The Christian: A Comedy – Part One
A novella in four parts
This month, I am serializing on Substack my tenth book, a novella called The Christian: A Comedy. The paperback is available on Amazon. Here is the front cover:
I can’t believe I’m writing this.
I can’t believe I was there to see it.
My name doesn’t matter. This book says Ken, but if you need a name while you read, just use Paul.
Most of the details of my life aren’t relevant. I’m an American. I’ve lived in the country and I’ve lived in the city. I pay taxes and follow laws. I’m married. I worry about problems beyond my control, use the internet too much, and feel tired all the time. You could fill the gaps between those facts with my memories and preferences and relationships, and even then, you would not have an unbroken account. A life is a mess, a mangled thing taking shape only when we look back at it.
At least that’s what I used to believe.
Before I met him.
I met Mike in college. The school was focused on reading old books, so it attracted quiet, artsy, and studious types. But Mike stood apart. He was shorter than me by a few inches, clean shaven, and his deep brown eyes eluded light. He seemed a little vacant, as though part of him were always living elsewhere. He had big hands but was slender. When we first met, we shook and Mike said, “Good to be here.”
I want to tell you what I think about that odd greeting, but I cannot type those thoughts without crying. And I’ve got a story to tell.
Like me, Mike was an older student, confident in his mid-twenties. Like me, he was married. Despite our similarities, or maybe due to them, we didn’t hang out much. Over our four years together in school we saw each other outside of class only a handful of times.
A few days before graduation, I asked Mike what his plans were. “I don’t know really,” he said. “I feel like the thing I’m supposed to do doesn’t exist yet.” I found that statement incredibly sad—and knew the feeling. But then Mike smiled. Looking at him then, I felt warm. I felt like he was showing me that there was one fewer person in the world for whom I should worry.
A few years later, Mike wrote me a letter. I opened it with trepidation. What angle was this man, essentially a stranger, working?
I thought of you the other day. I do paperwork for a construction company now. Today I had to do a bit of math—checking an estimate’s numbers—and I remembered sitting next to you during the big algebra test. It seemed to me that we both felt scared. Is that true?
I’m writing to you now because I want some advice. I know we didn’t talk much at school, but you always seemed wise.
I don’t know how to explain my situation really. It feels weird in my head, like all of it doesn’t fit. But here are the facts: I read a book and now I want to change my life. You know this book; we all read it at college. The changes I want to make feel terrifying. I can’t talk to my parents about this because they are dead. I’m too nervous to talk to my wife. I know I sound crazy, but I feel like you would understand.
I live in Albuquerque, so we could meet up in Santa Fe or I could buy you dinner if you wanted to drive down.
Thank you. It would be good to see you.
I folded up the letter, set it on my kitchen counter, and tried not to think about it.
I failed at not thinking about it.
I sent a letter back asking for his phone number. An archaic game of tag.
Four days later, Mike texted me. He offered to drive up to Santa Fe and buy me dinner. I said sure. He asked if we could eat at Chili’s. I thought what the fuck and said sure.
And it was at dinner at Chili’s that my life changed.
Mike was thinner than I remembered. His cheeks were sunken in, his eyes baggy. He was letting a patchy beard come in. He was tan. His t-shirt had ketchup on it from the onion rings he was eating very rapidly. I joined him at the table, apologizing for being late.
He gestured for me to sit then slurped at a neon green martini. The onion rings were now gone. I laughed for no clear reason. Mike finished his drink then smiled. “Thank you for coming.” I nodded and looked for our waiter, already uncomfortable. Was Mike about to try to get me into crypto? Had he read Dianetics? “No problem, man. Shit.” (I curse needlessly around people I find boring. It’s an immature habit I’ve never been able to shake.)
Mike held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. I did not know what this meant. “What…”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “Kate’s gone.” I saw it: no wedding ring.
“Oh shit… I’m sorry, man. Y’all split?”
Mike nodded then leaned back. “I freaked her out.”
My stomach started to churn. So he was abusive. Or he’d read a book about polygamy and had been a creep. Why did I ever hang out with other straight men?
“Mike, you gotta tell me more, man. I’m not filling in the gaps. What is this book?”
He stared for a full thirty seconds at his empty plate, eyes darting above faint rings of grease. Without looking up, he said, “Do you believe in God?”
Ahh. Fuck. This was a Christian freakout. He always seemed impressionable; it was all making sense. I prepared myself to play ideological dodgeball for forty-five minutes then drive home.
“Not really,” I said. “I’d say I’m agnostic.”
Mike nodded sagely, as though he were all too familiar with such a mistake. “I get it.”
I felt an overwhelming desire to drink, twelve years of sobriety be damned.
Mike laughed. It was a strange, small, arbitrary laugh, like that of a kid who just told a joke with no discernible punchline.
Our waiter arrived and I ordered a burger.
Then Mike started talking.
I listened.
And we closed Chili’s down.
I want to be clear: I do not matter in this story. I am only a witness.
Focus on Mike. He is the story.
I’m typing all of this in a profound state of confusion.
Here is the most important exchange from our three hour Chili’s summit. I have transcribed it with as much fidelity as possible, given my dogshit memory.
“So you reread the New Testament on a whim and now you believe in God. And Jesus. Cool. But what are the ‘terrifying changes’ you mentioned in your letter?”
“Well… now that Kate’s gone, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to live like a Christian.”
“What does that mean for you?”
“It means… do what the books say I should do. Do the D in WWJD.”
“Do the D in WWJD.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You didn’t… grow up religious, right? Or grow up in a cult or something?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I just wanted to know where this is coming from, I guess. If anywhere.”
“That’s exactly it: I don’t know. I just reread the Gospels then felt like, ‘Yeah. That’s the right way to be.’ But not the American Christian way of like… hating poor people and buying guns and thanking Jesus at dinner. I want to do it the way it’s supposed to be done. The way it’s like… spelled out.”
“Jesus Christ, man…”
“Exactly.”
“Huh?”
“A joke. You said—”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry. Funny. So uhh… you’re going to… live like Jesus?”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound very practical.”
“I know.”
“So you’re going to, what… not judge? Give all your shit away? Get crucified?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to get crucified, Mike?”
“I mean I doubt it. Who’s gonna go through the trouble.”
“Sure.”
“But yes to the other things. Not judging, having a private relationship with God, being poor—really poor. Giving my stuff away, helping people.”
“You’re going to try to be a saint, basically.”
“I don’t want any recognition for it, though. I mean… I guess I’m telling you. I don’t know. That’s a tough question, actually.”
“There are like… monasteries for this. Yes? You could be a Benedictine monk. You look into that? I think there’s one in Santa Fe.”
“A monk?”
“A monastery. With monks. Plural.”
“Well, not really. Jesus didn’t live in a monastery.”
“True.”
“He just wandered around. He went to the beach, he went hiking, he hung out in the city, stayed at people’s houses.”
“Seems chill.”
“I guess so.”
“What about the healing of the blind? Reviving a dead kid? Got any plans on that front?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“I don’t know what’s possible or impossible anymore. Like I get that I’d sound crazy if I said I might be able to help a blind person see, but I think this whole thing involves me believing in miracles, so…”
“Mike, I’m going to ask you this. Please don’t get offended or anything. This is what a friend should ask right now, I think.”
“Go ahead and ask me about my mental health.”
“I am asking you about your mental health.”
“I’m sleeping normal amounts, I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, I’m not taking any medication, I’m not hearing voices, and I know this sounds crazy. That cover it?”
“But, like, is it possible you’re manic right now? For the first time?”
“Maybe. But again, I’m sleeping regular amounts, I don’t have like… delusions that this is going to be easy, or that I’m divinely chosen or something. I know I just read a book and then felt compelled to change my life because of it. But I don’t think anyone or anything is responsible for that but me.”
“So God is not talking to you.”
“No.”
“And you’re not thinking about suicide? I ask because giving all your shit away is sometimes a precursor—”
“I couldn’t help people if I were dead.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Look. The world is a fucking mess. Everyone knows it. All this shit—all of it—seems crazy. You’ve surely thought that before. I feel like people are thinking that, feeling that, more and more. Given all the shit and nonsense of the world, being any other way sounds crazy to me. Do you understand?”
“I do, yeah.”
“And I’m not hearing voices. I don’t think I’m Jesus. I just believe it’s right to live like him. That it’s the only way to be alive and make sense of things. I don’t think I’m going to die and come back to life. I’m not a doctor, I’m not even particularly good at being generous. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help—at least not in big ways. But I’m gonna fuckin’ try. And if I fail, I fail.”
“Yeah… I get it. I do.”
“Thank you.”
“But what does failure mean? You go back to normal? Regular-type life and such?”
“I guess so.”
“Mike.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you… has anyone—and I mean outside of like, saints—has anyone ever done this? Is there like… a YouTube documentary, maybe? And what about money?”
“I’ll figure it out as I go. Can’t take it with you.”
“Okay. Yeah. Fuck.”
For the first time ever, we hugged. Then Mike pulled all the money out of his wallet, put it on the table, and left.
He left three hundred and sixty dollars on a sixty-dollar bill.
I drove home, my hands tight on the wheel.
The next morning, I woke up, gave my wife a hazy account of the night, walked my dog, then took a shower. In the running water a simple desire rose up in me. It was this: I want to see what happens.
I was on summer break, so I could swing it. I told my wife. She encouraged me to follow along with such a crazy and brave experiment. “Maybe we’ll learn something.”
I texted Mike:
hey man. thank you for last night! is it okay if i come hang out with you and follow along? i just want to see what happens, and see how you deal with the challenges of living like this. i don’t want to be a creep, though, and would understand if you’d rather not have the company.
Mike responded:
sounds good. come by whenever
Then he texted me an address.