The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (4 page)

“Well, I need to be going if I want my beauty sleep. I have a busy day tomorrow, and Walter needs to be fed.” That was a lie. Walter was extremely self-sufficient, but it was the only excuse I could muster, considering the unnerving sight of my parents’ manic staring and smiling, which was very off-putting. I felt it was good enough. “So if there’s something you want to tell me, now would be a good time.” I hoped that this prompt would help Mother regain her vocal powers. In retrospect, I wished I had kept my mouth shut.

“I am a virgin,” said Mother. It was more an announcement than an actual statement. It was the last thing I expected to come from her mouth. She continued to smile as I shuffled uneasily in my chair. I noticed this announcement had not changed my father’s expression either. Now it was my turn to smile.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, hoping Mother would say it again. I had never seen her joke like this before.

CHAPTER

“I AM A VIRGIN,” MOTHER
repeated. This time her smile was not as strong as before. “I am a virgin, and so is your father.” My dad nodded as if showing he concurred with the rather bold and bizarre statement his wife had made. I grinned. They were playing a silly joke on me. They were testing me. Why they were testing me, I did not know, but I thought I would play along. I decided not to respond. Mother continued to speak as she fiddled with the mug of wine clasped in her hand. She spoke quickly but deliberately.

“Oh, Seth, we should have told you years ago, but the time never seemed right. I hope you understand, but, well, what with school, and the business, and then the golf club, and then Yale, and all the other things, we simply kept putting it off and putting it off.” She paused for breath before continuing. “It’s not as if we were trying to hide anything from you, and well, you know how sometimes things get forgotten, and as time passed, I thought it could have been a mistake.” I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, and my perplexed expression obviously relayed that, but I did not interrupt.

“Anyway, the thing is, but, well, you see, your dad really isn’t your real father.” I stopped smiling and looked at my dad. What was this? I had no chance to ask as Mother was still speaking, and no one interrupted her when she was in full flow. “I am a virgin. In fact, we both are virgins. It’s why we were chosen. I have always been a virgin, and I’m proud to be a virgin; so is your father.” My dad nodded his agreement.

I still had no idea what she was talking about, and I put the bizarre announcement she had just made down to drink or hormones or possibly a combination of both. Why my father was playing along with this, I had no idea. Of course, it was a preposterous thing to say.

“So you’re telling me I’m adopted?” I said. Not that I believed I was. I was merely going along with their little joke, for now. They looked at each other, and for a second, I thought they were going to laugh aloud, but all they did was smile knowingly at each other and then look at me.

“No, dear, you’re not adopted. I thought you’d think that,” said Mother knowingly.

“So what is this, what’s the punch line?” I asked.

“Honey, this isn’t a joke,” replied Mother. I cringed at “honey” and a sudden feeling of despair washed over me. I could tell by her tone that this was not a joke. They actually believed what they were saying. I came to the immediate conclusion that my parents were mentally ill. The connotations of this were awful. I would have to have them institutionalized. I would have to care for them. I would have to visit them on weekends. This could be a disaster for my social life. My father interrupted my thoughts of weekend visits, drooling straight jacketed parents, padded cells, teeth removal, and other images and visions of caring for mad parents.

“What your mother is trying to say is that, well, it’s hard to grasp, and probably hard to understand, but it is no joke, and despite what you probably think, we are neither mad nor drunk.” He looked down at his mug. “Well, maybe we are a little tipsy, but we needed some Dutch courage. This is a big thing, Seth.” He sounded sincere. I was intrigued. Mother patted my dad’s hand as reassurance, and that act of affection alone was enough to convince me that she too, in her mind at least, was being sincere.

Once again Mother spoke, again deliberately, but a little slower than before. “What we are trying to say, and really, we should have done this years ago, but like I said, it completely slipped our minds, and I don’t think too much harm has been done. Well, not that you’d notice; it could have been a lot worse, but, well, oh dear, how can I say this…. Seth, you are the Son of God.”

It was official. My parents were crazy. They had gone mad. The images of loony-filled wards and a social life revolving around hospital visiting hours returned. Or maybe it was even worse. Somehow, this old Jewish couple was suddenly evangelistic or Mormon, or maybe they had been brainwashed by Jehovah’s witnesses or a cult. I wondered who had kidnaped my parents and replaced them with these two crazy look-alikes.

“Well, that’s nice to know,” I said, half-smiling. Once again, I glanced at my watch as if indicating the lateness of the hour. “I really need to be getting home now. When you return my parents, please have them call me. By the way, it was a lovely dinner. The chicken was perfect, not as good as my real mother would make, but I suppose being an imposter you couldn’t get it all quite right, but it really was a good attempt.” I began to rise, but mother spoke before I could completely free myself from the easy chair.

“Maybe we are not being clear enough, dear. Listen, what we are trying to tell you is that I am really a virgin, a holy virgin, like the Mary woman from the Bible. I always have been and always will be. Your Father, not this Father,” she indicated to Dad, who raised his hand as if to remind me he was the “father” being discussed, “is actually God. Your real father,” once again Dad raised his hand, “is not your real father. You are, well, sort of the Messiah, the second coming, Jesus’s brother, the Christ child, the chosen one, the savior, or whatever those people call you.”

By “those people” I presumed she meant Christians.

That’s when I laughed. I laughed so loud that I thought I was going have to use the bathroom. I don’t think I had ever laughed that hard before. I let rip. I felt bad, laughing at my parents, but it was hilarious. I had not expected this; it was highly original, and I was very amused. As I laughed, they stared at me, but they were no longer smiling. Their faces were deadpan which only made me laugh harder and louder. I had to grab my side; I laughed so hard it hurt. They continued to stare, their faces sterner than deadpan. It was a joke, their best joke ever—in fact their only joke ever—I had never known my parents joke. They never joked. Oh, shit. My parents do not joke. My laughter curtailed slightly, long enough for me to speak.

“Come on,” I pleaded, my arms outstretched. “What is this?” They sat stony-faced. I felt slightly guilty for laughing so hard. I could tell they were not pleased by my outburst of laughter. I felt I needed to speak and ease the tension that had suddenly emerged.

“For a start, we are Jewish. We don’t go for all that Christ stuff. Come on, be real. If you are going to play a joke on me, you cannot expect me not to laugh. What is this? You guys started this. How was I meant to react? Have you two been drinking too much? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Come on. Mother? Dad? What’s this all about?” Their expressions had not changed, and if I were eight years old, I would have thought I was in trouble.

“It’s the truth, son,” said Dad, more somber and serious than I had ever seen him before in my life.

And that’s when I realized they were not kidding around. That’s when I realized that they believed every word they said was the truth.

CHAPTER

NOW OBVIOUSLY, THE EVENING DID
not end there. It did not end with me casually calling a cab, kissing my mother on the cheek, shaking Dad’s hand, and returning to my contended and uncomplicated life. It is important that I fill you in on my parents a little more. They did not joke around. I had never known them joke around. For them to joke around was unheard of. Oh no, to say my parents were jokers would not be true. They did not joke, I hope that is clear. Jokes were not on the Miller list of things to do.

“You are not joking, are you?” I said. I no longer smiled. I sank back into the easy chair.

“No, dear, we are not,” replied my mother, no longer stony-faced, which was a relief because when she got that face on let’s just say you didn’t want to be around for
that
face, or the words that came from the mouth of
that
face.

“You actually believe what you are saying, don’t you?” I said, as more of a statement than a question; I already knew the answer.

“It’s not that we believe or do not believe what we are saying, quite simply it’s the truth; it’s the truth, dear, it’s the truth.” I had never heard my Mother speak so sincerely. “I am a virgin; you were a miracle child. Your father,” Dad raised his hand again, “and I were chosen by God to carry his second son—that’s you, Seth—and to bring you up as our son like Mary and Joseph did.” She seemed as if she actually believed that. It was not a joke. It must have been something else; maybe they had been hypnotized, or terrorists had put something in the Borough Park water supply, or maybe my earlier brainwashing theory was correct. Or much worse, they could actually be mad. My parents could really be crazy. I wasn’t sure whether to reason with them or try and bring them to their senses.

I decided I would highlight the total absurdity of it all. I spoke softly and quietly “Mother, we are Jewish. Why would God choose a Jewish couple to raise his son? Surely he would want a Christian family?” I felt that was a good start.

“Well, it was all a bit of a mistake that bit anyway. He did originally think we were Christians. I think our surname must have confused him. I did point this out at the time, but it was too late, and anyway, he said it wasn’t important.” Mother sounded convincing. It was ridiculous, but I knew she believed what she said. I felt, though, that God would realize Miller was the third most common surname for Jews in the United States. I thought everybody knew that.

“Anyway,” said Dad. “He chose Jews last time. Mary and Joseph were both from Israel.” I looked at him and shook my head.

“I suppose God pointed that out to you?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Yes, I think he did, actually,” answered Dad, rubbing his chin as if trying to recall something from his memory bank. Again, I shook my head in disbelief.

“Ok, ok, I will go along with your little game for now. If I am the Son of God, why are you telling me now? I am thirty-two, very nearly thirty-three. Surely by now I would have had some inclination as to who I am? Surely I would have performed some sort of miracle or at least some kind of trick?” I gave my parents no chance to reply as I continued to speak. “Why, if what you two say is correct, have I not turned water into wine, risen the dead, stopped war, won the lotto, married a supermodel, all that stuff? Why haven’t I spoken to God? Answer that? If I am the son of God, why has he not spoken to me? Got an answer for that one? But more importantly, why was I circumcised? Why that, why at least didn’t you stop that? It was extremely painful. I don’t recall it, but I guarantee I wasn’t smiling afterward.”

“He said you would react like this,” said Mother. “Didn’t he, Ely?” Dad nodded. I shook my head once again. This was frustrating. Dad rose from the sofa, stretched and yawned. I couldn’t believe it; he was going to bed!

“Well, I’m beat. It’s time for me to go to sleep, and I get the feeling you’re going to take some convincing. I will leave that to your mother.” And with that, he was gone. It was as if the last twenty minutes had never happened. It was typical of my dad. As far as he was concerned, the truth was out, despite the ridiculousness of it all; it was time for bed, and nothing would stop him from sleeping. It was a trait I had never much liked in Dad. He never argued or became embroiled in controversy; once he made his statement, it was finished. It was why Mother found him so easy to manipulate. Unfortunately, this reinforced my theory that they actually believed what they were saying. I looked at Mother in the hope that she would stop my dad from leaving, but she just shrugged. She knew it would be pointless, and I got the feeling that maybe she had even orchestrated my dad’s departure. It dawned on me she probably had more to say and didn’t want Dad to hear it. Either that or she wanted alone time with me. I bet myself she had instructed Dad to make himself scarce at an allotted point in the evening, and that assigned point was now. Dad bid me goodnight, kissed Mother on the forehead, and with that, he was gone.

“Really, there isn’t much he can add anyway. God came to me more, in any case. He chose me, not him. He sort of just went along with it; you know what he’s like. I think God spoke to him once or twice, but it wasn’t anything important. He didn’t much like the ‘virgin all my life’ business, but you know your father— well, that father anyway—he kind of likes an easy life.” Could she hear herself? An easy life? The guy, according to both of them if this whole thing were true, which I assure you I did not believe it was, had never had sexual intercourse! He had brought up another man’s child and got nothing for it. No miracles, nothing. He had spent his whole adult life succumbing to Mother and her overbearing methods.

I was becoming annoyed, and despite my deep-rooted fear of the consequences of confrontation with Mother, enough was enough. “Oh, come on, Mother,” I said, my tone aggressive, which was a first for me when talking with Mother. “This is totally ridiculous. If any of this is true, why didn’t you tell me before? Why wait until now? Why not tell me when I was thirteen? After I left high school, college? Not that for one minute I think any of this ridiculous and tiresome story is true anyway.” I waited for the reaction. The eruption. I had never spoken to my mother like that before.

“To be honest, your father really wanted to tell you. I mean, Ely your father, not God your father, but I felt it would interfere with your schoolwork, and then you headed to college. You were doing so well, and you seemed so happy. It didn’t seem fair to burden you with all this Messiah and second coming business. Then one thing led to another, and it slipped our minds. We brushed it to one side. Kind of hoped it would go away, and that maybe you’re real Father, God, had forgotten about you. You see, he is like that. He is very forgetful.” It was a relief that her reaction was not volcanic; however her answer was beyond ridiculous, as was the whole evening. I could not believe it; she talked about God as if she had actually spoken to him. She was very convincing; she had obviously already convinced herself. What was more bizarre, though, was that she was talking about God, the creator of the Universe, as if he were some sort of forgetful, old uncle who had a reputation for mislaying his spectacles! A different approach was required. I felt if I placated her for a while, she might come to her senses.

“So let’s just say, for arguments sake, that I actually believe you. Let us assume, for the time being at least, that what you have told me is true. Run it all by me from the beginning and in chronological order. Dates, times, everything.” So she did. My mother proceeded to tell me the whole story from the moment of my alleged ‘Immaculate Conception’ right up to the phone call she made that afternoon to me at my office. I will not bore you by reciting what she said word for word. She was far too dramatic and went into far too much detail. To be honest, it would take much too long to recite word-for-word her version of events. I will give you a condensed and briefer summary of what she said, but in my own words, and with a little added family history so you can keep on track.