The other day, I was hanging out with Jesus at a coffee shop. Yes, the Jesus. I can’t disclose all the details that made the encounter possible, but hallucinogens may or may not have had some role. It’s hard to say.

Whatever the case, I was sipping on a decaf oat milk pumpkin spice latte because I believe in being seasonally appropriate. I’d nestled myself into my favorite corner of the café where I love to sit. On occasion, I will wear a pointed hat and pretend that I’ve been bad and am being punished. This was not one of those days though. I’d positioned myself there mostly because I wanted to be left alone. Then wouldn’t you know it, in walks Jesus (known to some as ‘The Savior’). 

“You seem troubled, my child,” he said as he sat down next to me. 

For a second, I thought it was my actual Earth dad talking to me. But he’s never referred to me as ‘my child,’ despite the high forehead we share. Nor has he noticed when I am troubled or asked about this possibility since the Reagan administration. So it’s been a while. 

I glanced over at the guy. He didn’t appear in the manner I’d always seen Jesus depicted so I didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t wearing sandals or a toga or a golden laurel that made his dreamy blue eyes sparkle. In fact, he didn’t even have blue eyes. He was a well-tanned man with deep brown eyes and an obsidian black beard accented by long flowing locks. Plus, he was wearing a plaid flannel shirt over a Hello Kitty t-shirt. The ensemble was very metrosexual. 

“I guess I’m troubled, yeah,” I said. “The world’s a little scary right now.”

He nodded and sat down next to me. 

Now, I normally don’t care for skeevy weirdo guys I don’t know sitting down next to me like that. But there was something about him that I trusted. (Plus, the effects of some funny fungus may or may not have been kicking in for me.) And the thing is, the guy looked pretty troubled himself. 

“I am Jesus,” he said.

I squinted my eyes and just stared at him a moment. “You mean of bible fame?”

He nodded. “The one.”

I drew a long sip of my seasonally appropriate drink, then sighed. “You don’t look like Jesus,” I said, waving my hand up and down in front of him to indicate his appearance.

“This again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I spent my life wandering around the desert. If I looked like the golden child that those pretty boy16th century Italians painted, I’d have been blind and probably died from,” he paused then lowered his voice, “skin cancer.”

I just stared at him. “Are you doing a Jewish thing right now?”

“I’ve been trying it out. What do you think?”

“I’d lose it.”

He nodded again. 

I took a deep breath. “I’d just like to state for the record that I’m not one of your followers.”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, hanging his head. “I understand.” His long black locks brushed onto the table. “I don’t believe that a lot of my followers are really my followers right now.” 

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Well, that’s gotta be tough.” Because what was I supposed to say? I never wanted followers. Most of the time, I just wanted people to go away. By contrast, Jesus was a born leader and clearly liked a certain amount of attention from people. But to each his/her own. 

He picked his head back up and there was something even darker about his eyes. Frankly, it scared me a little. Especially because I was still adjusting to this new brown hue. 

“At one time, Reverend Hershell Bainbridge would passionately preach my gospel of ‘love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you.’ It was awe-inspiring,” he paused. “Do you know Hershell?”

“I don’t.”

“No, of course not. Why would you? He’s in Iowa.”

I shrugged. 

“I don’t know him either. Not anymore. Now he bows to a man who says, and I quote, ‘When people wrong you, go after those people, because it is a good feeling and because other people will see you doing it. I always get even.’ And this man means every word of this.” Jesus shook his head slowly and began to mumble. “Boy. When my father made that one, he really fucked up.”

He must have sensed some surprise in my face. “Excuse my French,” he said.

I shook it off. “I’m fluent. In that French, at least.”

“And pastor Carolina Rutherford over in Montana once taught her Sunday school children that those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. Those were my words! You can find them in the bible.”

“I believe you,” I said, batting away a tiny purple giraffe fly that may or may not have been real. 

“But now she subscribes to the viewpoints of this disillusioned soul who has the audacity to utter, ‘Sorry losers and haters, but my I.Q. is one of the highest — and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.’ I mean, come on! It’s absolutely galling!”

“It does suck,” I agreed.

“And let’s not even get into the whole ‘love thy neighbor as yourself’ rhetoric they preach in the praystation, but see no complicity in advocating building a wall or breaking up families or calling human beings ‘illegals.’” 

His eyes were on fire then and I was hoping he was going to start throwing around chairs and tables as he was rumored to have done in the Bible. That seemed like a part of the book I might have enjoyed. Unfortunately, I was required to read the Book of Genesis for high school English and all the begetting did not ‘be getting’ me interested in reading any further beyond that. 

He then calmed down and looked at me with serious eyes. “The hypocrisy is a big pill to swallow.” 

I nodded knowingly, thinking of the folks I’d lost to the current madness. “Would you like some water?” I asked, pushing over a glass in hopes that it would help him feel better and that if he felt better enough, maybe he would turn it into wine. He didn’t.

He took a big gulp and let out a long sigh. “You know what the worst part is?” 

I concentrated really hard and the word ‘hemorrhoids’ popped into my head. That couldn’t be right though. Then I started thinking how cool it would be to give Jesus the right answer. That there would be some sort of reward in a heaven that I didn’t even believe in. Then I recognized that this made no sense.

“They’re all so miserable,” he said. And I wanted to believe him, which, OKAY I SEE IT, isn’t truly Christian of me. “Hate has blinded them. They can’t see that they’ve ultimately lost.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm-hm. Because they’ve forgotten one of my most important teachings.”

I waited for him to tell me, but I could see I was going to have to ask. Jesus is a nice enough guy, but he clearly has to have the room.

“Which was?” I finally asked.

”Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” he said with a smile. And dammit if I didn’t feel better. With that, he got up, bid me farewell with a nod, and may or may not have floated out of the coffee house on a magic carpet named Derek.