Jesus Came To Town

At times, I feel partially feline because sleeping is one of my favorite activities. Whether kitty’s blood runs in my veins or not, that evening, I floated into Morpheus’s arms until my mind wandered far, far away.

I walked through the old streets of Ukraine, holding tightly to my grandmother’s hand. She took me to church. That was the place where I met Jesus. He was humble, quiet, and did not believe in guns. He was a role model for a little girl who wasn’t always as obedient as the elders demanded of her.

Moments later, Jesus Himself was sitting in my living room, in my humble home in Midwestern America. He knew I had emigrated. Undoubtedly, He knew everything: my mind, my heart, and my personal odyssey. I was excited to show Him the grown-up me, hoping He would find me more obedient than I had been in my early years.

I felt somewhat proud. After all, we live in a world where Christianity is the largest religion. We drove past cars with “I Love Jesus!” stickers and countless beautiful church buildings. So, I took Him to a town hall meeting.

We walked into the building. Conversations seemed to soften as people looked in our direction. I felt curiosity, slightly mixed with tension. Of course, as a blonde woman, I was used to being noticed. But somehow, they were looking at my friend. His olive-brown skin, long dark-brown hair, and almost-black eyes drew the crowd’s attention. Embarrassingly, I felt guilty for wishing that He had used more sunscreen and gotten a haircut before coming here.

People talked about immigration, especially those who were labeled “undocumented.” Voices rose. Everyone wanted to be heard.

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it,” Jesus said, standing up from his seat.

“Was He citing Hebrews 13:2?” I could hardly understand His English. For a brief second, I forgot about His unlimited power, as my focus went to His looks and a very strong accent.

After a moment of silence, someone whispered, “Go back to your country,” echoed by, “We do not understand you!” The remarks became louder and more intense. We had to leave the building.

“Are you hungry?” I quietly broke the feeling of unease. The air fryer cooked golden, delicious chicken nuggets, and I served them with pride and honey mustard, my favorite. However, Jesus would not eat. Explaining that they were made from chickens—the birds His Father created for us humans to eat—did not encourage His appetite. I had to take Him to a farm.

It was a big farm. It was industrial. Thousands of chickens were packed in cages with barely any room to move. Some had lost their feathers. All were waiting to die. The smell was unpleasant; we had to walk out. And the building next to us was a slaughterhouse. Dreadful sounds from the inside made me nauseous.

I badly wanted Jesus to say that this was how God intended to feed us when He created this world. But Jesus was silent.

Thus, we drove back. In silence. There was a spider in my car. Instinctively, my hand went up to kill that little intruder. But I paused. I stopped the car and let the spider out. I hoped it would find its way home.

Jesus decided to leave, too. Our eyes met.

“We do it all wrong, don’t we?” I whispered.

“Compassion never fails…Either it is your fellow brother from another land, a clucking chicken, or a silent spider…” He whispered back, walking away.

I woke up staring out my window, wondering if that spider had always been there.