Return (to Sender)

building paidoff

“At that time the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky, and all the nations of the earth will mourn. They will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of the sky, with power and great glory.” (Matthew 24:30)

So I’m looking around at my nice big house, my two decent cars, my nifty iMac, my foxy wife, my gloriously dysfunctional kids, my adopted green state of Oregon, my pretensions to fame and wealth—and I wonder why in hell I would want Jesus to come back now. Except for the necessary jerks sprinkled through my life (which serve to reinforce my innate sense of superiority) and the ungodly price of coffee, there’s not a lot I want to fly away from to the sweet by and by just yet.

I know the Bible tells me I’m supposed to “look forward to the day of God and speed its coming,” but geez, the very next line says “that day will bring about the destruction of the heavens by fire, and the elements will melt in the heat.” That means all my favorite stuff is going to flame to charcoal. How am I supposed to get excited about that, for God’s sake? Yeah, yeah, I know; it’s all going to be replaced by “a new heaven and a new earth.” Yippee. But I still like the old one. Why would I want to shred it when I still want it? Talk about your cosmic cash for clunkers deal.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure the new place is going to be nice, except for the fact that there will be no sea, which is a major bummer since I like the ocean a lot. Maybe they’ll have a wave machine or something. Oh, and there will be no sun there either, which is another major bummer for folks who like tanning. (I can’t quite imagine lying before the glory of God to cop some rays.) And there won’t be anymore night either. That’ll be like living in Alaska during the summer. I guess that means in heaven nobody’s going to get a good night’s sleep, one of my favorite things of all. (One plus is that there probably won’t be mosquitoes in heaven.) Oh, and there won’t be any marriage because we’ll all be “like the angels in heaven,” which obviously means we won’t be able to do any dirty dancing, a total freaking bummer if you ask me. But besides these things, it’s probably going to be a half-way tolerable place.

So, yeah. Maranatha and all that—but later. I say wait until just when I start drooling and peeing regularly in my Depends undergarments. Or maybe until Dick Clark dies. I don’t know. Let’s just hold off this thing until the last possible minute so I can suck on the pap of life and gulp down incomparable milk of wonder like Gatsby tried to do but screwed up when he got mixed up with Daisy, that shallow babe who ended up sticking with her jerk of a husband, Tom, even after all that Gatsby did for her, though, to be fair, he was more into the idea of Daisy than the real chick which was his big mistake from the start and ultimately led to his untimely and tragic death at the hands of Tom’s mistress’s husband, the dweeb Wilson who thought Gatsby had diddled and run over his chubby slut of a wife when it was really Daisy who did it but got off F. Scott Fitzgerald free which rich people like her and Tom always do.

Which is exactly why Jesus needs to cool his jets on the return thing until the rest of us are ready for him. There’s nothing worse than somebody crashing your party like some thief in the night, especially if one of you is taken and the other left, which you would hope anyway that it’s you who’s taken and not left behind. (I know about those stupid books.) There’s just too much fun stuff left to do. I only hope Jesus doesn’t show up early and ruin it for everybody.


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