Cheerios for Jesus

What people seem to forget is that most of the time Jesus was just a regular person. He was just a little brother who broke your toys and made fun of your hair. People think of Jesus as a Deity, the Son of God, the Savior of the World, Word became Flesh, all those capital words and important phrases but he never wore a halo in our house and except for on my birthday he never performed any miracles. Although, on a few occasions I was positive that Mom poured milk into his sippy cup and later I noticed that he was drinking Wild Berry Kool-Aid. As far as I was concerned, Jesus was just my little brother and at times he could just be a major pain.

Jesus was always getting into my stuff.

Mom gave me a jewelry box when I turned five. I placed it on my dresser along with some small porcelain girls, photos of my best friends and a mirror. The only really important thing was the jewelry box. It was carved from a dark red wood and shaped like a heart, the Valentines kind not the human kind with blue and red tubes hanging off the top. It played “Music Box Dancer” when you lifted the lid.

I kept all my important stuff in that box: a Susan B Anthony dollar; a plastic ring; a sticker of a unicorn and a necklace that my Grandmother had given to me.

The coin I received from God. He went to the bank the day those things were minted and bought me one, he said keep it close because you’ll probably never see another one again. It was funny how God was always right about that stuff.

The plastic ring was from my boyfriend, Thomas. He had a cold when he handed it to me. Thomas won the ring by placing a quarter in a machine at the Piggly Wiggly and turning the crank. He had to put in six quarters to get it. It was worth it. The ring was gold, but most of that has rubbed off. It had a red stone, surrounded by silver stars.

The unicorn was the prettiest horse ever and that was my favorite sticker.

The necklace was my Grandmother’s. It consisted of small, wood beads strung on a pale, hemp braid. The beads were shaped like dove eggs and had delicate carvings etched across their centers. Each bead was carved from a different tree and so the colors slightly varied; they also each carried their own meaning. The center of the necklace held a heart carved from the cross of Jesus. It was by far the prettiest wood of them all. Grandmother was given the necklace by her Grandmother who received it from her Grandmother and so on until you came to the first Mary: the mother of the Jesus in the NT. She said it represented the heart of her son and that it was very powerful. Not in a magical, saw a person in half sort of way, but in a spiritual way. It was my most favorite possession of all. Although calling it a possession was not quite correct because it had a beauty and peace that belonged to the world. No person could own it.

Now Jesus would sneak into my room and try to open the heart shaped box really slow but each time the music came on giving away his encroachment. I wonder if the people who put that song into the box knew it would serve as an alarm against little brothers. Jesus was always taking things out of that box and playing with them, but he never touched the necklace. Even he understood that it was special.

If I caught Jesus before he got into my dolls or earrings he would just run away and giggle. But if he was already playing with them; it was too late. Jesus would start crying and I had to just let him go on thrashing my earrings or butchering the hair of my dolls. Jesus’ style for cutting hair could best be described as post-modern nihilism. All of my dolls lacked patches of hair because Jesus trimmed their hair in sections. The dolls looked like the victims of atomic blasts, chemotherapy or bad hair stylists.

He was my little brother and I hated it when he cried, because it always made me worry that something more serious might be wrong with him. I guess even when he was three years old we all secretly knew that he was doomed. Even though he did not behave like the Son of God, we knew that he was and all of us knew how that story ended. At three years old, Jesus acted just like a regular little brother except for this one day at church.

Mom packed Jesus some Cheerios in a plastic container on the mornings before we went to mass. She also had to pack diapers, wipes, bottles, toys, spit rags and bibs. She had to feed, bathe and get us all dressed before the nine-thirty mass. Most of the times we walked in five minutes late. No matter how early she awoke, she always ended up rushing and we always arrived late. Mom would march us in, single file, Dad bringing up the rear with Little Mary thrashing in his arms. Mom would search for a pew large enough for all of us, and preferably towards the back of church in case little Mary started crying giving Dad a reason to escape for half the mass. As we walked down the center of the church, the priest leading a prayer, Jesus continuously asked why everybody else was already seated.

On most Sundays while we sat in the pew little Mary and I tried to be still and pretend to pay attention to the man who always seemed to be shouting down at us. Jesus typically played with toys. Mom said it was okay because Jesus was only three and because he was a boy. Little Mary was only one and she often slept through the mass. Mom said boys had energy that they couldn’t control. So while we sat, Jesus brought Hot Wheels and played with them; he brought books and leafed through the pages, but most often he sat there and chewed on his Cheerios.

I was pretty sure that Jesus never listened to a single word the preacher man said. I tried really hard to listen but the preacher man always made life seem complicated and harsh while God, my father, had always told me that life was meant to be simple and joyous. The preacher man seemed angry and I knew that God wasn’t about anger. God was calm and caring and loving. I know all of this because he was my father.

Dad taught us that there was no significance to which church we attended. He would say that whenever a group of people came together as a family and loved one another a church was formed. He said the structure of the people was more important than the structure in which the people worshipped. I just thought it was funny that people dressed up and sat quietly on hard benches as a way to become close to God. I know that I felt much closer to God outside playing in the daylight among the trees and birds than I ever did inside one of those dark buildings even with the colorful glass and shinny cups.

There was one day in Church that stood out from the others. It was not because of what the Priest said but because of what Jesus did. We all sat together, Jesus eating cereal and babbling while the Priest gave his sermon on the sins that plagued the world.

The Priest said that the world today was not unlike Sodom and Gomorra and I looked over at God who looked embarrassed because of what he had done thousands of years ago. Would another loved one be turned into salt? The Priest condemned the drug abusers and a group of people called sodomites. The Priest yelled and harangued and even slapped the pulpit once. All the while Jesus did a very curious thing. He stopped eating his cereal and listened. Once the sermon concluded, Jesus went back to playing.

At the conclusion of mass the Priest once again stood at the Pulpit and rattled off a list of announcements. He notified us that a special collection was being made for poor people in a country named Bosnia. Next came a fish fry that was going to be held on Friday to benefit the church’s stock portfolio. It appeared that the Parish had invested too aggressively in technology stocks and additional funds were needed to secure dental and medical benefits for the Priests and Nuns. Our Pasteur concluded with particular emphasis on a very, special bingo to be held on Wednesday with a three thousand dollar grand prize. It was funny how an organization, like a person, could perform both good and bad deeds.

Jesus gave out a loud sigh at the mention of bingo and muttered “never place a stumbling block in the path of your brother.” When I looked over he had already resumed playing with his Hot Wheels. Had Jesus just said that or had I imagined it. I looked up at Mom but she gave no indication of hearing anything. Mom was busy re-packing the diaper bag as church threatened to come to a conclusion. I studied Jesus but he did not take his eyes up from the truck held tightly in his hand and I finally concluded that it must have just been in my mind.

Mom and Dad definitely lived through different experiences in church.

God sat back, relaxed, and seemed to take in all of the mass. Church made God stronger. Not just the gospel and words of the liturgy, but God absorbed the energy of the congregation: the babies sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, with their embarrassed parents attempting to hush them regardless; the children dressed up like adults but still acting their age; adults who sang, fell asleep or daydreamed. God hummed along with the choir and loved to shake hands with people when we passed out peace. If you sat within three pews of my father he offered you peace.

Mom, on the other hand, struggled to survive Mass. From the moment she woke up on Sunday morning, her entire mission was simply to get through brunch, the meal we ate once church was over. Then it was one Martini and who cares what followed. Mom attended church and painfully dragged us with her because it was a sacrifice. She endured it for her God in heaven, not my father at the end of the bench.

Thankfully, after one final song, the mass concluded and we all packed up our things and went out to the Windstar. Yes, God drove a minivan. Mom was carrying our jackets, the Tupperware, some books and her purse. I was holding Jesus’ hand and Dad was carrying Little Mary along with the diaper bag.

We made our way through the quickly departing cars when Thomas ran up to me in the parking lot to say hello. Thomas was my boyfriend and he often talked to me after church. “Hi Mary, how are you doing?” Thomas wiped the drainage from his nose with a tissue.

Thomas always held a cold. He was the oldest of six children and he had to sit in the back part of the church behind the glass where they quarantined all the sick babies. He had sat back there for six straight years without a single day of relief because his mother had a baby every year. He had a cold everyday of his life because as soon as the youngest got old enough to come out of the isolation room another baby was born and the family went back in. Sometimes, in church, I would look back there and watch the viruses jump from child to child like flies on the back of horses.

Jesus tugged at my hand and I told him to wait just a minute. It had been two days since I saw Thomas and that’s a long time to go without seeing your boyfriend. “I’m doing pretty good, just watching my little brother,” I looked over at Jesus as he wrestled his hand out of mine.

Thomas coughed and sputtered while something green escaped from his left nostril. We talked about a movie that was coming out next week that we both wanted to see. He thought his mom might take us. He then said that he had to be going and ran off to catch up with his family. I walked the rest of the way to our van thinking of the upcoming date.

Mom strapped little Mary into her car seat and I was climbing into the back when mom asked where’s Jesus and I turned around and he wasn’t there. I said I don’t know and started crying because I lost Jesus and now something bad was going to happen to him.

Mom’s eyes turned round and wide and a little vein began to show on her forehead. There were cars circling us as they jockeyed to leave the parking lot. Mom started walking back towards the church calling, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” and everyone was looking at her like she just went crazy.

Dad picked up little Mary and told me to come along. The tears kept coming from my eyes and I was whining that something happened to Jesus. Dad kept telling me that Jesus would be all right and that I should stop crying but I couldn’t because I knew that I was suppose to be the one holding his hand, making sure that he was safe.

We raced to the church, looking between all the cars still in the lot hoping to find his little body intact. The cars swarmed like bees and it seemed impossible for Jesus to be unharmed. After searching the lot we went to the church. Dad carried little Mary into the church and I followed.

The church was now empty and its vast, open center allowed our footsteps to echo throughout its recess. The sound of my Sunday shoes clopped like the hooves of a horse, bouncing off the wall behind the alter, the one holding the large cross with the hanging Jesus, and came back at us like thunder. We found mom standing in the center of the church with a look of amazement on her face. A slight tremor ran through her fingers, which covered her mouth like a fan.

Jesus was standing in the center of the marble altar but he was not alone. He was talking to the parish Priest. Jesus appeared small standing next to our Priest. His head barely reached up to the white rope that hung tight around the Pastor’s waist. Jesus was holding one of his toy cars in his hands and speaking. Actually, it appeared as if the two of them were arguing.

“I think you are mistaken when you portray my father as an angry and vindictive God,” Jesus spoke to the Priest. I was shocked. When did he learn the word vindictive?

Jesus kept speaking and it was as if someone else’s words were coming from his juvenile body. “My father is not judgmental and punitive. He is kind and loving. He wants all of us, brothers and sisters through him, to be righteous. But not out of fear of punishment. My father understands that most wrongful acts are committed not out of cruelty or malice but insecurity. He expects a lot from us but only because he knows that we are capable and that our true happiness is dependent on our being virtuous. The reason he knows this is that this is the image in which he created us. Not a physical image, but a spiritual one. The failure of mankind to comprehend this is why Heaven appears to elude us. Rather than casting threats, you should offer your parishioners hope.”

The Priest was taken back. There, standing before him was a small, frail, three-year-old child correcting him on his interpretation of God’s word. The man looked confused as he searched the walls of the church for the right thing to say that could counter his diminutive antagonist. The Priest rubbed his chin then replied, “You are right to think of God in this way my son,” the Priest finally spoke. “A loving father is a beautiful image to hold near to us. That is how God is for those with virtues. He also loves the truly repented as much as those who have lived upright their entire lives. However, do not be mistaken, God does not just wish us to be good; he demands it. He has revealed his wraith in the past when people have failed him and will do so again. It says in Genesis that ‘the Lord judge between me and thee’. And again in Samuel it states that ‘if a man sin against the Lord, who shall entreat to him, because the Lord would slay him’. God rewards those who are just, but he also punishes those who are not.”

My brother was not even fazed. He shook his head in disagreement. “You speak of a young God. The Old Testament revealed God’s childish nature; it is only in the New Testament that he has matured. It was written in John, ‘and if any man hear my words and believe not, I judge him not: for I came not to judge the world but to save the world.’ God wrote a New Testament so that those of us on Earth may learn to love each other, as it was his original intention. Even more clearly in Luke, my brother spoke, ‘judge not, that ye not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive and ye shall be forgiven.’ These are not just words for his followers, God expects the same from himself.”

I looked at Mom and Dad. Both of them stood in silence. When had my brother read the scripture and how could he quote verses? I looked around half-expecting Rod Serling to step out of one of the Confessionals.

“In one way, you are correct,” my brother continued while running his cast metal car along his arm. He accidentally dropped the car and crouched down to continue playing on the alter floor. He ran it along the rich marble and appeared to have forgotten that he was in an argument with the Priest. The Priest looked on incredulously until Jesus spoke. “There was a time in which your vengeful image of my father was the same one that he chose to portray himself. But the birth of his son changed the very nature of God. He realized how cruel he had been in the past and asked his son to attain man’s forgiveness. God would not, and in fact he could not ask a father to slay his own son, as he once demanded of Abraham. People think that Jesus died so that the gates of Heaven could be open, but in actuality he suffered so that we may learn to forgive God so that we may see the Heaven whose gates have always been open.”

“Forgive God,” the Priest raised his voice and it shook throughout the church.

“Yes, it is one of the most difficult things for man to do. Forgive his creator for making an imperfect world that is at times overly forbidding. So many people use their anger with God as a reason to keep from coming to him. Their anger is an obstacle, a wall so high many can not see the beauty on the other side.”

“To forgive, one must be humble, because forgiveness requires one to acknowledge their own imperfections. People can not find heaven until they can forgive God and learn to follow his way.”

The Priest’s voice was now filled with anger. His face blazed a furious red. “You refer to God as an adolescent child, an imperfect creator capable of error. It is blasphemous for you to even think that man should have the right or power to forgive God. God provides all. He is our creator and protector and we are indentured to him. We are not worthy to stand in his presence.”

“Even a ruler must answer to his servants,” my brother said and turned around to walk away. “With great power comes great responsibility, the creator is responsible for his creations, not the other way around.”

“I will pray for your soul, my child,” the Priest called to him, but Jesus just kept on walking.

Mom ran up to the Priest and apologized for her son. She scooped up Jesus into her arms. “I am sorry father but he does not realize that people are still not ready for the truth. He did not mean to offend you.” Mom was stumbling on her words and her apology seemed to anger the priest more.

Later, we sat in silence as God drove the car home from church that day. Not in complete silence, the sound of my mother weeping drifted back from the front of the car. At the time I could not figure why the words of Jesus would upset her so much. It was not until years later that I realized that Mom was not upset with what he said but with the idea that my brother was the one saying it. Somewhere deep inside her heart she hoped that Jesus was not the Son of God and thus not destined to a life of pain and sacrifice. She hoped that she did not carry the same cross as Great Grandmother Mary. There in the church on that typical Sunday morning my brother proved his true identity and sealed his fate.