Jesus came into my lab (his nimbus was beautiful) announcing, “I have returned.”
“Your father is dead. I’m sorry for your loss,” I tell him, honestly.
“You’re lying,” Jesus accuses incredulously.
“He died twice,” I inform him. “It happened first on July 16, 1945 at Trinity Site.”
“You know not what you speak of,” he replies, chest puffed out, his nimbus becoming an angry black.
“It took him forty days and nights to do what our nukes can do now in minutes and our bio-weapons… well, those are a horror story I prefer not to talk about. The biblical Armageddon became somewhat trivial,” I tell him.
“No, Father is the Creator. He does not relish death; I’ll bet you simply have your facts mixed up,” Jesus says, his eyes pleading.
“The second time was when we successfully completed the human genome project in 2003. We can effectively translate sequences of amino-acid chains into human characteristics although we successfully cloned the first mammal from an adult somatic cell as early as July 5 1996. We now know the building blocks for life,” I enlighten him.
“You can do that? Who gave you the knowledge?” he asks.
“We taught ourselves,” I tell him, observing the rictus of shock upon his face.
“But He created you,” Jesus states and I do not know if he puts forth this as fact or question, as his mellifluous voice gave no indication and his eyes—those magnificent eyes—shimmer with all the emotions humankind has ever experienced simultaneously.
“Did He create us or did We create him,” I propose to Jesus.
He says nothing.
“We did name one of our most important discoveries after him; the Higgs Boson or God particle. Discovered July 2012 with the Large Hadron Collider, a colossal instrument built at great cost by a coalition of many nations, an ineffable feat in itself; it gives matter mass and holds the physical fabric of the universe together,” I inform him. “However, even the most ardent empirical observations and calculations resulting in empirical evidence are refutable; for science is not a matter of faith.”
“Could this truly be?” he says in a susurration more to himself than me. “You can really do all that you say?” he inquires again, chest deflating with the release of the last defiant breath.
“Yes we can,” I tell him with neither joy nor sorrow.
“Can I join you?” he asks calmly.
“Sure,” I say. Put on a lab coat and grab a microscope.”
James Tucker went to the University of South Carolina, is from Charleston SC but cannot make up his mind between the ocean and the mountains and has ended up in Columbia SC, which ironically, has neither. James has just recently (if four or five years is considered recent) delved into the world of writing, finding it highly frustrating. He would like to thank the editors of Sick Lit Magazine for giving him cause to pull his favorite pen out from the wall by his desk in which it is embedded.