The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (12 page)

“You were saying, earlier, about the committee? What have they decided?” I reminded God of the initial reason for his call. God explained how the committee had agreed we should take the whole thing slowly, that rushing it could prove to be counterproductive. They had come up with a strategy, and now that I had Bob as a disciple, it made things easier. They decided the public needed a miracle, something to grab their attention, and maybe even attract more followers.

“What type of miracle?” I asked. Under no circumstances would I go near lepers, and nor would I raise the dead. I felt I needed to make that extremely clear from the outset. I had an aversion toward sick people, and death freaked me out. I gave thanks each day that Walter didn’t leave the apartment so there was no way I could deal with the dead birds or mice that cats inevitably murdered.

As I had no idea of how to perform a miracle, I was intrigued as to what God’s answer would be.

“Oh, I don’t know nothing too big. Something simple to start off with, something that will get people talking around the water cooler but have them wanting more. You need credibility; even Jesus would tell you that. We were thinking of a food-based miracle, kind of like JC’s feeding the five thousand with fish and loaves of bread.”

I had of course heard of this miracle. Even being Jewish, I was familiar with the story, and I had often thought that had delis been around in Jesus’s day, he wouldn’t have been popular with them, stealing customers and hurting trade.

“JC?” I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“Oh sorry, it’s what I call him. Jesus, Jesus Christ, JC,” replied God, as if I should have known.

“Have you a pet name for me?” I asked, conscious that the acronym SM had possible sexual deviant undertones.

“No,” answered God.

“I see,” I said.

“You see what?” said God.

“Oh nothing, just thinking out loud; forget it.” My feelings were hurt. Why did Jesus have a nickname, and I didn’t? I had always wanted a name with good initials, such as AJ, or TJ, or KC. I was slightly upset that God hadn’t thought of a pet name for me.

God ignored my pouting. “Oh, well, anyway, as I was saying, it has been deemed we need a small miracle, and the vote was unanimous. We thought maybe you could feed some hungry people.” God sounded pleased with this announcement though I had some concerns.

“Sounds great, fantastic, a brilliant idea,” I said sarcastically, “but you seem to be forgetting that there isn’t an abundance of starving people in New York City. Even the homeless get hot meals provided by the Salvation Army, and if you think for one minute I am going to surround myself with flea-ridden, dirty hobos, you are sorely mistaken.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt bad. It was the least charitable thing I had ever said, and I guessed if Jesus was listening in, he would be nodding his head as if to say “I told you so.” I spoke again quickly.

“That was wrong; what I meant is that I have no idea whatsoever how to perform a miracle. I haven’t a clue where to start, and I think there must be a better way to go about this.” I hoped God hadn’t picked up on the homeless thing, and it seemed he hadn’t.

“Not to worry, dear boy,” said God. “I have a plan.”

CHAPTER

BEFORE I EXPLAIN GOD’S PLAN
and the subsequent events after his second call, I feel I ought to pass on a few snippets of information I managed to glean from God, which you may or may not find interesting. God, as you may have realized, relies heavily on angels to do his bidding, mainly due to the fact that he has other ventures spread across the Universe. Apparently, like any good CEO, he liked to delegate as much as he could. The angels, he told me, are led by Gabriel, who is an archangel.

While not all the angels have a direct link to God, or for that matter, to Gabriel, there is a structured chain of command not dissimilar to that of the military. While not astounding news, it was nevertheless interesting. What was astounding was the numbers of angels currently on Earth amongst us, doing God’s bidding. According to God, angels make up twenty-five percent of the world’s population, which meant one in four humans is actually an angel.

I was astonished at how many angels were on Earth because I am pretty certain I have never encountered one. Apparently, we all had a guardian angel of varying levels of competency and ability. It is simply the luck of the draw as to which one is allocated to you. Each angel is guardian to at least four different souls; however, one cannot rely on the angel all the time, as he or she is spread so thinly, hence why, according to God, some people have accidents, and some do not.

The second and slightly more alarming fact I discovered was that God worked closely with Lucifer. While not what you might call friendly, they do have a cordial relationship. Their acquaintance, so God informed me, goes further than the recognized figureheads of good and evil.

As I had read elsewhere, Lucifer was a fallen angel, and he was also pivotal in all aspects of God’s reign on Earth and indeed, the Universe. I was also shocked to discover that Lucifer had accompanied God on his foray out into the Universe for the last thirty years. Apparently, Lucifer and God got together on occasion and discussed topics related to each of their spheres, such as the allocation of souls, disasters, and other issues that God didn’t have time to explain to me.

It would seem that God and Lucifer had discussed the forthcoming Armageddon and indeed, had agreed on the date before they ventured on their prolonged journey into the Universe. However, with the date approaching, it was not good form for them to be seen in cahoots. Therefore, God had no idea what Lucifer and his team were planning in regards to the apocalypse.

The final piece of gossip I think you should be aware of is God’s acknowledgment that he cannot control everything. Apparently, natural disasters have nothing to do with him. He has no control over earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanoes, or any other natural phenomena. He can, though, “whip up a storm” if required, but he tries not to mess with the weather too often. He usually does it only when he is annoyed and wants to make a point. Apparently, what we mistakenly call “an act of God,” he refers to as “maintenance issues.” As the earth is as not as young as it was, it has become difficult to maintain, and certain issues such as land faults, ozone layer holes, and melting icecaps are victims of expired warranties. Luckily, God was pleased to inform me he built his newer planets spread throughout the Universe to a much better design code. Therefore, he eliminated structural and natural damage and minimized the effects of weather. On some planets, he can even control the weather, in part due to the developments of new technologies and his expanded experience in the planet-building trade. While I know the news is relatively irrelevant to you and me, it is reassuring to know that other civilizations and planets, under God’s wing, need not worry about global warming.

The next morning, I arranged to meet Bob at the Vandam Diner in West Village, a short walk for me, and a cab ride for him. The Vandam was a regular meeting place for Bob and I, and we considered ourselves regulars, even though I sometimes got the feeling the wait staff thought us a pair of assholes. I felt it necessary that I included Bob in all aspects that pertained to my new role as Messiah, and as such, it was important we met and talked about God’s suggestion and the proposed miracle.

I was also pleased to report that Ronnie had eventually been pried from the Christ Church railings at around three thirty in the morning. According to Bob, Nancy had crawled into bed exhausted, and it was unlikely she would surface again until her next shift began at seven that evening. It was assured that Bob and I could converse and meet without any interference or objection from his wife. It had dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten a thing the previous day, and I was famished. I ordered steak, eggs, and coffee, and Bob ordered a Triple Crown omelet. Bob was in a buoyant mood, and I could not recall ever seeing him so animatedly happy; even after last year’s World Series games he hadn’t been this ecstatic. My call summoning Bob for breakfast had been rather cryptic. I had told him we needed to talk, and he was in. After the waitress had taken our food order, and Bob had, as usual, annoyed her by asking if the coffee was freshly brewed, to which she had replied yes as she always did, I relayed God’s plan for my first miracle.

“This is the deal,” I began, “first of all, he is happy for you to be a disciple, so officially you’re on the books; you’re in.”

Bob was delighted with this news. “Yes!” he exclaimed, clenching his fist as if he had scored a home run. I was a bit taken aback by Bob’s excitement. I wish I shared his enthusiasm; unfortunately, however, I was still dubious about the whole thing. I choose not to comment on Bob’s animated response, and I continued to speak.

“He wants me to feed some hungry people, a multitude, and he wants me to produce food from thin air and distribute it to a crowd. It’s not a dissimilar miracle to the one performed by JC with the fishes and loaves and the five thousand.”

“JC?” queried Bob.

“Jesus Christ,” I clarified.

“Oh, I see,” said Bob. “Nicknames, eh? You got one?”

“No,” I replied quickly. “Anyway, he suggested I feed the multitude, find some hungry people and feed them, produce food from thin air, and he wants you to film it, as proof, so we can send it to the media.” I knew Bob had a camera, and I knew he was a competent cameraman. God hadn’t actually suggested Bob film it, I had, but I felt it sounded better if I said it was God’s idea.

“What do you feed them with?” asked Bob. It was a good question, and I had asked God the same thing.

“Well, those were my exact words to God. I tried to explain that I had no idea how to produce food from thin air, and that thus far my miracle-working skills were zero.”

Bob jammed his omelet into his mouth eagerly. The man could eat, and I was sure he would order another; I could tell that he was listening intently, though; the same as when he ate hot dogs at Yankee Stadium at the same speed and never missed a play. A piece of onion fell from his fork onto his plate. He scooped it up with his finger and popped it into his mouth. “So, how do you do it? How do you make food appear from nowhere?” he asked between large mouthfuls.

“Well, he, God, my father made a pretty good point. He asked me if I had ever attempted a miracle before. Obviously the answer was no. Why would I have? He told me all I have to do is will it to happen, and it will happen. Apparently, I have had this power all my life, but of course, I never knew I did. I can do most things, within reason, but as a novice, I can’t expect to be on par with JC; not yet anyway,” I said as I chewed on a piece of steak. Bob nodded.

“That makes sense, I suppose,” he said as he continued to eat.

“Well, I have already tried one. A miracle. Last night,” I said proudly.

“You’re kidding,” said Bob as he wiped away melted cheese from his chin.

“No, I am not kidding. God talked me through it. It was, if I say so myself, pretty impressive,” I boasted, genuinely pleased with what had occurred the previous evening. As Walter had been my only witness, it was good to include Bob in my moment of triumph.

The night before, while discussing the miracle idea with God, he had instructed that I pour tap water into a glass—just regular, New York City tap water, into a standard, normal, everyday glass. I did as instructed. With the phone pressed tightly to my ear so I would not miss any instruction and with God’s encouragement, I concentrated hard. God had told me to focus on the glass of water. According to God, I needed to will it to happen and to have faith that it would happen. What “it” was, I wasn’t sure. While I was the one who performed the miracle, I couldn’t do it without God’s help. He was the one actually performing the miracle, but he needed me to act as his vessel. Only his son could be the vessel, hence the fact that only Jesus and I could perform miracles.

At first, there was nothing. For at least fifteen minutes, I sat, staring at the glass of water, and nothing happened. God told me to be patient, which I naturally was. But to be honest, I thought I was wasting my time, which was another problem. I was missing the faith aspect of miracle working. God explained that I needed to believe the miracle would happen, and his gentle coaxing and encouragement enabled me to relax. And then it happened. The miracle. My first miracle. The first official miracle in more than two thousand years. Right in front of my eyes, the water in the glass began to stir. I could not believe it, and my eyes widened in wonderment.

The water seemed to effervesce, slowly at first, then, as if an Alka-Seltzer had been deposited into it, the color of the water began to change. It turned darker, slowly at first, then it picked up speed, and gradually it changed color completely. The water had changed. In front of me was no longer a glass of water. The liquid inside the glass was now a golden color. The liquid was familiar. It seemed to seduce me, to tempt me; it was a beautiful sight to behold. The gentle fizz sent bubbles climbing up the glass to disappear into the air. Soft, frothy foam settled at the top of the miracle nectar. It was a wondrous and magical moment. God invited me to taste the golden liquid in front of me, and I didn’t need to be asked twice. The miracle nectar. The liquid of God, the miracle brew. It was Bud Lite.

There was no mistaking the taste; it was genuine Budweiser Lite, my third favorite beer. I also drank Guinness and Sam Adams, but I suppose that they would have taken a little more effort. It tasted fine, better than fine; I had fancied a beer all evening and had none in the apartment, so when the Bud descended down my throat, I felt exhilarated. It was my first miracle. I had turned water into beer. It was confirmed. I was the Messiah.

“Far out,” exclaimed Bob, who sat opened mouthed as I relayed the events surrounding my first miracle.

“I know,” I said feeling rather proud of myself. “It blew my mind. I swear it wasn’t a trick, and it tasted perfect. It was even cold!” I tried to contain my delight; aware other diners might overhear our conversation.

“The possibilities are limitless,” said Bob “we could open up our own bar,” Bob wiped away more melted cheese from his lips. “We never need to buy beer ever again. We shall never run dry. We could produce it in bulk, and take it to games. We can sit in a bar and order water for free, and hey presto, abracadabra, we have two brewskis!”

“No,” I replied. “No, apparently I can’t. God warned me that my miracles were only limited to the needy, and I needed his assistance to do them; therefore, I can’t ‘sneak one in.’ I wouldn’t be able to ‘miracle for profit,’ as he put it. Kind of makes sense, I suppose.” I was as disappointed as I sounded. I had the same idea and thought as Bob, but God had curtailed my enthusiasm by listing a whole set of rules which meant it was extremely difficult for me to profit from my miracle doing.

Bob agreed that it made sense we shouldn’t miracle for profit; however he did point out that we both knew people who needed beer every day, and maybe we could exploit a loophole regarding the “needy,” should we be so inclined. I promised I would point that out to God the next time we spoke.

Unfortunately, we had more pressing matters to discuss. We needed to work out the best way to perform my first public miracle and plan a strategy that would not only work but would produce suitable camera footage we could distribute to the world’s news networks.

“You see, when JC did this one, he had a crowd of five thousand, give or take, and word of his powers had already spread. At the time he performed his fish and loaf miracle, he was already an established attraction. People came from miles around to catch a glimpse of him. At the moment, I am a nobody; I have no following. What we need is a crowd, a hungry crowd at that, and maybe some publicity.” Bob nodded that he concurred with my thoughts as he took a sip from his third cup of coffee.

“Finding hungry people in this city shouldn’t be too hard,” said Bob. “I mean, people are always hungry. How does God define hungry? Does he mean starving, or does he mean peckish, or does he mean famished? What’s the play here?” It was a good question and a good point.

“Well, the homeless are not necessarily always hungry, and God didn’t specify what level of hunger deemed a miracle,” I replied. “The problem is the location; we need a crowd, in a public place, suitably hungry and ready to accept a miracle. As it’s not football season, we can’t turn up at the Giant’s Stadium and offer to get the hot dogs, and the Yankees are on the road this week, so Yankee Stadium is out too,” I surmised.

It was Bob who came up with the idea, completely out of the blue. It was sheer inspiration. “Central Park,” he said, matter-of-fact, “Central Park is where we should head. There are always crowds, and I bet you’d find a hungry crowd amongst the throngs of tourists, dog walkers, and joggers. All you need to do is stand up and shout ‘free food.’ Create a noise, a scene, and people will watch. They always do.” Bob, as I thought he might, ordered a second omelet, and was busily chewing away. He was right, of course. If anyone shouted and waved their hands in Central Park in June, a crowd would flock, especially the Japanese tourists and out-of-towners.