Jesus: An Easter Speculative Profile

I was settling back into the swing of things, getting used to life again, when Cec burst in, talking a thousand miles an hour.

“He’s back! JC! Joshua! He’s…he’s…he’s back, I saw him, he’s here, he’s alive, he’s the same, but different, uh, like, JC IS ALIVE!”

I was dumbfounded.

“Alive?” I say slowly.

“YES. Alive! Like back from the dead! Like a zombie, but ya know, less…gross.”

Wow.

I didn’t know what to think. Obviously, I believed Cec, but I couldn’t believe it. It was too much. I couldn’t bear to be disappointed again. No. I can’t fully let myself believe until I see him. The cost of hope is too high.

I sat, overcome with the feeling of hope that I couldn’t stop myself from feeling, no matter how hard I tried. How could I not believe my wife?

I look over at the clock.

11:45.

“Shit. Babe, we’ve gotta get going or we’ll be late!”

We hurry to gather our things and H— before rushing to church.

As we’re hurrying we pass a middle-aged woman in disrepair, looking in need of a shower, holding a piece of cardboard with, “2 kids. No work. Need food. Anything helps.” scrawled on it. I scrounge for some cash and hand her five bucks without stopping.

Clouds are starting to gather above us.

We pick up the pace and make it inside, just as the rain starts to pour. The tall heavy wooden double doors of our old school chapel closing behind us.

I breathe a sigh of relief and the three of us find a seat.

We’re next to an older gentleman in the congregation, who is notorious for talking through the entire meeting. Immediately he starts in on some meanderings about a dog or a horse and the farm and a broken tractor and I’m trying to pay attention to the meeting while nodding and “uh huhing” along with the story so he doesn’t feel ignored.

This went on for a few minutes and then I glanced over at the old man and his eye twinkled.

JC.

I startled. Wait is that….no. It’s just Wilford. Just Wilford. What am I saying. Even as ye have done it unto the least of these. The woman from earlier flashed before my eyes. I’ve been failing you, JC.

I turn to Wilford and truly listen to him. As I turn, his eyes are welling up with tears, he’s talking about loss and pain and loneliness. I simply lock eyes with him and put my arm around him before pulling him in close. We stay like that for a moment, the rest of the chapel fading from view. He pulls away, and whispers, “Thank you.”

Thunder rumbles.

We sing some hymns, as I continue to ponder what has happened and what I’ve done.

I repeat the refrain that’s pulled me through the grief thus far.  

Lord, I believe.

Help thou mine unbelief.

The organ swells and the prayer’s about to start when thunder booms throughout the chapel, echoing along with the trample of the rain. The prayer begins and before the last “amen”, the sound of the thunder and rain ramps up and the doors begin to creak open.

I look back.

A tall, dark-skinned figure, head bowed, hair covering his face dripping with rain, pushes both doors open, in shadow, until he stands tall, moving his head out and to the right, shaking his long hair out of his face. The shorts and floral shirt are too good to be true. It can’t possibly be.

“Well, God surely does send down rain on the just and the unjust.”

His eyes twinkle, the smile that crosses his lips filled with renewed energy that I haven’t seen in months.

I climb to my feet and leap over the pew to run to him.

He opens his arms wide, grinning with his whole face, his whole being.

We embrace.

I’m cheering.

Tears stream down my face.

We hold each other close.

My friend. My brother. My king.

Jesus: A Friday Speculative Profile

There he was again. JC. Dressed in that damn orange jumpsuit. I tried to come every week, but life had gotten busy and it’d been awhile. But time was running out.

I looked up at him through the glass, his brown face looking back at me, long hair touching his shoulders in loose ringlets that he’d brush back every once in a while. His beard was trimmed pretty closely (from the trial, he’d refused to cut his hair, the help of an attorney, and even to say anything in his defense, but did clean up his beard a bit).

He was just looking at me. Those big, kind, eyes always felt like they were giving me a hug, when he was the one that needed comfort.

“It’s good to see you, Conor.”

“Good to see you too, JC. How are things?”

“My end is near, but things are good.”

I close my hand into a fist, squeezing my nails into my palm in anger and pain, hoping to stop the tears I could feel welling up.

“Why? Why couldn’t you just defend yourself? Or run away…we could’ve got you out of here…what are we going to do without you?” I trail off, looking down and off to the side before turning back, locking eyes, his gaze clearly never leaving me, “What am I going to do without you?”

His lips turned up into his familiar smile, weaker than usual.

“I am, who I am.”

“C’mon, JC, they’re going to fucking kill you and you’re…you’re being all cryptic and shit…”

“Hey. Conor.”

His hand was placed on the glass, splayed out and inviting.

I reluctantly bring mine to rest against the other side of the glass.

“I’ll be back. This isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.”

“I…wha…”

“You’ll see.”

“But why why you? Couldn’t it be someone else? Anyone else? This isn’t right. You don’t deserve this, you…you…you”

“Does anyone here deserve this?” He asks, gesturing to the other inmates around him, “If they can’t have justice, why should I?”

“I…I…”

“It’s good to see you, Conor. You’ll be here tonight?”

Tonight. Tonight was the end. The execution. Tonight they were going to kill JC. An innocent man.

I paused.

“I’ll be here.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you.”

He placed the receiver in its cradle. And started standing up before sitting back down and picking up the phone again.

“At least if I end up in Hell, I’ll be prepared to search for my book of life for eternity, right?”

I chuckle.

“Right,” I say with a soft smile.

He finally places the receiver in its cradle. And stands up to leave. He’d turned to walk away, but looked back to shoot some last finger guns at me, his eyes wearily twinkling as he walked back.  

I sat. Stunned.

*

It was time.

I was back at the prison. I’d dressed up, not sure why, but it felt right to witness JC’s final moments looking my best. Even though he rarely changed out of his patterned shirts and board shorts. I chuckled to myself remembering all the times we’d had — the fish sinking that boat, that wild snow storm, that night with H—. What am I going to do without you, JC?

They walk me back to the observing room. The chair is in the center.

I’d tried to stop myself, but I’d been devouring everything I could find on lethal injection and my stomach churned thinking about how fucked up the whole thing is.

They walked JC out, in chains.

They place him in the chair, and strap him in.

The doc is preparing the injection to the side.

This is it. The End.

The injection is placed, but before it can enter his blood stream, JC cries out, “God, where the hell are you hiding?”

The injection enters.

He slumps, twitching.

I gasp.

I stare dumbfounded.

It was finished.