I feel bad for Jesus. Not that he was betrayed. Not the absolving us of our sins. I get sad when the shower drain gets clogged, and my feet are covered with water.
Jesus’ big story is him walking on water. It’s a cool story, but I wonder if he was ever able to stick his feet under the water and just feel the sensations. I liked moments with sensations. Was he able to enjoy moments like that?
I asked my mom if Jesus was happy. I asked her if he wanted to be some great sacrifice for all of humanity, or if he was just forced to do it, like there were no other options.
Mom told me to say the prayer so we could eat. I frowned as gravy rolled over my mashed potatoes. I always liked it when the gravy soaked in.
Did Jesus’ feet work like that? Were they hydrophobic? Would water roll over the top of his feet just as easily as water resisted his heels from the bottom? Or would they soak in like the good gravy?
Mom scowled at me as gravy dripped from my mouth. When I did it in front of my friend Jeremy at school, he laughed.
Jeremy was like Jesus. He was a very kind person. He was always joining new people at lunch, and he was always helping people. But every time I saw him at a new table, I wanted him to come back to mine.
Jesus’ followers must have felt the same way. They must have always wanted more from him. To know who he was. What he was like outside of the stories. To know if his feet ever got wet. His disciples probably knew things like that, knew his favorite color, but the bible does not talk about that.
But what if they didn’t? It would be sad to roam the land with people who knew nothing about you. This thought made me depressed. When we were at church on Sunday, I began to cry during mass thinking about it. Mom squeezed my leg. It hurt.
After, I asked Father Simon if the disciples at least knew Jesus’ favorite color. I was hoping he might know. I was hoping that he might even just tell me it was technicolor. Maybe Jesus was sort of like Joseph in some ways.
“He is far too great for us to comprehend. We needn’t worry about something trivial like that.”
I asked mom what “trivial” meant in the car. She turned her head to me and told me to “mind my goddam business” and that Father Simon had “real problems” to help people with.
I took “trivial” to mean “not important.” But that couldn’t be right. How could it be that someone gets so important that people do not pay attention to who they are? When I become famous, I want people to know all kinds of things about me: my favorite song, the boys I think are cute—at least my favorite color!
I cried that night in the bathtub when the water slid over my feet and down the drain. Mom had unclogged the shower. I think she knew about me and the water.
Lying in bed alone that night, I decided to ask Jesus directly. Father Simon always told me that we all had the ability to communicate with Jesus and God. I decided that I could finally be the first person to ask him what his favorite color was.
I put my hands together like in the stories. Got on my knees. Whispered bedside words under my breath.
But nobody came. I only had the stories.