When Yankel Morgenstern died and went to heaven, he was surprised to find that God was a large chicken. The chicken was about 30 feet tall and spoke perfect English. He stood before a glimmering, eternal coop made of chicken wire of shimmering gold. And behold, inside, a nest of diamonds. "No freaking way," said Morgenstern. "You know," said Chicken, "that's the first thing everyone says when they meet me. 'No freaking way.' How does that make me feel?"
Morgenstern threw himself at Chicken's feet, kissing his enormous, holy claws. "Hear O Israel, the Lord is your God, the Lord is one," Morgenstern cried out. Chicken stepped back and shrugged. "Eh," he said, bobbing his enormous head. "What?" Asked Morgenstern. "I don't know. What's that supposed to do for me? Hear O Israel?" he asked. "How's it go again?" "It's Shema," Morgenstern said with hesitation, "The prayer. We say it twice a day."
Chicken stomped around in a circle before settling down in his holy nest of nests. "Yeah," he said, "I know. I've been hearing it for years. Still not sure what it means though. Hero Israel. Hero, like the sandwich?" "Not hero like the sandwich," snapped Morgenstern. He stood up, clutching his black felt hat in his hand. "Hear O Israel. It means that you are one, that you are the only, you know, God."
That last word didn't come easily. "Of course I am," said Chicken. "Do you see any other chickens around here? Hey Gabe. Gabe," called Chicken. "Is it Hero Israel, like the sandwich, or Hear O Israel?"
A stocky old man appeared from the clouds. He wore a pair of dirty Carhartt overalls and smoked a cigarette. "It's hero like the sandwich sir. You are quite correct." He turned his head sharply to Morgenstern. "Morgenstern?" he asked. "Yes." "Follow me." "Gabe," he said extending his hand to Morgenstern as they walked through the nothingness to the nowhere.
"As in Gabriel, right?" asked Morgenstern. "Right," said Gabe. "I'm sort of the head ranch hand around here. I make sure Chicken has enough feed and water. I clean his coop. You know, general maintenance." "Couldn't the Chicken just create his own food?" asked Morgenstern. "Not the Chicken," said Gabe, "just Chicken. And no he can't create his own food. He's a chicken."
Morgenstern asked Gabe where he was taking him. "Nowhere," he said, "this is what we do here. Wherever you go, there you are." "Christ," cried Morgenstern, "you're Buddhist. Damn, I knew the Buddhists were right. Always so happy and peaceful." "He's not a Buddhist," interrupted Gabe. He paused to light a cigarette, Marlboro Reds. "He's a chicken."
"I need to go back to Earth," Morgenstern blurted out. "Earth, why?" Morgenstern turned to face Gabe. "Let me tell them, Gabe. Please, let me tell my family, just my family, Gabe. He's a chicken, not Hashem, the one true judge, not Adonai, the Lord Almighty. Oh, the years I wasted. Let me tell them so they don't have to jump through the hoops I did, trying to please some maniacal father who art in heaven. Nine children, Gabe. Nine full, happy, worry-free lives they should have. Let them drive on Saturday. Let them eat bacon. Let them get the lunch special at Red Lobster. McDonald's, Gabe. Do you have any of those fries up here? Do you? What does a hamburger with cheese taste like? Please, let me tell them Gabe."
Gabe took a long drag from his cigarette and shook his head. "They won't listen," he said. "I've tried telling a few myself. But you want to go back to Earth? Go. Go back to Earth." Morgenstern hugged Gabe tightly. "Don't you have to clear it with the Chicken?" "Not the Chicken," said Gabe. "Just Chicken. And no, I don't. Chicken doesn't care either way." He flicked his cigarette butt off to the side. He gets his feed in the morning, and his droppings cleaned in the afternoon, and that's all he really wants to know. I'll see you in a couple of years."
Morgenstern awoke. He rolled his head slowly to the side and saw his wife and daughter Hannah sitting at the table in the hospital room eating their dinner, chicken. "Don't eat," was all he could manage. His wife jumped, startled at his sudden awakening. "Bar Hashem," she clapped. "Blessed is the Lord who makes miracles happen every day. Don't shake your head, Yankel. You have tubes in your nose. Hannah come quick. Your father is alive."
His daughter approached cautiously, holding a barbecued chicken drumstick in her hand. "May Hashem grant you a full and speedy recovery," she mumbled in Yiddish while staring at her shoes. She spotted a piece of barbecued God on her blouse, picked it off with her fingers, and popped into her mouth. Morgenstern groaned and passed out.
Friday afternoon, he was back home in his very own bed. He had decided to put off telling his family about Chicken until he was out of the hospital. He would tell him tonight as they gathered around the Sabbath table. He would speak to them the word of Chicken, and they would be freed, maybe jump in the car afterwards, catch a movie.
When the sun had finally set, and the Sabbath had finally arrived, Morgenstern pulled himself into his wheelchair, took a deep breath, and rolled himself into the dining room. His wife had set the table with the good tablecloth, the good silverware, and the good glasses. He watched her light the good Sabbath candles, covering her face with her hands and silently praying to a god who wasn't there.
"Please hear my blessings," she prayed to nobody. She'd have had better luck with a handful of scratch, thought Morgenstern. Maybe some cut up apple. She turned to him with love in her eyes. "Got tsu danken," she said in Yiddish. "Thank God." She came to him, knelt beside his wheelchair, and hugged him. "I have to tell you something," he said. "I know," she sobbed into the good napkin. "I know." "I don't think you do."
He rolled away from her. "When I was dead," said Morgenstern, "I met God." "We all meet God every day," said his wife, "if only we know where to look." "No, exclaimed Morgenstern, "you're not listening. How do you think I got back here?" he asked her. "Who else but the All-Merciful would send you back to me?" She replied. He could take no more. "Who?" shouted Morgenstern as he wheeled himself around to the head of the table. "I'll tell you who."
The loud voices attracted the children. And they gathered slowly around the Sabbath table. "Let me tell you a little something about your All Knowing. Let me tell you a little something about your All Merciful." Morgenstern looked from Shmuel to Yonah to Meyer to Rivka to Dovid to Hannah to Deena to Leah to little Yichezkel. The children were all showered, their hair neatly combed, and dressed in their finest Sabbath clothes. She looked at his wife. She was wearing his favorite wig. "Children," he began. "God," he said, "is," he continued, "a," he added.
The light from the Sabbath candles flickered in the eyes of his children. Little Meyer was wearing a brand new yarmulke and couldn't stop fidgeting with it. Shmuel held a handful of Torah notes from his rabbi he would read after the meal. And the girls would be looking forward to singing their favorite Sabbath songs. "God is a what?" Asked little Hannah.
He couldn't do it. "God," Morgenstern said to his children, "is a merciful God." His wife came to his side. "He is the God of our forefathers," he continued. "Blessed is God, who in his mercy restores life to the dead." The children cheered. Morgenstern closed his eyes and hugged his children tightly. His wife bent over and kissed him gently on his forehead. "May his kindness shine down on us forever," she whispered. She smiled then, went into the kitchen, and brought out the soup. Chicken.
