Would they love Him down in Shreveport today?
If they heard He was a Jew and a Palestinian too,
Would they love Him down in Nashville today?
—Bobby Braddock
Jesse
Jesse’s a scary dude. I took a walk with him one night and every streetlight we passed went out. I got this picture in my head of a pathway with circles of streetlights in front of us and behind us only darkness.
“Watcha thinkin’ about Pete?”
James was staring at me funny.
“Just chilling.”
“Those peeps finally leave?”
I peeked out the curtains. “There’s a few stragglers—most of them went home, I guess.”
He snaps a tab on a can of beer and plops onto the sofa . “Yeah, show’s over for tonight.”
“Where’s Jesse?”
“In his room.”
“That TV reporter keeps bugging us for an interview.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well that ain’t gonna happen.”
He takes a gulp of beer and stares at the curtained window.
“Don’t know, don’t care. It’s Jessie’s call.”
“Why’d that lady have to run her mouth?”
“ Stupid broad…caused me so much grief this week. Tried to keep her from Jesse, but he knows, ya know—tells me go get her and when I do, he falls for her sob story. Next thing I know we’re all over the news.”
“Is Jesse going to make that speech?”
He nods glumly. “Can’t stop him, but I think there’ll be trouble.”
“That reporter lady’s calling us a cult—said on the six o’clock news we’re like the militias—that we're dangerous.”
“That’s a joke. Still, I told Jesse to go soft on stuff —he didn’t listen—as usual.”
“Oh yeah—let them try to shut us down—there’d be a riot all right.”
“I want to get some endorsements from the local churches, but that’s all gone south.”
“They don’t like outsiders. Suspicious, I guess.”
“Suspicious, you say—that don’t even come close. Hell, they just don’t want to share a piece of the pie.”
“It’s more than that J—they think Jesse’s a witch.”
“Cause he knows stuff—does stuff?”
I shrug. James is getting wound up.
“Ya, standing in their pulpits, acting like little Popes—tellin’ people not to come out to the meetings for fear they’ll be corrupted.”
“You gotta cut them some slack J—it must seem weird to them—hell, it’s still weird to me.”
“What is it that Rev Smiley calls Jesse?”
I wince, but tell him anyway, “He calls him Beelzebub—says he’s into charismatic witchcraft.”
“Hah! —He should talk—that fat walking example of gluttony.”
“Shhhh. Don’t let Jesse hear you say that.”
“I don’t care. That tub of hog lard would be the first one to tar and feather us and run us out of town on a rail.”
“Still, Jesse said leave him alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll bet he’s already gone to Tom Wade—you know, having the Sheriff on your side is half the argument in a burg like this.”
“You don’t know that, J.”
“Something wrong?”
I look up and see Jesse standing in the doorway. He spots the crumpled beer can on the coffee table and frowns.
“Just had one,” J explained.
“Put it in the garbage, James.”
J grabs the can and makes his escape to the kitchen.
“You’re upset, Pete—what’s bothering you?”
I could have lied, but what would be the point? He knows me better than I know myself.
“I’m just worried Jesse. The reporter’s stirred up a hornet’s nest and the Sheriff and Rev Smiley are out for blood—Do you think it’s wise to hold the meeting tomorrow?”
“What would you have me do, Pete?”
I hate it when he asks me questions like that. What can I say—I want you to run? That’ d be the truth, but it isn’t in his nature—that's my fear speaking.
“If there’s so much opposition here, maybe we should respect the town’s leaders and move on.”
Jesse stares at me, then looks right through me.
“Why do you listen to that voice, Pete?”
I feel stupid—poor, blind, naked and foolish. I want to die. I want to hide.
He looks stern and part of me inside dies.
I've failed him.
I feel a shadow lift from my mind and a heavy, comforting peace descends and wraps me in a warm hug.
There's a burning in my chest and a confidence that almost makes me swagger.
He smiles.
The meeting tent is filled to overflowing and the people wait with an air of patient expectation.
Just after Noon, Jesse appears on stage and begins to speak quietly, in a normal conversational voice, but the hush seems to magnify it like a loudspeaker and broadcast it to every corner of the town.
People he never met, perfect strangers, he greets by name and reveals the secrets of their hearts. Everyone who opens up to him goes away healed of disease and every emotional and spiritual infirmity.
Finally, he too comes forward.
Jesse sends James and me outside the tent while he talks with the Reverend.
“What do you want?” Jesse asks.
The Reverend seems engaged in some inner struggle, but finally speaks.
“Yesterday at Noon, I told you my son is at university in Kansas, ill with pneumonia—Were you able to cure him?”
“I was,” Jesse says.
The Reverend nods and walks away.
The deputies set the tent ablaze.
In ten minutes it's all over. The plague has been purged. Jesse is dead.
The Reverend and the Sheriff look on with satisfaction.
Job well done, My People, the Lord speaks to their hearts.
Some church members bring the Reverend some news. They tell him his son has recovered from his disease.
He smiles contentedly.
"Yesterday at seven the fever left him”.
Jn 4. 2
