His name was unpronounceable to humans. The few who tried died in the attempt. Eventually, no one tried.
Instead they called Him Kadosh, Zur, Tsaddiq, Magen, I-Am-What-I-Am, Melech, Yaweh, Jehova, Adonai. God.
Eventually they forgot His real name, remembering only that they weren't supposed to say it.
When He landed on Earth, in the sea, the splashes took forty days to come down.
When He hauled Himself out of the water, the sun gleamed off of his multicolored scales.
He lived in a satellite orbiting the Earth. It glowed white in the night sky. People saw His regular passage and based their calendars on Him.
Then came Abraham, who could hear His voice – or was it His thoughts? No one could tell. His words reverberated in the mind without ever passing the ears. He was the first. Sarah was the second. There were more who followed.
They worshiped Him, though He never said they should. He came from so far away, He could do so many great things.
Abraham begot Isaac begot Esau and Jacob begot many, many sons.
He didn't choose the Israelites. The Israelites chose Him. And as they amused Him, He protected them. Kept them safe. Answered the prayers He heard.
For a time.
Eventually He found a mate. The humans called her Shekina. They bore a child, a son, and planted him in the belly of a Jewish woman, Mary.
Then they left. He left the Earth to return to the planet on which He'd been born. The Earth belonged to the Son.
His son was born in a manger and they called him Joshua, Jesus, Christ. The Messiah. He had another name, but no one knew it. No one could pronounce it anyway.
People listened to Jesus. Perhaps it was the way his words seemed to echo in the brain. Perhaps it was the aura of power around him, the miracles he already could perform. The dark, bottomless eyes, like pits you could fall into forever and ever.
They listened to him when he spouted off whatever came into his head. "Turn the other cheek." "Blessed are the meek." “The Lord is thy shepherd.”
They listened. They followed. They trusted.
A few didn't trust. A few didn't believe. A few killed him.
As he had planned.
He spent three days cocooned in a graveyard after they killed the human shape he had worn since his birth. Then He emerged, multicolored scales shining in the light, tentacles trailing, fourth, fifth, eighth eyes opening, scales hardening. He looked to the sky and rocketed up, away, out of the universe.
His disciples said they saw him rise to Heaven.
“He’ll return to us,” they said. “We weren’t ready. He’ll return and when He does, we’ll be better people. We’ll live by His rules.”
“He died for our sins.”
He will return. He’ll find His own mate and have His own child on a different planet, but when the time is right He will return.
The atmosphere will burn with the ferocity of His coming. The people will see Him above Jerusalem and say, “He is back. He came back for us.”
And He will burrow deep into the Earth, as His father did the world He was born, and He will stay there for a decade, maybe two, and He will slowly die.
And when His time is up He will give a mournful howl and stretch his wings full length, pushing through the Earth, cracking the surface.
Then He will explode.
After His metamorphosis, He took a new name.
The closest human equivalent is Armageddon.