- The first chapter of the short story The Second Coming of Jesus Christ by Stefan Emunds -
It’s mass time on Sunday morning and the church is packed. A hush of peace and the scent of frankincense is in the air. My eyes tiptoe from person to person. I hope to chance on a fresh face, but I’m disappointed once again. Mayor Mills is caressing his costly belly that is beaming from a heavy breakfast, while he rubs his equally luxurious behind on the bench, hoping to carve a comfortable dent into the harsh wood. The women are flashing smiles at each other and restrict themselves to a quick hello-what’s-up-long-time-no-see to keep chat hushed in anticipation of Father George’s entrance. Their teenage kids compete in who can display the most credible I’m-so-cool-I-know-it-all-the-world-sucks face. The younger ones have a hard time sitting still. They babble, hum, and gesticulate their unbroken strings of fantasies in the pious ambience of the church. Ol’Eduard takes a seat on his habitual spot on the front bench, stiff like a mummified soldier. His rigid, wrinkled face stoically ignores the others as if he wishes to be all by himself in the church. I wink a hello at dear uncle Tom. He works at the kolache factory down the road. He’s a jolly, chubby man, but a little sissy, wrapped in a pale, soft skin. He’s a loyal churchgoer, looking forward to the weekly confirmation that he will get his place in the sun eventually. If not in this life, at least thereafter. No newcomer! I puff out my disappointment like exhausted cigarette smoke. There is nothing in our tiny Nazareth in Castro County that tempts stray strangers to linger. A new girl would be great. One of those sensitive, melancholic city girls. Who could bring some clouds to Nazareth so rigidly tempered by the inconsiderate Texan sun. It is time and I, the altar boy, ring the bell to call Father George to the stage. He floats across the marble floor to the pulpit. When he opens his mouth, the main door bangs open and a stranger steps in, introduced by the midsummer heat and the fine dust of harvested fields. The man’s clothing is unusual: a long white sackcloth and sandals as if he arrived from a time long gone. This is no ordinary man, he looks youthful, but up in years, masculine and feminine at the same time. He waits at the door for everybody to turn their heads. It feels like in one of those Westerns. It is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop. I wipe my sweaty hands over my vestment hoping to turn it into body armor. As the man walks through the nave, I detect a disarming smile and a bright halo sparkling above his head with rainbow colors. My hands drop, disarmed by the imminent fulfillment of a daring dream I have secretly cherished since I first heard of Jesus Christ. Could it be? No, this must be a prank! But the halo looks so real! The man who looks like Jesus arrives at the altar, where Father George is glued to the spot. He broadens his smile and opens his arms with a tender motion that reminds me of my mom welcoming me when I return from summer camp. Father George jerks his body into a hostile posture and addresses the man in sackcloth: “Excuse me, but we’re having a mass here.” “I know. Am I disturbing you?” The man has the gentlest voice of all. “Uh … of course not, but why don’t ya take a seat?” Father George points at an empty spot next to Ol’Eduard. The man ignores him. Instead, he turns around and examines the church. “Your church looks expensive. Don’t you know that the temple I talked about is our body, the living temple?” He notices the crucifix and his eyes widen. ”Oh my … why do I look so miserable?” “Sir, please, take a seat!” Father George points at the front bench. “Why are you so serious? This is a celebration, isn’t it? Why don’t we all get up and dance? I love to boogie.” He indicates a dance step. “Take a seat!” “Excuse me!” The man widens his eyes and shakes his head in a funny way. His curly white hair bounces left and right. “This is a mass in my honor!” Father George stomps down the pulpit and grabs the man’s arm. “I think ya better leave now, or we’ll throw ya out.” Some men on the front benches, who feel that they have enough muscles, lift their butts, ready to lend our pastor a helping hand. Mayor Mills hisses instructions, coordinating the imminent assault. My chest tightens. No, please don’t turn my dream into a nightmare! “You want to put Jesus in jail? I thought you’re my pastor!?” “Ya ain’t Jesus! How dare ya! Sacrilege! Ya’re just a tramp. Now, get out of my church!” Our pastor points at the door that Jesus left open. “They all say that when they see me for the first time,” Jesus grins. “Do you want me to prove that it’s really me?” He rests his hand on Father George’s shoulder. People drop back onto their benches. Thrill wrestles down their doubt and pins it to the church’s marble floor. “Watch me!” Jesus approaches Matthew Davies on the front bench. “Matt, please tell these people how long you have been blind.” “Since birth. How d’ya know?” “Do you want to see?” “Please don’t make fun of me.” His blind eyes try to bridge the darkness between him and Jesus. “Open your eyes and see!” Jesus makes a dramatic hand gesture. My heart pounds thrice. Matt takes off his shades and stares into the space in front of him. “I still can’t see. I knew it!” “Hmm, wait!” Jesus scratches his head. “Something is missing. Right … no faith! You guys have less faith than the Pharisees. Let’s do it another way.” Jesus kneels in front of Matt and takes hold of his hands. I sense that some kind of exchange takes place - the exchange of energy, or love, or both. By now, my heart pummels like a timpani drumroll. Suddenly, Matt’s eyes widen. ”I can see! I can really see!” He grabs his friend Harry to his right and then hugs his wife Margaret to his left. He withdraws and glares at her. “I imagined ya differently!” Jesus stands up, straightens his sackcloth, and addresses Father George, “Do you believe me now?” “Maybe if ya could turn this water into wine.” He points at a basin with a trembling finger. The water turns red in an instant. Father George dips a finger into the red liquid and tastes it. “Oh my God, it’s wine!” “Hallelujah!” A woman shouts from the back of the congregation. My heart hammers at my rib cage as if it wants to break out and fly into Jesus’ arms. Jesus smiles like a magician who just presented the highlight of his show. Father George is holding onto the large candelabra besides the pulpit, worried he may disappear with Jesus’ next magic trick. I cannot believe it! Jesus is back! The YouTube sensation of a century! I fumble for my smartphone. Damn! It’s back in the office.
It’s mass time on Sunday morning and the church is packed. A hush of peace and the scent of frankincense is in the air. My eyes tiptoe from person to person. I hope to chance on a fresh face, but I’m disappointed once again.
Mayor Mills is caressing his costly belly that is beaming from a heavy breakfast, while he rubs his equally luxurious behind on the bench, hoping to carve a comfortable dent into the harsh wood.
The women are flashing smiles at each other and restrict themselves to a quick hello-what’s-up-long-time-no-see to keep chat hushed in anticipation of Father George’s entrance.
Their teenage kids compete in who can display the most credible I’m-so-cool-I-know-it-all-the-world-sucks face. The younger ones have a hard time sitting still. They babble, hum, and gesticulate their unbroken strings of fantasies in the pious ambience of the church.
Ol’Eduard takes a seat on his habitual spot on the front bench, stiff like a mummified soldier. His rigid, wrinkled face stoically ignores the others as if he wishes to be all by himself in the church.
I wink a hello at dear uncle Tom. He works at the kolache factory down the road. He’s a jolly, chubby man, but a little sissy, wrapped in a pale, soft skin. He’s a loyal churchgoer, looking forward to the weekly confirmation that he will get his place in the sun eventually. If not in this life, at least thereafter.
No newcomer! I puff out my disappointment like exhausted cigarette smoke. There is nothing in our tiny Nazareth in Castro County that tempts stray strangers to linger.
A new girl would be great. One of those sensitive, melancholic city girls. Who could bring some clouds to Nazareth so rigidly tempered by the inconsiderate Texan sun.
It is time and I, the altar boy, ring the bell to call Father George to the stage. He floats across the marble floor to the pulpit. When he opens his mouth, the main door bangs open and a stranger steps in, introduced by the midsummer heat and the fine dust of harvested fields.
The man’s clothing is unusual: a long white sackcloth and sandals as if he arrived from a time long gone. This is no ordinary man, he looks youthful, but up in years, masculine and feminine at the same time. He waits at the door for everybody to turn their heads. It feels like in one of those Westerns. It is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop. I wipe my sweaty hands over my vestment hoping to turn it into body armor. As the man walks through the nave, I detect a disarming smile and a bright halo sparkling above his head with rainbow colors. My hands drop, disarmed by the imminent fulfillment of a daring dream I have secretly cherished since I first heard of Jesus Christ.
Could it be? No, this must be a prank! But the halo looks so real!
The man who looks like Jesus arrives at the altar, where Father George is glued to the spot. He broadens his smile and opens his arms with a tender motion that reminds me of my mom welcoming me when I return from summer camp. Father George jerks his body into a hostile posture and addresses the man in sackcloth: “Excuse me, but we’re having a mass here.”
“I know. Am I disturbing you?” The man has the gentlest voice of all.
“Uh … of course not, but why don’t ya take a seat?” Father George points at an empty spot next to Ol’Eduard. The man ignores him. Instead, he turns around and examines the church.
“Your church looks expensive. Don’t you know that the temple I talked about is our body, the living temple?” He notices the crucifix and his eyes widen. ”Oh my … why do I look so miserable?”
“Sir, please, take a seat!” Father George points at the front bench.
“Why are you so serious? This is a celebration, isn’t it? Why don’t we all get up and dance? I love to boogie.” He indicates a dance step.
“Take a seat!”
“Excuse me!” The man widens his eyes and shakes his head in a funny way. His curly white hair bounces left and right. “This is a mass in my honor!”
Father George stomps down the pulpit and grabs the man’s arm. “I think ya better leave now, or we’ll throw ya out.” Some men on the front benches, who feel that they have enough muscles, lift their butts, ready to lend our pastor a helping hand. Mayor Mills hisses instructions, coordinating the imminent assault. My chest tightens.
No, please don’t turn my dream into a nightmare!
“You want to put Jesus in jail? I thought you’re my pastor!?”
“Ya ain’t Jesus! How dare ya! Sacrilege! Ya’re just a tramp. Now, get out of my church!” Our pastor points at the door that Jesus left open.
“They all say that when they see me for the first time,” Jesus grins. “Do you want me to prove that it’s really me?” He rests his hand on Father George’s shoulder. People drop back onto their benches. Thrill wrestles down their doubt and pins it to the church’s marble floor.
“Watch me!” Jesus approaches Matthew Davies on the front bench. “Matt, please tell these people how long you have been blind.”
“Since birth. How d’ya know?”
“Do you want to see?”
“Please don’t make fun of me.” His blind eyes try to bridge the darkness between him and Jesus.
“Open your eyes and see!” Jesus makes a dramatic hand gesture. My heart pounds thrice.
Matt takes off his shades and stares into the space in front of him. “I still can’t see. I knew it!”
“Hmm, wait!” Jesus scratches his head. “Something is missing. Right … no faith! You guys have less faith than the Pharisees. Let’s do it another way.” Jesus kneels in front of Matt and takes hold of his hands. I sense that some kind of exchange takes place - the exchange of energy, or love, or both. By now, my heart pummels like a timpani drumroll. Suddenly, Matt’s eyes widen. ”I can see! I can really see!” He grabs his friend Harry to his right and then hugs his wife Margaret to his left. He withdraws and glares at her. “I imagined ya differently!”
Jesus stands up, straightens his sackcloth, and addresses Father George, “Do you believe me now?”
“Maybe if ya could turn this water into wine.” He points at a basin with a trembling finger. The water turns red in an instant. Father George dips a finger into the red liquid and tastes it.
“Oh my God, it’s wine!”
“Hallelujah!” A woman shouts from the back of the congregation. My heart hammers at my rib cage as if it wants to break out and fly into Jesus’ arms. Jesus smiles like a magician who just presented the highlight of his show. Father George is holding onto the large candelabra besides the pulpit, worried he may disappear with Jesus’ next magic trick.
I cannot believe it! Jesus is back! The YouTube sensation of a century! I fumble for my smartphone. Damn! It’s back in the office.