HOLIDAY HUMOR

My Mother Doesn’t Like Me Being a Savior

And wants me to stick to carpentry

I love my mother, but sometimes she could be a real pain — Jesus this, Jesus that. She doesn’t want me to get crucified, kiss Mary Magdalene on the lips, or even save souls. Instead, she wants me to stick to being a carpenter.

“Mom,” I keep telling her. “I enjoy being a savior. It helps people.”

“What should I tell my friends? My smart son, the Son of God, wants to hang from a cross? Why can’t you stick to wooden cabinets and make your mother happy?”

Some days, my mother breaks my spirit, and then I lack the confidence to perform miracles, i.e., walk on water, raise people from the dead, or come up with those groovy parables that my groupies love.

“Mom,” I say, “Please support me in this. I need you in my corner when I go against the Pharisees and Romans.”

“Not if the Romans are going to crucify my son,” she said. “I don’t want you nailed to a piece of wood. I want you to do the hammering.”

She should realize I’m different, for Chrissake — I’m an immaculate conception. Hell, the three wise men in Bethlehem even told her that I was destined for special things.

“Jesus, don’t forget your water flask. Because it’s going to be hot on the Mount this afternoon.”

“I will, Mom. You know I require little water only when I baptize the sinners.”

“Sinners, shminners. You’ll collapse from dehydration, and then what will people think of this great savior of theirs?”

“Ok, Mom, I’ll take some water if it pleases you.”

“And don’t get cuchi-cuchi with Magdalene — you don’t want to catch a disease from that girl.”

“Ma! Please stop bagging on Mary— she’s my most loyal follower.”

Sometimes I don’t get why God chose my mother as a parent. She likes nothing I do, whether it’s raising someone from the dead, having a hooker wash my feet, or getting tortured for the good of humanity.

“I don’t want my baby nailed to a cross,” she says. “Let other people hang from a cross — like the Gentiles. Stop trying to save the world, Jesus. Please, it’s not good for your health.”

Finally, I’ve had enough and raise my voice, “Stop treating me like a baby, goddammit — I’m 33!”

My mother sulks when I get angry. She goes to the kitchen and gives me the silent treatment while churning butter.

“I’m sorry, Mom. But I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. One of my best disciples is plotting behind my back.”

My mother shook her head.

“Why can’t you be a religious figure like Buddha? They didn’t nail him to a cross. Nobody made him wear a crown of thorns or forced him to carry a heavy crucifix up a hill.”

I get a hold of myself and recite the rosary while my mother packs a flask of water, a couple of prune Danish, a square of matzah, a three-pack of condoms, and a can of SPAM into my sack.

“Gotta go,” I say and kiss my mother on the cheek.

“Remember to pronounce your words clearly,” she says. “And stay away from Judas. That guy’s a meshuggeneh!”

As I walk toward the fishing town by the lake, I reconsider my mother’s words. This savior gig is not only stressful, but it’s way too dangerous. Maybe I should get a little shop in Bethlehem and hang up a carpenter shingle. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll stop preaching and tell my disciples the deal is off.

Then, the all-powerful shouts in my ear. “You better get your ass up the mountain, son, if you know what’s best for you.”

© 2021 Mark Tulin

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