I Wouldn’t Want to Be Jesus.

By Jack McCarthy

Oh, I wouldn’t mind doing a miracle or two.
And as Jesus I’d have no problem with the cool sayings—
hey, if I knew the people following me around
were memorizing everything I said,
and that I’d still be getting quoted 2000 years later,
I could come up with some real zingers.
Just substitute Republicans for Pharisees, I’d be halfway home.

Walking town to town with my posse?
I’d love that. I know how when guys
get together in some desperate enterprise,
everybody’s sense of humor gets sharpened,
and if we survive we remember those times
as much for the laughter as the desperation.

How would I feel about some honey
washing my feet with her hair? I might say,
“Darlin, dontcha think that’s a little over the top?”
but that wouldn’t be a deal-breaker.

Turning the other cheek would be hard for me,
but I think I could do it if I was sure it was
the right thing, and I think Jesus was that sure.
And how much harder could it be than the balancing act of,
“Yes, I am your tender, sensitive poetry guy,
but I’m still Irish and don’t fuck with me—“

Crucifixion?  I have to admit that if I knew they were
gonna make an icon out of me in my skivvies
I’d think about doing less sermonizing and more working out.

OK, Crucifixion is not something I’d look forward to.
But it was just one day—
and it was over at three o’clock.
I’d be more afraid of it if they were
torturing me so I’d betray my friends,
because in the end I would betray my friends,
and that’d be the worst part.

But they were torturing Jesus
just for sport, and put it in perspective,
we can watch bloodier scenes than that
on TV any night of the week.

For me, the hardest thing of all would be
the taunting: when they started talkin’ shit, like,
“If you really are the Son of God, come down
from the cross… blah blah blah.”
10 seconds of that I’d be down on the ground
and up in someone’s face: “You want me?
You got me, bitch!”No Resurrection, no Christianity;
just squander everything on one irresistible punchline,
biblically misdirected, tragically mistimed,
but nonetheless curiously satisfying.

But real reason I wouldn’t want to be Jesus,
the deal-breaker to end all deal-breakers,
is all the subsequent centuries
sitting at the right hand of my Father and
weeping at all the inhumanities, atrocities, abuses,
being committed

in my name.

If I were Jesus I’d never stop crying
at all the shit going down every hour of every day

in my name,

never stop repeating
to the end of time and beyond,

“Better I never came.
Better I never came.”

And my friend Muhammad here
feels exactly the same.