Lamb: the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal

the fury of his gaze stopped me in midstride.
    “Wait,” he said. “I need to talk to my father.”

    I waited by the road for nearly an hour. When Joshua walked out of the olive grove he looked as if a shadow had fallen permanently on his face.
    “I am lost,” he said.
    I pointed over my shoulder. “Nazareth that way, Sepphoris the other way. You’re in the middle. Feel better?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “No help from your father, then?” I always felt strange asking about Joshua’s prayers. You had to see him pray, especially in those days, before we had traveled. There was a lot of strain and trembling, like someone trying to force a fever to break by sheer will. There was no peace in it.
    “I am alone,” Joshua said.
    I punched him in the arm, hard. “Then you didn’t feel that.”
    “Ouch. What’d you do that for?”
    “Sorry, no one around to answer you. You’re soooooooo alone.”
    “I am alone!”
    I wound up for a full-body-powered roundhouse punch. “Then you won’t mind if I smite the bejeezus out of you.”
    He threw up his hands and jumped back. “No, don’t.”
    “So you’re not alone?”
    “I guess not.”
    “Good, then wait here. I’m going to go talk to your father myself.” I tramped off into the olive grove.
    “You don’t have to go in there to talk to him. He is everywhere.”
    “Yeah, right, like you know. If he’s everywhere then how are you alone?”
    “Good point.”
    I left Joshua standing by the road and went off to pray.

    And thus did I pray:
    “Heavenly Father, God of my father and my father’s father, God of Abraham and Isaac, God of Moses, who did lead our people out of Egypt, God of David and Solomon—well, you know who you are. Heavenly Father, far be it from me to question your judgment, being as you are all powerful and the God of Moses and all of the above, but what exactly are you trying to do to this poor kid? I mean, he’s your son, right? He’s the Messiah, right? Are you pulling one of those Abraham faith-test things on him? In case you didn’t notice, he’s in quite a pickle here, having witnessed a murder and his stepfather under arrest by the Romans, and in all likelihood, a lot of our people, who you have mentioned on more than one occasion are your favorites and the chosen (and of which I am one, by the way) are going to be tortured and killed unless we—I mean he—does something. So, what I’m saying here is, could you, much as you did with Samson when he was backed into a corner weaponless against the Philistines, throw the kid a bone here?
    “With all due respect. Your friend, Biff. Amen.”

    I was never very good at prayer. Storytelling, I’m fine with. I, in fact, am the originator of a universal story that I know has survived to this time because I have heard it on TV.
    It begins: “Two Jews go into a bar…”
    Those two Jews? Me and Josh. No kidding.
    Anyway, I’m not good at prayer, but before you think I was a little rough on God, there’s another thing you need to know about my people. Our relationship with God was different from other people and their Gods. Sure there was fear and sacrifice and all, but essentially, we didn’t go to him, he came to us . He told us we were the chosen, he told us he would help us to multiply to the ends of the earth, he told us he would give us a land of milk and honey. We didn’t go to him. We didn’t ask. And since he came to us, we figure we can hold him responsible for what he does and what happens to us. For it is written that “he who can walk away, controls the deal.” And if there’s anything you learn from reading the Bible, it’s that my people walked away a lot. You couldn’t turn around that we weren’t off in Babylon worshiping false gods, building false altars, or sleeping with unsuitable women. (Although the latter may be more of a guy thing than a Jewish thing.) And God pretty much didn’t mind throwing us into slavery or simply massacring us when we did that. We have that kind of relationship with God. We’re family.
    So I’m not a prayer-master, so to speak, but that particular prayer couldn’t have been that bad, because God answered. Well, he left me a message, anyway.

    As I emerged from the olive grove, Joshua held out his hand and said, “God left a message.”
    “It’s a lizard,” I said. It was. Joshua was holding a small lizard in his outstretched hand.
    “Yes, that’s the message, don’t you see?”
    How was I to know what was