NAP 2.2

Page 29


When I saw Him, He appeared to be covered in some kind of mustard, or liquid cheese. A yellow, oily sludge dripped from the cuffs of His robe. I opened the door before He could knock, entreated Him with a small bow, “Welcome master! Could I interest you in a shower while I wash your robes in the laundry detergent of your choice?” He flinched, glanced up to the heavens and back at me, “Son, please let me in. I’ve walked from DeKalb, Illinois, and my bunions are killing—don’t call me ‘master.’ ” I guided Him to our humble kitchen, where I’d laid out a table with pastries, meats, cheeses, fruits—a feast for the Son of Our Lord returned to us. He did not bow His head or pray. I guess if you’re the Son of God you don’t have to. His filthy robes imprinted my pastel dining chair as he devoured the buffet. I tried not to look at the mustard footprints filing down the hallway carpet. Martha would flay me. Bowed by His grace, I stood in the doorway, tried to ask again, “A shower? Some clean clothes? Father, who did this to you? Was it the atheists or the Muslims? The Jews?” He peered at me with what I thought may be pity, or annoyance that I was breaking His covenant with the cheese plate, “Son, Christians did this to me.”

“What? Which ones? Where?”