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Last night, while driving home from bingo, Jesus jumped in front of my car and banged up against the windscreen. At first I thought I had hit a moose, but the giant crucifix was the clincher. Although I've seen plenty of cross moose, I've yet to see a crucified one. Even the most stalwart of Roman bodybuilders would be hard pressed to lift a moose, spread its front legs, and nail through its hooves. So the dark, hirsute man with a bloody crown of horns must surely have been the Messiah.
But what was he doing with his big bearded head jammed through my windscreen?
My face and mouth were spattered with blood, but not my own. After my initial screams had worn down to a thin, keening trickle, I managed to gasp out, "Jesus Christ!" It's what I say pretty much every time I'm in a dreadful accident. This time, there was an answer in the affirmative.
A deep, sonorous voice mooed out, "Yes?"
"What are you doing with your head through my windscreen?"
He rearranged a hoof on the hood of my car. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that the Lord works in mysterious ways?"
"Yes, but...."
"No buts," Jesus said. "I'm am simply working in a mysterious way. After all, when I suddenly intruded on your personal space, didn't you utter a prayer, of sorts? Didn't you--an avowed agnostic--suddenly find God?"
He had me there.
I helped him extricate his great head from my shattered windscreen. There was blood on my dashboard, but it smelled remarkably like red wine. I could taste a well-aged cabernet on my lips (it had a distinct bouquet of passion fruit and Golgotha dogwood). Somewhere, off in the distance, I could hear the shrill, blue-and-white ululation of a siren. "Oh shit," I said. "I'm going to be nailed for DUI!"
The Lord winced at my choice of words.
"Look, Jesus? I know you're a right wiz with liquids. I know that you can turn water into wine, and wine into your blood. So how about you turn your blood into water, so I don't get nailed by the breathalyzer?"
He smiled at me. "It is done," he said, and at that, the fine taste of cabernet turned into the chlorinated aftertaste of Fredericton city water.
And that's how I was saved by the Lord. Too bad he wrecked my car, though.
But what was he doing with his big bearded head jammed through my windscreen?
My face and mouth were spattered with blood, but not my own. After my initial screams had worn down to a thin, keening trickle, I managed to gasp out, "Jesus Christ!" It's what I say pretty much every time I'm in a dreadful accident. This time, there was an answer in the affirmative.
A deep, sonorous voice mooed out, "Yes?"
"What are you doing with your head through my windscreen?"
He rearranged a hoof on the hood of my car. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that the Lord works in mysterious ways?"
"Yes, but...."
"No buts," Jesus said. "I'm am simply working in a mysterious way. After all, when I suddenly intruded on your personal space, didn't you utter a prayer, of sorts? Didn't you--an avowed agnostic--suddenly find God?"
He had me there.
I helped him extricate his great head from my shattered windscreen. There was blood on my dashboard, but it smelled remarkably like red wine. I could taste a well-aged cabernet on my lips (it had a distinct bouquet of passion fruit and Golgotha dogwood). Somewhere, off in the distance, I could hear the shrill, blue-and-white ululation of a siren. "Oh shit," I said. "I'm going to be nailed for DUI!"
The Lord winced at my choice of words.
"Look, Jesus? I know you're a right wiz with liquids. I know that you can turn water into wine, and wine into your blood. So how about you turn your blood into water, so I don't get nailed by the breathalyzer?"
He smiled at me. "It is done," he said, and at that, the fine taste of cabernet turned into the chlorinated aftertaste of Fredericton city water.
And that's how I was saved by the Lord. Too bad he wrecked my car, though.
