Our Jesus

Robert Banks was driving his battered car down the interstate as the snow began to fall. He looked out his dirty window and cursed softly. The encyclopedia salesman was on his way home for Christmas. His wife and young daughter would be waiting for him. His wife would be eager for some warmth beside her on the cold Winter nights, his daughter was waiting for Saint Nicholas and his happy elves to appear in her sugar plum dreams with a bag full of gifts. Robert Banks was not a man who wanted to disappoint them.

He was returning from a three week road trip. The sales had been poor in a down turning economy. But he had made enough to buy his daughter gifts. For this he was thankful. He knew the snow would make it hard going, but he figured he could make it before the worst of the storm.

The windshield wipers hummed complacently across the snow-covered window and the heater gently poured warmth into the interior while Christmas music played on the radio. Banks was out of the city now and these sounds and the sight of wide, open fields of snow were lulling him. Glancing down at the dash, he noticed the oil light glaring dully.

"Damn," he thought. "It must be the oil pump."

A mechanic in his last stop had told him it was going out and he had prayed it would hold until he was home.

Looking out the window he saw an exit sign marked simply Exit 123, Homewood. Hoping there would be a service station in Homewood, Banks exited from the interstate into a different world. There was a two-lane highway, dividing line obscured by snow or maybe there never was such a line. A sign said Homewood, 12 miles. He followed the sign's direction onto the highway and it seemed to him it was a much different place than that of the noisy interstate with its snarling rigs and dangerous rest areas. The snow was falling faster here and there were no signs of habitation.

Gradually farmhouses began appearing along side the old highway, houses strangely darkened on Christmas Eve. As he drove into the deserted Homewood, he began to feel a vague unease. This feeling deserted him when he saw a service station with a light in the window.

He pulled up to the station and shut the engine off. He stepped out into the winter chill and approached the door. He knocked and waited for a reply. After several seconds the door was opened by a wizened man, who peered at Banks.

"I think my oil pump is shot," Banks said.

"Reckon I should look at it then. Come in, have some cider," the old man gestured Banks into a small office lit by kerosene lamp and warmed by a small heater. On the desk was a steaming flask of cider.

"Thank you. May I use your phone?"

"Nope. Storm took out the lines."

Banks sat down and poured some cider into a Styrofoam cup while the old man went out and peered under the car's hood. Bank's thoughts were with his family who were waiting for him.

The old man returned. "Ayup. It's shot. Ain't nowhere you're goin', young man."

"But I need to get home."

"Not in that car, you ain't. Tell you what. You can come with me to the Christmas pageant, get warm, have some food."

Banks considered. He reasoned that without a car or a phone, he could do nothing. He accepted the old man's proposal.

The old man led him down a deserted street to a large church. Bright light streamed out the windows and laughter could be heard within.

"Is this why the town is deserted?," Banks asked.

"I reckon it is."

They entered the church and were greeted by the pastor, a red-faced man with a pleasant smile. The old man explained Banks' situation. The pastor turned to Banks.

"Welcome to our humble pageant. I hope we can make you feel at home," he said.

Banks was led into a large room filled with merry people, young and old. A table was laden with roasts, hams, potatoes and gravy, biscuits, and all the trimmings of a Christmas dinner.

"We have a stranger here to share our pageant," the pastor announced to the people.

Banks was immediately greeted and led to the table of food. Banks filled his plate and sat with a family at another table. A hot cup of cider was brought to him. He ate and drank, and talked with the family. He began to feel warm and at home.

"This is the meaning of Christmas," he thought.

After they ate, the pastor began to speak of the love and sacrifice of Jesus. His face brimmed with tears when he spoke of Jesus' unconditional love. He called upon one of his parishioners to follow Jesus' example.

About this time, Banks began to drift off to sleep. After a long day of driving, the hot food and warm room began to take their toll. As he slept, he dreamt of his daughter and her sugar-plum fairies.

He woke with a dull ache in his temple. He tried to bring his hand to his forehead, but something was holding it down. He opened his eyes and found himself laying on the floor, surrounded by the townspeople. He raised his head and looked at his arms. They were tied to a wooden plank. He looked down to his feet and found that they too were bound. Suddenly, he realized he was tied to a wooden cross. Seeing his confusion, the pastor bent down toward him.

"My son, you have been chosen to follow the example of Jesus and go unto God with the burden of our sins," the pastor spoke. "Rejoice my son in the knowledge that you are our Jesus, our Christmas pageant Jesus."

The pastor nodded and before Banks' horrified eyes several men stepped forward with hammers and metal spikes and began nailing Banks' wrists and ankles to the cross. No longer dreaming of his daughter and her sugar-plum fairies, Banks began to scream a scream that was soon silenced by a spike through his forehead. As the townspeople began to sing Silent Night, the cross was raised and the townspeople bowed their heads at the sight of their Savior, Robert Banks.

And to all a good night.