(Writers’ group: Joan assigned us to write about resentment).

“Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death walk into a bar.”

“Wait, son, just hold on a second. These are the Four Horsemen. They would not walk into a bar. They’re on horseback. They might trot into a bar. Or gallop. I can’t imagine them walking. Not possible. Not in my Creation.”

“Yes, Father.” Jesus lowered his gaze a proper moment, then tried again. “Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death ride into a bar — is ride all right?”

“Yes, my son, ‘ride’ is fine.”

Jesus regained his rhythm: “Pestilence orders a Scotch, War orders a Martini, Famine asks what kind of beer is on tap, and Death –”

“Sorry. I have to stop you right there, Jesus.”

“Why.”

“I have a ‘Rule of Three.’ In jokes involving lists, three is the limit.”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE THAT IS THE WAY IT IS!” God glared for a long while, then softened. Jesus truly was sweet. God could not stay angry. “In other places as many as twelve is funny, but not in this world. I could explain it, but there’s no way you would understand. Come back on the morrow and try something else.”

Jesus went back to Joseph’s shop, sat down at his work table, and wrote until midnight. Then he practiced his delivery in front of the looking glass until the cock crowed. At mid-morning Mary came to his little bed and shook him awake. “God expects you any minute. Here’s an oatcake. Pick up your funny stories and shoo.”

Jesus performed a bit about being drawn and quartered by a goat, a pig, a bull, and an eagle. It was funny in concept, and his impressions of the animals had had Joseph wetting his rags the night before. Jesus was in even better form in the morning, and believed his clowning was divinely inspired. He lay supine and mimed his leg being lifted by the eagle while his right and left arm were stretched to the ripping point by the other beasts. Then Jesus blew a powerful fart. The bull ran off, the goat collapsed and died, the eagle gave up, and the pig dragged Jesus off to his mudhole. God had begun laughing early on, and when Jesus blew the fart on cue, God actually drooled into his beard with delight. Jesus sighed with relief.

But God regained his composure, wiped the dribble on his sleeve, and said: “Being able to fart on cue is a fine thing in itself. Your story is funny but for a couple problems.”

“What’s that, Father.”

“Bull, goat, eagle, pig! You forgot the Rule of Three again.”

“Right. I’m sure I will remember now.”

“Oh, you’ll remember.” Suddenly, Jesus winced. He looked at his right hand. Dozens of thorns punctured three of his fingers. In seconds the thorns disappeared, but they left the fingers red and swollen.

“One more problem, my son. A pig is a dirty thing. Having him win might make some people laugh, but not for long. We don’t have anything to do with pigs.”

Jesus was near tears. “But you laughed.”

“You’ll notice, I didn’t laugh for long.”

Jesus went home, crestfallen. He explained the problem to Joseph. It was always difficult for Jesus to speak to Joseph, because Joseph believed himself to be the father of Jesus. Jesus had to be extra careful to say God when referring to God. On a few occasions, he referred to God as Father, and Joseph questioned Jesus. “It was just a slip,” was all Jesus could say, “you both have beards.”

The thing that filled Jesus with shame, however, was the fact that he knew he was conceived on the little bed in the corner of Joseph’s shop. The bed Jesus himself slept in. Everybody knew it. The disciples kidded him about it. But there it was. He was Jesus Christ and he had to live with the fact that the man he loved, who believed himself to be his father, had provided him with the same bed in which Joseph had been cuckolded by God.

That night, Jesus pondered the nature of the universe. What was there before God? And whatever that might have been, what was there before Him/Her/It? He was familiar with the geometers, the mathematicians, and their theories about the cosmos. One was that creation began with a Bang, expanded for nearly an infinity, then contracted for an equal amount of time. Then it Banged again. He knew he was treading on shaky ground, but it struck him as funny. Not in itself, but funny that the story God told about creating everything in seven days was any more sensible than this Big Bang, expanding, then contracting universe. Bang, expand, contract, Bang, expand, contract. This oscillating thing.

Jesus was very brave. He was a committed performer. He told God the story as best he could, fighting off flop sweat until, finally, he had the sense that God was on board. Then Jesus did his impression of the Creator: he thundered, “Stop it. Stop it. Please, stop it.” Long pause. “How am I supposed to get any rest with this incessant Banging every seventy-five billion years?”

But Jesus had misread the entire situation. God looked down at him with dismay. “That was so esoteric I couldn’t follow you.” God fetched his walking stick, then, readying himself to walk away, He said, “I only listened to be polite, Jesus. There’s only one word I can use in a case like this. You ‘bombed’.”

Jesus bit his lip. What was he to do? “Should I write some more jokes, Father, and come back in the morrow.”

“No. You just can’t follow rules. Forget it.”

“One more time, please?”

“No. Judas is coming tomorrow.”

Jesus felt the heat come to his brow. His mouth went dry. “Judas?”

“Yes,” God said. “He’s come up with something he calls a knock-knock joke.”

Jesus’ heart drummed and thumped and his ears whistled. Judas had stolen his knock-knock joke idea.

Jesus forgot about telling jokes. He never found out how the meeting went. Did not even inquire with Judas. Over the next few years, he overheard a few disciples telling knock-knock jokes, so he realized that God had given them the go-ahead. But they didn’t make Jesus laugh. In fact, he considered it a very weak comedy idea, even if it was his own. He realized God’s taste and his were quite different. And the rules. They were just stupid.

Jesus felt he’d forgiven Judas and he moved on from comedy. He concentrated on what he was good at: healing the sick, feeding the poor, making the miserable less miserable. He knew he had made humanity a better thing.

Five years later, Jesus was on the cross. As his life flickered out, he heard a Roman soldier saying to another:

“Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Madonna.”

“Madonna who?”

“Madonna little bed in the corner of Joseph’s shop.”

The laughter was cruel. It died in a few seconds. Jesus smiled. He foresaw the cave, the rock at its mouth. His resurrection three days hence. Would there be a knock-knock on the rock? Secretly he hoped there would be. Judas would be there. In three days, Jesus could come up with a punch line.