What would Jesus say?

There’s an Anglican church near me that often advertises upcoming events – cage fighting, mud wrestling, Russian roulette and so on. This week there’s a banner promising an upcoming series of sermons with the theme, “What would Jesus say to …” Beneath that are the mugshots of Elon Musk, Cyril Ramaphosa, Justin Bieber, Israel Folau, Harvey Weinstein and Caitlyn Jenner. Talk about the definitive guest-list for a dinner party from hell. It’s unlikely I will attend the sermons, but since the church has put it out there, let me take a stab at it.

Howzit, Elon. It’s not often I get to chat to someone from Pretoria. Like you, my father and I don’t have much to do with that region any more. Dad said that if I ever get around to the Second Coming, it might be best to avoid South Africa. This would mean that the ANC will rule forever. Sorry about that. So you want to establish a colony on Mars? There are more hospitable planets out there, you know. Oh, right. When Dad made the universe, he forgot to make it possible for humans to get much further than the moon. Maybe He just wanted to see what you did with the planet you were given. Bit of a mess, old chap. Can’t blame Him. Do us a favour. Don’t send any more Tesla cars into orbit. That one has already sideswiped a few of our best angels and we can’t afford to lose more.

Ndaa, Cyril. I like what you’re doing with your country. Well, thinking of doing. Promising to do. You are on the path of righteousness, my son. Quite unlike the man who came before you. It is a bit embarrassing that your predecessor has the same name as the original Jacob, a good man who featured prominently in my father’s memoirs. Our Jacob only had twelve children, though. It has come to my attention that, while your heart is in the right place, you lack testicular fortitude. People like me and my father can afford to play the long game. You can’t. Grow a pair.

Yo, Justin. Did you know that my father has a Twitter account (@TheTweetOfGod) and you are the only person He follows? Big up to you, bro. You must be some kind of special. I dig that your father was a carpenter like me. And also a mixed martial artist. I’ve kicked some ass in my time, let me tell you. Dude, I don’t have a whole lot to say, to be honest. I can’t even figure out why you are on this list. The church, like Dad, moves in mysterious ways. Anglicans are weird at the best of times. I like your tattoos, man. Don’t tell my father or he’ll be quoting Leviticus at me until the cows come home. Good move covering up the ‘Son of God’ tat you had on your tummy. You don’t want to be treading on my turf, homeboy. Love the new song you did with that ginger Ed Sheeran. Bodacious beat. Had me tapping my feet alright. Funnily enough, the song’s title, I Don’t Care, is one of Dad’s favourite catch-phrases. Don’t worry about what people say. Your voice is fine. My balls didn’t drop until I was 30. You still have a few years to go.

G’day, Israel. Love the name. Good people, the Israelites. Well, they were back in the day. I can’t speak for now. The Jews didn’t order my crucifixion, and it doesn’t matter what Mel Gibson says. Everyone has their own personal Judas. In your case, it is Cameron Clyne of Rugby Australia. Your dismissal from my father’s second-favourite team is nothing short of sacrilege. All you did was post a warning to homosexuals, drunks and liars that hell awaits them. It’s the gospel truth, literally. Check out Leviticus in the old testament and Corinthians in the new. But of course, you already know this. I’m not sure about drunks, though. Sure, my father isn’t a huge fan of the sodomites, but He turned a blind eye when I did my water-into-wine trick at that wedding in Cana. Boy, was I popular after that. Anyway, mate, maybe you should calm down a bit. I’m supposed to love everyone but you don’t always make it easy. Chill out. You’re a fullback, not a disciple. Leave the consigning of sinners to professionals like my dad. He is on Sabbatical at the moment and isn’t expected back any time soon.

Shalom, Harvey. Many devout people model themselves on holy men who feature in the old man’s memoirs. Onan, the second son of Judah, might not be the ideal role model, though. My dad had ordered him to give his widowed sister-in-law a child. I don’t know if he ran it past her first. Onan went along with it right up to the climax, so to speak, upon which he withdrew and spilled his seed on the ground. This is no way to give a woman a baby and he was rightly slain by my father. With your seed-spilling, there is no danger of the woman falling pregnant because she is generally to be found cowering in a corner shielding her eyes and crying for help. Luckily for you, my father is no longer in the smiting business. The same can’t be said for the Manhattan Supreme Court.

Dear Sir/Madam. You were a mister and now you’re a sister! How things have changed. You wouldn’t have been able to do that in my time. Back then, if you were born with a willy, you were stuck with it. Even if there was such a thing as sex reassignment surgery two thousand years ago, it’s unlikely I would have considered it. The Daughter of God just doesn’t carry the same weight. And there’s no guarantee anyone would have listened to me. You know what men are like. Had I flounced into the temple in a summer frock and slapped the money-changers, people would have said I was being over-emotional. I would have been given a piece of cake to calm down and sent to a doctor to be treated for hysteria. My father is old school and probably wouldn’t approve of what you did. He’d say a transgender Adam would have meant no people in the world. I think that would’ve been a good thing. There are too many humans, many of whom are Kardashians.