“Well, now that I’m dead, what is the meaning of life?”

I had scarcely arrived in the hereafter before I began asking questions, a habit I saw no reason to abandon after I misplaced my body. There stood God, looking as calm and respectable as a banker who had just foreclosed on a widow’s farm, and I was determined to get my money’s worth out of the interview.

“The meaning of life,” He said, “the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

I considered this for a moment. I had spent a considerable portion of my earthly existence trying to mature, with results that suggested the operation required either divine assistance or a refund.

“You mean mankind?” I asked. “You want the human race to mature? To become wiser, kinder, more compassionate, and less inclined to elect fools to positions of authority?”

“No,” God said. “Just you.”

I looked at Him, wondering whether death had affected my hearing or whether eternity had been placed under new management.

“Just me?”

“I made this entire universe for you. With each new life, you grow and mature, becoming a larger and greater intellect. Every experience, every triumph, every humiliation, every heartbreak, and every time you stub your toe on a piece of furniture in the dark contributes to your development.”

I had never considered that my furniture-related injuries might have been part of a celestial educational program. Had I known, I might have approached the coffee table with greater reverence.

“But what about everyone else?” I asked. “The billions of people who have lived and died? The kings, the beggars, the philosophers, the tax collectors, and the fellow who invented the automatic telephone menu that requires you to press seven buttons before speaking to a human being?”

“There is no one else,” God replied. “In this universe, there is just you and Me.”

I stared at Him.

“But all the people on Earth?”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again. It was the sort of information that would have caused a lesser man to faint, had he not already died.

“Wait,” I said. “I’m everyone?”

“Everyone.”

God nodded.

I stepped backward. This was not how I had intended the conversation to take. I had come expecting a pleasant discussion about eternity, perhaps a little tour of the heavenly premises, and possibly an explanation for why the people who invent fashionable trousers are allowed to continue doing so. Instead, I was responsible for practically everything.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “I have been every good person and every bad person who ever lived?”

“Yes.”

“And every murderer, thief, tyrant, and swindler?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have been the victim, too?”

“Of course.”

I sat down on a cloud. It was surprisingly comfortable.

“Well,” I said, “that explains why the world has always seemed to be populated by people who ought to know better.”

God waited.

“But why would I do such things to myself? Why would I create suffering, cruelty, and injustice?”

“To learn compassion. You cannot fully understand another person’s suffering until you have experienced it yourself.”

I nodded slowly. It was an uncomfortable answer, but it made sense.

“Then every time I was kind to someone, I was being kind to myself?”

“Yes.”

“And every time I hurt someone, I was hurting myself?”

“Yes.”

“And every time I lent a man money and he disappeared, I was running away with my own money?”

God smiled. “You are beginning to understand.”

“I must say, Lord, that is a remarkably complicated method of managing one’s finances.”

I thought about all the arguments I had ever had, all the insults I had delivered, and all the people I had privately classified as idiots. It was sobering to discover that the universe’s entire collection of idiots was me.

Then another thought occurred to me.

“Wait a minute. If I am everyone, that means I have been every woman who ever lived, too?”

“Yes.”

“And every child?”

“Yes.”

“And every baby who cried in a restaurant while I was trying to eat dinner?”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes.

“Lord, I owe some people an apology.”

“No, just one person.”

“Me?”

God nodded.

“And what about the people I never met? The people in distant countries, speaking languages I don’t understand, living lives I could never imagine?”

“You were them, too.”

“So when I read about a famine, a war, or a disaster, I was reading about myself?”

“Yes.”

I sat quietly for a while. The realization was enormous. It was also inconvenient. I had spent my life dividing humanity into people I liked, people I disliked, and people who drove too slowly in the passing lane. Apparently, my classification system had been one man arguing with his own reflection.

Finally, I asked, “How many lives do I have left?”

“That depends on how quickly you learn.”

“And when I finally mature?”

“You will become one with Me.”

I brightened. “So I get to be God?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I straightened my heavenly garments. At last, some good news. After all those years of paying bills, waiting in traffic, and pretending to understand the instructions that came with electronic appliances, I was finally being promoted.

“Excellent! Then I shall create my own universe. I’ll make it peaceful, beautiful, and full of intelligent people.”

God raised an eyebrow.

“Are you certain you want to do that?”

“Absolutely. No wars, no poverty, no cruelty, no politicians who promise to fix everything and then spend four years explaining why nothing is their fault. And I shall abolish mosquitoes.”

“An ambitious undertaking.”

“I shall also eliminate taxes.”

“Careful,” God said. “You are getting carried away.”

I paused.

“Why? What happens if I create a perfect universe?”

“You will have nothing left to teach.”

I considered this. It was a serious objection. A universe without problems might be pleasant for a few days, but eventually I would probably begin complaining that there was nothing to complain about.

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll leave a few problems. Nothing serious. A little bad weather, perhaps, and the occasional restaurant that serves cold soup.”

“An improvement,” God said.

“Now, before I go back for another life, may I ask one final question?”

“Certainly.”

“If everyone on Earth is me, and every person I have ever disliked was also me, and every person who has ever annoyed me was me, then why did you make me so difficult to get along with?”

God looked at me with the patient expression of a schoolteacher who discovered that the boy who broke all the windows is also the boy who has been complaining about the draft.

“My son,” He said, “that is precisely what you are here to learn.”

Then He handed me a ticket.

I examined it.

“What’s this?”

“Your next life.”

I turned it over. There was no destination, no return date, and no indication of whether meals were included.

“Where am I going?”

“Earth.”

“What will I be?”

“A person.”

“Which person?”

God smiled.

“Does it matter?”

I thought about it. Somewhere down below, another version of me was probably sitting in traffic, arguing with a spouse, insulting a politician, or complaining that the world had gone to the dogs. I had immediate affection for that poor fellow. He had so much to learn, and absolutely no idea who he was.

Then I noticed something printed on the ticket.

“Lord, this says I shall be born without any memory of this conversation.”

“Correct.”

“But then how will I know what I’m supposed to do?”

“You will have the same instructions you had before.”

“Which are?”

“Treat others as you would wish to be treated.”

I sighed. “And if I forget?”

“You will have another life.”

I looked at the ticket again.

“Is there a customer service department?”

“No.”

“A complaints office?”

“No.”

“An appeals process?”

“Certainly. You may appeal your circumstances by improving them.”

I shook my head. Even in Heaven, bureaucracy was thriving.

Then the light began to change, and I felt myself being drawn away.

“Wait!” I called. “One last thing! When I return, will I at least have a decent memory?”

God’s voice followed me into the darkness.

“My son, you have already asked Me that question a thousand times.”

And then I was gone.

Somewhere on Earth, a baby began to cry.

And somewhere else, a man looked up from his newspaper, shook his head at the state of the world, and muttered, “People are getting worse every day.”

God, who had heard this complaint countless times, made a note in the eternal ledger.

Progress: slow.

Education: ongoing.

Student: everybody.