Two years ago, articles in the press appeared, talking about how to go about “uninviting” your unvaccinated families for Thanksgiving Dinner. I’m not much of a religious person but I thought, “Holy! I wonder what Jesus would say about this?” Wasn’t he the guy who accepted prostitutes and people shunned by society without judgement? Dollars to donuts a lot of these people doing the “uninviting” were part of the new religion: “Covidians.”
What if I could call Jesus up on my phone?
“Listen, Jesus? I’m having Thanksgiving Dinner at my place this year and was wondering if you’d like to come over?”
Jesus answers in measured tones, “A dinner to give thanks to the Almighty Creator for all you have? I’m in!”
“OK, great!” I say, and then, “Um…one thing…one thing I should mention. Ah. Just in case, you know, um…OK. So…I’m not vaccinated against Covid.”
The phone is quiet and my anxiety starts to ramp up.
Then Jesus speaks, “I accept. This pestilence has been visited upon the people. You will not use the manmade solution but have chosen instead to trust your own body’s wisdom. Me, too.”
“Cool. Cool,” I say hastily, relief flooding my system. Then I remember something else, “Oh. One more thing, Jesus. I became a vegan through all the Covid bullshit so we’re not actually having turkey. It’s Tofurkey – a fake turkey made out of soybeans and what seems to be a kind of glue.”
“Oh,” he says. Was that disappointment I detected in his voice? “You forego the eating of all flesh. Will there be bread?” he asks hopefully.
“You bet!” I say, “lots of stuffing, veggies, and even pumpkin pie with coconut whipped cream for dessert. Jesus,” I added, “you’ll love it.”
Later there’s a firm knock on my front door. I go over and throw the door wide. There’s Jesus all right, wearing the robes and sandals, just as I expected, even though it was chilly outside.
“Jesus!” I exclaim, “C’mon in and get warm! This ain’t the desert you know.”
As he smiles and enters, I see all the others.
“Whoa! Who are all these guys?” There must be eight or ten people on my front steps. I quickly do the mental math, wondering if I have enough chairs stashed around the house.
Jesus stops and swings his arm wide, “These are my followers,” he says, grinning. My guess is he doesn’t get a lot of alone time.
“Hi. Hello. Welcome,” I repeat as they all come in. There is nothing homogenous about his followers. Some are dreadlocked or completely bald but most are clad in various rumpled cloaks or jackets of velvet and corduroy, as if they had rummaged through an old closet of Steven Tyler’s. None of them had the straight cut bangs, sensible shoes, or sweater sets I was used to seeing on the followers of Jesus around here.
“Can I get you drinks,” I ask politely.
“Hell yeah!”, “Whataya got?”, and “Yes, please!” come from pretty much everyone, including Jesus.
“Red wine, Jesus?” I ask.
“Have you got anything stronger?” he fires back.
I go to my liquor cabinet and fish out what I have. Some old Jack Daniels, a two-four of spiced rum as well as white and amber, several specialty liqueurs, and half a forty pounder of London’s Dry Gin.
“It was Covid,” I explain, as a bit of an apology for the gin, “I needed more martini’s than were good for me to get through all the mandates.”
“No biggie,” one particularly dishevelled guy says as he pours himself a double of whiskey, neat, “I got into a lot worse.”
Everyone helps themselves to drinks and thankfully some have the red wine, since I’d stocked up just for Jesus. Jesus turns and asks one of his acolytes to pour him “the usual,” which appeared to be some type of negroni.
I shrug and have a simple G&T.
The crowd introduces themselves and I find out that some are very new to Jesus and some have followed him from “the Holy Land.” We talk about the heat and the dust and I can see they are hopelessly underdressed for the weather in North America.
Jesus speaks up, “We’ve been discussing the issue of clothing ever since we arrived. I am used to being in this garb and am reluctant to change it. But it’s true, I am uncomfortable in this place.”
Everyone starts talking all at once, voicing opinions for or against. I go to my front closet and dig around for a bit, then run upstairs to my dresser. When I get back downstairs, I present Jesus with a pair of wool socks and my old Doc Martens.
“Look,” I say, “It seems to me that frost bite will be imminent unless you get some decent footwear. Here’s a pair of socks – I’ve just darned them so they’ll be good for awhile – and a pair of my boots that should fit.”
Jesus took off his sandals and put the socks on.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “I like these!”
Then he began to pull on the Docs but a couple of the acolytes hastened to help, loosening the laces, tugging them on, and then doing them up for him. Jesus stood. He bounced from foot to foot and then took a few steps. Then he did a little soft shoe on my wood floor. We all laughed and he sat down back down on the stair to my living room.
“See?” I say, “No one will even know you’ve got them on under your robes.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “and my feet are warm, if constrained. But it is only for these unsavory few months in this God-forsaken country.”
His words surprise me. Jesus must really hate winter.
The acolytes help me finish preparing dinner, getting everyone more drinks, and setting up all the chairs we could find. When everyone sits down to eat, I light a couple candles, and turn to Jesus expectantly. To my surprise, he helps himself to mashed potatoes.
I clear my throat, “Ahem. Jesus. Wondering if you were gonna say a few words here…?”
We all look at him. He puts his fork down, a guilty look on his face, and tries to quickly swallow his mouthful of spuds.
“Oh, yes,” he says, and stands up, reaching for his highball glass, recently filled in readiness by one of his eager attendants. “It is,” he begins, “with all thanks to our Almighty Lord that we join together in feast this evening.”
“Amen!” a few people say loudly, raising their glasses.
“In this humble abode,” he continues, and I look around, thinking my place has got to be better than whatever place they’d just come from, “we are grateful to our hostess who has provided food, comfort, and unvaccinated hospitality in this modern world.”
Another chorus of “Amens!” and more drinking.
But Jesus wasn’t finished. His voice gets louder as his eyes search each of ours, “For who of us has not gone up against The Man and been thrown out of doors, or run out of town, or stoned by neighbours, or spit on by every passer by… tortured… nailed onto a cross…left to suffer and to die?”
This was heavy. I didn’t dare look up but just stared at my hands in my lap. His speech shames me for being such a whiner over my own paltry suffering over the past few years. I swallow.
“Each of us was found wanting and cast out. Each of us has had to lean on the love of God when our fellow man has abandoned us,” he was really on a roll now. Not having a religious background, I wasn’t sure this was the usual blessing before a meal.
I shift nervously as his voice fills my small dining room, bouncing off the walls.
“For only God has stood by you in your hour of need! Only God has provided for you…loved you!”
He stops and looks at us. I am really uncomfortable now. I’m pretty sure the only time I invoked God over the past couple years wasn’t exactly in prayer. Even his followers look cowed.
Suddenly he smiles.
“Ok, look,” he continues, his voice softer, “stop judging and accept each other. This goes for the assholes, too,” he says matter-of-factly, “for they don’t really know they’re assholes, just as you won’t always know when you are being an asshole. So if you can’t love the other guy, at least leave him alone, yeah?”
“Yeah!” we all say with relief. Someone says, “Amen to that, Jesus!”
I raise my glass, “To Jesus!” Everyone lifts their glasses and drinks, including, it should be noted, Jesus. Then I add the only meal blessing I know, “Good bread, good ‘meat,’ good God, let’s eat!” and before we can all dig in, I see that Jesus has beat us all to the mashed potatoes again.
