Jesus hates this part of the job. He and the Buddha take turns, each performing this task every other day, but it is still too much to bear.

The Buddha seems unbothered by the letters. It seems to have deepened his love for the human condition, if such a thing were even possible.

Jesus, on the other hand, struggles to control his anger when he reads the last words of so many. Why things are allowed to reach these levels of pain and despair goes beyond his understanding. He petitioned god on many occasions; he has lost count by now, to intervene, to fucking change things to bring about a better outcome. God just squeezed his shoulders and reminded him of free will.

The dead letter box is full. It is always full.

Jesus pours his first glass of wine, a simple but lovely Merlot, and settles in behind the mahogany desk. Millennia of use have worn the varnish of the desk’s edges, and the wingback chairs’ leather has become soft and wrinkled, like god’s face.

‘She’s gone. Jesus she’s gone! My world, my life, my wife. How can you allow this, God! She dedicated her life to the church, helping the poor and the sick, often at her own expense. For what! Just to be stabbed to death by junkies! In church! Your church! Our church! My church! The very people she tried to help killed her for the few dollars in her purse. What’s the point! Nothing matters. Everything is for nothing. Life is nothing. How can you do this to me, your priest, your child, my wife! Fuck you!’

Jesus puts the letter down, removes his reading glasses, and wipes away the tears that fill his vision, making it hard to read. He fills up his glass. Somehow it was empty again.

He has no answers to this man’s questions. He has asked the same question many times. What is the point? Why bother? Everything and everyone you love always goes away in the end. As an immortal being it is especially awful. Unlike humans, Jesus cannot kill himself. He knows. He has tried.

He folds the priest’s letter neatly and puts it back into its envelope before sending it off to be filed. The priest hung himself in the sacristy of his church after his wife’s funeral.

With his eyes closed, Jesus reaches into the dead letter box with his right hand to grab another letter at random. His left hand feels for the glass of wine.

‘I can’t do this anymore. My life has no purpose. I am empty. Nothing helps. Drugs, drink, and sex bring only temporary pleasure. It does not last; time washes it away, and there I am again, an empty shell. Useless. Meaningless. I am done, this is not living, just existing.’

Jesus frowns.

A rich, powerful man wrote this letter. This man had everything that many believe brings happiness. Health, good looks, intelligence, and even pedigree. He has not lacked for anything his whole life. His children grew up well and lived extraordinary lives. His wife kept herself in shape and was totally dedicated to him. He had grandchildren! Yet he shot himself in the head.

Somehow, the bottle is now empty. Jesus shoves it into the pneumatic tube that routes to the kitchen. Gotta recycle! Some wingless angel will bring another.

‘When the wine bottle is empty, it is just a bottle, it’s worth consumed.’

Jesus startles himself by saying this out loud. There is some sort of lesson in this uttering, but it escapes him at the moment. He will contemplate it later, with more wine and the company of Mary Magdalene. She has a great mind and incredible insight. It irritates him a little that she and the Buddha often get lost in conversation, forgetting that he is present.

The new wine arrives. Jesus does not acknowledge the nervous angel that sets it down within arms reach.

His arms reach, one into the letter box, the other for the wine.

Might as well get on with it. He has to process at least twelve letters before he can call his shift done. Always twelve! Twelve apostles, twelve tribes of Israel, twelve spies, stones, and fishes. Maybe there were twelve commandments, and Moses dropped one of the stone tablets. He giggles out loud; ‘Stone tablets! What farce symbolism god so enjoy!’

‘Last night I could not keep Dad in my room, and I heard him go to Jenny. She looked broken this morning. The light in her eyes is gone, like Mom’s. They did not even try to run after I shot Dad with his service pistol. Mom smiled before her bullet rubbed her face clean of emotion. Jenny quietly cried when I left the kitchen, a piece of cereal stuck to her lower lip. I will end myself in my room. Mom and I failed Jenny, failed to stop the monster we shared our house with. We deserve to die. Maybe Jenny will be alright. I hope so, I refuse to pray for it.’

This one hit Jesus hard. Why kids are not exempt from the brutality of human beings is simply unforgivable. God is such a bastard! Why does he allow so much pain and suffering! Why should the innocent be subject to evil? Why is the bottle empty again! What is the point of all of this?

Jesus weeps, drinks and reads.

***

‘He will be a good god one day,’ the Buddha says softly.

He and god are watching from the control room. His heart is filled with love and sadness for Jesus and his struggle.

‘Yes,’ god agrees, ‘a much better god than me. But first, he has much more to feel and learn. The worst part about becoming god is the training.’

God shuffles his feet. He likes to go barefoot and enjoys the feeling of creation against his skin. He turns to the Buddha and smiles warmly at his best friend and confidant.

‘We did well with this planet. These beings turned out almost godly themselves. The lessons they produce are painful, but perfect.’

‘Yes,’ the Buddha agrees, ‘the path to enlightenment must cross many bridges of despair and torment.’

He turns to god and returns the smile. ‘Jesus will become. He will be the best of us.’

‘His mother was human after all.’

‘