Two of Jesus’s apostles sneak into his tomb to witness the prophesied resurrection in this blasphemously irreverent comedy.
Image generated with OpenAIThieves and murderers hid bodies, not holy men. Yet, three days prior, a conspiracy was enacted by a loose brotherhood of religious men to hide the body of a man destined to change the world.
For weeks, festival season had brought people from across the land to Jerusalem, bringing both offerings to God and wares to sell in the Court of Gentiles – a large marketplace where pilgrims and priests alike would break bread, share stories, and attempt to get rich and fat in their own ways. Roman soldiers stood guard outside the piazza to keep the peace, and ensure no lepers, nor paralytics, were admitted. But these were the only stipulations, all others were permitted through regardless of race or sex, and two hooded figures could slip out the western gate without notice.
They had passed by Golgotha, leering knowingly at the skull-shaped mound. The empty tomb below Calvary had a role to play in the ruse being perpetrated. This would be the first place the Romans would look for the body, but so far, it appeared to be undisturbed.
As they crossed the second wall at the Fish Gate, the torchlights and riotous echoes of jubilations emanating from the city remained behind that partition. Ahead there was a garden, below which was a second tomb. A simple tomb fit for a humble carpenter. But this too was subterfuge, and the men continued on, leaving the city entirely.
Having bided their time for the potent alcohol and rich foods to make Jerusalem sleepy and complacent, the hooded men now raced the sun. The sprawling feasts and hours of celebration had already begun to subside, and when the sun rose, the city would slumber. And others would follow in the men’s footsteps.
From this vantage point, it was easy to look back at the city and question whether Jerusalem had ever been any fun to begin with, but what wasn’t up for debate was that life in general was much less fun ever since the Romans crucified Jesus.
It was the fifth hour of the day when the hooded figures entered the sandy haze of the desert and met the stunning silence of starlight. The trek was slow and arduous as the arid air clung to their lungs. Below their feet, the sand sifted unevenly and cascaded down as they climbed through the scorched hills north of the city. Drought had left the earth dry and the vegetation brittle, and what little breeze existed was neither cool nor refreshing, yet it was enough to uproot and tumble the weeds across the countryside. The dim moonlight reflected against the sand – making the desert appear as an ocean – and the weeds bounded across the wavy dunes in droves.
Soon the hills leveled out, and the desert subsided, giving way to a well-traveled foot path through the craggy rocks. The rocks grew into walls until the path they traversed lay at the bottom of the steep canyon. The walls of the canyon were rough and uneven, full of crevasses and alcoves that could stretch for miles and be merely inches deep. In the moonlight, the shadows made it impossible to tell.
Their pace had been swift to this point, but here it came to a deliberate halt. Somewhere amongst the shadows lay a hidden path, a passageway that led to the true tomb of the Nazarene. They had been amongst the conspirators who absconded with the body after it was taken from the crucifix. But, as Jewish law dictated, this was all done before sunset. Now that they had returned under the cover of darkness, the path was not so easy to locate, and Peter gazed upon the dozens of deep shadows surrounding them, trying to reason the correct path.
While he calmly stroked his ghostly white beard, his compatriot, Mark, took a seat on an outcropped rock to catch his breath. Each inhale was a raspy gasp that turned his face pink and caused sweat to bead up on his forehead. Judging by the state of each man, it was inconceivable, yet nonetheless a fact, that the two were nearly the same age.
Mark was thin like a boy, malnourished, but with a thick head of jet-black hair and a finely manicured beard that the ladies absolutely swooned over. He’d led an easy, if simple, life and had no need to work or acquire a skilled trade. His mother provided for him monetarily as well as spiritually. She was a devout follower, ensuring Mark understood the importance of the zealot’s message and teachings. And while he heeded the word, he hadn’t the crippling desire to be as pious as Peter.
Peter had grown up poor and at sea. A fisherman by trade, his skin was crisp and black, and his hair and beard had both prematurely lost their pigment from being out in the sun for days on end. He had come to the faith of his own volition and was steadfast and single-minded in the opinion that his faith was stronger and truer than most because of this.
As his wheezing worsened, Mark leaned forward. He rested his hands on his knees and dry heaved into the sand, sending a retch echoing down the canyon. Peter was too busy staring into a void – hoping that it would stare back and give him the answer he was looking for – to do any more than call out to his companion.
“Mark, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine.”
“The desert heat is nothing to trifle with.”
“The heat? No, I’m good with the heat. This past weekend is getting the best of me. Met this lady from Galilee, and man, did we have a bit too much to drink!”
Mark grinned. His display was all farce. Just taking the piss out of Peter and his easily exploitable piety. Peter turned from the darkness as Mark pretended to heave again. He was nauseous, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. And he really wasn’t ready for this game to end. Another heave.
“The crucifixion was only two days ago, and you got drunk?”
“Opportunity of a lifetime, Petey. Had to sow some oats while no one was watching.”
“God is always watching.”
“Please! Jesus spent a day on a cross and a weekend in Hell. God was not paying any attention to us.”
“Or, maybe God was testing us. Without guidance, do we contemplate his suffering and sacrifice, or do we let carnal instinct turn us into animals? I for one prayed for his return.”
“What a waste of time.”
“How can you say that?”
“Please, you think God was on the fence about helping Jesus get out of Hell? Like he was sitting around waiting for good ol’ Pete, best disciple in all the land, to pray for his only son. And when he heard your plea, he acted upon that wish? No. God had a plan to get Jesus out of Hell from the beginning. It was just too complicated for us to understand.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
Peter was shaking with rage, and Mark had to fake another wave of nausea to keep from bursting at the seams.
While Mark heaved into the sand, Peter was seriously considering casting rocks at his friend to shut him up for a little while. It was the right thing to do, really. Stoning was the most humane form of discipline available at the moment – Peter had brought torches to guide them through the tomb, so burning him alive was an option as well. When it really came down to it, though, he didn’t believe Mark was a witch – so stoning it was. Peter bent down to scoop up one of the smooth rocks at his feet and noticed that there were more than a dozen of them grouped together. They were laid out in the pattern of a fish. Its tail fanned out into the canyon, its nose pointed down one of the deep shadowy clefts. He’d found the way to the tomb.
Peter glanced over his shoulder. Mark had keeled over, head between his knees, and was producing loud vomitus belches.
Without a word, Peter ducked into the shadows and was gone.
A few moments later, Mark recovered his composure.
“Alright, I think I’m good to go now.”
He sat up and saw that he was alone. Peter had abandoned him.
“Hey! Wait up. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Mark’s voice called from the black. Peter didn’t respond, but he paused long enough for Mark to catch up. “You ditched me back there!”
“You’re lucky that’s all I did, the way you were talking.”
“Hey, I said I’m sorry. You’re not so perfect either, you know!”
“We all fall short in the eyes of the Lord. But at least I didn’t spend my weekend drinking and whoring.”
“You’re sinning right now.”
“Maybe I drank a little. Maybe I whored around a lot. But that was a release. My expression of grief. What you’re doing now is way worse than any of that.”
“What I’m doing now is going to the Lord.”
“No, what you’re doing now is being first in line. When we hid his body, we agreed to all come back when he is risen.”
“Which he said would be today!”
“At dawn! Look around, it’s not dawn yet.”
“Enough! Stop! If you don’t want to be here, go. No one asked you to come along.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” accused Mark. Peter threw his hands in the air and continued on alone. But Mark fell into step behind him and continued his analysis. “In fact, I bet if I didn’t see you at the market earlier, you wouldn’t have even invited me along. I’m right, aren’t I? Aren’t I?”
He didn’t answer, and Mark almost plowed into his fellow disciple as Peter came to a halt without warning. Mark peered past Peter, and they immediately forgot the argument, as across the clearing before them was the tomb of Jesus Christ.
Stone outcroppings jutted from the hillside, and olive trees shrouded the clearing in a canopy of cool, moonlit shade. Desert flowers of white and yellow and purple carpeted the floor of the clearing.
Poets, bite your tongue; artists, snap your brushes. This was a place no description nor rendition could ever do justice.
The tomb in the city would fool Rome.
The tomb in the garden would fool apostates.
This tomb, marked only by the ill-fitting sandstone boulder to prevent desecration, and the surrounding oasis, would fool no one. All those who laid eyes upon it would know it to be the resting place of the son of God.
Peter prayed silently as he approached the tomb. The wild blossoms brushed against his ankles as he traced his fingers along the rock before the tomb. He followed the crevasses around until he came upon a seam in the earth.
From across the clearing, Mark watched Peter dig his fingers into the cleft and pull. And push. And pant and kick and scream. The heights and depths that faith can take someone to within the same moment were amazing. And in that, Mark was envious of Peter’s experience. That duality of passion was something he’d had never experienced. He’d clung to Jesus in his times of need, but when the famine was over, he’d pulled away. There was a tinge of guilt as he watched Peter gorge himself now, even though the feast was done forever.
Peter’s muscles contracted into knots and his fingernails buckled and bruised against the stone. The rock didn’t give. “Are you going to help me or not?” he shouted.
“I don’t know. If Jesus said dawn, there was probably a reason, right?”
He wanted to help. Now more than ever. But the question about dawn weighed on him. Not only the semantics of it, but Peter’s insistence on going. Peter’s faith was a lightning rod for many, in both good and bad ways. Mark only gave him a hard time because, well, because it was fun. Some other apostles could be a little more conniving, which made Mark wonder where the idea to go against a direct edict from Jesus even came from.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Peter. “I was talking to John, Paul, and George before I ran into you. They seemed to think it was no big deal. They said that dawn was a relative term.”
There it was.
“It’s night. That’s the moon. There’s nothing relative about it!” said Mark.
“John says the world is round, and that it’s dawn somewhere.”
“The world is flat, my friend, John is just pulling a fast one on you. In a wide enough field, on a clear enough day, you can almost see the edge of it all!”
“Paul said that’s an illusion. The refraction of light in the atmosphere, coupled with the fact that the horizon is often masked by high cloud layers that reduce the altitude above the visual surface, make it impossible to see the true scope from down here. Our world is a manifold without boundary that only God can behold.”
“What the hell is the atmosphere?”
Peter shrugged.
“See? Are you listening to yourself? Pete, they are messing with you.”
“No, no, they’re not. Why would they?”
“Because John and Paul and George are always trying to be the best, so what do they do? They tell you this bullshit, hoping your eager nature will get the better of you and make you show up early. Jesus is pissed, he smites you, and then who’s there to pick up the pieces?”
Peter’s mouth fell agape. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Those three are a bunch of monkeys.”
“Yeah, I guess they were eating mushrooms when I talked with them.”
“And does the best apostle eat mushrooms?”
Peter shook his head.
“That’s right, he doesn’t. And who’s the best apostle?”
Peter rose his hand.
“No, no, come on and say it.”
“Pete’s the best.”
“That’s right, he is! And if Jesus wanted you to be here before dawn, to open this tomb before it’s time, he would have given you a sign.”
Mark slapped the boulder, and it shook. Sand and dust fell away, and the boulder teetered forward.
“No no no no no!” Mark pushed back against the rock, trying to reset it in place. But it was no use. Pebbles and rocks tumbled away and a fissure formed, revealing the darkness within.
The mountain exhaled through that tiny split, releasing a vacuum of stale heat and earthen particles into the air. The stone shuddered and creaked, and Peter pulled Mark away just in time as the boulder wavered and toppled to the ground.
It landed hard, rousing a cloud of sand and flower petals from the desert floor. The chorus of insects fell silent, nocturnal rodents scampered back to their homes under the rocks, and, in a dark shadow, a serpent watched the men with envious eyes.
“That was not -” Mark started.
But Peter finished, “A sign!”
It was easy to see signs when that is what one sought. And so easy to see none when hope was lost. The third path, the path of logic, was difficult, however. The logical man stands alone, called to from either side as he denounces signs as often as he condemns attacks on faith.
Before he could stop him, Peter blindly followed his faith into the murky black, leaving Mark alone before the fallen stone.
Wind whistled through the clearing, an eerie accompaniment to the inky maw of the tomb’s entrance. The sky had the stars and the moon, but in the soupy void before Mark was an unknown evil which threatened to ensnare him forever if he dared approach.
He dared.
The stars disappeared behind dips and turns as the cavern sunk into the earth. The black that swirled around them was slender and cool, and they wandered sightlessly until a smooth slab blocked their path.
“Dead end?”
“No. We’re here.” A pause. “Hey, Jesus. Time to get up.”
“You sure about this? I can’t see anything.”
“Don’t see. Feel. Reach out. Put your hands on him, let him know you’re here.”
“What if I, you know -“
“What if you, what?”
“What if I touch – touch his – you know.”
“You can touch Jesus.”
“Yeah, but what if I touch Jesus?”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at?”
“His penis, Peter! What if I touch his penis?”
“Oh, grow up! Jesus said to love everyone. Paul said that since Jesus didn’t provide a list of caveats to adhere to concerning whom to love, it’s okay for one man to touch another man’s penis.”
“You need to stop deferring to those monkeys as the arbiters of knowledge. If Jesus is okay with touching another man’s penis, he’d be just as okay not touching it.”
“Okay. If you’re willing to risk it.”
“Risk what?”
“Jesus needs our help. We need to touch him now and let him know he’s not alone in the dark.” And Peter began to whisper a prayer that pierced the darkness, “Avinu shebashamayim. Yitqadesh shimcha. Tavo malchutcha.” The holy words swirled, creating a universe of thought and potential in the dark.
The words, their power and beauty and glory, overcame Mark as he placed his hands on Jesus’s forearm.
“Damn it -“
The prayer faltered. “Not his arm?”
“Shut up.”
Peter resumed the prayer. “Ye’aseh retzoncha kevashamayim ken ba’aretz. Et lechem chuqeinu ten lanu hayyom.”
“Hey, Pete, I’m going to light a torch. I don’t think this is working.”
“Uslach lanu – Shhh. Praying – Al chata’einu.”
A strobing light flickered in the gloom. Heated flint rock cinders struck out and rained down onto the oiled burlap. Hundreds fizzled to nothing, yet one caught. A single particle hung on tattered fringe. This nimble ember climbed, split, and sparkled. And then, spread. A soliloquy become conflagration.
The flame grew and illuminated the tomb. Between the disciples lay a dead man covered in a sheer white shroud. His long, matted hair lay flat. His skin clung to the bone and hung down.
“Shit,” said Mark, and it was a long time before he finished his sentiment, almost as if he were waiting to be proven wrong even before he said it. “He didn’t come back.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“This isn’t a jump. I latched onto his penis pretty hard there, and Son of God or not, if he was going to rise from the dead that would’ve done it.”
“It’s not even dawn yet. Give him time.”
“I thought you said dawn was relative?”
Peter shrugged sheepishly.
“Damn it! I knew we should have waited until dawn. I told you! This was all a plan by John and Paul and George to make you look bad. Pete, best apostle or not, if you’re not careful those three will kick you out of the band! I’d hate to see you go through all the bad times only to get kicked out right before we make it big!”
“Now hold up. We could interpret dawn in many ways. In the way of his teaching, everything has multiple meanings. Maybe Jesus meant the dawn of time? Or is dawn less of a universal quantifier and more existential? What if his consciousness dawned in a new body?”
“Pete, stop. He’s not coming back. Jesus said he would die for our sins and rise again. Either we broke the magic by coming in here before dawn, or -” Mark looked at the gaunt body lying on the stone altar and hardly recognized it as his friend, teacher, and savior.
“Don’t say it,” said Pete.
“Or what if Jesus was just a man? A good man, a great man even. But not the son of God. And if that’s true, then everything he said and taught, all the good he brought to this world and our lives – Once dawn breaks, the faith is done.”
Even as they spoke, the frosty blue gold of dawn was wandering into the tomb. Dim. Vague at first. Not enveloping the darkness, nor even diminishing the torchlight, simply looming at the edge of the chamber.
Dawn had broken.
As had Mark’s faith.
Mark fell to his knees and wept. For all the teasing and joking that he and the other disciples forced Peter to endure, in their hearts they too believed in the glory and righteousness of The Christ. They believed Jesus would be resurrected and that he would cure the world.
“So, the faith is done. It dies here today.” Peter had an uncharacteristic tinge of joy in his voice. “But people only need faith if they don’t have proof.”
Mark looked up from his tears. The only thing they had proof of was that Jesus didn’t come back from the dead.
“I have an idea.”
It was the worst idea ever. And that was saying something. Peter had once tried to make a convincing argument that bananas were proof of God’s existence. But never once has a bad idea stopped those with faith from fool-heartedly proceeding.
The clouds sprouted from the wind. They streaked across the sky in chiffon hues of lavender and steel, while Peter toiled below with yellowing tufts of tall grass. The oasis outside the tomb, once proof of the miracle within, had become their tool chest.
Peter ripped handfuls of grass from the sand and batted away any remaining dirt on the roots with his hand before twisting and twining the blades together into significant lengths of rope. Mark pruned back the olive trees with a makeshift stone hatchet. He collected methodically matched pairs of branches and twigs and hoisted them from the clearing floor to atop the rocky plateau opposite the tomb entrance. The vantage point allowed them to both keep watch for any who may approach now that dawn had arrived and give them the space needed for their designs and devices to come to fruition.
It was while Peter was lashing the branches together and threading them through Jesus’s robes that Mark first glimpsed the figures ascending the same path which they had taken the night before.
“People are coming,” Mark said. He tried to count how many there were, but they remained too closely huddled to be sure. Less than ten, but more than two. He turned away to check Pete’s progress.
Now that their apparatus would truly be put to the test, he had doubts. Jesus lay prone but twisted, like a dismantled scarecrow with filling poking out of its garment’s openings. “This isn’t going to work.”
Peter had been rejuvenated within the tomb, and since emerging, he had been an unstoppable force; racing about, collecting, and putting to use the elements that had coalesced in his mind. A wry smile crept across Peter’s face. “It’ll work. We just need to have a little faith.”
He gave Mark a woven length of grass rope. It, along with a dozen or more improvised lashings, were flung across the ground toward Jesus. They wove around rocks and tree stumps and then disappeared up the dead man’s robes. There, Pete had attached the ropes to various joints and keystone support structures to aid with posture and movement.
“This is crazy.”
“You have a better idea? You said it yourself, if anyone finds out Jesus didn’t come back his flock will disband. We need to make this work. Besides, if anyone gets suspicious, we’ll just say avert your eyes or somethi-“
Mark dove away from the rocky edge and pulled Pete to the ground. He shoved his hand over Pete’s mouth and whispered, “They’re here.”
Peter nodded. Mark pulled his hand away. The pair belly-crawled to the edge and peered down into the clearing. Below them, the figures passed through the stripped oasis, none the wiser as to what it had once been, nor to the fact that they were being watched. And now, here, finally, they were able to make out the leader of this band of mourners. It was Mary Magdalene.
Except for a small glimmer of hope suspended in her tears, Mary was a broken woman. Something shattered and flickering clung to her. It wasn’t in her appearance, as her garments were tidy. Nor her stature, as she led this throng of women out of the city at dawn – as her Jesus had instructed – without reluctance or weariness. It was as imperceivable as it was obvious. Her faith, too, was up for grabs.
Mary stammered to a halt as she saw the tomb disturbed. “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb!” She fell to the earth and let loose whatever tenuous hopes she’d clung to.
Mark and Peter both heard the delicate relief in her wails. Better he be gone, stolen, than remain still and be dead. Unreturned. They knew that feeling all too well. And while their knowledge of the truth was set in stone, hers was not.
“I didn’t want to make her cry,” said Peter.
“What do you expect? Mary came to pay respects to her husband and now his grave is empty.”
“Husband? They were married?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I did not know. Was it a small ceremony?”
“No, it was a pretty big to-do out in Jericho. Drank for days. All sorts of fish and nuts and fruit. Jesus led a drum circle. Amazing rhythm, that man. Not the most original or skillful, but could he keep a beat!”
“I love drum circles! And fruit? What kind of fruit? Plums, pineapple, bananas? Don’t you say watermelon!”
“Watermelon, yeah. Kumquats, jackfruit, and tamarind. Plums and rambutans. Cantaloupe and plantains. All manner of stone fruit and berries.”
Peter let loose his grass rope and rolled aside. He stared into the heavens. The fruit, the drums, the wedding. It was all too much.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure I want to go through with this now. I mean, Jesus couldn’t even bother to invite me to his wedding, why should I help keep his faith alive?”
“You’re not serious?”
“I am!”
Mark looked down at the clot of women. They were woven together by their tears and dismay, but for how long? Men fought wars, but when women made up their minds about something, those opinions were stronger than any steel. Peter’s idea was awful, just plain stupid, but it was the only one they had. And if they didn’t act soon, these women would make up their own minds.
“You get me on board with your stupid idea, and then bail for no reason?”
“The reason is I’m hurt. Really hurt! I thought I was important to him!”
“Do you think he would purposely not invite you to the wedding?”
“Yesterday I had an answer; today, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, shut up! You want me to play devil’s advocate? Fine. Let’s say Jesus purposely didn’t invite you to his wedding. We know it’s not true, but let’s say Jesus was an asshole. Or maybe he just didn’t like you.” Big pearly tears clung to Peter’s eyes. Sandy globules of snot dripped from his nose. “Jesus was just a man, being the son of God was an afterthought. There have been plenty of assholes who haven’t liked you, but none who did good in this world the way Jesus did.”
“What does that say about me that this great man saw fit to ignore me?”
“Stop making it about you. Without Jesus, someone, anyone, somewhere down the line could take His message and twist it to their own ends. Imagine an army of so-called believers turning faith into a war cry, putting themselves before the good of all. Jesus, man, he’s dead. And without us, so is all the good he’s done. Thousands of years from now no one will remember us, but if we do this, if we can pull this off, they will remember him. This whole thing, it’s a bad idea, but here I am. Are you going to let all that go to hell over a kumquat and some cheap Norwegian wood bongos?”
Peter turned to Mark. Wiped a tear from his eye.
“This is a one-time thing. All we need to do is convince Mary. Give her proof and the ball will roll the rest of the way on its own,” said Mark. “But this contraption, I’ve got no idea how it works. This is up to you, Pete.”
“You really think this is a bad idea?” asked Pete.
“The worst. But I have faith.”
Peter glanced over the edge at the women who were no longer huddled together. They weren’t heading back the way they came yet, but despondent wandering could only last so long. He turned to Mark. “Alright. On three.”
The men took the grass ropes into hand. Together they silently mouthed –
One –
Two –
Three –
In unison, they pulled. The grass ropes wound through crevasses and around stumps, drawing taut. Pete’s rigging was precise and effective, if crude. The slack vanished, and the intricate and marionette-like contraption – lashed to dead limbs, woven into loose robes – achieved what no immaculate action had.
Held aloft and erect via a second-hand crucifix wedged under a bed of rocks along the edge of the mound. From lifeless heap in the dirt, to figure of fully-articulated vigor, Jesus rose from the rocky plateau.
Jesus rose from the dead.
Mark held the marionette upright while Peter pulled one of the ropes – contorting Jesus’s arms toward the women – and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, and spoke from his diaphragm, “SILLY WOMAN, WHY ARE YOU WEEPING?”
Mary turned toward the tomb. “Who is there? They have taken away my Lord and husband. Have you seen who has done this thing?”
“NO! IT IS I YOU SEEK, JESUS OF NAZARETH, WHO WAS CRUCIFIED. DO NOT BE ALARMED, I HAVE NOW RISEN!” said Peter.
Mary and her companions turned toward the voice. And as his shadow stretched out across the clearing, they saw, laminated in a blazing halo, the corporeal form of Jesus Christ.
Her companions gasped at the sight, for they had all prayed for this moment. But while they averted their eyes in awe, Mary ran to the rocky mound.
She latched onto the embankment and began to climb.
Rocks dislodged under her feet, and sandstone crumbled. Mark heard the commotion and without looking knew that she was climbing toward them. “Shit! Say something! Quick!”
Peter pulled a rope and twisted Jesus. He pulled another and Jesus raised his hand. “STOP! DO NOT CLIMB. DO NOT CLING TO ME, FOR I – I – I HAVE NOT YET ASCENDED TO THE FATHER.”
Mary stopped her ascent. “If I cannot cling to you, what do you need from me, my Lord?”
Jesus looked pensively into the distance.
This was it. It had all fallen into place rather easily. Mark marveled at the ease in which Peter had taken to not only manipulating Jesus, but actually being Jesus. All Pete had to do now was command Mary to spread the word of God, and the world would be saved.
“WIFE OF MINE,” Peter said finally, “I NEED YOU TO TELL ME IF YOU REMEMBER INVITING THE APOSTLE PETER TO OUR WEDDING. I DON’T RECALL SEEING HIM THERE.”
“Um, I – I – What?”
“I’M JUST CURIOUS. PETE’S ALWAYS BEEN MY BEST APOSTLE. IT’S ODD THAT HE WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN AT THE WEDDING.”
“I’m sure he was there if he was one of your favorites.”
“NOT ONE OF MY FAVORITES. THE BEST! AND HE WASN’T THERE. I HAVE A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY.”
“Well, to be honest, I think I remember him weirding me out one time in Nazareth. That thing with the fruit.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”
“He tried to convince me that coconuts were mammals.”
“THEY HAVE HAIR AND PRODUCE MILK; IT MAKES SENSE TO ME. AND I’M THE SON OF GOD! I SHOULD KNOW, RIGHT?”
“Yes, of course my lord, but, what is a mammal?”
“IT’S AN ANIMAL THAT – NEVER MIND THAT NOW. WAS HE NOT INVITED BECAUSE OF A COCONUT?”
“That, and the banana thing. He has an odd obsession with fruit.”
“IT FITS SO PERFECTLY IN THE HUMAN HAND THOUGH!”
“Yes, but then that got John and Paul going on about how monkeys have hands like ours.”
“MY FATHER CREATED TEN-THOUSAND THINGS, THERE’S BOUND TO BE SOME OVERLAP OF IDEAS!”
“Right, but George made it sound like we evolved from monkeys.”
“EVOLVED? PRETTY BIG WORD FOR SOMEONE WHO DOESN’T KNOW WHAT A MAMMAL IS! WHERE’D YOU LEARN THAT ONE?”
“From you, my Lord. You said everything in this world evolved from -“
“YES, YES, YES! I’M THE SON OF GOD. YOU DON’T HAVE TO TELL ME WHAT WE EVOLVED FROM! I HAVE A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY, REMEMBER?” said Peter. He looked to Mark and smiled. Mark returned the smile with a knowing look, reminding him to get on with the plan. “BUT ENOUGH OF THIS. I NEED YOU TO TELL MY APOSTLES OF MY RESURRECTION. ASK THEM TO SPREAD THE WORD OF OUR RELIGION.”
“But men do not believe the words from women’s mouths. Why can you not show this glory to your flock yourself?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. It was easy to put on a commanding voice. Even easier to use that voice to be petty. But when asked a question, when given the chance to alter the course of history with a simple word, the weight of their actions became palpable, and Peter fell silent with guilt.
“My lord, why can you not go to them?”
Peter’s face began to warm, his tongue tied his brain, and his heart pounded down his arms and into his palms.
Mark stared at Peter, Peter stared at Jesus, Jesus stared at Mary, and Mary, she began to worry. “Is everything alright?”
“I’VE CHANGED MY MIND. I WILL GO TO GALILEE AND HELP SPREAD THE WORD MYSELF!” said Mark. He tried to match Pete’s tone as best he could, but fell short.
“Jesus, my Lord, did your voice change?” asked Mary.
“AVERT YOUR EYES!” said Mark, and he began to pull the ropes wildly. Where Peter had a gentle touch, both in his control of the puppet and his understanding of Jesus, Mark was all fire and brimstone. Jesus shook – as though taken by seizure or an epileptic fit – limbs flailing, head bobbling loosely.
C R R R A C K!
Mary backed away. She averted her eyes as atoms split and the universe ripped at the seams.
The base affixing Jesus to the ground twisted. The marionette shuttered. Peter lunged for Mark, ripping the grass ropes from his hands.
C R – C R R R A C K ! !
But it was too late.
The pole splintered. A deep fissure shot up the shaft.
The dead weight was too much for the broken contraption to bear.
C R – C R R R A C K – S N A P !
Jesus fell.
Mary and the women covered their eyes as sand and dust filtered into the air. Wooden slivers, dirt, and rock fell from the heavens. Jesus was gone. An emptiness where there was once a ruse.
The body landed between Peter and Mark. He was a mangled pile of calligraphy. A verse written in robes and twine and sticks and broken bones.
As the dust cleared, Mary called out. “My lord? Where have you gone?”
Jesus’ eyes were open. They were a void staring back at Peter, giving him the answers he sought. His knowledge of the truth was set in stone, though hers was not.
Peter called out to Mary. “I AM ALWAYS HERE! EVEN IF YOU CANNOT SEE ME, I AM WATCHING OVER YOU! NOW GO! SPREAD THE WORD!”
Jesus ascended.
“Thank you, my Christ! I will spread your word. What shall I call your word, your religion?”
“UM – CALL IT,” said Peter. He looked to Mark. Mark shrugged. He was at a loss. “CALL IT CHRIST – UM – IANITY.”
“Pardon?” said Mary.
“I SAID, CALL IT CHRISTIANITY!”
“Yes, my lord! Thank you! Thank you! Praise God and praise Jesus and His Christianity!”
Tears streamed down Mary’s cheeks as she and her followers ran joyously from the tomb.
Once they were out of earshot, Peter shouted, “Galilee? Really?”
“I was just picking up your slack. Anyway, what are you giving me shit for? Christianity? Really? Bang-up job with that name! Of all the things Jesus could have called his religion, you think he would have named it after himself?”
“It was the best I could come up with on the spot. I almost said Jesus-ocity.”
“At least your faith makes up for your creativity.”
“You think you could have come up with something better?”
“Absolutely!”
“Ok! What do you got?”
Mark thought for a moment. “Islam.”
“What the hell is Islam?”
“Jesus is the lamb of God. Is lamb. Islam. You said come up with something better. I did.”
“Islam is not better than Christianity!”
“That’s neither here nor there. Effectively, they’re the same thing.”
In the distance, the sun rose and welcomed the long shadows of dawn. Light spread across the desert in an undeniable display of the Lord’s power and glory. Below them, Jerusalem sat in that celestial glow. And as the men looked out over all of creation, they failed to sense the stir of the crumpled, lifeless body at their feet.
“Mark,” Peter said, “We are in over our heads.”
“Sure are.”
“What would Jesus do?”
“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t go to Galilee,” said Jesus.
Both men shrieked and bolted away from the talking corpse. They wanted no part of whatever witchcraft or devilry could resurrect a man from the dead.
“J- Jesus?” said Peter, peering around a cluster of rocks.
“Oh my God,” said Mark, peering around Peter.
The men watched as Jesus sat up. He looked out across the horizon, and then to his limbs and circumstance. Arms lashed to splintered sticks, a rod ran up his back, pressed between butt cheeks, and grassy twine knotted into his hair. He looked to the cluster of rocks, to the men, his apostles. “How about you two untie me?”
“Praise the Lord! Praise God! I’m so sorry,” said Pete as he dove forward and cut Jesus from the apparatus. “I prayed for your safe return from Hell, and here you are!”
“Of course I’m here. I’m the son of God. You think a few nails and some effigy would stop me?”
“No, I didn’t mean – I just – we didn’t think you were going to come back,” Mark said, and then hesitated before finishing, “so we kind of – just pretended you did.”
Jesus looked to the sky overhead. “I said dawn. It’s only dawn now.”
Mark glared at Pete.
“I guess I got a little overzealous,” said Pete.
“It’s alright. To be honest, I heard you two messing with the boulder and decided to see what you’d do if left to your own devices.”
“You were awake the entire time?” asked Mark.
“The entire time.”
“Really? Sorry about the – the bad touch, and well – you know – everything else too.”
Jesus placed his hand on Mark’s shoulder “Let’s just focus on the good things you two did. You could have twisted my teachings, gone to war in my name, condemned the meek. But you didn’t. You showed that man is inherently good. And even without the threat of damnation hanging over your heads, you two still managed to, more or less, do the right thing. You kept the faith alive for the right reasons. Albeit with a stupid name.”
“Told you he wouldn’t have named it after himself!”
“I wasn’t going to name it anything,” said Jesus. “It would simply be a universal truth. The way the sky is blue, the way breath fills your lungs, humanity would just love and respect each other. Always. Giving something a name only creates a reason to fight. Call it Scientology, call it the Beatles. It doesn’t matter, all you need is love.”
“Yeah,” said Peter, “I kind of like the way Christianity sounds.”
“It’s kind of growing on me, too,” said Mark.
“Alright, we’ll let it be,” said Jesus. “Now, onto business. Hell was not what I expected, and the world is in a whole heap of trouble if that’s where it ends up!”
“Was there fire?” Pete asked softly, afraid of the answer.
“Fire and evil men all around. But there were good men trapped there as well; it was they who helped me return.”
“So, now what? We cut through Galilee, circle back by Bethlehem, climb Mount Olivet, spreading the word as we go?”
“Yes.” Jesus turned toward the horizon. “That is what you two will be doing. I have another path to follow.”
“What about the world? Your people? We need you to guide us and show us the way.”
“Do you? You two were ready to string me up and pass a puppet off as the Son of God. I think you’ve got what it takes to run a religion.”
Peter stepped forward. “Yeah, we can pretend. But what about the miracles? People need miracles.”
“Oh, you want to perform miracles too, okay. Easy enough. I can give you that power.” Jesus took each of their hands in his. “The ritual has already begun. Which one of you touched my penis in there?”
Mark’s mouth fell open, and Peter pointed wholeheartedly at him.
“Okay. Turn around and bend over, lets finish the ritual.” said Jesus.
“What?” Mark leaped. “No. No, no, no. Wait a second -“
“I’m kidding,” Jesus laughed. “There is no ritual. I have given you both the gift of The Christ. Miracles and powers will now come to you and your descendants. Use them righteously, and they will come as easy as breathing. Use them poorly, and you will see just how useless power can be.”
“Phew!” Mark wiped his brow. “You scared me there.”
“Yeah, that was quite the overreaction,” said Jesus “You should probably do some soul searching before you pretend to be anyone’s savior.”
“Thank you, Jesus. We won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Sorry about freaking out. Fear of the unknown.”
“I understand. Don’t be sorry. Learn to know yourself.” Jesus shook both men’s hands. “Well, I guess this is goodbye. I don’t believe we will ever cross paths again, so if there is anything else you want to know, now’s the time.”
Peter raised his hand.
“Yes?” said Jesus.
“Why wasn’t I invited to your wedding?”
