Jesus Jackson by James Ryan Daley Page B

Everywhere I go, there’s a poster talking about how Ryan is in heaven, how he’s with God now, or that he’s some kind of a guardian angel, looking down over the school. People are packed into the chapel, praying and crying and lighting fucking candles—that they charge you a dime for, no less.”
    Jesus seemed amused. “So why does all that bother you so much?”
    â€œBecause it’s all bullshit. It’s fake. They don’t know where Ryan is. They just choose a fairy tale and run with it. If they say he’s watching over us in heaven with God and the angels, then they might as well say he’s huffing glue at Burger King with Mickey Mouse and the Easter Bunny! He’s just dead. Dead dead dead, and no one knows what the fuck that means except that his body is sitting in some freezer somewhere, waiting for some death doctor to cut apart his insides and replace his blood with chemicals, while some morons he never even liked recite bad poetry over a bunch of cheap-ass, ten-cent candles.”
    As these words left my mouth, I began to feel something very deep and strange and powerful mixing up inside me, like a volcano of nausea, fear, sorrow, and anger. It didn’t erupt, though; it didn’t blow over at all. It just stayed right beneath the surface: boiling and boiling and boiling until Jesus said, “But Ryan believed in all that, didn’t he?”
    â€œNo, that’s the worst part. He was the one who first told me that there was no such thing as God—or at least their god. He tried to make up his own damned religion when he was twelve. He didn’t believe a word of that Catholic garbage.”
    Jesus raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s not what everyone else seems to think.”
    â€œWell they’re wrong. Trust me, I know. We talked about it like a thousand times.”
    â€œPeople change, though, Jonathan. How do you know that he still didn’t believe? Could he have found some sort of faith and just decided not to tell you? When was the last time you actually talked to him about it?”
    â€œI don’t know, it was probably—” but I had to stop myself. I knew exactly when Ryan and I had last talked about religion, God, and all of that other stuff. It was about a week before the first day of his freshman year at St. Soren’s. And not once since. “It’s been a while,” I mumbled.
    Jesus took a breath like he was going to say something, but then paused, as if he changed his mind. “But what about you? Do you have your own, made-up religion too?
    I took a deep breath to keep it all at bay. “I don’t have any religion anymore. I told you. I’m an atheist.”
    Jesus grimaced suspiciously. “Hmm.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh, nothing.”
    â€œCome on, what was that look?”
    He shook his head. “It’s really nothing. It’s just that…” A pause. “Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but atheism doesn’t really work for you.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? It works perfectly for me!”
    â€œI’m sure you think it does,” he said. “Or at least say it does. But it doesn’t.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous.” I pointed to a small group of students praying around the flagpole. “You think I’m one of them?”
    â€œWalk with me,” Jesus said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I want to explain something to you.”
    â€œOkay…,” I said, as we started a nice easy pace around the track.
    â€œNow it might sound strange, but atheism—despite what anyone may have told you—requires a certain amount of faith if you want it to really work .”
    â€œWhy the hell do I need faith to be an atheist?”
    â€œIt’s really very simple,” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me to match his pace. “For atheism to really work—that is, if you want it to do