Just as I was about to close my therapy office for the day, a mysterious figure arrived at my door. I could only make out his silhouette, for a brilliant aura radiated from him. From some unseen vantage, angels trumpeted his arrival, their heavenly fanfare rendering me mute. Hark and behold! Before me stood Jesus Christ, Son of Man. 

When my eyes adjusted to Christ’s aura, I realized He was not attired in His iconic messianic garb. Instead of immaculate white robes, He sported a gray sweatsuit that bore a rich tapestry of stains: mustard, red wine, and Cheeto dust. Rather than sandals, he wore Crocs. His long mane contained no luster—it was frizzy and caked with dandruff. His eyes were bloodshot, encircled by dark bags. Pursed between His lips was a doobie the size of a leviathan. 

His disheveled appearance, I admit, made me second guess that He was truly The Most High. But when He spoke my name, the rich tenor of His voice was unmistakable—it warmed the icy chambers of my heart, the dark and forlorn chasms of my soul.  

During my recent nervous breakdown, I heaved prayers upward with abandon. After months without an answer, I began to suspect my pleas were landing not at the feet of The Lord, but somewhere among the vast and uncaring cosmos. It seemed God had sent His right-hand man to rectify the situation. 

“I don’t think I’m cut out for this whole messiah thing,” Jesus said. He reclined on my chaise lounge and assumed the position of patient. The realization dawned on me: The Son of Man had not come to rescue me, a lowly and unworthy wretch; it was He who required salvation.

“W-why’s that?” I mustered.

“Saving mankind is, like, a lot of pressure. And, as you may recall, last time I descended from heaven things didn’t go so hot.” 

“But you washed away the sins of the world!” 

“Cut the shit. Does the Earth look cleansed to you? Each day, I witness debauchery that makes Sodom look like G-rated family fun. These heathens are clout chasing and drone striking and Ponzi scheming and mustard gassing and littering and autoerotically asphyxiating…”

While Christ cataloged the sins of mankind, storm clouds darkened the sky. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. I took note of the way He sat, arms outstretched across the top of the couch cushions, as if His posture still bore the memory of the cross. When I got a closer look at His palms, I saw they still bore sickly pink scars from the nails. 

“How have you preoccupied yourself since your return?” I asked.

“Once I learned to blend with the unwashed masses,” He said, gesturing to His sweats, “I took a job among them as a DoorDasher.” 

“A DoorDasher? Aren’t you selling yourself a little short?”

“Sure, I could’ve used my omnipotence to work miracles in the ER, walk on water for Greenpeace, or sink buzzer-beaters in the NBA finals. But imposter syndrome is a bitch.”

Each day of DoorDashing, Jesus said, subjected Him to previously unfathomable degradations. For His first job, He was tasked with delivering a lobster bisque. He’d scarcely left the restaurant when His bike hit a pothole, spilling the scalding soup on His lap. Howling in pain, Jesus pulled over and removed His sweatpants. To His horror, His thighs were covered in third-degree burns, pink flesh mottled with yellow boils. It was too painful to put His pants back on—Christ had no choice but to bike in His briefs. The passing drivers honked and wolf-whistled as He rode at a glacial pace, each pedal stroke shooting pain through His nether regions.

An hour later, Christ arrived at His destination. He handed what was left of the lobster bisque to a bathrobe-clad woman. She snatched it, grumbling that He was late. Fearing a one-star rating, Jesus fell to His knees and groveled for forgiveness. Just as the woman’s face softened, she noticed The Most High wasn’t wearing pants. She threw the lobster bisque in Christ’s face, decrying Him as a pervert. Her ensuing tirade wounded Him more deeply than a public stoning ever could. 

While Jesus nursed His burns that evening, He discovered a video of the woman’s diatribe had gone viral. He was appalled at the comments, at the legions who relished His humiliation, lapping it up like hungry curs. As Christ read their crude slurs, He realized mankind was far more depraved than He ever imagined—not only was He an imposter, but He was a fool for believing they could be saved.

Jesus wept. His orifices were so clogged with mucous, His breath came out in wheezes, like a drowning man surfacing for air. He put out his joint and reached for the tissue box I kept by the couch, but it was empty. I rifled through my pockets, at last producing a balled-up Kleenex. I tossed it to The Most High, but He was too overcome with woe to notice. It sat pathetically on the cushion beside Him, while He blew His nose into His sleeve. 

“I was lost, but now I am found,” The Son of Man said, once He’d emptied His tear ducts. The storm clouds parted, and a golden ray of sunshine beamed down from the heavens, landing squarely upon me. A snow-white dove fluttered through the open window and perched on my shoulder. 

My heart sank when Christ’s trusting, puppy-dog eyes met mine. It took all my might to hold back the truth: I couldn’t possibly rescue The Son of Man from the depths of His imposter syndrome, for I was an even greater fraud than He. The so-called “office” in which we sat was actually my Nana’s living room, hence the doilies and floral wallpaper and kitschy decorative plates. I could feel the dead-eyed Hummels staring me down, piercing my façade. You see, during my nervous breakdown, I lost everything: my downtown office, my standing in the clinical psychology community, and all my patients. Jesus was the last one foolish enough to place His faith in me. 

I opened my mouth to give a canned speech about how “fake it ’til you make it” is more than just an expression—it’s a way of life for practically everyone, whether they acknowledge it or not. How we are not our negative thoughts. How, at the end of the day, we’re all just dumb apes bumbling around on a rock in outer space. But I was overcome by the decaying old person smell that permeated my grandmother’s home—the stench of failure. My words seemed petty and trivial before The Alpha and Omega. I sat paralyzed, unable to speak.

“I’ll catch you same time next week,” Jesus said, breaking the silence. He rose from the couch and stretched his back, vertebrae popping like firecrackers. He unleashed a relieved groan as if a boulder had been lifted from His shoulders. No longer did The Son of Man slouch; He stood tall and proud before me. Whistling merrily, He waved His goodbyes and sauntered out of the house. There was so much pep in His step, He practically skipped.

When Christ left, all the beautiful golden light left with Him. I sat alone in darkness, the shadows of the Hummels creeping across the walls in a grim procession. If it were not for Jesus’ holy roach smoldering in Nana’s ashtray, I could’ve chalked the whole thing up to a dream. I rubbed my eyes, retinas still burning from the aura. Of all the clinical psychologists in the world, I wondered, why had The Son of Man chosen me? Even the most cursory Google search would’ve revealed a Biblical flood of tabloid slander and scathing reviews. 

“I guess The Lord works in mysterious ways,” I said, turning to the dove. In reply, it shat on my shoulder.

It was one of my old patients, an evolutionary biologist named Peter, who triggered my nervous breakdown. In our sessions, Peter likened academia to the jungle ecosystems he studied. It was publish or perish, slaughter or get slaughtered; only the strong survived. He stalked around campus fangs bared, poised to fend off the snakes lurking in his peripheries—the fellow adjuncts who sought to poach his position and the administrators who sought to cut it to build a lacrosse stadium. However, all his metaphors about “tearing out throats” and “feasting on viscera” were hard to take seriously—the kid reached for his inhaler at the slightest agitation. A tangle of elbows and knees, Peter was so scrawny he made a beanpole look like an apex predator. 

The unforgiving terrain of academia soon wore Peter down. He juggled a full courseload with his research, research that the university refused to fund, and, as such, he spent his nights writing long, pleading grant letters and praying for a response. Eventually, the grant application fees crippled him financially, and he began living in his car. He spoke of escaping academia, for it smothered the childlike wonder science once sparked in him. I encouraged him to extricate himself from his toxic environment. Little did I know the grisly chain of events my advice would set in motion. 

You see, in lieu of a metaphorical jungle, Peter absconded to a literal one. I had no inkling of his plan until he FaceTimed into his next session, sunburnt to hell, safari hat perched on his head. A mosquito net encircled him, a flimsy defense against the buzzing black hordes. He panned the camera over his surroundings, vegetation so lush it looked artificial. Voice quavering, he thanked me for giving him the courage to pursue his life’s work. He explained how Jane Goodall had proven that, by participating in their primitive rituals, humans could gain acceptance into the tribes of ape-kind. Peter wanted to show that man could not only live among the primates, but climb atop their hierarchy and dominate them. And how would he accomplish this? With the very thing Goodall lacked: testosterone. While he spoke, I heard chimps in the distance, piercing the night with their guttural shrieks.

Peter didn’t FaceTime in the following week. Or the week after. A sinking dread crept into my organs; I paced my apartment, bit my nails down to the cuticle. Finally, one night, a report flashed across the local news: Big Game Hunters Find Academic’s Remains. The anchor’s face took on a ghostly pallor as he described how the chimps had done to Peter what they do to all who dare challenge their authority: they castrated him. Peter’s tripod camera caught the whole thing on tape, and soon the footage circulated online. In the now-infamous video, the little bastard blamed me for his misfortunes, wailing my full Christian name as the hairy bodies converged on him, pinning him to the mud-soaked earth. For my role in the saga, I was shunned from the field of clinical psychology and swiftly dropped by all my patients. 

In the ensuing months, I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing that pack of chimps gorging on Peter’s unmentionables, eyes twinkling with a sick glee. There was no escaping the asthmatic wheeze of the kid’s voice; it followed me as I boxed up my office, drove out to the sticks, and set up shop in my grandmother’s house. Why, Doc? Why did you let this happen to me? Soon, even routine tasks like shaving became Herculean undertakings, for my razorblade entranced me with its Siren song. The melody grew more hypnotic as I scraped the corns off my Nana’s sagging feet—a daily duty she thrust upon me to earn my keep.

When Jesus appeared before me, the razorblade’s call clouded my brain. But after His session, its song held no power over me. His heavenly light cast out my dark thoughts, like serpents from Eden. My nightmares faded, giving way to blissful slumber. I viewed mankind in a new regard, not as domineering brutes, barely above primates, but as compassionate beings capable of mercy and forgiveness. Saving the savior, I realized, was my chance at redemption. If I could help Jesus take up His mantle as the messiah, I could undo all the pain I’d wrought. 

We delved deeper into Christ’s feelings of inadequacy during our subsequent sessions. Like me, He was haunted by the ghosts of those He could not save.

“At night, I can’t be alone with my thoughts. I watch Seinfeld reruns, trying to block out the screams of the sheep who strayed from my flock,” Jesus said. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them writhing in hellfire, flesh disfigured beyond recognition.”

I told Jesus He needed to forgive Himself, for He was only human.

“Only human,” He whispered, as if comprehending the words for the first time.

Over the course of months, I shepherded Him to a breakthrough: Though He was charged with a divine mission, He was forced to execute it in the flesh of a fallen creature. Perfection was impossible. If He wanted to save mankind, He had to first make peace with His shortcomings.

In the wake of our breakthrough, Christ cast His sweatsuit into a trashcan fire. It was a moment charged with meaning, He told me, watching tongues of flame lap up those rags, those sweat-stained monuments to sloth and gluttony. His symbolic gesture produced a smell one passerby likened to “a cheese monger’s BO,” but to Jesus, this was the scent of transformation, of new beginnings. He donned His white robes and never looked back.

I noticed a marked change in Jesus’ demeanor as well. He was “The Most High” in only one respect, as He’d relinquished His OG Kush. This did wonders for our sessions, for no longer was He accosted by the munchies; instead of gazing longingly at the Domino’s pizza tracker, he looked me in the eyes. Furthermore, He spared me from His tangents about Building 7 and MKUltra. Instead, He spoke of spiritual clarity, His renewed sense of purpose. 

My destiny was inextricably linked with Christ’s. We rose toward the precarious heights of self-actualization together, like mountain climbers in tandem. I followed the same advice I gave Jesus each week, learning to embrace my faults, to forgive myself for losing Peter to that pack of ravenous apes. Gradually, the kid’s asthmatic voice faded from my brain. I’m tired of guilt-tripping you every night, Doc. You gotta let me go. Soon, I rebuilt my client base and escaped the purgatory of Nana’s house, the malicious taunts of the corns and bunions. My new workspace wasn’t perfect; it sported a drop ceiling, drab gray carpet, and water-stained walls. But you couldn’t beat the location—it was sandwiched between a liquor store and a divorce attorney’s office. Business boomed.

After a year of therapy, I encouraged Jesus to join a parish and reconnect with His disciples. Christ’s jaw hit the floor when I shared the final step of His healing journey: He would reveal Himself to the congregation by performing a miracle.  

On Easter Sunday, Jesus took me for a drive. Around us, God’s creatures rejoiced: the trees budded, the warblers crooned, and the butterflies pirouetted through the crisp spring air. The sky was blue and cloudless—there was only one structure that dared interrupt its cerulean majesty, a towering edifice I presumed was a casino, due to its myriad of flashing lights. But when we pulled into the sprawling parking lot, I saw the name emblazoned on its side: The Church of the Good Samaritan. 

Christ and I filed into the building, pushing through throngs of worshippers. Their grins were so jubilant, so buoyant with Easter joy, they looked deranged. They spoke of the service as if it were a narcotic: “I’m jonesin’ to sing me some hymns.” Several complimented Jesus’ “costume,” rubbing their grubby hands on His immaculate robes. The Son of Man admitted these Evangelical types gave him the heebie-jeebies. But there was no grander stage on which to perform His miracle.

I soon saw what Jesus meant, for the stands were vast enough to accommodate a small city. They buzzed with anticipation, palpable electricity. The front rows were jam-packed; we had to climb to the upper deck, where parishioners viewed the action on the jumbotron. To call these stratospheric rows “nosebleed seating” was barely hyperbole. 

Just as our asses hit the seats, the lights dimmed. Fog crept across the stage. The crowd fell into rapt silence as a man emerged from said fog, dressed in a white suit bejeweled with twinkling rhinestones. Pyrotechnics announced his arrival, the fireballs casting a fiery glow across his face. Maybe it was a lighting trick, but he appeared to tower over mortal men, over the twenty-foot cross at center stage. His sideburns billowed majestically as he blew kisses to the congregation. He was the leader of the flock, Jesus told me—Pastor Zeke. 

“I confess, I was going nuttier than a five-pound fruitcake trying to come up with a sermon for this joyous day,” Zeke said, drawl booming through the speakers. “When I prayed on it, God parted the clouds and whispered in my ear. He said, ‘The sun doesn’t come up to hear you crow, Zeke. Let another rooster strut in the spotlight.’”   

A muscular teenager entered from stage left, drawing gasps from the crowd. He sported sandy blonde hair, a chiseled jawline, and a phosphorescent smile. A lab of genealogists could not have devised a more perfect all-American boy. The couple to our right informed us he was the inimitable Johnny Tahoe. The kid had been the star quarterback for the local high school until he got drunk as Cooter Brown and crashed his tractor into the Dairy Queen. The accident robbed him of his throwing arm, the fabled cannon that once hurled Hail Marys into the heavens. Though he tried to shield his bad arm from the crowd, I could see it in full on the jumbotron: the monstrosity hung limp as a pool noodle by his side, withered and pink. 

“Now, I know Johnny here has made some mistakes,” Zeke said. “But who among us hasn’t tied on a few too many at Zeb’s? Or played hanky panky with a breathalyzer? Let he who is without a drunk and disorderly cast the first stone!”

The parishioners murmured in agreement.

“Easter Sunday is about redemption, second chances,” Zeke continued. “So, let’s help this young man resurrect his glory days! If we all pitch in, those eggheads at Johns Hopkins will fix him up right as rain. The Wildcats won’t stand a chance!”

In the stands, ushers passed around donation baskets. The parishioners dug deep into their pockets, heaping the contents—lint, hard candies, and change—into the coffers indiscriminately.

“It’s showtime,” Jesus said. He sprinted toward the stage, taking the stairs two at a time. The onlookers snickered when His robes blew back, revealing a glimpse of His holy briefs. I didn’t have the heart to tell Him He could’ve simply teleported there in a billow of smoke.

When Christ reached the stage, He sheepishly requested the mic from Zeke. Amused at this development, the pastor relinquished it.

“My children, it is I: The Son of Man, The Most High, The Alpha and Omega!” Christ said, spreading His arms wide.

None applauded. The church was so quiet, we could hear Jesus sweating beneath the hot stage lights. Somewhere, a cough cut through the din. I began to second-guess my plan. Had I led The Son of Man astray? 

“To prove it to you, I’m going to perform a, uh, miracle,” Jesus said, tugging the collar of his robes. “How does that sound?”

The crowd uttered a noncommittal grumble.  

“Johnny, my guy, come hither!” Jesus beckoned. 

Johnny glanced at Zeke for affirmation. Zeke shrugged as if to say, “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

Christ placed His holy digits on Johnny’s mangled arm. His expression rested somewhere between focused and constipated. Then, from The Son of Man’s fingertips shot a flash of light. It was so bright, even upper-deckers like myself had to shield our eyes. When it faded, it was as if a vacuum had sucked the air from the arena. The legendary “Tahoe cannon” had assumed its former glory, rippling with musculature that rivaled Greek gods. Johnny flexed his bicep, a look of incredulity on his face. 

Jesus produced a pigskin from thin air and snapped it to Johnny. A look of childlike glee on the quarterback’s face, he yelled “Blue 42!” and dropped back, juking imaginary defenders. With breathtaking grace, Tahoe heaved a pass over the cross, the stage lights, the rafters. The spiral seemed to hang there, suspended above the enraptured crowd, for an eternity. Finally, it descended to Zeke in a perfect arc. The pastor was too stunned to catch it. The ball struck him square in the chest, sending him crumpling to the floor. 

“F-fraud,” Zeke managed, wheezing for breath. 

“What’s that?” Jesus asked.

“You’re a fraud! A two-timin’ charlatan! A false prophet!”

“B-but dude, his arm… What do you call that if not a miracle?”

“Miracle my ass. My disciples, don’t you see we have an imposter in our midst?” Zeke leveled an accusatory finger at Jesus, spittle flying from his lips.

Cries of indignance rose from the congregation. Christ’s miracle was no match for Zeke’s charisma. I realized I’d made a grave mistake. Men like Zeke understood one thing: power. Like beasts in the field, they bowed to it alone. They would never relinquish it voluntarily—it had to be taken by force.

“You want to cosplay as Christ? Well, you forgot your goddamn cross!” Zeke cried.

Taking that as their cue, a mob charged the stage. They formed a crude cheerleading pyramid and toppled the giant cross. It fell to the Earth with a deafening thud. They descended upon Christ, writhing like the chimps that massacred Peter. Flashbacks seared through my skull as they clawed and bit Him into submission, pinning Him to the giant wood beams. Somehow, their shrieks were more feral than those of the apes.

From my place in the nosebleeds, all I could do was bear witness. I recalled Christ’s last therapy session. “What if humanity rejects my teachings, just as they did two millennia ago?” He asked, lip trembling with fear. “On the surface, we look like brutes—there’s no denying that,” I replied. “But beneath our putrid flesh, there’s good in us. You have to trust me.” I squeezed His hand tight. 

I tried to run to Jesus, but the aisle was flooded with bodies. “He’s not an imposter!” I shrieked my vocal cords raw. “I’m the imposter, take me!” No one could hear me. My words fell flat as Zeke placed a nail on Christ’s palm and raised his vengeful hammer to the sky.

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Derek Andersen is an Illinois Wesleyan alum working as a copywriter in Chicago. His short stories have appeared in Arts & Letters, Barrelhouse, Catapult, Columbia Journal, and elsewhere. His piece “Napalm” was named a notable Best American Short Story of 2022. Read more of his work at derekandersenwriting.com.