Three Sons in a Room

I gazed around at the other two people in the room with me.  With the clinical detachment that comes from years of experience in observing the uniquely human condition, I watched the other two men struggle to make sense of what they saw.

Both of the men were dressed similarly, I noted.  Of course, they both wore the straitjackets that were required by the authorities in this room.  But beneath those straitjackets, long white robes flowed down over their legs and towards their feet.  When they shifted back and forth, I noticed that they were also both wearing thong sandals.

The man on my left shook his head back and forth, making his long, light brown hair fall in waves over his bearded face.  “This is totally inappropriate, man,” he complained.

The man on my right had similar brown hair, although his was cut a bit shorter and he was clean-shaven.  “This is no way for me to be treated,” he agreed, blinking a few times to clear his eyes.

“Yeah, man,” the bearded fellow agreed.  “They should be glad I’m a forgiving dude, or I’d be laying out some smiting right about now!”

“Oh, if I gave them a smiting, they’d wake up next to my dad, having to explain their actions,” the clean-shaven man snorted.  “Don’t even get me started on smiting.”

I briefly wished that I had a notebook to write my observations in.

The bearded man was still grumbling, but the clean-shaven man started to look around and to notice that his arms were pinned.  “Hey, what gives?” he called out.  “You can’t treat me like this!  I died for your sins!  And this is another big sin, right here!”

“Excuse me?” spoke up the bearded fellow.  “I believe that I’m the one who died for your sins, not the other way around!”

The clean-shaven man leveled a menacing glare at his companion that would likely have held more weight if he hadn’t been similarly restrained.  “Do you know who I am?” he asked in tones of ice.  “I’m Jesus freakin’ Christ!”

The bearded man just shook his head back and forth.  “Nah, man, you’ve got something loose in that head of yours,” he said back.  “I’m Jesus, man.  Maybe you’re one of my disciples or something?”

As the men argued back and forth, I watched and made sure to listen carefully.  The administrators had warned me that there were people impersonating me, that I would have to learn what made these poor souls claim to be Jesus.

After all, it’s no good being the Son of God if you can’t distinguish yourself from the competition.

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