Jesus, Marty, and Me go to Dinner

Later, after another round and some more talk, Marty, Jesus, and I decided to stay and have dinner. Logan's has excellent steak and some of the best dinner rolls on God's green earth. So we got a booth for three. Marty sat next to Jesus, which disappointed me. In spite of what Jesus said, I really did like Marty, and it wasn't just so I could show how tolerant I was or because she looked hot in form-fitting clothes. I wanted her to sit next to me because she looked hot in form-fitting clothes. And also because I was afraid that I had damaged our friendship.

I excused myself for a minute, then went to the men's room. When I got back, Marty smiled at Jesus, then excused herself.

"It's not all about you," Jesus said.

"Huh?"

"Is it possible that the reason you are here with her isn't for you; it's for her?"

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"She has a lot of questions, Chris. I care about her deeply, as I know you do. She needs to work some things through."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that she's been hurt by a lot of Christians," he said.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. I wasn't sure whether it was good practice to get irritated with Jesus in public, but given his ability to respond to what I was thinking, I didn't see the point in trying to hide it.

"Yes, including your attitude, which I am certain you will work on. But how do you think she feels when a church that touts how I died for their sin and how they are now loved denies her because of her sin?"

I said nothing, so Jesus continued.

"How would you feel if you were involved in a high school prank and someone turned you in and you were punished, but the guy who turned you in had previously vandalized the football field?"

Again, I said nothing.

"She doesn't believe in me."

"No offense, but I'm not sure that Jesus is going to return as the assistant manager of a multiplex, either."

"You know what I mean," Jesus said. "She is tough and she won't let people see it. But underneath, she knows that a lot of the people here would not let her be her if they knew the truth. Even though she doesn't make an issue of it, she knows she has to be careful of it."

I picked at my steak, which is uncommon for me. Usually, it is gone with a force that requires young children to be tethered to their tables, lest they get caught in the vacuum. I preferred the vacuum.

"What do you think of her lifesty...choic...whatever is the appropriate term?"

"Of her homosexuality?"

"Yeah."

Usually, I am articulate. Jesus had a way of making me unsure of my words, which is stupid, because he seemed to know what I was thinking.

"What do you think I think?" He asked. It was a typical non-answer answer, I was coming to find.

"I don't know," I said. "That's why I am asking you."

"That's a copout. You think that it's a sin, but that you are called to love each other," he said. "Which is a good enough answer."

"But I'm not asking what I think. I am asking what you think. And you are not answering the question."

"Not answering is an answer," Jesus said. "To be blunt about it, it's none of your business. It is for her to work out with My Father."

He chewed on a french fry.

"As I said, it isn't about you. Your job is to love her."

"My job is to love everyone," I said. I sipped at my beer. I had a slight buzz, which made me happy that Marty was driving me home.

"You make it sound like a death sentence," Jesus said.

"It isn't easy," I said. "A lot of Your people really hack me off."

"I can assure you that for some of them, the feeling is mutual."

He was smiling at me, this man who claimed to be Jesus. Jesus was supposed to have long hair and a moustache and beard and look like Dave Dennison, the guy I worked with in a small supermarket when I was in high school. He was supposed to wear sandals and a robe. And he wasn't supposed to drink draft beer at a steakhouse after work.

He looked at me and shook his head again, almost imperceptibly.

"You have to love them, that's true. You have to be happy for them when they succeed and sad for them when they hurt. You need to offer to help them and not take gratuitous shots at them," he said. "But you don't have to like them. If they caused you pain, you don't have to pretend that pain doesn't exist. That wouldn't be love from my Father, to expect that. You have real pain, just like Marty and everyone else. And you won't get better by pretending it isn't there."

He sliced a triangle off his steak and ate it.

"They have great steak here," He said. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

"I don't know, am I doing what you are saying?"

"No one does it perfectly, and you aren't among the league leaders, but you're a lot better than you were. Overall, I am not unhappy with your progress."

Just then, Marty came back. Jesus smiled at her and raised his hand, touching her back as she slid into the seat next to him.

"Stupid Bucs," she said. She shook her head and was visibly annoyed.

"Can't you make them win?" she asked Jesus.

"I could," he said. "But I wouldn't hold my breath about it."

She laughed and touched his arm. Jesus was right about her. There was always a reserve about her, as if she were holding something back. I hadn't noticed it until now, but it was always there. Only just for a second, when she touched his arm, it was gone. Her smile was physically the same as it was every other time I'd seen it--and she smiled a lot. But there was something about her body, a lightness, that had never been there before. As soon as it was there, though, it was gone, and for a few seconds, I thought it might be a mirage.

Then Jesus looked me directly in the eye with an intensity that almost made me look away. For an instant, I thought He was angry at me again. But somehow, I thought He was telling me to go likewise and do the same. But that He would give me the tools to do it.