The most precise clocks we have are atomic clocks which are powered by quantum mechanics. Besides keeping time, they can also let your smartphone know where you are.
Jesus was in my washing machine.
The transubstantiation is what tipped me off. Tempted me. So I studied the phenomena, analyzed the data. Quantified the variables. After all, precision is essential in tangling with a god.
Things used to be so simple. But no longer. Now Mother blames herself for pushing me. Admonitions to achieve, pressure to be the best. Too much for her gifted, fragile girl. She doesn’t understand.
The first sign was a parable. Dirty clothes went in, writing came out. Socks turned to words. I ignored it; probably a prank. More laundry, more text. Too much stress; I needed sleep. Then my lab coat turned to theorems, precepts. Ideas.
I’d always eschewed the Christian mythos. As a scientist, I had no need of a god. Miracles, though. Altering matter, transforming water to wine. So tempting. Had I such power, what would I change? The better question: what wouldn’t I? My Jesus-infested washer guided me.
I shouldn’t have told anyone.
When they came for me, they said my work was abomination. A god-machine, born of skewed quantum mechanics and hubris. An existential threat. I escaped because my laundered savior warned me: Run!
Now I hide.
Sleeping, thinking. Particles and waves. The ideas spin and swirl. All I need is a little time. And perhaps gravity.
Finally, divine mathematics wash away the stain of mortality, granting my epiphany. Simplicity returns. Jesus wasn’t the god in my machine. It was me all along. That’s why they want to stop me, but they’re too late. I am bread at Einstein’s altar, transfigured.
And you can’t stop a god.