FICTION
A Few Beers with Jesus
Every Tuesday for about five years, they met for beers at the local gin joint. Fifth and Main Street. It was a family joint. Nothing fancy, but the beer was always cold. Pints were still only four bucks. They met here many years ago, became drinking buds. The two Jersey guys just hit it off, and now they had a tradition. Except if Tuesday fell on a holiday.
Matt and Dave.
Matt was seventy-nine years young. Long since retired from a job as a car salesman. He made a good living. Solid enough to be fairly comfortable in his retirement. His wife was two years younger than he was, and she was getting along well enough, too. Their children long since moved away from New Jersey to more affordable states and good jobs. New Jersey, within its glory, had its issues. One child in North Carolina and one in Florida. Three grandchildren.
Dave was eighty-two years old. His wife passed about three years earlier. Cancer. Thankfully, she did not suffer too long. One child in California, but Dave had five grandchildren.
Be fruitful and multiply.
Dave did not see them often, but he spoke on the phone with his family every Saturday afternoon at two.
“So … Dave,” Matt asked as they nursed their third pint of cold beer, “if you didn’t have me to hang out with, have a few beers with … who would you have a few with?”
Dave answered right away. “Jesus. I would like to have a few beers with Jesus.”
Matt almost spit his beer out, but instead, he swallowed hard and moved on. “Jesus? Really? Why?”
“I need to ask Him a few questions. I think He would be a cool guy to hang out with, too,” Dave said as he drained his last drop and waved to Old Phil, the bartender, for a refill. Dave pointed at Matt’s beer, too. Then he pointed at his chest to signal the tab designation. Phil dropped them.
“Doesn’t Jesus prefer wine?” Matt asked. He sipped the last drop of his pint and dug into the fresh one.
“Nope. Wine is reserved for a much more sacred occasion.”
“Fair enough. What would you ask Him, Dave?”
“Lots. First off … was Lazurus a good friend? Like you and I are? Drinking buddies?”
“His answer?”
“Yup. I cried because he was. Friends are forever, and Jesus was human, just like us. He knows our pain at the loss of loved ones.” Dave took a long sip of beer, and it was apparent that the beer was softening him up.
“Gotcha. Next on the question list?”
“Geez. God sent so many servants. Moses, Elijah, John, Luke, Abraham, King David, Noah, Peter, John the Baptist, Paul, Daniel, the archangels, etc. Why did the people still not listen?”
“Good question. What would His answer be?”
Dave pondered it for a moment as Old Phil and some other patrons now listened in. “Because we are stupid and stubborn and hopeless without Jesus and His willingness to die for us.”
Now a crowd gathered.
“Wow! Hard hitting, my old friend. We’re stupid?”
“Yup. We sure are. Then I would ask Him if Saint Michael can really kick Satan’s backside. Twice. And Jesus would smile, drain His glass of beer, order another one, and politely say, ‘No one can beat Saint Michael. It would be no contest.’ I would ask Him if that spear in the side hurt, and if the forty days of fasting were really no fun at all, and if carrying that cross was super painful, and was dying really all that bad? And Jesus would nod His head with tears in his eyes, and He would recall all those horrors and quietly say, ‘Yes.’ But I would ask Jesus, in between all that horror and pain and suffering … did He have fun in his time on Earth? How cool was the wedding where you turned the water into wine?”
Old Phil jumped in and entered his opinion. “I would go for that! Profitable!”
Matt smiled and then turned to Dave and asked, “And His answer would be?”
“Sure, He had fun. Lots of parties. Learned a trade. Made things with His hands. Made friends. Lived a simple life. Never owned a home or had credit cards or debt. Never traveled very far from His home. Slept on dirt floors. Never had a designated parking space or a fancy office or a car. Knew pain. Knew joy. Glorified God. He would tell me that the purpose of life is to glorify God. Jesus did that better than anyone else! He healed people. I bet the blind man at the Pool in Bethesda sure celebrated that day!”
Matt took another long sip of beer and nodded his head in agreement, and spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “Blind from birth. I can’t even imagine the joy.”
Silence ensued and set in. Pensive pondering. Dave had hit a nerve with many of the listeners and fellow patrons. Old Phil paused in slinging the drinks.
Dave spoke up to break the silence. “Yup. I would ask Jesus after His third beer—will I see my wife again in Heaven? I loved her so. Jesus would tell me, ‘Yes.’ Then I would ask, ‘Why are we so dumb?’ And Jesus would say, ‘Because you are, and I once was human.’ Then I would ask Him, ‘Why did you do it? Why did you die so horribly so that we could live in eternity? When we are so disrespectful, and so arrogant, and so uncaring, and so unrepentant?’”
No one answered.
No one breathed.
Tears rolled down Dave’s cheeks as he answered his own fictitious scenario question. “Jesus would say, because God loves us and that was the mission that God gave to Him to do. To save us. To laugh at Satan and his temptations. There was no other way. And Jesus would add, ‘The best thing that we can ever do for each other is love without judgement. Just love each other. No matter what.’”
Dave drained the last drop of his beer and plopped the empty pint glass on the bar counter. “Then I would thank Jesus, shake His hand, pay our tabs, and be on my way.” Dave slid out of his barstool and wobbled a bit. “Anyway, this has been profound. Thanks for another Tuesday, Matt. Today is on me. See you next week. God willing.”
Old Phil the bartender hustled over as Dave reached for his wallet. The old bartender shook his head and violently waved his hands in the air.
Phil shouted, “No!” He then lowered his voice to a solemn tone. “This is where the bartender would step in and say, ‘No charge. The beers are on the house. Thank you, Jesus, but there is no charge. You already paid your tab in full.’” Old Phil could not hold back the tears as he struggled to say, “And then some.”
Paul John Hausleben was born in Paterson, New Jersey, and grew up in nearby Haledon Borough. Paul has written a few things here, there, and everywhere. In addition to writing, he is a professional photographer, a retired semi-pro ice hockey goaltender, and an avid amateur radio operator.
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Photo Credit: Anheuser Busch (1876), vintage illustration. Original public domain image from the Library of Congress. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.
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