Who would you be?

I used to think I would be Jesus. But, to my credit, this wasn’t entirely my fault. My mother used to usher my brother and me to church when we were young. I’m not entirely sure why because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t buy much of it. She used to wake us up early and sneak us out of the house before my father woke up. He’s an atheist.

The reverend at my church was Mr. Phelps. He used to tell us, “Mr. Phelps helps.” Then he told us about Jesus. He said that he was the Son of God, or at least that’s what Christians believe. The Jews, on the other hand, were still waiting for the second coming. And at that moment, my eyes glittered. There was a vacancy.

He obviously meant that I could well possibly be the real Jesus. I figured I had until I was thirty to be sure, but it felt right at the time. I knew I was chosen to be something bigger than a lawyer. I had been telling my father that since I was in the first grade, and he first proposed the idea to me. My opportunity had arrived.

Miracles proved to be harder to perform than I had originally thought. I tried to fly, but I my legs weren’t long enough to send me to the heavens from the tops of sand dunes on the beach. I never mastered telepathy. I was pretty sure I could talk to the dead, although Blackbeard never did tell me where his treasure was buried. Bastard.

I could, however, talk to my dog. Sam was a faithful friend and an honest listener. He told me all sorts of things. Mainly how full of shit I was. He didn’t seem to grasp the perils of being the mortal incarnation of Yahweh. I told him this, too. To which he replied with rolled eyes and a groan, rolling over onto his back. Then he said, “Scratch my belly, girl.” I did. My celestial senses told me never to argue with animals.

For a while, I kept my divinity a secret from my parents. My mother was technically Baptist. She’d think I was blasphemous. Though I don’t know why it would have made a difference to her since Baptists think children go to Hell if they die before they are baptized as consenting adults.

My father was trickier. How could I tell him I was a Jew? I decided I should bring up the topic casually. I asked him what he thought of Jews, and to my surprise, he liked them. He said if he could pick one religion to actually believe in, Judaism would be it. Well, an atheist Jew at least. I never did tell him that I was Him, but I felt that I had his validation.

I decided that being the Son of God came with certain responsibilities. I began to pray to Myself. I prayed when my parents cursed or fought or told me I would work in McDonald’s for the rest of my life because I got a C in the third grade.

I asked Mr. Phelps about Heaven. What was it like? What was God like? Would I like it there? Would I feel comfortable reigning it? He said Heaven was built in the clouds. There were many angels there and they played hide and seek in mist. He pointed to a picture that had conveniently been painted of God. He didn’t look so bad. He had a big beard and reminded me of Santa Claus. Maybe he’d bring me presents. After all, I was his only Son.

What Mr. Phelps hadn’t counted on is that my father is a pilot. He told me that if only I could see the tops of the clouds, I would be able to see Heaven and all those who inhabit it. For the first time in my life, I actually looked forward to getting into that dreadful plane. Apparently being God didn’t save you from motion sickness.

The next time we flew to the Outer Banks, I pressed my nose to the glass window. My headphones buzzed loudly with the vibrations of the plane. I scanned the billows with a trained eye. Those suckers couldn’t hide from the eyes of God. Only they did. I didn’t see a single angel.

Every flight I became less hopeful. My father would tell me, we need to wash the plane. Let’s fly through some rain clouds, shall we? Yes! I answered. Maybe the angels were in the clouds. I’ll bet you wouldn’t believe this, but they weren’t.

I presented these facts to Mr. Phelps. He sighed quietly and cleared his throat. He didn’t respond right away, which made me suspicious. Then he went into this speech about faith and how you don’t need to see things to believe in them. Bull. Shit.

I was 8 years old. Of course I needed to see them to believe them. As impulsive as I tend to be, I immediately discarded his words. All of them. God. Heaven. The angels. Even Jesus. I lost my faith. In religion. In myself.

So who would Jesus be? Certainly not me.