By DEXTER DUGGAN
“Run and get the door, please, Jesus,” His Mother said.
“Sure, Mom,” the three-year-old boy replied. His human nature always was eager to see what was new today in the earthly world that His existence had forever preceded. Such a noise outside, even louder than the persistent banging on the door.
He reached way up and pulled on the latch.
Such a big man standing out there, apparently with an orange turban on his head.
Oh, wait, Jesus’ human nature thought, isn’t this the king from another time in history who visited me to pay homage when I was born? Mom and Dad told me about him, and how he left us what he called his precious gift of coupons for unlimited Kentucky Fried Chicken and pizza, more special to him than frankincense.
“Wonderful!” the Orange King enthused, stepping inside. “Look how much the little baby has grown already. My supremely capable Manhattan advisers had told me — well, not all of them are that capable, but some are, sometimes, when they’re not getting me in trouble with Sheik Mueller — when they told me there was an even bigger king than I, I knew I hadda get back to the First Century to see Him.
“I didn’t know how that was gonna be possible, though, until one of my Arab-looking waiters from Brooklyn said everyone gets one miracle a year in his home country for Christmas, and he bestowed the time-travel gift on me. I’m a multibillionaire who swooped into the White House on my first try, but time travel is a career move I never had tried,” he said.
“How time flies! It’s another Christmas and time for another miracle, and I wanted to check up on the young lad here, see if he has any press clippings about Himself yet to put in the scrapbooks for famous kings that I gave Him before,” the Orange King said.
Jesus was so busy absorbing this foreign-sounding chatter that He’d momentarily forgot there had been even more noise outside than the Orange King’s pounding. There it is again!
“Trump, Trump! We know there are Russians, lots of Russians, in that house with you!” someone was screaming. “You thought you could get away from us with time travel, but the power of our Pulitzer Prizes grants all our wishes to follow you anywhere! Confess! Confess! We got a deadline to meet before we have our worship service!”
“Yeah,” another voice screamed, “they say we scribes aren’t religious, but we’re always ready to fall on our knees in adoration before our Queen of Belapelosi while she sharpens her knives to perform her daily infant sacrifices.”
Jesus’ Mother finished wiping her hands from working in the kitchen but was instantly apprehensive at hearing the words about infant sacrifices. She recalled all too well what Herod had done in his futile search for her little Boy.
“See here,” Mary said bravely to the bulging-eyed scribes stomping in impatience for a confession by the Orange King, “I’ll have you know we keep kosher here, worship the Lord Our God, blessed be His Name forever, and absolutely no infants are ever sacrificed.”
Jesus knew that any mention of His Father in Heaven would disturb some of these foxes from The Washington Boast and The New York Overheated Climes. Yes, He perceived that some of their souls immediately began shuddering.
“Look, lady,” one of the annoyed scribes growled, “it’s all very well if you keep your religion to yourself here in your house, but I can see you don’t understand how important we are. We could destroy your shabby little life in one click of the laptop if we want. I’m getting upset with your trying to impose your morality against killing infants on your betters, like us.”
It was astonishing arrogance, but this guy thought he was a master of the universe. He talked to the Orange King with such disrespect, so why not consider this Mideast woman barely fit to breathe the same air as himself? Mary’s humility tempered her sense of grave injustice being done by this foreigner.
Jesus tugged at His Mother’s tunic and gave her a look that she had learned to mean He was going to take care of things in a time and a way she couldn’t understand. She smiled down at Him.
Now a woman foreigner started scorning Mary. “Is all you really do is just keep yourself locked up in this home raising this kid? Have you absolutely no ambition or liberation or anything to make you worthwhile at all? We gotta get pictures of this place so our audiences will know about the deplorables that Trump hangs out with. And, c’mon, stop hiding the Russians! Where are they?”
Another voice arose from the crowd as its speaker sprinted forward. “I’m sure I need no introduction,” he boasted as Jesus’ human nature and Mary both gave him blank looks. “I’m Jim Acosta, from globe-spanning CNN, and I’m just a little late because no one could get me a gold-plated time machine that suited my fame and power fast enough.”
Whereupon Acosta fell into a mud puddle while looking too intently into his makeup mirror. Someone would pay for this embarrassment! Why not Trump?
“Trump, you racist!” Acosta seethed. “Why are you coming to some Jews’ house when there are persecuted Palestinians you need to visit? Doesn’t their suffering matter to you at all? The world will never forget your racism about recognizing Jerusalem as the capital of the Israelis after you married your daughter off to one of them.”
Others among the foreigners began applauding Acosta.
Just then Joseph came home from doing a carpentry job nearby, so the mockers had another target, a laboring man who wasn’t even a Democrat and probably didn’t know the name of any Hollywood star except maybe old Charlton Heston, who’d killed an Egyptian in some movie.
Modest and patient as she was, Mary grew exasperated with the foreigners’ breach of good manners.
“I don’t fully understand what’s happening here,” Mary said, “except I see we have a generous king who had come a great distance to honor my Son three years ago, and now he has returned for a visit. But all you people do is scream and prevent him from talking with Jesus.”
Jesus!? A chill ran through the crowd of impertinent foreigners. “Oh,” one of them tried to laugh it off. “Jesus, Hay-soos, oh yeah, a lot of Latinos have that name. So your Son knows some immigrants?”
“My Son’s name is Jesus. Even though He’s little, he already has better manners than the lot of you put together. Some of His little friends call him the Preacher because he has such a way with words. I can already imagine what it’ll be like when He reads Torah at the shul,” she said.
The foreigners grew distinctly uncomfortable with what sounded to them like religious grandstanding. One went over to a girl drawing water at a well to ask discreetly what town their time machines had brought them to.
He slinked back, spread the word quietly among his peers. They blanched and as good as disappeared in an instant with the word “Nazareth” hanging in the air. Even though time machines don’t use jet propulsion, they practically left contrails in their wake.
The Orange King fancied himself good at telling off the press, but he’d never been able to make them scatter as fast as this. His respect grew even greater for the Little Ruler he had returned to honor again. Sarah Sanders may not keep her job much longer in the briefing room!
“Your Majesty,” Mary addressed the Orange King. “May I ask you to share our humble supper? Oh, wait. Jesus, please run out and redeem three of the pizza coupons His Majesty had brought for you in the manger.”
Joseph still was a little stung by the foreigners’ rudeness, but as Jesus ran out the door, He cast a thought Joseph’s way. “Be patient, Dad. These foreigners are always praising new and untraditional forms of families. Wait’ll one day when they see I have two fathers, and One of them gets the last word over their bad manners forever.”
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