Further up and further in… to trouble.
Jesus wearily opened the chrome-laden door of the road-side diner. His boots smeared mud across the linoleum floor as he trudged to the nearest stool at the bar. He slung off his dusty cloak, draping it over the stool before taking his seat. Fluorescent lighting flickered above him. He ordered a twenty-ounce stout and a bacon cheeseburger with spiced fries from the young brunette waitress with sparkling silver eye shadow. Jesus thought she must still be in high school to wear makeup that tacky.
While waiting for his food, Jesus pulled out his yellowed hand-written memo. This wrinkled old paper documented, in red ink, the two prophecies - his life’s mission. Each time he read it, he pleaded with himself that it would finally make sense. Perhaps something that happened earlier in the day would add the last piece of the puzzle, thereby answering his existence. Maybe something as simple as the bright smile of a child would finalize his purpose. Or maybe an offer of a toke off a jay from a gypsy band of hippies. This thought made him smirk.
The bar maid lay his dinner in front of him, and Jesus gorged it down like a starving Ethiopian. He chugged his pilsner as if it were loaded in a beer bong, wiped the foam from his chapped lips, and ordered another drink. Jesus was looking forward to the reliable wave of content that arrives shortly after a greasy meal. Instead, the jukebox distracted him. It was playing a lo-fi record of the White Stripes. Jack White sang, “I got your phone number written in the back of my bible.”
Jesus rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Where does that Jack get so much faith?”
“He chooses his faith,” replied a raspy voice to Jesus’ right. Jesus jumped, almost falling off his stool. He didn’t realize someone was sitting in the adjacent stool. Fifteen seconds ago, he was alone at the bar. Now he found himself accompanied by a pale skinny ghost of a man wearing a gray suit with a gray tie. The stranger sported dark bags under his eyes, sharp facial features, and long black oily hair slicked straight back to his shoulders. Sitting on the bar in front of this shadowy specter was a martini glass full of bright green liquid, like one of those artificial juice boxes the kids suck on at lunchtime. The stranger continued, “He may be a victim of his circumstances, being raised Catholic, but he voluntarily chose to never question his denomination throughout his adult life.”
Jesus curiously eyed the stranger’s fluorescent glowing drink. The stranger took notice and replied, “Oh, they don’t serve absinthe in a road house like this. I bring my own.”
The staff continued serving the tabled patrons without acknowledging the stranger’s presence. Jesus decided not to further question the individual’s eccentric entrance.
“So what brings you to this little town in America’s heartland?” asked the stranger.
“I’m on a tour,” Jesus replied. His own voice seemed weak, contained more within his head than in the air.
“Such as a band on tour?” the stranger asked.
“No, I’m a domestic missionary spreading the Word of God.”
“Oh, an entrepreneur in bible sales?” the stranger inquired with a straight face.
“On the contrary, I’m telling the people of this nation not to interpret the bible in the literal sense, but to recall God’s message of peace and love.”
The stranger snickered, snorting some of his absinthe onto the counter. “And from where did you hear this message?”
“It’s the theme of the New Testament. Are you not familiar with the Holy Bible?” Jesus retorted.
The shadowy being shrugged as his voice grew smug, “I’m all too familiar with the Holy Word of Man. It was authored eighteen centuries ago, then passed down from one generation to the next, slowing spreading across Western Civilization until modern rock stars such as Jack White openly believe that the words written by his ancient ancestors are divine. It all seems pretty asinine, doesn’t it?”
Jesus sighed. His voice waned to a whisper, “The common response to that accusation is that the authors of the bible were inspired by God to write.”
The gray stranger lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? And has God ever told you to write anything? Have you sat face to face with him as he outlined the next chapter of the testament? Has he ever given you a direct order, or are you just doing as you are told by other men?” The dark figure coughed into his jacket sleeve. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his suit jacket, plucked a cigarette from the pack, flicked open a zippo, and lit it.
Jesus took a sip of his beer and contemplated his next move. He had endured countless debates with atheists, ending in stalemates. This stranger seemed to be another one of those hopeless souls who would never accept Christianity into is life.
The stranger cut his eyes over to Jesus for a glance and said, “Don’t worry about me. I have complete control over my fate. But what about yourself? To whence will you send your soul?”
Jesus was taken aback. Is this guy just a jerk? He seems like the sort of jackass who would aggravate an unsuspecting victim for his own amusement. Jesus decided to turn the other cheek and humor the cruel figure in gray, just as God would want him to.
“I’m Jesus by the way. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Not that it’s of any consequence, but it’s Sven Raupesse.” He took another drag from his cigarette, looked at Jesus, and passed him a cigarette.
“Thanks, man.” Jesus lit the cigarette with his own Bic lighter as Sven grinned over his glowing cocktail.
“You from around here?” Jesus asked.
“No, I’m from all over. I’m a nomad such as yourself,” Sven replied. Jesus nodded; he had found a fellow road warrior. They could share travel anecdotes to ease the tension. But Jesus wouldn’t let Sven’s contemptuous urging linger in the air.
“To get back to your question,” Jesus said, “No, I’ve never had a direct conversation with God or any of his angels.” Sven coughed, choking on the smoke in his lungs. “It may sound subjective, but God speaks to us through his Creation. He may inspire us through a chirping bird, a lone tree on a grassy hill, or a sunset over the Pacific Ocean. We don’t hear his words, but we certainly hear, see, feel, taste, and smell his beautiful work of art that is this world and our home.”
Sven nodded, “You’ve got a point that subjective content cannot be objectively debated. So you go on believing what you rationalize to be true; it’s no sweat off my brow.”
The waitress flipped on the milkshake mixer, whirring up a motorized disruption. Sven stared straight forward into nothing. When the mixer halted, a moment of silence blanketed the diner. The lights overhead flickered.
In a calmer voice, Sven asked, “So where did you acquire such a firm foothold in your mission? Did other men tell you this was your fate?”
“Actually, that was exactly what happened when I was young. Everyone I knew told me that I would become something important to the entire world. Then I received these prophecies from an oracle and then a close friend. They gave me a purpose, and that purpose gives me something to live for. But I’ve been carrying this purpose through my adult life for so long, no one tells me what to do anymore. Actually, it seems our roles have been reversed, and I’m the one encouraging people how to live.” Sven cracked a one-sided smirk.
“And if those people who delegated your destiny when you were a child were to come back to you today and tell you they were wrong, what would you do?”
“You mean the two – ?”
“I mean everyone you knew!” Sven interrupted. “How would you react if all your adolescent companions and role models told you to cease and desist? How would you take it if they deleted your mission or purpose or fate or whatever you think it is?”
“I…” Jesus felt the heat of embarrassment encompassing his head. His voice felt weaker, “I would tell them it’s a test from God. God often throws obstacles at us to challenge our faith.”
Sven’s fist squeezed his zippo; his knuckles glared white. He growled, “Aren’t those the same words they put in your head as a child? Don’t you get tired of spitting out those packaged answers?” Sven took a long drag off his cigarette. He exhaled a wisp of smoke that hung in front of him, silent and motionless.
“But my faith has driven my life for so many years. I can’t quit it. I cannot just give up and…” Jesus swallowed. “And I don’t what I could do…” His voiced fizzled away. He sat on his stool clutching his beer mug, wondering why he must constantly be challenged. Sven sipped his absinthe. No sale was ever an easy sell, and Jesus wasn’t trying to sell his thesis to this defiant stranger this evening. This was supposed to be his downtime for the day. Jesus looked over his shoulder to his Harley parked outside in a cloud of brown dust. Wind rattled the diner’s windows, whistling through unseen cracks.
Sven cut his eyes over to Jesus again. “Why must existence be cursed with overtones of absurdity?” Sven asked as he jabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “Well, I believe I’ve heard enough, and I can tell when I’m no longer welcome.”
“No, you shouldn’t think you’re not welcome. I just don’t understand why… why you insist on impeding in my life...” But how many bystanders had Jesus impeded upon? Was this some sort of poetic justice?
They sat on their stools for a moment, listening to the other patrons clinking their silverware on porcelain plates. Jesus always found this noise soothing.
“Allow me to give you a piece of advice, kid,” said Sven. “Although it doesn’t hurt to spread the notion of peace and love, it’s absurd to use God as leverage. He doesn’t care about human survival. In fact, I doubt that He’s aware of your existence. If I were you, I would concentrate my life’s efforts into sustaining mankind before you consume all of Earth’s natural resources and starve yourselves like a bloody virus.” Sven stood up, put a gray fedora on his oily head, and gave Jesus a pat on the shoulder. Before Jesus could respond, the shadowy stranger walked out of the diner without a sound, leaving his martini glass on the counter.
Jesus felt the familiar pang of anxiety swelling in his chest. He took the last drag on his cigarette. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He pulled out his yellow piece of paper, quickly scanning his prophecies in an effort to rejuvenate his motivation. A drop of perspiration ran down his nose. The drop fell off the tip of his nose, splattering onto his life’s mission.
Jack White sang, “Good Lord, Good Lord, send me an angel down.”
Jesus wearily opened the chrome-laden door of the road-side diner. His boots smeared mud across the linoleum floor as he trudged to the nearest stool at the bar. He slung off his dusty cloak, draping it over the stool before taking his seat. Fluorescent lighting flickered above him. He ordered a twenty-ounce stout and a bacon cheeseburger with spiced fries from the young brunette waitress with sparkling silver eye shadow. Jesus thought she must still be in high school to wear makeup that tacky.
While waiting for his food, Jesus pulled out his yellowed hand-written memo. This wrinkled old paper documented, in red ink, the two prophecies - his life’s mission. Each time he read it, he pleaded with himself that it would finally make sense. Perhaps something that happened earlier in the day would add the last piece of the puzzle, thereby answering his existence. Maybe something as simple as the bright smile of a child would finalize his purpose. Or maybe an offer of a toke off a jay from a gypsy band of hippies. This thought made him smirk.
The bar maid lay his dinner in front of him, and Jesus gorged it down like a starving Ethiopian. He chugged his pilsner as if it were loaded in a beer bong, wiped the foam from his chapped lips, and ordered another drink. Jesus was looking forward to the reliable wave of content that arrives shortly after a greasy meal. Instead, the jukebox distracted him. It was playing a lo-fi record of the White Stripes. Jack White sang, “I got your phone number written in the back of my bible.”
Jesus rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Where does that Jack get so much faith?”
“He chooses his faith,” replied a raspy voice to Jesus’ right. Jesus jumped, almost falling off his stool. He didn’t realize someone was sitting in the adjacent stool. Fifteen seconds ago, he was alone at the bar. Now he found himself accompanied by a pale skinny ghost of a man wearing a gray suit with a gray tie. The stranger sported dark bags under his eyes, sharp facial features, and long black oily hair slicked straight back to his shoulders. Sitting on the bar in front of this shadowy specter was a martini glass full of bright green liquid, like one of those artificial juice boxes the kids suck on at lunchtime. The stranger continued, “He may be a victim of his circumstances, being raised Catholic, but he voluntarily chose to never question his denomination throughout his adult life.”
Jesus curiously eyed the stranger’s fluorescent glowing drink. The stranger took notice and replied, “Oh, they don’t serve absinthe in a road house like this. I bring my own.”
The staff continued serving the tabled patrons without acknowledging the stranger’s presence. Jesus decided not to further question the individual’s eccentric entrance.
“So what brings you to this little town in America’s heartland?” asked the stranger.
“I’m on a tour,” Jesus replied. His own voice seemed weak, contained more within his head than in the air.
“Such as a band on tour?” the stranger asked.
“No, I’m a domestic missionary spreading the Word of God.”
“Oh, an entrepreneur in bible sales?” the stranger inquired with a straight face.
“On the contrary, I’m telling the people of this nation not to interpret the bible in the literal sense, but to recall God’s message of peace and love.”
The stranger snickered, snorting some of his absinthe onto the counter. “And from where did you hear this message?”
“It’s the theme of the New Testament. Are you not familiar with the Holy Bible?” Jesus retorted.
The shadowy being shrugged as his voice grew smug, “I’m all too familiar with the Holy Word of Man. It was authored eighteen centuries ago, then passed down from one generation to the next, slowing spreading across Western Civilization until modern rock stars such as Jack White openly believe that the words written by his ancient ancestors are divine. It all seems pretty asinine, doesn’t it?”
Jesus sighed. His voice waned to a whisper, “The common response to that accusation is that the authors of the bible were inspired by God to write.”
The gray stranger lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? And has God ever told you to write anything? Have you sat face to face with him as he outlined the next chapter of the testament? Has he ever given you a direct order, or are you just doing as you are told by other men?” The dark figure coughed into his jacket sleeve. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his suit jacket, plucked a cigarette from the pack, flicked open a zippo, and lit it.
Jesus took a sip of his beer and contemplated his next move. He had endured countless debates with atheists, ending in stalemates. This stranger seemed to be another one of those hopeless souls who would never accept Christianity into is life.
The stranger cut his eyes over to Jesus for a glance and said, “Don’t worry about me. I have complete control over my fate. But what about yourself? To whence will you send your soul?”
Jesus was taken aback. Is this guy just a jerk? He seems like the sort of jackass who would aggravate an unsuspecting victim for his own amusement. Jesus decided to turn the other cheek and humor the cruel figure in gray, just as God would want him to.
“I’m Jesus by the way. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Not that it’s of any consequence, but it’s Sven Raupesse.” He took another drag from his cigarette, looked at Jesus, and passed him a cigarette.
“Thanks, man.” Jesus lit the cigarette with his own Bic lighter as Sven grinned over his glowing cocktail.
“You from around here?” Jesus asked.
“No, I’m from all over. I’m a nomad such as yourself,” Sven replied. Jesus nodded; he had found a fellow road warrior. They could share travel anecdotes to ease the tension. But Jesus wouldn’t let Sven’s contemptuous urging linger in the air.
“To get back to your question,” Jesus said, “No, I’ve never had a direct conversation with God or any of his angels.” Sven coughed, choking on the smoke in his lungs. “It may sound subjective, but God speaks to us through his Creation. He may inspire us through a chirping bird, a lone tree on a grassy hill, or a sunset over the Pacific Ocean. We don’t hear his words, but we certainly hear, see, feel, taste, and smell his beautiful work of art that is this world and our home.”
Sven nodded, “You’ve got a point that subjective content cannot be objectively debated. So you go on believing what you rationalize to be true; it’s no sweat off my brow.”
The waitress flipped on the milkshake mixer, whirring up a motorized disruption. Sven stared straight forward into nothing. When the mixer halted, a moment of silence blanketed the diner. The lights overhead flickered.
In a calmer voice, Sven asked, “So where did you acquire such a firm foothold in your mission? Did other men tell you this was your fate?”
“Actually, that was exactly what happened when I was young. Everyone I knew told me that I would become something important to the entire world. Then I received these prophecies from an oracle and then a close friend. They gave me a purpose, and that purpose gives me something to live for. But I’ve been carrying this purpose through my adult life for so long, no one tells me what to do anymore. Actually, it seems our roles have been reversed, and I’m the one encouraging people how to live.” Sven cracked a one-sided smirk.
“And if those people who delegated your destiny when you were a child were to come back to you today and tell you they were wrong, what would you do?”
“You mean the two – ?”
“I mean everyone you knew!” Sven interrupted. “How would you react if all your adolescent companions and role models told you to cease and desist? How would you take it if they deleted your mission or purpose or fate or whatever you think it is?”
“I…” Jesus felt the heat of embarrassment encompassing his head. His voice felt weaker, “I would tell them it’s a test from God. God often throws obstacles at us to challenge our faith.”
Sven’s fist squeezed his zippo; his knuckles glared white. He growled, “Aren’t those the same words they put in your head as a child? Don’t you get tired of spitting out those packaged answers?” Sven took a long drag off his cigarette. He exhaled a wisp of smoke that hung in front of him, silent and motionless.
“But my faith has driven my life for so many years. I can’t quit it. I cannot just give up and…” Jesus swallowed. “And I don’t what I could do…” His voiced fizzled away. He sat on his stool clutching his beer mug, wondering why he must constantly be challenged. Sven sipped his absinthe. No sale was ever an easy sell, and Jesus wasn’t trying to sell his thesis to this defiant stranger this evening. This was supposed to be his downtime for the day. Jesus looked over his shoulder to his Harley parked outside in a cloud of brown dust. Wind rattled the diner’s windows, whistling through unseen cracks.
Sven cut his eyes over to Jesus again. “Why must existence be cursed with overtones of absurdity?” Sven asked as he jabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “Well, I believe I’ve heard enough, and I can tell when I’m no longer welcome.”
“No, you shouldn’t think you’re not welcome. I just don’t understand why… why you insist on impeding in my life...” But how many bystanders had Jesus impeded upon? Was this some sort of poetic justice?
They sat on their stools for a moment, listening to the other patrons clinking their silverware on porcelain plates. Jesus always found this noise soothing.
“Allow me to give you a piece of advice, kid,” said Sven. “Although it doesn’t hurt to spread the notion of peace and love, it’s absurd to use God as leverage. He doesn’t care about human survival. In fact, I doubt that He’s aware of your existence. If I were you, I would concentrate my life’s efforts into sustaining mankind before you consume all of Earth’s natural resources and starve yourselves like a bloody virus.” Sven stood up, put a gray fedora on his oily head, and gave Jesus a pat on the shoulder. Before Jesus could respond, the shadowy stranger walked out of the diner without a sound, leaving his martini glass on the counter.
Jesus felt the familiar pang of anxiety swelling in his chest. He took the last drag on his cigarette. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He pulled out his yellow piece of paper, quickly scanning his prophecies in an effort to rejuvenate his motivation. A drop of perspiration ran down his nose. The drop fell off the tip of his nose, splattering onto his life’s mission.
Jack White sang, “Good Lord, Good Lord, send me an angel down.”
