By Fritz Ritsch
John 18: 28-38
For a couple of days after their arrests for interrupting the broadcast of the National Day of Prayer in Cowboys Stadium, Jesse the Cowtown Christ, and Peter and Mary, her two self-acknowledged accomplices, wore the orange jumpsuits of the Tarrant County Jail on Weatherford. They were represented by a law firm that specialized in federal crime. Jesse had no clue who had hired the law firm until their very expensive bonds were paid and they were released on their own recognizance. As they were leaving the courthouse with their lawyer, they were met by two men Jesse knew: the rich man from her old church job who had tried to pay for her to start a new church, and the political power-broker who’d tried to get her to run for office.
“Jesse,” her rich former parishioner said, “I was so angry at you for confronting me about my motives for asking you to start a new church. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. You said, I didn’t know you very well, and I needed to know myself better. I thought you were the most arrogant young woman I’d ever met. But now I know you were right. I want to help you any way I can.”
“The same with me, Jesse,” the power broker said. “I’m not even exactly sure why I’m doing this—there’s no advantage to me that I can see. But everything you said when you interrupted that National Day of Prayer broadcast was right on. It was the most politically bold thing I’ve ever seen, and the most impolitic thing I’ve ever seen anyone do. I would never have advised you to do it. But then I realized: people like me always advise politicians to sugar-coat the truth—and because of that, the truth never gets said. You told the truth. Somebody needs to stand up for you for that.”
“Gracias, amigos,” Jesse said, and in spite of herself, tears came to her eyes. The stress of the last week or so–of realizing what she had to do, of enlisting Peter and young Mary as her accomplices, of holding it together for the sake of her panicked and confused disciples, of reading hyperactive headlines and editorials and letters to the editor; and most of all of wondering, despite herself, if she really knew what she was doing, and if her Papa God knew what He was doing—all of that hit her at that moment. Looking at the rich man and the political power-broker, hearing what they said, made her suspect that maybe it was worth it after all. She felt an immense sense of gratitude, to them, and to God, gratitude that she needed in order to renew her strength—because she knew the ordeal was not yet over.
Not by a long shot.
She smiled through her tears. She said to the rich man, “So you know yourself better now, mijo?”
“I think so,” he said humbly. “But maybe more important, I know who you are.”
Jesse and her companions ran the gauntlet of supporters, detractors, reporters and television cameras crowded outside the courthouse. Their lawyer cut through them like the blade of a knife, and Jesse and her companions followed in his wake. Supporters held up signs saying, “We Love You, Jesse!” and “La Cuidad de Dios” and “Mi Papa es su Papa!” Protesters shouted angrily and held up signs that said, “Heretic,” “Blasphemer,” “Mexican Terrorist,” and “Wetback, Go Home!”
In the middle of a crowd of anti-Jesse protesters, one bold young woman grimly held up a sign. “Jesse is the Cowtown Christ,” it said. A couple of the protesters started to scream at the young woman, but she said nothing; sheriff’s deputies intervened when the crowd began to push her. Jesse looked at her in sympathy, and their eyes locked in mutual understanding.
The rich parishioner hosted Jesse at his home, where his personal security kept out the paparazzi. When they arrived there, the rest of her close companions, her compañeros cercanos, were waiting in his spacious living room. They greeted her with hugs and tears, all but Jude the psychiatrist, who stood back a bit until the others were done, and then very formally came over and shook Jesse’s hand.
As they settled down in their comfortable seats, a couple of the rich man’s servants came in with plates of finger food and drinks. Jesse stopped them and said, “Let me handle that.” She began to serve the food and drinks to the others, even making the servants sit down to receive some. The lawyer was trying to talk about the case, but he couldn’t engage Jesse very well because she was serving. It was very awkward and he got frustrated. “Jesse,” he said, “You need to think about your defense.”
“I don’t have a defense,” Jesse countered. “I broke the law, and was fully aware of what I was doing. I’m glad to help with Peter and Mary’s defense, though.”
“As well you should,” Jude said severely. “Peter made his own choices, but Mary’s a minor—a fifteen year old girl. It was frankly irresponsible to involve her in any of this.”
“You’re wrong, Jude,” Mary said calmly. “I ran away from abusive parents when I was twelve, lived on the street, and I’ve been basically a sex slave for three years, until Jesse rescued me. You think I couldn’t make a decision like this without knowing what I was doing, and what the risks were? Believe me, they’re nothing compared to all the risks I’ve already faced. For the first time in my life I did something that I knew was right. I’m proud of what I did. I’ve never been so proud in my life. I did it for mi Papa God—and I did it for Jesse.”
“Same for me,” Peter agreed grimly. “I won’t say I’m as enthusiastic about all this as Mary is—but I did this for God and I did it for Jesse—because she’s God’s Chosen One. She’s the Daughter of God.”
There was silence. The lawyer looked at Jesse intensely. “Jesse—do you think you’re The Daughter of God?”
Jesse looked him squarely in the eye and smiled. “I am the Daughter of God.”
The lawyer sat back. “I see,” he said.
“I’m sure you do,” Jesse said with a wry smile.
Jude leaned forward, his hands clasped earnestly before him, the way he did when was about to firmly but sympathetically confront a client he was counseling. “Jesse, listen to yourself. That’s an extraordinarily grandiose statement to make. You need to face something. You have a mental disease. A brain disorder. You experience hallucinations like this vision of the City of God you keep talking about. You have exaggerated and grandiose fantasies about yourself and your own importance. You have mood swings—I’ve seen you become excessively depressed about the state of the world. And that whole speech you gave when you interrupted the Day of Prayer event on national television—that was you against the whole world. You were acting out a paranoid fantasy on a national scale. Except for the fact that you aren’t stockpiling guns, I don’t see much difference between you and David Koresh.”
“What?” John the mega-church pastor said, defensively. “Are you saying that we’re all a cult like the Branch Davidians? Hardly.”
“Aren’t you?” countered Jude. “You all follow Jesse because of her charisma, even when she asks you to do crazy, risky stuff. Right now, you, John, are likely to be fired from your church for this relationship you have with a false messiah. And Joanna, you just told us before Jesse got here that your boss at the police department, Chief Halstead, has put you on administrative leave pending an investigation into your role in Jesse’s crime and any other criminal activity she may have been involved in. Peter, you’ve already lost your job over Jesse, not to mention your freedom. I have to ask you, is it worth it?”
“You’ve been following her, too, Jude,” Joanna pointed out. “Why have you been following Jesse, if she’s so crazy?”
“I have to admit, she says some good things,” Jude admitted. “And she is very charismatic. I suppose I wanted to believe her. My eyes were opened when you all had that mass hallucination about the baskets filled with food and all the ghosts or whatever at Oakmont Cemetery.”
“Mass hallucination!” Peter sputtered. “When we served that food, everybody in the room ate it! And none of them were following Jesse! She wasn’t even there! How is that a mass hallucination? That was a miracle!”
“I confess I don’t know how that happened,” Jude said, “but there’s plenty of recorded evidence that cult leaders who are convinced themselves of their own hallucinations can convince their followers of them, as well. And listen to yourselves! It was a miracle? Come on!”
They were all silent.
“So,” Jesse said, “what are you thinking, Jude? Paranoid schizophrenia maybe? Hallucinations, voices talking to me, I know what God is thinking, ‘the world is out to get me’—that could fit. And paranoids can build an entire world view around their fantasies. That could be me. But I’m thinking more Bi-Polar I or II—I’m more grandiose than the average paranoid, not so fearful, a lot more coherent. Bi-polar types are also really creative and fun to be around a lot of the time. I could go for that. Is that what you’re thinking, Jude?”
Jude looked at her sympathetically. “Don’t get me wrong, I still believe that there’s a lot of good you’ve done, and that you can still do—but you’ve got to get your head straight. It seems to me we can’t entirely discount paranoia yet, but I’d start with lamictyl for bi-polar first, and see where it takes us. The right treatment regimen, coupled with the kind of self-awareness you just demonstrated, could go a long way toward your recovery and allowing you to fulfill your real potential as a leader in the community.”
“I like it,” the lawyer agreed. “I’m seeing a good ‘mental disease’ defense developing here.”
“Except,” Jesse said calmly, “I really am the Daughter of God. Mi Papa really has sent me to proclaim the good news that la Cuidad de Dios has arrived, and the world has begun its healing. And it’s like you just said about me—in order to heal, the world has to have insight first. They have to know what’s wrong with them. That’s what I was about when I made the TV broadcast I’m in trouble for. I was telling the truth.”
“That may be the truth,” Nate, her community organizer compañero cercano said, “but sometimes you have to manage the truth for the best outcome. Right now, maybe we need to manage this a little. Without this kind of defense, you’re going to end up in jail, or worse, Jesse, and the world needs you right now.”
“Worse?” Jesse asked.
“If you keep talking like this,” Jude said, “there’s a strong case to be made that you’re a danger to yourself and others, and that the state can authorize an involuntary commitment—put you in a mental hospital until you’re ‘well.’”
“Pump me full of Haldol and tuck me away where I’m not heard from again, huh? And you’d volunteer your professional opinion to them on this, Jude?”
Jude gave her his earnest look. “It’s for your own good, Jesse. I’d make sure it was a nice private hospital.”
“You want to talk ‘crazy,’ Jude?” Peter said angrily. “That’s crazy. How could you do this?”
Joanna the cop growled, “I’m seriously re-thinking Jesse’s teachings about non-violence.”
Jude looked alarmed.
“That’s not all you have to worry about, Jesse,” the lawyer said. “The feds have been looking into your immigration status. Turns out you were born inMexico; your parents came here illegally when you were a baby. Immigration and Naturalization is already moving to deport your parents, and you’re next on the list.”
“This is a nightmare,” John said, burying his head in his hands.
“I think we could make a case for a citizenship process for you and your parents,” the lawyer continued, “but you’ve got to play the game a little here, Jesse. You have your Truth, and I’m not asking you to actually change it. We’re just going to manage it a little bit for the courts. Capeesh?”
“Anybody tried these little bacon-wrapped jalepeno shrimps?” Jesse asked, picking up the plates and offering them around. “They are really awesome. Muy bueno.”
Cowtown Christ and We Crucify the Cowtown Christ, Part One: To Tell the Truth, and All Contents Herein, copyright Fritz Ritsch, 2013.