybody, went straight to the top. He figured if he could just get as many people together as possible to pray at the same time, with the intention of speaking to God face-to-face, that maybe, just maybe, he'd show.

On a television interview I saw in the fall, he said that he'd really only hoped for maybe a few thousand participants at first, but the idea caught on. What resulted from his inability to take a stand, one way or the other, was probably the most widely publicized and highest attended event in the history of mankind. And it happened just forty miles outside of my hometown of Salt Springs, New Mexico.

The site was changed at least three times, officially, in order to accommodate the over 14 million people who actually showed up. Once the expected attendance rose to over a million, the San Diego minister bowed out, and the Italian government pushed for months to get the planning committee to hold the event in the Vatican City. The request was denied quickly and repeatedly, so as not to seem biased toward any particular sect. In fact, even the original "non-denominational" Christian leadership was quickly swallowed up, with representatives from all types of faiths, and non-faiths, running different aspects of the show. It just got too big, and everybody wanted a piece of it; everybody wanted a piece of God. The T-shirt sales alone could have fed a city for months...

In no time, the Godathon took on a life of its own, and to this day nobody was ever sure whom, if anybody, was in charge.

Who would be in charge of God?

"The Godathon," quoted one promoter, "... is open to any man, woman or child, who is brave, desperate, or stupid enough to want to an audience with God. This opportunity is open to all - regardless of race, religious creed, nationality, or even philosophy."

Amen, brother. Shout Hallelujah.

In less than six months, an entire town was built and developed in a once desolate area of the Arizona desert. To me, that was something of a relief - if the Big Guy was going to show up, I felt a little better knowing that it was going to happen across the state line. Who could know if He was going to happy about the whole thing? But you could drop a nuclear bomb on the site, and my house was just far enough away to not be affected by it. However, a lot of pretty intelligent people did move, though.

But really, what could all these people truthfully expect to come of it?

I drove by the construction sites, whenever I had half an excuse, just to marvel at the progress that mankind can make when we set our collective mind to a task. Some were genuinely in it for the right reasons, but not too many, I don't think. Of course there were the volunteer groups who sent people to build and to pave, but even they all seemed to only be there to carve out their group's stake of land for the big day. So many workers, or so many dollars, equaled so many feet of space for their crowd to occupy, or a platform for their message to be heard, or their product to be hocked. Entire neighborhoods went up to house the temporary workers, and assuming that everybody survived the event, many planned to stay. What better place than holy ground to raise a family, right?

"If nothing else comes of it, the birth of this thriving new town is more than we could ask of the Godathon," announced the first appointed mayor, as he cut the ribbon joining I-40, and the rest of the world, with the newly-born town of Genesis, Arizona.

(Two years later and Genesis is now a thriving city, with a population of over 100,000, and home of some of the best Tex-Mex restaurants in the whole Southwest.)

Of course the name, Genesis, set off some pretty serious shockwaves. Just the use of the so blatantly Biblical name for the town itself was thought to be an attempt to exert control over the event, or to even somehow give certain groups an upper hand in The Lord's affections, should he choose to visit the fair city - the city built to attract him. The name Genesis came its closest to being disallowed, when it was argued that it might actually offend "Him," or worse, keep Him, or Her, away - if indeed, it turned out that The One who answered us, wasn't anything to do with that other guy. But in the end, one had to admit that it was a great name, and putting all the hyper-religiosity aside, the time-proven theology of not getting your panties in a wad seemed to prevail in most aspects of the Godathon event.

The pre-planning, that is.

Three weeks after the ribbon was cut, the day came. There had been rain in that part of Arizona for five days straight (which made many wonder if there weren't 35 more to come), but when I awoke that morning - much later than I'd actually meant to - the sun was shining brightly, with almost no clouds in sight. A good omen?

After a quick shower, the early news usually goes well with my coffee, and whatever else I can scrape up, but not today. I knew what was coming without even turning on the set. Godathon coverage, Godathon coverage, and Godathon coverage.

And still more Godathon coverage on the independents. The most crazed looking loud-mouthed preacher I believe I've ever seen, before or since, was courageously protesting the Godathon, but from the safe distance of another state...

"... believe this was a fellow minister's idea in the first place! The very idea is blasphemy! This is not about tough questions; it's about trying to prove whether God even exists! If we need proof, the very concept of faith is destroyed, whether He answers or not! Now, I for one firmly believe -KLIK-

"... still America, ain't it? People are going to do whatever they want. Ya can't stop it, and ya can't censor it! Freedom of Speech includes talking to God, wouldn't ya say? But I'll tell ya what I -KLIK-

"... are courting Armageddon! -KLIK

" ... back to you, Marlena'"

"Thanks, Tom. Well, despite the protests still coming in from absolutely everywhere - churches and synagogues, PTA's, even a Senate subcommittee - the Godathon has the green light for twelve noon, Mountain Time. Topics to be brought up, assuming that... ah... well, "contact" is made, will range from The Ten Commandments, to questions about Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed, reincarnation, down to every child's question, 'Well, who made you, God?' And I'm excited, how about you, Tom?"

"Absolutely, Marlena! Things have changed in the 5000 years since Moses had to go it alone. Now, it looks like he's about to have 14 million visitors up on that mountaintop. Let's hope he made a big lunch!'"

"Watch it there Tom; you don't want to turn a crowd that size against you. One question before we go to the break... Are you a religious man, Tom?"

"Ha! Well, ask me in about seven hours, okay, Marlena?"

"You bet, pal... as for lunch, you may want to carry along some fishes and loaves, just in case. For those of you worldwide who couldn't make it to Genesis, CNN will be broadcasting live -KLIK-"

Enough.

Living just outside of the sight, I was sick to death of hearing about it. You'd think the Red Sea was about to be parted for national television or something.

Running later than I wanted to be, I was almost out of my driveway, when I just had to go back inside for my camera. I honestly didn't believe anything spectacular was going to happen, but then you never know... You'd have done the same, if you thought about it.

Parking ... was ... Hell...

Leaving my car SIX MILES outside of Genesis, it took half an hour to get picked up by a shuttlebus. For only eight dollars, I was given an over-crowded ride and a bright yellow ticket stub reminding me which bus to get on if I ever wanted to see my car again. Inside the city were seemingly thousands of thirty-foot-tall low-resolution video screens and loudspeakers, since only a fraction of those present would actually be able to see what was going on up front.

Everywhere I looked, people were pushing and crowding their way to the good locations around the screens, setting up chairs and small blankets and tables. Once a presence was established, they would then have to defend their territory with a polite sort of ferociousness – ill-becoming to the reason we were supposed to be there in the first place.

So why was I there in the first place? I wasn't a believer in any particular faith... a good enough person, I was sure, but why would I bother to push my way through all of these fanatic people to see... to see what? I already couldn't believe what I saw.

It was sick.

This was supposed to be some sort of religious epiphany event, if things went well - or if they went at all - but from what I could see, no self-respecting god would come within a million miles of this place. Now I don't know them all, but every religious group under the sun had to have had a tent or pulpit there, or was running around handing out literature (which, according to all the advance promos, was strictly forbidden). Many groups were competing to sing or pray louder than the group next to them. Last minute recruiting and proselytizing efforts were so bad that I couldn't walk fifty feet without having to tell someone new to get out of my face. Quartz crystal necklaces were being peddled from fifty cents to over $200. Bibles, free in one area, were outrageously priced in the next, if you wanted a "souvenir edition," anyway. When the breeze stilled, the stench of sixteen different types of incense would assault you, not to mention the pot that wreaked up the place. You could get your palm, tarot cards, or even tea leaves read on almost any block. Acid was probably easier to buy than at Woodstock. Even the most normal people were blasting their musical preferences against the families nearest them. And God forbid, your kid needed sunblock and you forgot it; twenty dollars for a six-ounce bottle was the going rate.

As the time drew nearer, the perimeters of the viewing screens began to crowd dangerously. Nervous looking police officers, armed with not only pistols, but tear-gas, exchanged worried glances with greater and greater frequency, as they continuously tried to enforce the number of people allowed in any one space, with less and less success. Surely, it was a small miracle that no one was crushed to death as the swelling crowds drew up even tighter. But then, this was supposed to be the day for miracles to occur. The only question on everyone's mind was, would the right miracle occur?

Would anything happen?

Minutes before noon, as I finished the most expensive concession-stand meal of my life (sixteen dollars for two chili-dogs, chips and a soda), the loud "pop!" of the loudspeakers turning on brought all of the obscenity to a halt. With no other cue or command, all music stopped playing almost at once, money ceased to change hands, and everyone turned their attention to the video monitors, which were now warming up for the first time since my arrival. For whatever reason, no commercials had played on them the entire day.

An energy that was not anticipation, but more like the earliest hint of fear, began to numb the massive crowd. Only now, for the first time to me, and to apparently many others, did this suddenly seem to be a possibly risky venture. And now there was no going back.

For the first time in history, 14 million people simultaneously shut up.

There was absolutely no wind.

What on earth were we about to do?

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's time."

The man coming into focus on the large screens was somewhat tall, with wavy, brownish hair (too long for a preacher's), and seemed to be about thirty-five. Despite the strict effort to keep any one religion from having predominance, it had been highly rumored that the Pope was going to be there that day. It was thought by many that he was going to go before us as we approached God, and if necessary, to hopefully take the brunt of any potential consequence for what we were about to do. Weeks later, it was confirmed that he had stepped down only twelve hours prior, "for health reasons," and was now in Rome, watching. Live. Via satellite.

Instead, this man whom nobody seemed to immediately recognize filled the screen. He stood alone. None of the more well known committee members, from countries and faiths from all over the world, were in the immediate on-camera range, nor did they appear to be even near the podium with him, in the wider-angle shots. He was modestly attractive, but overall, an average looking fellow. He could have been you or me, and to this day, I still don't know who he was.

He quickly unfolded from his shirt pocket the flyer that probably everyone in attendance also had on their person. This was the short and sweet prayer that we would recite. Those who had beaten the overcrowding deadline, and had confirmed reservations for Genesis, were mailed the prayer over two months ago. In the past month, this prayer, this petition to God "... From All of His Children..." had been published repeatedly in probably every major newspaper in the free world, and circulated via the World Wide Web, into probably every city on the earth. The most conservative estimates stated that over 60% of the planet's population was about to repeat this prayer. Some thought that 80-90% was a low estimate.

Without introduction or ceremony, he broke the silence.

"I'm so glad that so many of you could make it here today. I hope each one of you leaves with what you came for. I also hope that we have all memorized the prayer that was sent out earlier (I had). If you don't know the words... well... just hum along."

A faint ripple of laughter washed over the crowd. Whoever he was, I liked him. With one lame joke, he had just put the entire world at ease.

"Please, join hands."

As we did, I looked at the multitude around me. We examined one another, some smiling, others weeping, a few trembling. Whatever happened, we were all - ALL - in it together. We took a collective breath, and for that moment, there was peace on earth. There was goodwill toward man.

He wasted no time. Once more the loudspeakers crackled to life and we all, all 14 million, and a thousand times that worldwide, joined together in one honest prayer.

"Father. We gather before you today not as men and women, not as Jews or Christians, Muslims, Buddhists nor atheists; neither as sinners nor a repentant people; not as rich and poor, nor as countrymen, but as children. We are ignorant children who know that we have lost our way in this much-troubled world, and we now turn to you for guidance. There are questions that have to be asked; there are questions that we humbly feel that we have the right to have answered. Please Father, our Lord and Maker, hear us, and respond."

Nothing.

A full minute later, and still nothing.

Two minutes now, and my grip upon the hands of those to my left and right loosens. My right eyelid, losing its battle with the rest of me, slowly opens. As I look around, it becomes obvious that hundreds, and perhaps thousands or even millions have already lost this same battle. Awkwardly ashamed for not still praying silently, as some are, we don't look at one another for very long.

Nothing.

Letting go of my partners' hands, I wonder if I look half as lost and dejected as some I see. Nearby, a baby is crying. He's not alone.

Nothing.

We've failed, and what's worse is, we feel pretty stupid about it, too. Already, it's over. A no-show. For the first few moments, nobody wants to admit it, but it doesn't take long for a cruel restlessness to begin settling in upon this crowd, who had so loved one another not ten minutes earlier. Now, in our minds, we’re already competing with one another for the quickest way out, until one, then ten, then in seconds, thousands turn and begin to pick up their belongings.

We're silent, for now, but angry. At this point, the thought of all of us trying to leave at once becomes horrifying to the most sober minds. Some realize that any small conflict or dispute that arises now could quickly deteriorate into mob violence, perhaps even deaths. To make matters worse, a few drops of rain have begun to fall.

Great.

Now everybody's going to be in a hurry.

Those first few raindrops cause many to begin to look up, perhaps only to gauge the coming storm - or is it something else? I hadn't noticed until now, but in those first few seconds, when everybody's eyes were closed, the sky had darkened beyond belief.

A slow tingle crawled its way up my spine...

For many, myself included, there is real fear now... a growing terror, even. And now a great gust of wind comes to feed that fear, bringing a renewed sense of religious fervor to some, but producing a true panic in far too many. Somebody had better take control of this situation, fast, or thousands are going to die underfoot. I could well be one of them, if I don't quickly figure out a way to be one of the ones on top.

I look once more to the man on the screen. Like so many others, he only looks up into the sky, remaining rigid and silent.

But unlike the rest of us, he actually appears to be looking at something.

Then it hits - a deafening crack of thunder, impossibly low to the ground, follows a single lightning bolt across the once blue sky. Moving at half-speed, from one end of the horizon to the other, it quite literally tears the sky into halves. And now the screaming starts. By a minor miracle, it appears that nobody bolts off running, preventing a certain chain reaction. Most simply cover their heads, while at least half our number falls in place straight to the ground, terrified beyond belief. It's the end of the world, and we know it.

And we brought this upon ourselves.

Gale-force winds tear across the desert, as both sand and air rush upward to fill the void where the two halves of the sky now peel back, disappearing, and leaving only darkness.

Not even night, only starless darkness, reaching to infinity.

Louder now, the screams of millions drown out even the winds themselves, and now there is not one left standing. So many are begging to be spared, begging forgiveness for their part in this blasphemy. And all the while, the man on the screen remains silent.

On his knees, oh yes, but silent.

From beyond the curving distance of the horrible darkness, there appears a pinprick of white light. The screaming begins to abate, and within perhaps a minute, almost all in attendance once again fall silent, curious even, as the light grows larger. For a minute, we feel hopeful.

And then we realize it's coming at us.

We're dead, and we know it. As far as my eye can tell, no one even tries to run. Where would we go? And my god, we did this to ourselves.

It's an idiotic thought, but unconsciously, my hand reaches for my shoulder strap, and follows it down to the pouch against my ribs. Clutching it, I feel it crush, empty.

Before, I was senseless, but incredibly, this shocks me alert again. I'm furious!

Billions of people calling God to Earth, and someone's crazy enough to steal my camera?!?

As the white light grows, filling over half the darkness now, my last rational thought is that, if I'm idiot enough to even think about photographing this, then maybe it's not so crazy for someone to want to steal my camera, perhaps even hours ago. With three quarters of the sky totally whited out now, I begin to think that maybe I could let go of my anger, and just forgive whoever it was...

But in this particular moment, my last, I'm just too angry. Furious. I don't even seem to think about my own impending doom, or even about a last-minute effort at making peace with God. Instead, I wrestle with whether or not to forgive this other person, whom I don't even know, as the light begins ripping me to pieces.

But I'm too angry still.

My answer is no.

Whoever you are, I hope you burn.

With that, the light totally replaces the darkness, forcing my eyes shut, for the final time…

When they open, it's day again. The sky is back where it belongs.

I realize that I'm clutching again to those nearest me. The shock and panic we see in each other’s eyes slowly and incredulously turns to hope restored, and a highly confused sense of wonder runs over us all. We'd all be screaming with joy now, if not for the fear and adrenaline still pounding through our hearts… pounding through our hearts... oh, wow… we're alive.

We're alive, and it's day again.

Minutes later, I start to get up, and an older woman, already standing, reaches for my hand. Bracing my other hand against the grass, I glance down as she starts to help me up.

In that instant, I see it. Oh, God... no... please, God... no. Almost pulling the older woman with me, I sink back down, weighing a thousand pounds. There, on the ground.

My camera.

NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't know how long I lay there, wailing.

She tries to help me, to hold me, to care for me in some way, but I won't let her. Cursing, I push her away, time and time again. Don't you dare. Don't anybody dare love me right now.

I’m a wretch. The light stripped away everything false about me. It showed me the very core of who I really am. It left me absolutely, totally, stark naked, and now I am so ashamed.

Naked, and ashamed.

In Genesis, no less.

She's still there. All around, I hear their cries; the cries of people just like me – people who met themselves for the first time. She insists that I get up, and look at the monitor. The man on the screen is still there. He was real - he wasn't the death angel after all. He's standing in front of a large, wooden box, and he's smiling wide. As the cries die out, and others are helped to stand, he reaches for the lid, cautiously sliding it open. The same light from before oozes out of the box, only it's radiant now, not pinpointed like earlier. Nearby, I hear whispers of the Ark of the Covenant.

As he reaches inside, the screen divides. On the left, the cameras swing to the top of the box; a close-up of the man's face appears on the right side. What rises from the box is too beautiful for him to behold, and his eyes flood. I'm glad that I can only see it on the screen, and not up close. It's a perfectly round orb - golden, glowing, spinning like a basketball.

No. Like the earth.

A closer look, as the camera lenses adjust for the brightness, the image reveals engraved outlines of all the continents, while it just spins there, slowly, suspended in the air. The globe now fills the screen. Then we all hear it. And now I'm crying too. The globe is talking to us, but not over the loudspeakers, though ... a deaf man could hear it.

"In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth..."

You at least saw that part, if you weren't there. You didn't hear what we all heard, but you saw it if you watched on television, which everybody did. I know that the cameras didn't catch the lightning, or the sky ripping open, or the great light that stripped so many of us down to nothingness. You did, however, listen in terror to the reporters' accounts, for as long as they could go on, anyway. But all you actually saw was 14 million people on the ground, crying out for no apparent reason, on the prettiest day in Arizona that week.

But you saw the globe. No mass hypnosis theory has ever explained that.

There are 14 million stories from the naked city, and mine's just one of them. I was reduced to a man who could not forgive one petty crime, no matter the cost, in order to understand how desperately I needed forgiveness myself. Later that day, I received it.

And, yes, I know, we can't even produce the globe now; the man from the monitor walked off the stage with it, and hasn't been heard from since.

But you saw it happen. It read the whole book to us, in less than ten minutes. Straight into us. People who had never read it before, including me, can now quote entire chapters from memory, and that's not so easy to explain away on such a large scale, either. Sure, we don't all agree on some of its finer points of interpretation, but that's always been the case.

The point is, it happened, just as I've described to you here.

The Godathon.

I don't have any pictures to show you, but I was there.

We assembled to ask God to answer all of our questions, and to provide guidance.

And He did.

Here's The Bad News