Jesus was found behind my couch, and he’s pretty tight

If anyone’s been looking for him, Jesus is at my place. I’m still not entirely sure how he got there, but there he is, and there he’ll presumably stay. At least until the weekend; apparently his return commute is a real cross to bear.

It’s not every day a bearded dude pops up behind the chesterfield. Yet this was my situation, last Tuesday around about 3 p.m. I walk from the kitchen, carrying my afternoon Guinness, and up he springs.

He stares at me. I stare back. Stalemate.

“Are you here with Martha?” I ask, assuming my roommate has used and discarded yet another West Coast birkenstock beardy.

“I’m here for everyone, Joanie,” he replies, hands in pockets, smile in place. “I’m Jesus.”

“Ah,” I say. “I think there’s some folks waiting for you. But, before you go, I have some bottled water in the fridge and I hear you do a great parlour trick with the stuff.”

He laughs, and I make sure to take the mace from my coat pocket and slip it into my sweater. Now confronted with our lord and saviour in my house, I get him a beer, we sit and discuss the lighter things in life. Rising seas? He’s not too worried. Cannibalism OK? Only the allegorical kind. Zombies real? No comment. Was Judas always a dick? Everyone can be a dick on occasion.

But now the big question: “Why are you here, Jesus? And why behind the couch?”

“Just checking for loose change. Everyone can use some from time to time.”

So Jesus is my roommate now, and so far he’s been polite and well-mannered, though he loves telling stories almost a little too much. He’s not a picky eater, just very fond of bread and fishes. And we’ve had wine every night; although I’m not sure where that’s coming from. I dunno how long he’ll stay; it’s Friday now and he’s gone off to have supper with friends and then go see some garden.

However long he stays, I suppose it won’t matter six hundred years from now. Then again, people are still talking about the last time he showed up. As repeat performances go, this one probably seems understated, but there’s something comforting about a god who knows his humanity is his best quality. So I’m okay with Jesus hiding behind the sofa; if I’m lucky he might do some dusting while he’s down there.

This article was published in print under the alias ‘Joan Archer.’

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