personal jesus

Last night I dreamt Jesus and I walked along a beach.

 

"Jesus," I said, "you're black? I thought that was a Hollywood cliche. I figured you didn't have a race--you were just the essence of forgiveness or love or something."

 

"Nope, I'm black. My son, I'm concerned about the path of your life. You used to help the less fortunate. You used to devote yourself to causes. Now you just pursue money. What happened?"

 

"Jesus, I'm not sure I ever cared about those causes or if I just wanted to aggrandize myself. I mean, I care but it's secondary to making my own life better. And it's a distant second."

 

Jesus nodded understandingly.

 

"Everyone wants to improve their lot, Jesus. But materialists are at least honest about it. Given that you've built us with this self-preservation that trumps other concerns, maybe the most we can hope for is to not be a hypocrite. And to make enough money to enjoy the world you've built for us. It does take money, Jesus, no matter what anyone says."

 

Holding his hands behind his back as we walked, Jesus was the model of the thoughtful listener. "Mmm-hmm. There was an element of egotism to your works. But in sum you may, eventually, have been able to make some difference, even if small."

 

"The ends justify the means, Jesus? Is that the creator's philosophy?"

 

"Oh no. Look around," he said, gesturing to the sky and the water and the sand. "My father was a dadaist. And maybe," he concluded, probing a wound in his wrist absent-mindedly, "a bit of a sadist."

Done