I could almost believe in a finite god, that is, a god who can’t do everything.
I picture him as a harassed little old Jewish man scuttling around the cosmos, trying to keep things from getting any worse out of control.
“Zo vun day dere vas dis zingularity, chust a liddle vun, and instead of letting it collepse like usual, I kep’ it open – who knows why, so I’m a nudnik! – und schplotz! Da whole univoise comes out already!
“At foist, I vas zo heppy! A univoise, no less! But den it got bigger, and schraege – you know schraege, crooked? – und I’m zayink ‘Shtop awreddy! Genug! Enough! Too much, vot’s all dis evil yet? I din’t mean all dot!’
“But it keeps expendink, and now oy vey iz mir, ach mein aching tukhis! All etoinity I’m runnink around, schlepping, schtupping, mein hairs I could tear out, not even time to drink a liddle gless tea, eat a schtukel a brod! I can’t do miracles!
“Vell, hokay, so I can do maybe a liddle miracles sometimes. But not all da time! Zo dun’t count on it, hokay? Oy, mein aching feets!”
And off he scuttles, a god for sure, but one I can sympathize with, and just possibly help now and then.