“For 15 years I was trained to be a believer,” Jesus says, and while stroking His full-grown beard, He surveys the reaction of the followers who have come from miles away for the sole purpose of meeting the promised Messiah. Jesus is just humble and happy to serve as the voice of God, passing on the message to His sheep. The parking lot next to the entrance gate of Eden Adventure Park is the perfect place for the congregation since not only is it spacious, but it is also right next to where Jesus works—He might be a son of God, but he still has to pay the bills.
It’s been only a few weeks since Jesus started speaking His heart out, and thanks to word of mouth spreading the news, every day more and more people come here to hear Him. Today, they must be around 40 or 50, which is more than the followers Jesus has ever gathered on Twitter—spam accounts included. Quantity aside, what Jesus is most proud of is that the crowd is as diverse as the colors on His palette—Yes, Jesus sees colors, and yes, He cherishes them. To His knowledge, this is the second most diverse crowd that has ever congregated around a Black speaker, which is quite impressive since, as Paul has correctly pointed out, Eddie Murphy’s records are impossible to beat anyway.
This is a dream coming true: uniting all mankind, from every race, color, and religion, by simply reminding them of the basic virtues that each and every one of them already feel in their heart. They are parts of the same body, and it is just plain absurd to hate each other. Does it make sense for a human’s right hand to fight against his left? Or his gallbladder against his pancreas? When they realize they are nothing but one, they will clearly see the beauty of forgiveness as Jesus did.
“For 15 years I was trained to be a believer, to believe everything they tell me. For 15 years they taught me why we are different; why we represent the true religion and everybody else is a cult; why we are better people; why we will deserve redemption and the others don’t. Why? Because of some magic words we say”—half the crowd chuckles—“or a magical story we hold on to.”
The crowd bursts into laughter, almost unanimously. Watch out, Eddie! Here comes Jesus.
“What did I tell ya?” Paul says with a chuckle to his date standing next to him. Her name is either Aishwarya, Priyanka, or another Indian goddess—God bless them all. Being blond, Paul has always had a fetish for brown Indian girls. And now that the gods of India have sent their ambassador of love to the west, it is Paul’s official duty to welcome her and introduce her to the new world.
The pretty girl’s smiling face responds with a brief nod and then quickly turns back to Jesus again. She is baked and ready.
Paul is going to get lucky tonight. Time for phase two: Engage physically. He casually stretches out his arm and wraps it around her shoulder while studying her reaction from the corner of his eye.
With her eyes locked on Jesus, she does not object. Perfect!
Phase two complete.
“Through the years,” Jesus continues, “I’ve seen many good people at church. They have a universal virtue, in that they all are kind to strangers. Those are the good ones, and in all honesty, I’ve seen some bad ones too. These two are different. Good and bad are not equal. If there is only one truth in this universe, this is it. There is something called being good, and that’s different from being bad. But, despite this clear difference, there is still something common between the two groups at my church; that they all hold on to the same story, calling it faith. What does that tell you? That this is not their faith that turns them good or bad. It must be something else; something other than what they’re told to believe; other than faith. Something that they do rather than what they say.”
Jesus surveys the crowd, making eye contact with His fellow park operators: Guneet, Gabriela, Cheng, Sandy, Judith, Paul, his new female friend wrapped in his arm, Sa’id, and back to Paul again, who reassures Jesus with his nod and the usual charisma in his eyes. What would Jesus have done without Paul’s support?
“And I’ve met wonderful people from other faiths too, many of them at this very park. People with different rituals, traditions, and each with their own unprovable story of how the unseen, divine world works. And yet, they are all good people. People that I would confidently nominate for salvation if I was in charge.”
Aashvi laughs at Jesus’ witty humor. Everybody else does too. Although she is born and raised on the other side of the globe, in an eastern culture rich with an army of Indian gods, Aashvi relates to the phenomenon that this exotic Black man refers to. It is like she always already knew about it at some level, but now that Jesus points it out, she recognizes it right away. It has always been there, sitting shy in the dark corner of her heart like a shapeless lump. But now, it takes form, it gains a voice, and it proudly steps into the light. The more Jesus talks, the more she identifies with his words. An identity deeply personal and yet vastly universal. An identity shared by all humans.
“—We go wa-a-ay back,” the blond boy continues. His name was Mark, Paul, or Peter, or some other hard-core biblical name. “I always said Jesus is not of this world.”
Aashvi comes to attention, just realizing that she has missed whatever the blond boy was babbling about before. “Impressive,” she says out of politeness. That is what boys always crave to hear on the first date, and it will most probably work as well with whatever the blond boy was saying.
The light gleaming in his widening eyes says that Aashvi’s line worked like a charm. Boys will always be boys.
Once Jesus’ speech is finished, Aashvi needs to figure out a way to tell the blond boy that it is not going to work out between them. Having been impressed by the speech, she is in quite a spiritual mood today. There is no reason to be cruel. She will let him down easy. Perhaps something along the lines of ‘I’d love to be friends.’
“Excuse me,” a female voice says from behind, tapping her on the shoulder.
Aashvi turns back and sees an angelic-faced, shy, teenage girl. On her left shoulder, a black hand rests, wearing a ring crowned with a giant, colored glass that resembles a bargain find from Dollar Tree. Wearing dark sunglasses, the 50-ish-year-old man is facing sideways, having his ear instead directed at Jesus. The uninhibited grin on the man’s face reflects the bliss that flows in his heart. It is as if he finally hears the voice that he has been longing for all his life.
Suddenly Aashvi realizes that the poor man must be blind. She immediately shifts toward the blond boy to make space for the man and his teenage social assistant to come to the front row.
“Thank you,” the teenage girl says.
“What is it, then, that makes a person good?” Jesus continues, “if it is not their particular faith, the stories that their parents have educated them to memorize, or the specific rituals that they are trained to mimic. What is it then? I have been asking myself this very question over and over again through the years, and I finally got the answer, through inspiration, enlightenment, a moment of clarity, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Isn’t he something?” Paul asks the pretty girl but gets no reaction, which is odd since just a few seconds ago she snuggled against his side.
With her mouth half-open, her peering eyes are locked on Jesus, and probably her whole attention too, having not much left for Paul to work with.
“By the way, did I tell you I’m a vegetarian?” Paul says and closely studies her reaction.
Nothing.
“Except for turkey on Thanksgiving,” Paul continues, his confidence on the verge of collapsing, “and fish on Good Friday.” He sighs and says the punchline under his breath, “and beef on weekends.”
No reaction whatsoever.
She is laser-focused on Jesus, as if Paul does not even exist. Damn! This girl is a lost cause. Jesus, with his ugly beard, has a better shot at her than Paul does.
Paul sighs and retracts his arm from her shoulder. It turns out that Jesus is like one of those refreshing beverages that one should enjoy only in moderation. And this girl has gotten drunk now. Paul can tell. And at the end of the date, she will probably thank Paul for his interest, shake hands, and say she would love to be friends. Damn! So near, yet so far. Perhaps, Paul would try again some other time when her mind is sober.
Jesus continues, “The question I had was, what makes you a good person. The answer I was given was only two words.” He pauses.
“Good deeds,” mutters the Black man that out of nowhere appears next to the pretty girl, on her right.
“Good deeds,” Jesus reveals the secret answer that should be obvious to anyone who can see. “As simple as that. Do good and watch yourself become good. Do good, and feel the sense of peace that grows in your heart. It is as simple as that. It might not be easy, but it’s simple. That’s the truth and the whole truth. It’s nice to be nice. Now, did you really need a Priest, Rabbi, Imam, or guru to tell you that?”
“Hey, not all Gurus are bad,” Sagar says with a slight objection noticeable in his thick Indian accent. It remains a mystery to everyone how three months ago Morgan managed to attract such a talented, college-educated mind from Wall Street to work as an accountant here. Morgan indeed works in mysterious ways. “You just need to find a goo-o-od Guru. I’ve got one. He is ve-e-ery good. A good guru can show you the way and tell you what’s good and what’s bad.”
Unable to hide His frustration with the overly used, nonsense argument, Jesus yells, “There is no secret, magical recipe for being good. Do you really need a guru for that?”
“How else do you tell apart good from—”
“Common sense,” Jesus shouts the obvious answer. “That’s how.”
“Amen,” a Black man who is facing sideways shouts. The dark sunglasses and the big grin make his face distinct from the rest of the crowd.
“Look,” Jesus continues, willing His voice to calm. “Feeding the hungry was a good deed we did in church. Muslims and Jews do the same in mosques and synagogues. Do you know any Hindu temple that doesn’t do that?”
Vishnu nods. So does the Indian girl standing next to Paul. Even Guneet, who always speaks ill of what Hindus and Muslims have done to Sikhs, acknowledges that.
“It is a sense that is common among all people of all colors, races, and backgrounds. It is common among all humanity. It’s…common sense.”
“Hallelujah, Brother,” the Black man shouts with joy.
“Same goes for charity,” Jesus continues, “kindness, and compassion.”
“How about passion?” A teenage boy says, trying not-too-hard to restrain his laughter. His two friends standing next to him are the only ones in the crowd that find that amusing.
“Passion is not bad,” Jesus responds to the tasteless heckling with graciousness, “but give it a few years, and let life show you that love hurts more than it heals. When it does, show some forgiveness. And that would be a good deed.”
Having received the divine message through Jesus, most of the crowd are back in the city to hopefully put His teachings into practice. Jesus also needs to finish His break and get back to work, although there is not much to be done when no one is willing to try the notorious zip line anymore. Before he leaves, as it has become a kind of ritual in the past few days, He stays around for a bit to see if he could help any enthusiastic followers: some have follow-up questions, some ask for a blessing, and one yesterday requested to kiss His hand, which Jesus refused at first but finally obliged—how could Jesus have denied a tearful, sweet old woman of her wish?
His phone vibrates in His pants pocket, giving him a bit of a tickle. Come to think of it, it was probably vibrating during His speech too, but He must have missed it, having been submerged in His divine duty to save His sheep. He should have turned it off before delivering the mass. Who would have a compulsive need to get real-time updates of His Twitter followers when the real-life followers are standing right before His eyes? Not to be interrupted again while He finishes the farewell to His sheep, Jesus brings the phone out of His pocket to turn off the vibration.
The phone’s cracked screen says, ‘3 missed calls from Mom’.
Jesus sighs, Why can’t this old woman just leave me alone? In an act of frustration, He powers off the phone altogether and puts it back into His pocket.
With his hand on the shoulder of a teenage girl, the Black man in the front row who cheered during His speech is the first one that approaches. He faces sideways, still hanging on to the same grin. And the dark sunglasses. Oh, he is blind. It is humbling that he has come all the way just to see Jesus.
But he’s blind, Jesus remembers and puzzles.
The teenage girl stops in front of Jesus, on His left, and signals the blind man with a gentle touch on his hand. The large colored glass on the ring on his middle finger stands out.
The blind man removes his right hand from her shoulder. As if they are equipped with radar, the fingers travel through the air and find Jesus’ face. The blind man gasps through his grin the moment his fingers touch Jesus.
Jesus welcomes the touch of the unfortunate with a kind smile. He wishes that the blind is not here to ask for his eyesight back; the one thing Jesus is not empowered to do. Not yet at least.
As if trying to memorize Jesus’ face, the fingers scan the forehead, the nose, and then the bearded cheeks. “I had to see it with my own fingers,” the blind man says. “Finally, a universal, Black messenger.”
“I can’t do miracles,” Jesus says, and bites His lips out of embarrassment. This poor, blind man is looking up at Him, and yet He… Wait. Blind! Looking! “Ah… How do you know I’m Black?”
“What do you mean exactly?” the blind man says, his tone becoming hostile. The once seemingly permanent grin on his face is replaced with a twisted expression and knitted eyebrows.
Jesus should not have said that. Some people take offense if one points out their disability. And some are more sensitive than the others.
In the awkward silence that follows the blind man’s confrontational question, Jesus can hear nothing but His pounding heart. “Ah…ah…nothing…ah…I just—” Jesus tries in vain to find the words that would undo what he said earlier.
“See these fingers?” the blind man says, opening his palm before Jesus’ face. “They can see things that a thousand eyes can’t.” A snort escapes his nose as if he is restraining a follow-up, perhaps harsher, reaction.
Jesus gulps in nervousness. “I…I…I didn’t mean—”
Interrupting Jesus’ apology, the blind man’s snigger finally bursts out into a loud, uninhibited laugh.
Although Jesus is confused at first, he slowly realizes that he was being teased. He chuckles, first with a subtle exhale through his nostrils, and then a soft laughter escapes his lips. Having been caught up in the most serious matter of His earthly life, it’s been quite a while since he has laughed out loud. His chuckle finally escalates to laughter, joining the harmony orchestrated by the blind man.
Still laughing, the blind man opens his arms for a hug. “Come on, Brother. Where are you?”
Without hesitation, Jesus takes a step forward and puts himself in the inviting arms of the barely acquainted friend. The arms that tightly wrap around Jesus gives him a much-needed warm embrace that feels more fatherly than brotherly. The two firmly hug as if they have already known each other for decades.
Jesus hugs the father he never had.
As the laughs settle, the blind man holds Jesus before him and reads Jesus’ face with his fingers again. He takes a deep breath and says, his tone taking a sharp turn to become serious, “Your words are the miracle I’m looking for. My eyes don’t see colors, that’s right. Nor do the listeners of my podcast.”
“A podcast?! What is it called?”
“Common Sense.”
“Common… Are you… are you Adekola?” Jesus says, excited to meet a legend whose podcasts have always been a source of inspiration.
“The one and the only. Call me Ade, Brother.”
“Of course. Ade.”
“How is Maria?” Ade asks out of nowhere.
Jesus’ hand impulsively reaches His pants pocket when His hip tickles again. He retracts His hand when He remembers that He has already powered off the phone so it cannot possibly vibrate. Or can it? “Good, good. She’s…ah…she’s… Wait. How do you know my mother?” Jesus asks, suspicion creeping into His thoughts.
“Oh, me and sweet Maria go back a long way, Son, before you were even born.”
Creeping into every corner of His mind, the sense of suspicion grows and hardens to resemble cynicism. The wall of mistrust that has kept Him separated from His mother just gets thicker and thicker. Why didn’t Mom ever mention that she knows the famous Adekola? What is it that she is hiding? Did Adekola know my father too? Or if Mom met him before my birth, could the legendary Adekola be my—
“And this is my little angel,” Ade says and brings Jesus to attention. He gestures to the shy, teenage girl next to him.
With His awakened detective instincts still sharp and lively, Jesus looks at the girl but this time closely inspects all her facial features. She looks oddly similar to Jesus; the nose, the eyes, even the smile. It is like looking at a mirror that reflects only His feminine side. If Jesus ever had a sister, she would look exactly like her.
“Sera is my daughter,” Ade breaks out the news that Jesus has already guessed, “the light of my eyes, and more importantly, my right hand.”
“What a coincidence,” Paul jumps in, his Indian lady friend of the day no longer with him, “I’m also Jesus’ right hand.” Showing so much excitement as if he has just discovered the gem of his life, Paul stretches out both his hands to shake with 15-ish-year-old Sera.
“Ugh,” Ade says, pulling Sera to his side.
There is a moment of awkward silence, which is understandable due to Paul’s out-of-proportion expression of enthusiasm, but Sera does not let his extended hands hang there for too long.
“Enchanté,” Paul says while kissing Sera’s hand like she is Princess Elsa. He does not seem able or willing to put his charm on a leash.
When Jesus notices something keeps pulling his pants, He looks down.
With her little hands grasping the pants, a little girl tries to attract Jesus’ attention. She must be four or five, by far the youngest follower Jesus has had so far.
Jesus wonders how much of His words were fully grasped by the little girl and whether she truly gets the essence of good deeds. It would not matter. She has love for Jesus, and that is all that counts. With His gracious smile, Jesus welcomes her to the herd of His followers.
The girl does not return the smile. She gestures to the puppy that sleeps in her arms. “Can you make Mr. Puffy good again? Please.”
Kneeling down before the little girl, Jesus looks into her sad eyes and sees nothing but innocence and a withering passion for life. He wishes there was something He could do to bring happiness back to those eyes. Yet, what could a miracle-less Jesus do but disappoint. “But…,” He says, gulps in nervousness, and then shows His empty hands, “I’m not a doctor, sweetie.”
“Didn’t you say you can heal?” says an aggressive voice from above.
Jesus looks up the light-blue jeans and finds a paunch proudly showing below an ill-fitting, worn-out t-shirt that says, ‘The Smashing Pumpkins’ on it. Above that thick neck is the face of a Caucasian, balding commoner showing little to no courteousness. Something tells Jesus that He is not dealing with the brightest mind of the century. The man probably has understood Jesus’ brilliant speech as much as his little daughter did—if not less. And now, Jesus has to talk sense to this bright mind. It is hard to be a leader.
Paul steps in and stands behind Jesus. Putting his hand on Jesus’ shoulder, he signals that Jesus can count on him if the situation gets escalated. God bless Paul. What would Jesus have done without him?
Didn’t you say you can heal?! Jesus reflects on the absurd question. What kind of nonsense is that? While still kneeling, Jesus firmly responds to the man, “Well… No,” trying to make a face that shows His displeasure with the uncalled-for accusation.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you saying that. Listen, we’ve come all the way from Hunters Point for this. Can you just try?” the man asks with a demanding tone, his nose wrinkled.
“Try what, you—”
“Please,” the little girl begs.
Jesus turns to her. Who can say no to those watery eyes? How can He explain the reality of life to a blooming bud watered with hope and optimism? Jesus stretches out His hands to show His empty, miracle-less palms.
Her eyes gleaming with excitement, she rushes to put the puppy in Jesus’ hands and then gently pushes it into His arms. “Thank you.”
Jesus hesitantly holds the motionless puppy. He takes a deep breath and after a few seconds lets it out. He then gulps and after that clears His throat. The puppy is as unconscious as before—if not dead. Running out of things to do, Jesus looks up at the audience standing above him.
Everybody is watching closely, eager to be the eyewitness of a miracle in the 21st century, probably the 1st of the kind since Jesus Christ. Those thirsty eyes demand a miracle, one way or another. He better do something miracle-ish at least or they will squeeze one out of Him otherwise. Jesus can hear His heart beating faster. Desperate to find a solution, He turns to Ade.
Looking away at the sky, Ade shakes his head as if he can feel the weight of Jesus’ despairing gaze on him.
Jesus cannot agree more with Ade—in theory. But right now, He needs something practical that saves the day and Him from embarrassing His fans.
Jesus turns back to Paul when he squeezes on His shoulder. Using not-so-subtle body language, Paul reminds Jesus of the time He resurrected a dead pigeon by simply blowing on it—a story that Jesus had shared only with Paul.
Jesus has had His doubts about how much of a miracle the pigeon story was. After all, how is a miracle different from a lucky coincidence if it cannot be consistently repeated? And Jesus has had His moments of despair, not being able to pull off another cool miracle like that. He then discovered the true path of mysticism, which does not go through miracles and magic. He is enlightened to see that. But, are His sheep? The answer is kind of clear the moment they are addressed as sheep. No matter how much Jesus tells them of the beauty of the spiritual world that is created through nothing but good deeds, at the end of the day, nothing excites them more than a good magic show.
Jesus does not like going down that route again, but desperate times take desperate measures. He finally gives in and attempts whatsoever Paul suggests. This had better work, or Jesus might lose all his fans. Having His heart pounding out of His chest, He can feel sweat coming out of every pore on His scalp.
Jesus sets the puppy on the ground, and while His hands are still holding it, He takes a deep breath and blows in its direction. The puppy’s hair moves a bit with the blow. Although not much, as far as movement is the intention, it is still a good start. This might actually work. Holding His breath, Jesus removes His hands.
The puppy collapses on the ground like the corpse that it is.
“Hallelujah. It blinked,” Paul screams and attracts everyone’s attention to himself. “Did you see that? It blinked. It’s a miracle. Whoo-hoo!”
“It’s not even moving,” the father squeaks.
“Do you know anything about the cardiovascular system, Sir?” Paul asks, putting on a condescending tone. With his hands on his waist, Paul waits for the confused father to reply. Something tells Jesus that Paul already knows the answer.
“Carti…what?” the father asks finally, his earlier impudence replaced with embarrassment-induced humility.
“Good,” Paul says, letting out his breath. “That’s what I thought.” Restraining a smile from dominating his face, using various hand gestures, he explains, “You see, life is back to its eyes now, OK? But, it takes time to be pumped into its muscles. Does that make sense?” Paul asks, nodding.
The father nods too, the expression on his face saying otherwise.
“Good.” Leaning forward, Paul picks up the puppy and shoves it into the little girl’s arms. “There you go, princess, as good as new. By tomorrow morning, Mr. Puffy will be jumping around like never before.”
“Really?!” the girl asks, hope gleaming in her wide eyes.
“Really. Who’s next?” Pushing the girl’s back to leave, Paul gestures to a teenager eating a Popsicle. “You had a question, right? Go ahead. Shoot.”
“Me?!” he asks through a half-full mouth.
“Yeah, didn’t you ask about…ah…ah…the inter-transactional…asymmetrical relation between compassion and…”
As Paul starts recapping the question for Jesus, mixing up his rambling with big words, Jesus’ attention goes with the little girl leaving, her heart pumped with a false sense of hope. He does not know if He should feel guilty, for the whole thing was the father’s fault, who cannot tell the difference between the celestial congregation and a veterinary hospital. Nevertheless, He still feels sorry for the little girl, who is the real victim of paternal idiocy.
“Jesus,” Paul hisses and brings Him back to attention. “People are waiting.”
Having His dose of enthusiasm for the day drained out, Jesus reluctantly and slowly stands up to answer the question of the kid with the Popsicle. He wonders what Ade thinks of Him now, but He does not look his way. Perhaps, deep down Jesus would rather not find out the answer to that. Or perhaps, He knows that already.
The smile that Jesus has been carrying since he met Ade in the morning, disappears from His face when, out of nowhere, the haunting memory of His failure to heal the little girl’s dog resurfaces. Jesus is partly sad for the little girl and how she will feel tomorrow when she finds her puppy dead, and partly for the embarrassment He endured when He could not live up to the expectation of His followers. There is a small grain of self-doubt that is slowly growing in His heart. Am I supposed to do miracles? He wonders.
The sunset that used to be the source of inspiration cannot do much but put a gloomy end to a head-and-heart-scratching day. With his palette and canvas under His arm, Jesus approaches His usual evening spot, the willow tree at the edge of the cliff. This is the place to submerge in the sublime beauty of nature and wash out the pain and injuries in the heart. After all, it was here that Jesus discovered the true meaning of forgiveness. What an inspiring moment! Before that, Jesus was so alien to the notion that He had an isolated incident of tearing the canvas in a moment of unbridled rage. But that was the old Jesus, gone with history. The new Jesus, blessed by the touch of the Holy Spirit, is the voice of God, spreading the virtue of forgiveness that is ruling His heart to beyond, to the hearts of all mankind.
Why can’t people just see that? Isn’t enough that He speaks the most sacred words? Doesn’t the sincerity of the words already speak for itself? Would a miracle make His words any more sensible to these people? Earlier today, before Ade left, he held Jesus closely and whispered that he is only after Jesus’ words, not any Superman-style miracle. Why can’t everybody become like Ade? Yeah, right. What are the odds of that happening? Only if sheep could fly. Or what if Jesus could become the flying superman His sheep are dreaming of, and give people what they want? Why not? After all, He is a son of God. Isn’t He?
A beam of light shines on a tiny, glistening stone. Jesus sighs and picks up the brown gravel. Leaning back on the tree, He flicks the gravel down the cliff.
The gravel lands next to a bunch of canvases, all copies of the same crucifixion painting, all torn around the face of the Roman soldier!