Coffee with Jesus' Son

I answered the call from Jack, the Son of the Son of God.

"John," he begged, "don't kill yourself!"

This was the first time I'd heard from him since the evening we either got back from partying with Greek gods on the lost continent of Atlantis, or we came down from tripping after taking some heavily acid-laced communion wafers. Or both? I still wasn't sure.

I did finally make it back to my apartment that evening, thanks to a street-walking good samaratin and two different locksmiths. I didn't want to seem too clingy, so I restrained myself from calling Jack for most of the following day, though I did eventually try calling him before I was able to fall asleep that night. He didn't answer. I tried five times the day after that, probably four more times than I should have, but still no answer. On the third day, he called me.

"Ok, is there a reason I should kill myself?" I replied, confused.

"No, no, of course not!" Jack said. "Just hang tight, I'm coming over to get you and we can talk more over breakfast. But in the meantime—"

"Don't kill myself," I said. "Got it."

He picked me up twenty minutes later, and we headed to the best pancake house on the North Side.

"Sorry you haven't heard from me," he said as he drove. "I was sleeping it off, you know how it goes. I haven't even checked my messages yet. Did you try calling me?"

"Once or twice," I lied.

We were in the restaurant booth digging into our two-of-everything breakfast platters before I asked, "So, why are you worried I'm going to kill myself?"

"Oh, you know," Jack said, straining to phrase things delicately. "Sometimes after people find out for sure that all this heaven stuff is real, they try to...speed things along."

"Oh," I said. I hadn't even thought of that.

"But you can't come back from killing yourself," Jack warned, gravely serious. "When we try to bring them back...it isn't pretty. The best we can do is save those souls on backup tape and hope that maybe someday we find a way to make it work. Not even Dad can do anything about it. It's really sad."

"Shit, dude," I said, shaking my head. "Well, you don't have to worry about me on that front, I promise."

"Good," Jack said. "And no heroics, either."

"What, you mean if I die trying to save someone, I'll still end up on backup tape?"

"Well, no," he said. "Obviously if you lay down your life for someone, that's a direct ticket to the best heaven. No greater love, and all that. But it's a lot easier to get someone into a heaven than to get them out again."

He seemed to immediately realize this wasn't much of a disincentive.

"And dying hurts like a bitch," he continued. "Seriously. There ain't no such thing as going peacefully in your sleep. When you die, you feel it. Your soul feels it. So, just...don't die."

"Ok, I promise, no dying," I said. "But it's still going to happen to me eventually, right? Anything else I should know to be sure I land in a heaven when my time comes?"

"I told you, you don't need to worry about it," he said. "We're buddies. I'll make sure you get into a good one."

"No, that's totally cool, I'm grateful," I said. "I'm just curious, in general. If it weren't for you, would I have to, like, follow the Bible?"

"Pfft," he scoffed, "only if you want to bore yourself to death."

"So the Bible isn't true?"

"Is the New York Times true?" he asked. "It's humans writing about the divine, not a divine rulebook for humans. You've got to take everything it says with a grain of salt."

"Are there any rules at all?" I asked.

"Dude, there are more rules than I can count," Jack said. "But so long as you're willing to accept help from a higher power, you're going to do alright in the afterlife."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Is this where you start talking about accepting your Dad as my personal Lord and Savior?"

"Nah, it's got nothing to do with what you believe," Jack said. "There are enough atheists in heaven to prove that much.

"Look, everyone gets the chance to refuse Dad's help. He doesn't force it on anyone. I couldn't tell you why anyone turns Dad down, but the ones who do are fair game for the devils. I guess some folks would rather spend eternity with a hot iron rod up their butt than accept a helping hand, so Dad lets them."

"So there's really a hell?" I asked. "Or hells, I suppose?"

"Not as many as there were before Dad," Jack explained. "It used to be a devil could snatch you up just because it was there when you died. Now the worst places are mostly just limbos and purgatories, or mixed bags like Pan's place."

This was by far the most I'd ever gotten out of him about his family.

"So how does your Dad decide where people go?" I asked, trying to sound casual about it.

"Not how it works," Jack said. "Dad doesn't usually make that decision, at least not directly—though he can pull some strings when he wants. But resurrection tech existed for thousands of years before Dad, and it's always been the idols running that show, literally fighting each other over souls. Back in the day, things could get pretty ugly in the afterlife—most souls just became slaves, cannon fodder or worse.

"Then Dad came along and laid down the Law, and now there are all sorts of rules governing resurrection, mostly focused on finding the right fit for each soul. Not everyone wants to go to heaven, see? Some souls like a bit of an edge to their existence. And the complete assholes are all kept together away from everyone else—I wouldn't call that hell, though, just karma.

"Then, honestly, some souls are just better than others—Dad loves them all equally, I'm just saying—and the best end up getting to choose from multiple heavenly offers. But unless you're a complete asshole, everyone's going to end up somewhere they consider decent when they die, thanks to Dad. So if you're looking for a rule, I'd just say, don't be a complete asshole."

"I think I can manage that," I laughed. "So, what does your Grandpa do in all this?"

"Everything."

I sat there quietly, waiting and hoping for more.

"I don't know what else you want me to say," Jack continued. "Grandpa is the God. He's the reason anything exists at all. So don't look at me, I certainly can't explain it."

"Fair," I said.

"Anyway," said Jack, changing the subject, "I want to hear more about what you did after we split up at the party. You did eventually get laid, yeah?"

We swapped stories from the weekend and finished our platters. As we waited for the check, I turned the topic back to the religious stuff.

"Why doesn't any of this sound like what I learned in Sunday school?"

"Oh, you can blame the monotheorists for that," Jack replied.

"Uh, I thought you were one," I said, confused.

"No man, not monotheist," he said. "Mono-theorist. People who believe there's only one True Story."

I could hear his use of capitalization.

"I'm still not following you," I said.

"Monotheorists think they can tell one story that describes all of reality," Jack explained. "They can't handle the fact that two contradictory stories can both be true."

"How can two contradictory stories both be true, though?" I asked. "Ultimately there's only one reality, right?"

"Well, yeah," Jack said, "there's only one God and only one Creation. But there are as many perspectives of God and Creation as there are people. You know the story of the blind men and the elephant, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," I said, "Everyone's heard that one. A bunch of blind men are trying to figure out what an elephant is, and one feels the elephant's leg and thinks it's a tree, and one feels its side and thinks it's a wall..."

Jack interrupts, "...and one feels its dick and thinks it's a snake. Yeah, that one. Reality looks different to everyone, and everyone is right and wrong in their own unique ways, so you've got to really listen to people explain things in their own terms if you want to understand the experience they're describing. You can't just shove it all into a single framework and expect to see anyone's point.

"But monotheorists think they've found some fundamental truth they can cling to, be it a book, method, revelation or whatever, and they twist everything else around trying to make it fit their fundamentals. They not only misunderstand everyone else, they end up corrupting whatever truth their own fundamentals had to begin with.

"And that's how you get the bullshit they peddle in churches. Take the dozens of different perspectives expressed in the Bible, mix in bits from hundreds of different theologians and philosophers, insist there are no contradictions in any of it, ignore anyone that disagrees, and lo and behold, the result has nothing to do with reality. Big surprise.

"Monotheorists piss me the fuck off. If you don't fit into their story, they'll fuck your shit up. Luckily, most of them don't even know I exist, and I'd like to keep it that way. Stay as far away from them as you can."

"Will do!" I said. I'd never seen him riled up before.

"Sorry," he said, calming himself down. "I've just...had some bad experiences."

"No worries," I said.

I tried to lighten the mood.

"I've got to hand it to you," I chuckled, "Atlantis, heaven, hell, monotheorists... you've almost got me believing all this!"

"What do you mean?" he asked warily. "You went to Atlantis. You saw for yourself..."

"Yeah, but you gotta admit, I was on a lot of drugs!"

I could tell right away this was not the thing to say.

"Man, I thought you were different," Jack scowled. "I don't take just anyone to Atlantis, you know. Overs ain't cheap!"

"I didn't mean...I mean..." I mumbled, grasping for a way to backpedal.

"Look," he said, grabbing a glass of water. He pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it in the glass. The water turned a deep red. He pushed it over to me.

"Go on, take a sip," he said.

"Dude, it is way too early—"

"It's not drugs," he said, his frustration palpable. "It's wine. I totally just turned water into wine. Is that enough proof for you?"

I took a sip. It was definitely fully alcoholic wine.

"Yeah, but you slipped something into it," I said quietly.

He took a breath and shut his eyes. "Yes, because it's all just technology, like I told you. But do you know anyone else in the globe who's got something they can put in water to make instant wine?"

"No," I admitted. "But look, dude, you've got to allow me a little bit of skepticism, yeah? And next time we go to Atlantis, I can lay off the hard stuff and—"

"Assuming there is a next time," Jack snapped. "Fucking globers."

We sat in awkward silence. The waitress dropped the check on the table.

"Look, I believe you, dude," I said. "I'm not even saying that just so you'll take me back to Atlantis. I don't care if you take me to Atlantis. I believe you."

He just sat there staring at his coffee mug.

"Are we cool?" I asked.

He pulled a few bills out of his wallet and put them on the table.

"Yeah, man, we're cool," he said, but he didn't sound like it. "Let's get you home."

We didn't say much on the drive back.

We pulled up to my place. He stared out the front window as he said, "Look, you should know I'm going to be out of town for a few weeks. I'll give you a call when I'm back."

"Ok," I said.

He just kept looking out the window, so I got out of the car.

Right before I shut the door, I looked at him and said, "I believe you, Jack. I really do."

"I know," he said, looking at me. Then he swatted the air like he was swatting away the bad thoughts and smiled a little. "I know. I'll see you when I get back."

"Cool," I said. I didn't know what else to say. I didn't want to hurt a tenuous truce. So I shut the door.

And he drove away.

I was numb for the rest of the afternoon. I tried to remind myself that it was reasonable to have doubts about, you know, the earth being flat and all that. That it was a bit harsh of Jack to expect otherwise.

But it didn't feel that way.

I needed to get out, to take my mind off things. I moped my way over to the El station, and moped while I waited for the train, listening to all the other "globers" talking. That's when I noticed it.

They were all speaking English.

I mean, I could hear the Spanish. Some Korean. But it was muffled, like I was hearing it through a wall.

Frantically, I pulled out my phone and called Jack.

It went straight to voicemail.

...

I really blew that one hard, didn't I?

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