Jesus Would Be 5’8 & Hate The Fanbase

I fight with “christians” in the comment section on the internet, and I think Jesus would, too, if I’m being perfectly honest. I think he’d lose himself in losing, often, (in likes and quick comebacks) on Facebook with racists who can’t spell and Tiktok with jaded girls who are strikingly pretty but sick, sinking, in privilege, and, “Why would He concern himself with something so mundane?” you’d say, but wasn’t mundane his whole thing? You think he’d be in a parking lot, speaking of shame? You’d think he’d have shoes on, in sail boats and golf carts, and be 6’4? Jesus? I think he’d be in the middle of Camden, New Jersey. I think he’d smoke cigarettes.

Sister-Mary-Pseudo-Pious-Fucks, I hope I get to see the rage when you’re turned away at the door and you go, “W-What do you mean?” and God goes, “Well…did you seriously think you were getting in here? like? In HERE in here?” and Monica Lewinsky and every other woman who was ever called a whore waves from inside, “See ya never!” and every soul ICE agents pulled from apartment laundromats and churches and Supermarket queues wave from the patio. And all of the palms-open, sucking-in-through-their-teeth “I’m neutral to all of this stuff, ha!” parties get to take the elevator down a few floors, you can’t miss it! Good fucking riddance.

I miss mass most Sundays, but i know Jesus. My self righteousness is a sin itself, yeah:”My sin is BETTER!” but it is. Thinking I’m more virtuous than you is not worse than burning the world down ’cause the firelight brings out the sanctimoniousness in your eyes.

Performance art, ugly and cheap. Stand as tall as you can because you think it puts you above me, call it Christianity. Not my Grandmother’s Christianity, but some piecemeal proclamation of superiority, boneless and waning. Like starving people on Holy Land, but thinking you’re not going to Hell because of it because you’re not antisemetic or sapphic. Close the curtains, and they’re clapping, but you’ve lost your mind playing a character you were an understudy for.

We’re mirrored, the Pretend Christians, and I, crossed-armed and complacent as they wield crosses and protest on Beach Boulevard. What they’re on about, exactly, I’m not sure. Saturday night? Standing outside underneath the streetlights? Skirts? It’s the end of times, and it’s all a woman’s fault.

I’m walking home and they’re wielding bibles like Superhero shields, begging to be persecuted. But it’s me they show their teeth to, in little propogandic, holier-than-thou growls. I walk past them, crossing the street.

An exchange of pity, two high horses.

The same complex, two sides, the same prayer.

If only you knew God like I did.