Dark skinned in complexion with bright green eyes, long tufts of curly tar black hair. An unkempt beard and mustache contour his worn but jubilant face. His garments are raggedy and yellowing but still fresh scented. Walking through the streets of Tel Aviv he blends in with the bustling, organized chaos of 21st century society. His feet are dirty from his long journey through the sand and dust.. He only has a pair of leather sandals but wears no socks. Passersby pay him no more attention than any other man they pass on the crowded streets.
He makes his way to the marina of the city and gazes longingly at the glimmering Mediterranean. His eyes see thousands of miles away. His ears hear the cries of fear and hatred. The prayers of hundreds of millions of people bounce between his ear drums. Eyes shut, he lifts his jaw to the sky and whispers. He kneels at the end of the sand where the waves break, opens his eyes and, dipping his hand into the foamy water at the shore, the sea darkens. A dark red hue spreads out slowly from where his palm touches. Beachgoers panic. Parents herd and scoop up their children. Lifeguards assess the situation and police are on their way. An elderly man walks toward the sea, confused but not afraid. He enters the water– now in awe. He drinks from the dark sea and bursts into tears, celebrating. The crowd that has amassed is hesitant to respond. Then, deafening applause and cheers rise.
The Mediterranean Sea has fermented.
He had never experienced commercial flight before. When offered a complimentary snack he chose the Welch’s’ fruit snack pouch. Little gummi raspberries and orange slices filled the economy cabin. Touching down at John F. Kennedy International Airport is supposed to be the start of a new dawn, a better world. A land of opportunity and freedom. The globally recognized New York City skyline in the distance, Lady Liberty’s torch a shining prospect of hope.
Exiting the plane, U.S. citizens and tourists alike are surprised to be met by ICE (United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement) agents. One by one each passenger is identified and either sent on their way or taken for questioning. As he approaches the front of the line, he, for the first time in his life, is fearful.
“Identification,” demands ICE agent Ken Noisewater.
“I have none,” responds the bearded man.
“Then how the hell did you get on this flight? Sir you’re gonna have to come with me. What’s your name?”
The room is small, with a two sided panel mirror and a lone ceiling light. Handcuffed to the bolted down steel table, sitting in a bolted down steel chair, Jesus Christ has been detained. The door opens.
“So you’re the big man?” ICE chief Maximus Power huffs as he sits down in the chair opposite the table. “The Messiah, Emmanuel, Logos, the laaaaamb of God?”
“Yeah, I don’t buy it,” Power replies. “What the hell are you doing flying in from Mogadishu International, Mr. Christ?”
“I had hoped to solve some issues in the East before coming to America, but some things are beyond my power.”
“International news report says you were charged with destruction of property at a bazaar in Jerusalem. How do I know you aren’t a danger to U.S. citizens?”
“That was 2,000 years ago, Mr. Power.”
“Look, Jesus, if that is who you really are, I don’t like this any bit more than you do but it’s my job,” Power says, visibly worn out from a long day of being a dick.
“This is ridiculous,” Christ asserts. “Let me talk to the American people, to Mr. Tru-”
“President,” Power interjects. “Not mister. President.”
Jesus’ face twists in bewilderment.
“Okay, sure, let me speak with President Trump and I’m sure as a man of faith, he will have to see me. Please make the call,” Christ pleas.
“Let me see what I can do,” says Power.
Hours passed and Jesus was still in the room. A brute of an ICE agent brought him a premium cod fillet sandwich from the nearby Wendy’s and slammed it on the table.
“Hope that’s enough for ya, Christ,” he chuckled as he slammed the door behind him. Jesus, famished, used his immeasurable power to turn the sandwich into 30 sandwiches. He only ate like, 7, but they were delicious.
Finally Mr. Power returned to Jesus and woke him, from his obvious fast food coma, surrounded by wrappers from the astonishing amount of processed fish he had just eaten.
“Well?” Christ says, with resounding hope in his voice.
“Yeah,” Power starts, “no can do. President Trump’s busy golfing for the next two days.”
Jesus is visibly astonished and disappointed. He rises and walks towards the door, Power’s face muttering, buried in a small black planner.
“He can probably fit you in next Thursday after his trip to the Kreml- I mean, South Dakota.”
Utilizing his newfound miracle of phasing and invisibility, Jesus Christ leaves JFK airport that same night. He had worried that in the wake of his return, humanity would have moved too far forward for his teachings to reach the hearts of citizens. This was true, but not of human advancement.
“They have progressed,” he says, boarding a flight to a far away place, reading about the last two millennia on his new iPhone 7. “And they have fallen.”
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