The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (11 page)

“So you think I should go along with this whole thing?” I asked Bob.

“After considering all the implications, you have no choice. I hate to say it, but yes, you should go along with it. Not totally, maybe long enough to defeat Satan and save the world, but more importantly, save you. Then you can forget it. Try and negotiate some sort of short-term contract; take it to Armageddon and reconsider your options. Maybe take the job on a trial basis.” I wasn’t sure how God would react to contract negotiations, but it was better than refusing point blank. At least it was a compromise, and considering the alternatives, I didn’t have much choice. The problem was I had no idea how I could contact God and put forward my proposal.

I had taken enough of Bob’s time, and chances were that Nancy was on her way back home.

“Bob, thanks for listening, I will give you a call if there are any more developments. One more thing though; I wouldn’t mention any of this to Nancy. You know what she’s like when it comes to me. I think the fewer people who know about it at this stage, the better.” Bob agreed that telling Nancy would be a disastrous move while no doubt she would find it highly amusing at first, there was no telling what she would do. She could have me locked up as a madman for all I knew. I wouldn’t have put it past her.

“Hey, listen, I just had a thought: you’re going to need disciples, a team of helpers like Jesus had,” said Bob just as I thought our conversation was over.

“Disciples?” It was something I hadn’t had a chance to consider, but it sounded a good idea. If they were good enough the first time around, I saw no reason why they shouldn’t be good the second time.

“Yeah, disciples. Listen, I’m your man, count me in. I’ll be your chief disciple, your number two. Hey, I’ve got six more weeks off school! Nancy’s got no vacation time, and I am getting tired of watching Doctor Phil and Judge Judy,” said Bob, who sounded excited at the prospect of joining me in my misery.

“God didn’t mention disciples,” I said. “He said a lot, but he didn’t specifically mention disciples. I’m all for it, and I could use some help and support. I’ll run it by him during contract negotiations,” I promised my friend.

“Well, make sure you do, I’m very interested. Think about it, and don’t forget to run it by him when you next talk. Hey, I’m with you man, I’m there for you. It could actually be fun if you discount Armageddon and the end of the world.” Unfortunately, “fun” was the last word that sprang to my mind as our conversation ended.

After concluding my call with Bob, I waited for God to either call back or talk through Walter. I watched Walter for any sign that would indicate he was about to speak, but none came. The scotch I had drunk earlier was beginning to take effect, and I decided a lie down was the best course of action. I hadn’t slept well in the easy chair at my parents’ home the night before, and it was no surprise that my eyelids felt heavy.

I slept well for four hours straight. No dreams or visions from God molested my thoughts, and when I awoke at five in the afternoon, I felt refreshed and revitalized. During those first initial seconds of awakening, I felt relaxed, calm, and contented. I stretched my arms and legs and smiled to myself; there was nothing quite like an afternoon nap. It was only when my brain shifted into gear, and my senses were fully restored that I remembered. The events of the morning came flooding back, and my original feeling of contentment vanished, and my stomach knotted.

I rechecked that Walter was still Walter, and I satisfied myself that the ball of ginger fluff curled up on a sun-drenched patch of floor near a window was indeed my cat by whispering, “Are you there?” into his ear. When I received no response, it was clear to me that God was not here. The phone hadn’t rung while I slept, and I had no messages. I grabbed the TV remote control and switched on the local evening news.

I wasn’t paying much attention to the news, but when I saw a familiar figure pass onto my screen, I increased the volume and leaned toward the screen. Nancy, her frame unmistakable, was giving an interview to a reporter on the street. Nancy, who always looked ridiculous in her super-sized NYPD police uniform, was obviously the police spokesperson for whatever the news channel was covering.

It seemed that downtown traffic had been brought to a standstill all day. Nancy explained that while the situation was not yet over, it was contained. The reason for this chaotic traffic situation was due entirely to the events at Christ Church, located at the corner of Park Avenue and 60
th
Street. A man, previously unidentified but now known to be Ronnie Misfud, aged thirty-eight of Queens, New York, had chained and padlocked himself to the railings that surrounded the church. He had used extra strength chain and had super glued the twenty-five padlocks that fastened him to the railings, thus making it virtually impossible for the police locksmith to pry him from the railings. Various types of bolt cutters had also been called for, but none were strong enough to break the chains that entwined Ronnie’s body with the railings.

The progress to remove Ronnie was slow, as he had chained himself to the church railings for well over nine hours. The police, represented by Nancy, were confident they would remove Ronnie within the hour; extra-strength bolt cutters had been called for. Meanwhile, traffic slowed to walking pace in the vicinity of the church as onlookers, television news crews, and emergency vehicles blocked the adjacent avenues.

Some suggested that all the police needed to do was merely saw through the railings, but the church had expressly forbidden any actions that could result in damage to their historic railings. Because of that, the process of freeing Ronnie was slow and laborious and had taken up many police resources.

I found the whole thing quite amusing, and a smile spread across my face. Not because it seemed Nancy struggled with the reporter’s questions and veiled implied remarks of police incompetence, but also because if I had gone to my office today, I would have been one of the tens of thousands stuck in traffic with a cab’s meter ticking away. It was only when the reporter touched on the reason for Ronnie’s actions that my smile disappeared.

It seemed, according to Ronnie himself, that he had had a vision from God earlier that morning. In this vision, God had informed Ronnie that he had been chosen to spread the good news that the Messiah was amongst us, and soon the new son of God would reveal himself to the world. It also seemed that God had told Ronnie that the forces of darkness were readying themselves for what Ronnie described as the final conflict between good and evil, as prophesized by the book of Revelation.

Ronnie had told the assembled media that the only way he could think of gaining public attention was to chain himself to the church and cause as much disruption as possible. It seemed psychiatrists were on the scene, and an ambulance stood by to transport poor Ronnie to the nearest mental hospital for tests and treatment the moment Nancy and her colleagues freed him.

Naturally, I found this rather disturbing. Was Ronnie a deranged lunatic, hell-bent on causing disruption to the New York City traffic, or had he genuinely received a message from God? According to the reporter’s research, Ronnie did not have a record of any mental health problems, and according to friends and family who had gathered at the scene and who were now giving interviews to the press, he was not an overly religious man, and none could explain why Ronnie had secured himself to the railings.

Usually, a news item like this would not keep me glued to the television, and even considering my current predicament, only so much footage of Ronnie chained to a railing could keep me enthralled. I was about to switch channels when the reporter said something that sent shivers down my spine. Apparently Ronnie was not the only one to receive word from God that morning.

Reports were coming in from around the globe of individuals causing disruption and attempting to gain media coverage while claiming they too had spoken to God, and just like Ronnie’s story, it seemed the Messiah was amongst us, and preparations were afoot for Armageddon.

The reporter informed her viewers that an unidentified man had attached himself to the Sydney Harbor Bridge, causing disruptions to early morning commuters. In London, where it was approaching midnight, Big Ben would not be chiming, as another unidentified male had perched himself on the hour hand of the famous clock. In Los Angeles, the airport halted lunchtime flights while several airport police tried to coax a rather animated and naked young man from the main runway at LAX. While these events, according to the reporter, were not directly linked, it seemed every individual was proclaiming the same thing: that God had spoken to them and told them to spread the word that his son was on Earth, and to prepare the people for the battle for souls.

I was jolted from my thoughts by the telephone. It was Bob calling me to see if I was watching the news. I confirmed I was, and he whistled and hewed, which didn’t help matters, but it confirmed what I thought: God was serious. I said I would call Bob back as I needed to keep the line free for God’s call. I also woke Walter by throwing a cushion at his still-sleeping mass. He raised his head and stared at me indignantly. I urged him to speak, but he appeared uninterested. Bob told me to call him immediately if there were any developments and not to worry about Nancy, as she had called home to say she would be working late. Apparently Ronnie was going to take longer to remove than the police were telling the assembled media. Before hanging up, Bob said he thought Nancy looked great on TV and that maybe they would make her the department spokeswoman. I declined to comment and told him I would call him with news when it came.

A split second after I replaced the handset of the telephone onto the receiver, it rang again. I answered it quickly, hoping it was God. It wasn’t him, but the second best thing: my mother. Like Bob, she asked me if I was watching the news, and I told her I was. I also told her I had spoken to God that morning. Luckily, Thursday nights were her bridge night, so we didn’t stay on the line for long, and she cut the conversation short, which saved me from telling her to get off the line. I did not feel like going into my refusal to take the job or any of the other details of my morning’s talk with God, so it was a relief that she was not on the line for long.

After I had hung up the phone, I waited for it to ring. It didn’t, so I resumed viewing the chronicles of Ronnie chained to the railings. Shots were now coming in from London where a crowd had gathered, and spotlights had been erected to highlight the man perched on the minute hand of Big Ben. He had some sort of sheet he was using as a banner, which, when unfolded, proclaimed, “The Messiah is amongst us.”

It was while pondering the fates of all the global announcer’s of my arrival that the phone rang. It was him, at last.

CHAPTER

“RATHER IMPRESSIVE DON’T YOU THINK?”
said God, the voice no different from the last time he called.

“So you
are
responsible. You know these poor men will probably all be arrested, don’t you? I think poor Ronnie could be heading to a psychiatric ward.” I was genuinely concerned for the welfare of these individuals. I felt somehow responsible for their predicaments.

“That’s my boy,” said God, “compassionate and caring. Don’t worry, I will see no harm comes to them, and I assure you that they will not be charged or detained in any institution.” I was relieved to hear this; the last thing I wanted on my conscience was any of those modern-day prophets to fall to their death or incarcerated in mental wards.

“Good. That makes me feel a little better,” I said. “Look, I’m glad you called. I felt sorry about the way things went this morning. I feel I should apologize. Maybe I came across as being a little abrupt.” It was I suppose, an apology.

“Apology accepted,” said God, “and I trust you don’t need me to do the whole cat thing again, do you? I found it a little uncomfortable, and I am sure poor Walter wasn’t pleased.”

“I’m fine with this,” I confirmed, convinced I was indeed talking to God, that God was indeed my father, and that I was indeed the Messiah.

“Maybe I am the one who owes you an apology,” God said, “I think maybe we did get off on the wrong foot, and it was probably down to me. I do that sometimes, come across all almighty and demanding. I should have considered your feelings. It’s not every day you find out your whole life has been a lie.” I felt that was a little dramatic, but it was a good feeling, hearing God apologize. It seemed we might have turned a corner in our relationship.

“It’s been a busy day around here,” continued God, “and the committee and I got together to discuss things. Well, you, really. The upshot of the meeting was that maybe I, we, them rushed you into this and that maybe we should have broken you in gradually.”
That was good to hear,
I thought to myself. “Mind you, we still do not know for sure what the other side is planning. We need to get you trained and vested in my ways as soon as possible. While there is a set of rules pertaining to Armageddon, the final conflict, and indeed Satan, I have discussed the matter in the past, and I have learnt that we must approach dealings with him with caution. The committee and I all feel we must progress but at a slower pace than I had earlier anticipated. I take it you’re in? I mean, you have reconsidered? You will do it, won’t you?” I got the feeling God already knew the answer.

“Yes, I will do it though I do have a few conditions—” God interrupted before I could outline my conditions.

“Not a problem, the committee has agreed to your terms already.” So God had been watching me. I wondered how closely he, his angels, or even one of the committee had been watching. I was sure I hadn’t masturbated that afternoon, so that was a relief.

“Who actually sits in on this committee?” I asked, intrigued, and, of course, interested as to who might have had the job of watching me over the years, and who was responsible for compiling my file

“Me, of course, as chairman, Saint Peter the apostle—he’s kind of my right-hand man—Saint Francis, who represents the patron saints; a couple of old Popes; John the Baptist—you’d like him, he’s the voice of reason—Mother Teresa, she’s relatively new, but it’s good to have a woman’s perspective; she’s quiet and sometimes a little overly awed, but she spots things we would otherwise miss; Gandhi; and Gabriel—the angel Gabriel; as boss of the angels, he is pivotal in providing feedback on what is going on on Earth. He’s a bit like an enforcer, does my dirty work and snooping around, plus a lot of the groundwork for stuff on Earth.”

“Wasn’t Gandhi a Hindu?” I interrupted.

“Yes, but he had so much to offer, and we needed his perspective on things, so I made a couple of calls, pulled a few strings, and got him on the committee. He’s very placid but exceptionally good when it comes to ideas. He’s my idea man.”

“Who else?” I asked.

“Let me see; it’s not a permanent committee, it only convened when it was decided you would be doing my bidding. Let me see, Joan of Arc, she’s a member but doesn’t input too much,” said God.

“What about Jesus?” I asked.

“Who?” said God. I was sure he had heard me, but I repeated myself for his benefit.

“Jesus, you know, you’re eldest child. The original Son of God and my half-brother,” I clarified so there could be no mistake as to whom I was referring. There was quiet on the line. It seemed, for the first time since I had met him that God was at a loss for words. Either that or Jesus was a subject he didn’t like to discuss. Had I hit a nerve?

Eventually, God spoke.

“Yes, he’s on the committee. As I mentioned earlier, I gave him the job of watching over your parents and helping with their selection. He’s my adviser, my left-hand guy as opposed to my right-hand man. Listen, don’t be offended and don’t take this the wrong way, but he doesn’t care for you too much. In fact, he doesn’t like you at all.”

I was rather taken aback by this revelation; considering we had never met, I felt it slightly bold of Jesus to dislike me, especially considering who he was. I felt an explanation was in order. “Why not?” I asked, slightly hurt that my only sibling, albeit a half-brother, did not care for me. “Why doesn’t Jesus like me?” I could tell God didn’t want to get into this debate.

“It’s not important. He’s agreed to work with me on this, and that’s that. He’ll get over it; we have far more important things to discuss than Jesus’s feelings toward you.” Unfortunately for God, I was not about to let it drop. Despite God’s attempts at fudging the issue, something I was beginning to realize he was rather good at, I felt I deserved more information.

“Ok,” said God after I badgered a bit more. “There are several issues that Jesus has when it comes to you.”

“Several?”

“Yes, several. First, he thinks you’re the wrong man for the job. He says you’re flaky, and he doesn’t like your attitude. He’s disappointed that you haven’t taken the job on in the same vain he did. He thinks you lack commitment and that you are whiney.”

“Flaky? Whiney?” I repeated.

“Yes, in modern day terms he refers to you as a ‘loser.’ He says you lack inspiration and leadership qualities. He thinks you are shallow and rather self-centered. He thinks you could possibly show him in a bad light and ruin the work he has already done.”

If I was to be brutally honest, Jesus had some rather salient points, and if I were an outsider, I would probably concur with his appraisal of my character.

“Also,” God continued, “I think he is still a tad annoyed that it isn’t him back down there. I think he presumed I would send him back to finish the job he started two thousand years ago. I think he is a little jealous that you are the one who is going to be in the limelight, so to speak.” Great. On top of everything else, I had sibling rivalry to deal with. “Don’t get me wrong, though,” continued God. “You have his support, and he is one hundred percent behind you. It’s just that, well, give it time, and I am sure he’ll come around.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about the Jesus issue.

“Is there anything else he has said that I should know about?” I asked. I felt I needed to know everything should we eventually meet.

“He has commented on your lack of disciples,” admitted God. “You know, he could pull a crowd, and he was very, very popular with his own disciples. He has pointed out that he doubted you could find any.” Aha, so God didn’t know everything and neither did Jesus.

“Well, in that case, I have good news for the both of you,” I said gleefully.

“Good news?” said God. “Please do tell.”

“I have a disciple,” I said a little boastfully.

“You do?” God sounded delighted “That is fantastic news, absolutely fantastic.” I was glad God seemed delighted. “Splendid, excellent, that’s a good start, that’s a fantastic start for just one day. How many do you have?”

“One,” I answered.

“Oh,” said God, not sounding as delighted as he was a second ago.

“Hey, it’s a start; it’s only been a day, for your sake!” I cried, sensing God’s disappointment.

By reading between the lines, not only did Jesus dislike me, which God had already reliably informed me, but I also suspected that he was about as pleased as I was with the whole thing. Despite the fact that God had told me Jesus was behind me, I could not help thinking that if I were him, I would be a tad disappointed also. Let’s face it, the guy did a pretty good job. Two thousand years later, and he is probably the most famous man on the planet. I doubt that even Elvis or the Beatles combined had as many portraits, statues and shrines dedicated to them. He had a bigger fan base than all the NFL teams combined; he had more print devoted to him than all the U.S. presidents, and he was more recognizable than Mickey Mouse.

Considering he hadn’t even been on the planet for two thousand years, that was some track record. I had to hand it to him; he was definitely popular. I wondered if Mel Gibson would ever make a movie about my life using authentic New York accents and dialect. I wondered if Andrew Lloyd Webber would write a musical about me, and I wondered if everyone would erect trees and decorations every year on my birthday.

Yes, Jesus must be pretty disappointed that an overweight, middle-aged Jewish guy with a penchant for baseball and beer had been handed the baton of man’s savior. I also got the feeling that without a shadow of a doubt, he was God’s favorite, notwithstanding the fact that they had at least two thousand years to gel. No, despite that, I still felt that even if I united the world’s religions and got God season tickets for the Yankees, Jesus would still be number one. God hadn’t compared us, but I was sure it would only be a matter of time before he did. I had the feeling he was restraining himself from doing so as not to hurt my feelings.

I supposed that Jesus probably felt the same way Sean Connery felt when he gave up the role of James Bond. Despite his Oscar, (which, in my opinion, he didn’t deserve,) I had never rated Sean Connery as an actor unless he played a gruff Scotsman. It never failed to amuse me how often Scotsmen appeared in the movies he starred in, be it in the Wild West or outer space. He had to be the second most overrated thespian the world had seen.

Apart from when he played Bond. He was good, damn good. I’d wager that when they gave the Bond role to Roger Moore, the most overrated thespian the world had seen, he must have been mortified. He was Bond! And now younger generations would see Bond as a wooden, poorly acted, and quite an unbelievable buffoon. I guarantee that secretly Connery willed Moore to mess up. I bet that Connery would say to family and friends, “Look at him, he’s awful. I got far better reviews.” I bet he would laugh at the mess Moore made of Bond, yet at the same time, despair that his previous good work had been wrecked and the character he had so masterfully crafted into an ice cold super-agent had been reduced to an idiot playing for laughs.

Maybe that’s how Jesus felt about me. Unfortunately for me, like Connery was and always will be the best and only James Bond to his legion of fans, Jesus will always be the best and only Messiah to his fans, which I guessed, numbered considerably more than Sean Connery’s.

“All right,” said God. I assumed putting on a brave face. “Who’s this disciple?”

“Bob Nancy. You know him?” I replied, confident that God would have no idea who Bob Nancy was.

“The name sounds familiar,” said God to my utter astonishment. In the history of God, there must have been at least one hundred billion names. I wouldn’t have expected him to remember them all. “Hold on, I remember it from somewhere. It’s on the tip of my tongue,” said God who I imagined was rubbing his chin and scratching his head. “Hang on a minute, I think I’ve got it, Oh, good heavens,” he chuckled. “I remember him.” He laughed louder. “Oh yes, I remember him. Oh dear, what a small world, and I made it, how funny.” God continued to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, eager to get in on the joke.

“Well, you know I am extremely busy, as I explained, but when there is a church wedding, and my name is mentioned, such as, ‘We are gathered here in the presence of God,’ that sort of thing, well, anyway, when that happens, I have to either be present myself or delegate a proxy. It’s one of the rules we made up years ago, and it has stuck. Anyway, I always send a proxy, inevitably an angel, a low-ranking one, but occasionally Gabriel goes, you know, just to keep his hand in.” God chuckled to himself. “Anyway,” he said, between spurts of laughter, “Gabriel did his wedding, your Bob Nancy’s,” he laughed again. “I remember now, he mentioned it when I was away in our weekly update call. He told me about the bride, Nancy. Nancy Nancy! How ridiculous. Did they not realize? What on earth were they thinking? It tickled me, all of us. Gabriel was in fits for days.”

I must admit even, I found it a little ridiculous, and I was his best friend. I often wondered why she hadn’t kept her maiden name.

“Why she didn’t keep her maiden name, I will never know,” laughed God.

“Have you finished?” I asked God.

“What?” said God innocently.

“Laughing at my disciple,” I answered.

God apologized. He was pleased that I had at least one disciple despite the fact that his wife had a ridiculous name. “Ok, at least it’s a start. I am sorry for laughing,” he said though I still detected an element of mirth in his voice.