The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy

by Duncan Whitehead

  Luckily, my conversation with Bill was cut short, as the object that we were heading toward began to form a shape, and we could just about make out what it was.

  “Is that what I think is?” asked Bill.

  “If you think that it is a castle, then yes, I do believe it is what you think,” I replied as I stopped in my tracks.

  I could clearly make out four turrets that seemed to join each of the four walls, and there also appeared to be, though we were still some distance away, a larger building with a spire or other tall turret-like object protruding from its middle, which was located within the castle walls.

  “If my memory serves me well,” said Bill “I would say that is definitely a twelfth-century castle, typical of the kind found in medieval Europe. From what I can make out, it seems to be a Motte and Bailey type, commonly found in England.” I was glad Bill was a geek. “If you look closely, you will see the building in the center is actually a manor house or a great hall, which often housed the chapel, and is probably the reason for the spire.” I was very impressed with Bill’s knowledge of castles and their construction techniques. Though it meant nothing to me; it was just a big castle with a moat and a drawbridge. As we got closer, and the castle grew larger, I could see Bill was getting more excited. “I stand corrected,” said Bill as we reached the edge of the water-filled moat. “It’s actually of concentric design, which means there is no keep; they relied on the main wall for defense, with towers along the length of the walls.” Bill pointed at the towers which I could see quite clearly. “Most Edwardian castles had three concentric rings of walls and towers. This seems only to have one,” continued Bill. “The central space was kept as an open courtyard, but some, like this one, would house the owner’s home, the manor house.” Bill’s knowledge, though fascinating, did not tell me the one thing I needed to know.

  “You see that,” Bill pointed at the moat, “that’s a moat.” I looked at Bill and smiled widely, indicating I already knew that. “Sorry, just getting a bit carried away,” apologized Bill.

  “How do you know so much about castles anyway?” I asked Bill as we stood on the wrong side of the moat.

  “Dungeons and Dragons. I play it all the time. There is a whole game plan devoted to building your castle defenses.”

  “Well, it looks like that this castle has no one defending it. Look, it seems deserted,” I said. The castle did look deserted; I could see no knights guarding the walls and there appeared to be no activity in any of the four towers.

  “How do we get across?” I asked Bill, indicating the moat, which was at least twenty feet wide.

  “The drawbridge, usually,” said Bill, “which seems to be raised.” We walked around the castle. The moat did indeed surround all four walls, and there were no signs of life on any of the other three walls or rear towers. Beyond the castle, in all directions, was a green meadow. The orchard we had seen when we had first arrived was no more than a blip on the horizon.

  “I doubt they will have a phone,” said Bill. He had a point; there were no telegraph poles, electricity pylons, or any other modern structures in view. “What now?” asked Bill.

  We didn’t have to wait long to find out. The sound of chain on wood broke the silence around us as the drawbridge began to lower. As it hit the ground with a thud, the gate, which was behind where the drawbridge had stood when raised, opened outward. I looked at Bill, and Bill looked at me. As the gate slowly opened, the sound of the creaking amplified due to the acoustical nature of our surroundings, a figure emerged from the darkness. The darkness was caused by shadows, which seemed to cloak the entrance of the castle. We both took a step back at the same time. It was eerie, almost ghostly, and I have to admit, I was afraid, nervous, excited and spellbound all at the same time. So was Bill. I felt him shaking as he grabbed my hand.

  Normally, I would have rebuked the hand of another man, but in this case I made an exception. At that moment, I needed Bill as much as he needed me. The figure slowly emerged from the darkness. He wore a cloak that shrouded his face. He slowly and deliberately removed the hood that hid his face, and he moved into the light from the sun that did not shine above us. The man at the other of end of drawbridge beckoned us with his finger and then spoke.

  “You’re early.”

  Bill and I did as the outstretched finger instructed and made our way across the drawbridge and over the moat.

  “Did he just say we were early?” I whispered to Bill. Bill nodded.

  “He sure did.”

  As we approached the beckoning finger and passed through the gate, which now meant we stood within the castle walls, I managed to get a better look at the man who had greeted us. He wore a brown cloak with a hood, which he removed, revealing a rather unremarkable face. I estimated he was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, and he was balding. What hair he had was gray, and he possessed a rather glum-looking face, which I would describe as dour. There was a small gap at the nape of his cloak that revealed a shirt and tie.

  “You do know that you are early, don’t you?” said our new, unidentified friend. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as I think everyone on my list has arrived anyway,” he said before either I or Bill could reply. If he looked dour, then he certainly sounded dour as well. His voice was monotone, and if I had met him anywhere else other than a remote castle in the middle of nowhere, I would have called him boring. I guessed his accent was Midwestern, probably from Ohio, but I wasn’t sure. Before we got too close, Bill whispered to me that he believed it was Saint Peter who kept Heaven’s gate. I found it hard to believe that the glum man was the Saint Peter. When I finally got within conversation distance, I spoke.

  “Saint Peter?” I asked.

  “No, Bernard,” replied Bernard.

  “Saint Bernard?” suggested Bill.

  “No. That’s a type of dog,” said Bernard in his droning voice, “usually found in Switzerland, if memory serves. Renowned, I am led to believe, for their long history of life-saving with the small barrel of brandy that is attached to their collars, which they offer people in need. I am not sure how they offer it, but I understand that they do. To felled skiers and lost persons disoriented, I am sure, by snow. That is my understanding of whom, or in this case, what, a Saint Bernard is. I am merely Bernard.” I had never heard of Bernard, and I could not recall any character named Bernard in any Bible, Koran, or any other religious publication or manual.

  He seemed to be very knowledgeable about dogs though, especially large breeds. Bernard beckoned us into the castle, and we entered a courtyard. Bill was correct; the courtyard separated the gate from a single large building. It looked like a large house, and it did, as Bill had predicted, have some sort of chapel attached to the rear of it. I looked around and sized up my surroundings. It seemed, apart from Bernard, Bill, and I, that the place was deserted.

  “It’s a bit quiet,” I said to no one in particular. Bernard ignored me, but Bill joined in.

  “It’s like an old western town after the gold rush when everyone left. Buildings remained but no people.”

  “Apart from Bernard,” I said.

  “Apart from Bernard,” confirmed Bill. Bernard ignored our comments and instead pointed toward what Bill had called the great hall.

  “They are in there, waiting for you,” said Bernard, in his monotone voice. It seemed Bernard would not be joining us further. He turned and headed back to the gate where he raised the drawbridge courtesy of a wooden pulley lever. Once he raised the drawbridge, he closed the gate. He turned and saw Bill and I had not moved.

  “Go on,” he shouted, “what are you waiting for?” He gestured and pointed with his arm, motioning for us to move forward. Bill and I complied with Bernard’s zealous and enthusiastic pointing and gesturing, and walked forward, albeit slowly and pensively, toward the great hall.

  “Who was he?” asked Bill as we both spun around to see Bernard removing his cloak and heading toward a small plastic chair that sat beside the drawbridge’s pulley l
ever.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” I said and shrugged at the same time, “pretty strange character, though,” I added. Bill agreed that Bernard had indeed been an unlikely gatekeeper.

  We were about ten feet away from what we assumed was the main entrance to the great hall when the bulky, large, double oak doors flung open widely. I immediately recognized the voice.

  “You’re here, welcome, welcome,” said God as he stood at the entrance of the impressive building. “Found us ok, did you? Good. Did Bernard let you in all right? Fantastic. You are a little early, but that’s not a problem. Just glad you got here in one piece; well, two pieces, seeing as there is two of you.” God laughed at his observation.

  So here at last was God. He stood with his arms outstretched as if about to hug both Bill and Me at the same time with a big, beaming smile spread across his face. I liked the look of him immediately. Sometimes when you see a person for the first time, you get the feeling if you are going to like them or not. I definitely had a good feeling from God.

  We all have our own personal images of God in our minds, though no one, apart from Bill and I, that was, has ever seen him. Most people have an idea what God looks like. Whether that image resembles the painting by Michelangelo of God atop a cloud with his white hair and beard, or maybe they imagine a more personable appearance, I am not going to spoil anyone’s surprise, because sooner or later, you’ll find out what he looks like yourself. I will simply say he looked friendly and exactly how I thought he would look.

  As Bill and I entered the great hall, God embraced me. He hugged me like an old friend I hadn’t seen in years or, as was the case here, as a father would embrace a son. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled back as if to inspect me.

  “Let me look at you,” he said, and then turned to face Bill, “and you must be young Bill,” he said as he grabbed Bill’s hand and shook it vigorously. I supposed everyone was young to God: young Lincoln, young Churchill, and young Moses. I guess that when you were the one to get the ball rolling, and when you were however thousands of years old God was, everyone was younger than you.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said again ushering Bill and Me into the great hall. He looked around him and widened his arms, gesturing with his hands. “Welcome to HQ. Well, sort of HQ; this is more of a retreat from the hustle and bustle of our main office. We sometimes use it as a getaway, for weekends, and for senior staff.” I was curious no more.

  “So, this is Heaven? I mean, outside the castle, the meadows, and the orchard?” I asked God as he led Bill and me into the great hall.

  “Part of it,” said God, “you must realize that Heaven is more than a million times the size of Earth. It houses many, many residents from different time periods. This small area, and I mean the area outside the castle walls is pretty much undeveloped.” Undeveloped was right. As an architect based in Manhattan, to have that much open space to work with would be, well, Heaven.

  God explained that time and other concepts, such as movement, were different in Heaven than on Earth; while he had duplicated a lot of man’s structures and buildings in Heaven, he had done so to acclimatize new residents. The castle, he explained to Bill and Me, was originally intended as a transitional resting place for knights killed during the crusades before they were transported to Heaven proper. The idea was to gently make them realize they would soon be meeting their recent foes, and when they discovered they all had been fighting for the same God, they wouldn’t be too traumatized. God beckoned Bill and I to follow him further into the hall.

  “Everyone’s here,” he said, “everyone that needs to be, that is. A couple couldn’t make it, but not to worry,” he confirmed. “It’s a bit warm; we had to adjust the heat for your father,” he said motioning toward Bill, “but we have plenty of iced tea, wine, and water. The caterers have done a fantastic job; I got Saint Lawrence to head up that. Considering he is the patron saint of cooks, I thought he’d do a good job. I like to do that, allocate tasks and projects to the right Saint; kind of keeps their hand in, if you know what I mean.” God nudged me and flashed another one of his broad and beaming smiles.

  He was not exaggerating about the heat. It must have been at least ninety degrees in the great hall, and a waft of warm air hit us as soon as we left the vicinity of the door. The great hall was just how Bill had described it to me during our journey; it was a massive room with a high ceiling, and I would say at least three hundred feet in length and about two hundred feet wide. The feeling I got was definitely medieval; I had seen movies on TV about Robin Hood and Ivanhoe, and I had to admit, it seemed Hollywood had got it right. There were doors to the rear of the room which I presumed led to the chapel, as Bill had explained. Hung on all four walls was shields and banners. If they were duplicates created by God or the real thing brought by the fallen knights who had once passed through, I could not tell. About halfway along and in the center of every wall were large, beautifully crafted stained glass windows, which emitted light into the hall. I noticed there were though a few additions that the knights of old would have not seen during their time on Earth. Vector heaters sat at various locations, turned high to accommodate Lucifer. On a table, situated alongside the left-hand wall, sat a table laden with food and drink containers. It reminded me of a franchised hotel’s complimentary breakfast buffet, with a microwave on standby, and pots that I presumed contained coffee and tea. I guessed this was the result of Saint Lawrence’s efforts.

  In the middle of the room, taking center stage was a large, round table. I had never seen such a table before; it was approximately eighty feet in diameter and took up much of the floor space. It seemed to be made of oak or some other sturdy wood. It looked antique as if it had seen a lot of debates. As conference tables went, it had to be the most impressive I had ever seen. Spread around the table were ten chairs, evenly distanced from each other, which I guessed would have been from the same time period and designed by the same man who built the table. I noted three of the chairs were empty, but seven were occupied. God placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “Admiring the table, eh, son?” he asked. “It’s not a copy; it is actually the original. I managed to get it up here just before Camelot disappeared forever and just after Arthur arrived. He was delighted to see it again.”

  “You mean that this is the round table?” I asked, “The one from the Arthurian legend?”

  God smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, but that was no legend; well, some of it was exaggerated. Merlin was no wizard, but the rest of it is true.” I was tempted to ask about the Holy Grail but didn’t. I would let someone else tell that tale. God led Bill and me to the table, and though nobody seated needed an introduction, God, being the congenial host that he was, introduced Bill and me to some of the most recognizable faces in the history of mankind.

  “Ok,” said God, taking a deep breath and still smiling widely, “I’ll go around the table quickly and introduce everybody.” Bill and I stood open mouthed. Were we dreaming? It had to be the most surreal moment of my life to date, and I was the guy who walked on water!

  “This is Mahatma,” Gandhi rose and shook my hand first, then Bill’s. “He doesn’t say much,” said God, “but when he does, we listen. Very resourceful, and he has great stamina. He was a little disappointed when he got here originally; expected to be reincarnated, didn’t you?” God playfully rubbed Gandhi’s bald head. Gandhi nodded, smiling. “But he soon got over it.” God led Bill and I to the next seat.

  “Mother Teresa of Calcutta,” announced God.

  “Please don’t stand,” said Bill as Mother Teresa began to rise. Mother Teresa gave a stern look and then smiled. She took my hand and shook it warmly even though her grip was not strong. She then took Bill’s hand at the same time.

  “Now, you two boys,” she said in perfect English, “you be careful. You do know it can make you go blind?” Bill looked at her and tilted his head as if confused, and I felt myself blush.

  “Next,” said God as Mother Teresa re
turned to her seat from half rising, “Saint Peter.” Saint Peter did not rise but nodded at both Bill and I.

  “Hi,” we both said together and waved at the bearded gentleman who was dressed in a flowing white robe and sandals.

  He dabbed his forehead with a tissue. “Phew, it’s hot,” he said, smiling, as he waved the tissue in the air in a mock attempt to fan himself.

  Next up was Joan of Arc, clad in full body armor and sporting, as I had always envisaged, a ‘bowl haircut’. She too felt the effects of the heat, which surprised me. I would have thought she would have been used to the heat.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling as she bobbed about in her seat. “Hot in this armor,” she said and gestured with her hand across her brow to emphasize the heat. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now!” She laughed loudly at her own joke. It wasn’t a typical laugh but instead sounded like a pig snorting. She bobbed even more in her chair. Bill and I smiled at her weakly and proceeded to the next seat.

  “Over here we have my old friend and sparring partner, Moses,” exclaimed God. Moses was downing an ice tea when we reached his seat.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he wiped his hand across his mouth and then offered it to be shook. “Just grabbing a quick refresher before we start.” I nodded my understanding. I was amazed at how much he resembled Kirk Douglas.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said as he circled his face with his finger. He smiled and winked, “They cast that movie all wrong. The funny thing is that Spartacus, the real one who lives on the same block as me, is a dead ringer for Heston!” Moses threw his hands up in the air as if the whole thing was an unbelievable oversight by Hollywood.