Born Again

Hey, Mister Jesus. Get back on your throne. There are plenty of threatening, thundering things to do. Sinful cities are waiting for earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes and typhoons. There remain more poxes and plagues to be visited on those who disbelieve. We need to get on with our business.

Hey, Mister Jesus. We’ve got a gold crown for you here, and—whatayacallit—a scepter. The earth is your footstool, and I don’t mean naugahyde neither. It’s a genuine jewel-encrusted golden kind of stool I’m talking about. You just sit there, and anything you say to have done, it will be done, that’s a fact. So let’s get on with our business.

Hey, Mister Jesus. We’ve read about all that walking around you did, living on loaves and fishes and cheap wine, healing sick kids and talking all cryptic and such. You did your part. Now you take your well-earned rest up there in the cloud country, and let us manage the details. We know the plan. You can count on us. Relax and be at your ease on that throne. Enjoy the view, while we get on with our business.

Hey, Mister Jesus. It’s been awhile. We’re still waiting for the trumpet call and the marching band and the light show and the handing out of the party favors and the banishment of the bad people. I know it’s all on your time and everything, but it sure looks like the finale and the curtain call coming up. Do you need help? Just a little note, or even a nod of the head will do. No need to say more. We’re with you all the way. We’re ready to take care of business.

Dear Mister Jesus. Thanks for the check. It came right when we needed it. I don’t know how we could have ever doubted you. Stay in touch. We’ll talk business.