MITCH MEETS JESUS

Senator Mitchell McCarthy III, known to all as Mitch, suddenly awoke from a deep, restful sleep, only to find he was already standing up in a dazzlingly bright room, wearing a white tunic. This isn’t my bedroom, he said to himself, and these aren’t my pajamas. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he discovered he wasn’t alone. The place was full of people, or at least what looked like people, all dressed in the same white tunic, all standing silently and facing in the same direction – toward a classical Greek portico. Beneath it next to a door, dressed in elegant vestments and holding a scroll, stood what appeared to be an apparition in human form. One by one members of the crowd were summoned. When called, they approached the steps, passed through the door, not to return.

What is this place? These people look so eerie, all pale and dressed in the same weird costume. They all look like dead people with their eyes open. Maybe they are dead . . . maybe I’m dead! Could this be Heaven, or am I dreaming? It’s gotta be a dream. Must have eaten some pretty rich food last night. Okay, Mitch, let’s wake up now, take an antacid and a sleeping pill, and go back to sleep.

 No matter how hard he willed himself to wake up, Mitch kept finding himself standing and facing the apparition on the porch. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening! Am I really dead? After dozens of names had been called, Mitch’s anxiety and curiosity turned to impatience and annoyance. If I can’t get out of this dream, maybe I can move things along a little quicker.

Pushing his way to the front of the crowd, he climbed the steps, and confronted the apparition. On closer examination Mitch was momentarily unnerved by the shimmering glow about this – whatever it is – holding the scroll. Before he can say his first word, the elegantly vested spirit greeted him. “Peace be with you, Aldridge Mitchell McCarthy III. How can I help you?” 

“How do you know my name? Who are you? What are you? Please don’t tell me you’re Saint Peter . . . are you?”

“Oh, no, I’m just an ordinary angel. My name is Michael – not the Great Archangel – just plain Michael.”

“Okay, Michael, where the hell am I?” 

Michael never ceased to chuckle when souls standing outside Heaven use that phraseology. “You are in Heaven’s waiting room. Beyond this door is the Judgment Seat Chamber, where you will meet the Lord Jesus Christ for your interview.”

“Jesus Christ?!” Mitch blurted. Again, Michael chuckled.

“Yes, Jesus Christ. Were you expecting someone else to be sitting on the Judgment Seat?”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone. I mean . . . am I DEAD?” C’mon, Mitch, wake up . . . dammit, you know you’re still alive. Until yesterday I was the majority leader of the United States Senate, and tomorrow morning I’ll return there as minority leader.

“I assure you this is not a dream. Whether you’re dead or alive is, for the moment, a complicated question above my pay grade – to borrow one of your contemporary idioms. We used to speak King James Bible English here, but our new arrivals had so much trouble with it that God allowed us to contemporize our speech. I digress. Sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you, Brother McCarthy, or would you prefer I call you Mitch?”

“That’s Senator McCarthy to you, sir,” Mitch replied reflexively. “I am the Majority Leader of the United States Senate .  .  . or was? .  .  .  am I REALLY dead?”

“Brother McCarthy, we have no titles here. No rank, no special privileges. Everyone is treated the same.”

“You’re kidding!” McCarthy exclaimed. What kind of place doesn’t acknowledge my rank and stature?

“Sir, we do not kid around up here. We only speak the truth.”

“Well, I’m sure Jesus knows what an important person I am . . . or was . . . whatever.” C’mon, Mitch, wake up!

“Oh, he knows,” Michael replied. “The question you should be asking yourself is: does he care? . . . Ah, I see he’s calling you now.” At that moment the door opened and through no voluntary agency of his own, Mitch McCarthy was whisked into the Judgment Seat Chamber.

Expecting something resembling a palatial ballroom, Mitch was surprised to behold a much smaller room than the one he left behind, yet it too was brightly lit and sparsely furnished. No throne, no cherubim, no seraphim, no heavenly choir, just a simple table and two chairs on opposite sides of the table. Standing behind the farther chair stood a dark-haired, bearded young man wearing a robe made of the coarse fabric typical of the kind worn by Palestinian peasants in ancient times. His face revealed Semitic features baked by long exposure to the sun. Most noticeable were his gentle brown eyes, conveying both love and wisdom. As he bid Mitch to sit down, Mitch noticed the holes in his hands.

Mitch thought to himself How am I going to play this? . . . Like this is for real, or as a character in bad dream? . . . This just can’t be real: could I really be sitting face to face with Jesus Christ? No way!

“Yes, Mitch, you are indeed sitting face to face with Jesus Christ.”

How did he know what I was thinking? Can he read minds?

“Yes, I can read minds, Mitch, because I know everything. I’m omniscient, remember?”

Holy Shit! Oh my God, he just heard that too. Damn it! Oh Lord, there I go again! I can’t stop profaning. Think clean thoughts, Mitch. Songbirds and flowers, songbirds and flowers.

Sitting patiently, hands folded on the table, Jesus listened to the string of bloopers playing inside Mitch’s head.

“Oh, please forgive me, Jesus. I’ve never met anyone before who could read my thoughts.” And thank God for that! Better be safe and play it straight for the time being. Mitch grinned broadly and extended his hand across the table as though greeting a constituent at a Rotary Club meeting. “Lord Jesus. I’m so delighted to meet you. I’m Senator, er, former Senator Mitch McCarthy from the great state of . . .”

“Peace be with you, Mitch,” Jesus calmly interrupted. Instead of accepting Mitch’s outstretched hand, Jesus raised his own in his iconic priestly pose.

Hey, now, nobody interrupts me, a person . . .

“Go ahead, Mitch, finish your thought. You’re thinking no one interrupts a person of your exalted stature.”

“I was not!”

“Mitch, remember, it’s me, Jesus. Omniscient? I can read subconscious minds just as easily. Also, handshaking is unnecessary up here. Here we greet one another with ‘Peace be with you.’ And we answer with ‘And also with you.’ And remember, no titles. You’re allowed to address one another as Brother or Sister, or simply by their first name. Got it? Now, let’s get started.”

“Your house, your rules, Jesus. May I call you Jesus?”

“Of course. May I call you Mitch?”

“Absolutely. Say, Jesus, I have a question: why am I here in the first place? I mean, in this here Judgment Seat room. I thought you looked upon us good, conservative Christian Americans with special favor, one of them being bypassing this judgment interview and going straight to Heaven?” 

“Where did you get such a foolish idea?”

Not the answer I was expecting.

Mitch replied, “Well, you know, TV preachers, evangelical friends of mine, admiring constituents, folks like that. I’ve even been told there’s already a special place set for me up on the dais at the heavenly banquet. So, I just assumed I was already saved.”

“Wow,” Jesus replied. “First of all, Mitch, what you’ve been told is dead wrong and you are very naïve to believe it. Second, everyone is judged, even saints and martyrs. It’s standard procedure here. And, for sure, labels and titles back on Earth like ‘Christian,’ or ‘conservative,’ or ‘Senator,’ mean nothing here. All that is external. I’m interested in the internal – what’s in your heart, mind and soul.”

Mitch stroked his chin which was mostly covered over by his puffy jowls and dewlap neck. “If labels don’t count, then you’re saying Democrats might be in Heaven?” Dream or no dream, I can’t resist asking that question.

Jesus snickered.

“Mitch, there are plenty of Democrats and Republicans in both places.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Oh, sorry, Jesus. That was a slip. Please don’t take that literally.”

“Not a problem . . . Before we get started, a reminder: you must speak the absolute truth because I am Truth and I know all truth.”

“I get it, but you know, Jesus, I thought this would be easy – salvation I mean. After all, I’m a good Christian, a patriotic American, and an important, conservative leader of our government – or was, perhaps – so what more do you need to know? Honestly?”

“Heaven is not a good citizenship award, so you can forget all those senseless plaques and certificates hanging on your office wall, which, by the way, were given to you merely for just doing your job. Salvation is a gift I give to those who love me, trust me, follow me and love their neighbors as themselves.”

Jesus’ answer bothered Mitch. “All right then, I’ll come straight out and ask: am I saved?”

“You’ll find out in due time, Mitch. So, here’s how it works. I will judge your responses on matters put before you by me and by some of my special visitors. Got it?”

“You’re telling me that Jesus Christ and these special people are going to interrogate me? I don’t get to consult legal counsel? I can’t exercise my right to remain silent? What kind of justice is this?”

“It’s perfect justice, Mitch. What else would you expect from me? Besides, I already know your best defense so you don’t need counsel. What’s about to happen is more for your benefit than my edification.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You will.”

“Okay, then, let’s get started. I love Q and A. This could actually be fun. I’ve always been a big hit on ‘Meet the Press’.”

Jesus folded his hands and began, “First question. Is there a connection between American patriotism and salvation?”

“Of course, it does.”

“Then tell me. What does patriotism have to do with salvation?”

Mitch wasn’t expecting a follow up question. “Well, Jesus,” he stammered, “I think the question answers itself, don’t you?”

“Not at all . . . This is your claim. Now defend it.”

Mitch’s face drooped even more, something even Jesus thought not possible. “Okay. Uh, well, uh, I just figured that America being your favorite nation and all, and, you know, me, uh, being a patriotic American and all . . . well, do you see what I mean?”

“Hard to believe, but I actually do. And you’re way off base. It’s true I have shed much grace on America because it’s a good place for people to work out their salvation, but sadly, you and your colleagues aren’t helping by trying to stay in power at any cost. In fact, it’s making it more and more difficult. So, I ask again, what does patriotism have to do with salvation?”

Mitch thought for a moment, believing he really had to come up with a hard sell. “Well, Jesus,” he answered, “we Republicans, and me in particular as one of its leaders, are the party of Christian values, and one of those values is patriotism. We’re as fervent about America as you are. Like you, sir, we love capitalism, hate communism, and loathe socialism. We venerate the Second Amendment, we ardently support the police and the military, we . . .”

“Hold it, Mitch. You’re totally missing the point. I have no favorite nation. I deal in souls, not nations. Besides, ‘patriot’ is also one of those external labels, like ‘conservative’ and ‘liberal.’ They carry no weight here in my kingdom. . . We will go into that in more depth when our first visitor arrives momentarily.”

“Well, I’ve got lots to say about my love of country and I look forward to talking more about it.”

“Don’t be so sure. Now, Mitch, can you recite the last sentence of the Declaration of Independence?”

“Sure. Something about liberty and justice for all? No, that’s not it. Can you give me a hint?”

“I can do better than that.” Suddenly they beheld something like a life-sized hologram gradually coming into sharper focus. It was the immortal soul of Thomas Jefferson in his earthly body, outfitted completely in knee breeches, full-length coat, waistcoat, frilled linen shirt, buckle shoes, the works.

“Peace be with you, Lord,” Jefferson intoned to Jesus, “and with you, Brother McCarthy.”

“Wow! That was amazing!” exclaimed Mitch, rising reverently from his chair. “Thomas Jefferson! I’m overwhelmed. I’m delighted. I’m . . .”

“Speechless? . . . Would that you were,” Jefferson interrupted. “Now please sit down and listen for a change.”

Mitch obsequiously complied. Jefferson continued. “The last sentence goes, ‘And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.’ That, sir, is the definition of true patriotism, not those cheap, sunshine patriotism gestures you people claim today with your lapel pins, teeny little paper flags on toothpicks, and parades and fireworks on the Fourth of July. Patriotism is action, taking risks and making sacrifices for your country.”

“Oh, that’s me. I’d do anything for my country because I love it so!”

“Really?” Jefferson shot back. “Isn’t it true you were of fighting age during the Vietnam War?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Like thousands of men of your age, you had connections which got you into the National Guard, knowing that draftees and volunteers would fill all combat slots and you could stay home, safe and sound. But even that wasn’t enough. You sought and received an early discharge on specious medical grounds. Is that what you call a pledging your life to safeguard the liberty and the pursuit of happiness of your countrymen?”

“Well, I . . .” Mitch paused, shrugged, then paused some more.

“Good answer,” Jefferson retorted. “Let’s move on to pledging one’s fortune.”

“Now, there, Mr. Brother Jefferson, is where I stand out. I’ve spent hundreds of millions of . . .”

“Other people’s dollars,” Jefferson broke in, “and not to support, protect and defend the United States and its Constitution, but to get your chosen cronies elected to the Senate. You raise money for those odious things called Political Action Committees whose goal is to maintain the power, influence and privileges of people like you, and not for the common defense or the general welfare.”

“Now hold on a second there, Mr. Jefferson. I’m a small government conservative just like you, and these PACs are dedicated to the same causes you advocated – small government, low taxes, regulation rollbacks, self-reliance.” Mitch began to feel emboldened again.

“Brother McCarthy,” Jefferson rejoined, “I believed in limited government, which is similar to small government, but not exactly the same. I believed in a government of limited size and scope because I believed that America would always remain a communitarian, small town, agrarian society whose leaders would be chosen by voters with an Enlightenment education, sound wisdom and unwavering virtue. I left public life before the Industrial Revolution took hold in America, before there were railroads, big factories and steamships. There were only three big cities at the time and we believed that the simple, elegant ways of country life – a life where one could on one’s neighbor without needing help from the government – would always prevail. We believed our air and water would always be pure. We believed our natural resources would last forever and that taking and using them would never harm the environment, and especially climate.

“Brother McCarthy, I was a tobacco farmer who had no idea my crop was causing fatal diseases. Our commerce and financial structures were uncomplicated and grounded in trust. There was no central bank. The stock market was a place of simple transactions, not the giant casino it’s become. We wanted to remain isolated from the rest of the world, and had no idea millions of immigrants would be coming into America from all over the world. We thought we only needed a small navy and some marines for our national defense. I had no idea during my lifetime what was really in store for America and its government.

Then Jefferson turned to Jesus, head bowed in reverential humility, “And then there was slavery, a most evil institution, one which we . . . I . . . failed to end when our nation began. It’s no excuse, but we believed, perhaps hoped is a better word, that slavery would eventually self-abolish through attrition, and not by civil war and the terrible legacy of racial discord and division that followed.”

“I committed terrible sins in my lifetime, the two worse were owning slaves and then not freeing all of them. Believe me, Brother McCarthy, it took some amazing grace to save a man like me; just ask my Lord,” gesturing to Jesus.

Jesus simply nodded with a smile and bid Jefferson to continue.

“We were relying on Divine Providence to solve the slavery question, and we, borrowing your modern lingo, ‘Blew it.’ Now it’s going to take strong, resolute leadership from government, together with the good faith and good will of reasonable, unbiased Americans to undo our failures and our lack of foresight.

“So, government must be the right size for its time, and not artificially small to a point where it is incapable of forming a more perfect union, and that’s the bottom line, Brother McCarthy, a more perfect union. Not small government for its own sake. You might be able to pull the wool over the eyes of your increasing gullible base, but not mine, and certainly not Brother Jesus’.”

Jesus nodded again.

Mitch sunk lower in his chair. I thought I liked this Jefferson guy.

“Your response, Brother McCarthy?” Jefferson asked.

“Let’s just agree to disagree.” That worked a lot in the Senate, but I can see it’s looking pretty weak with Jesus and Jefferson.

“You’re right,” Jesus said. “That was weak.”

Jefferson continued, “Then let us move on to sacred honor. Where does your sacred honor lie?”

“With America, naturally,” said Mitch with conviction, sitting up straight in his chair once again.

“Really? Pray then, as the leader of your party in Congress, you and your colleagues in both houses yoked yourselves to an ex-president who is trying to destroy democracy and bring the equivalent of monarchy back to this nation? Do you know, Brother McCarthy, how much I despise monarchy? And autocracy, like monarchy, is tyranny! How could you possibly fail to detect the abhorrence I would feel for autocracy when I wrote the Declaration of Independence? How can you possibly equate acquiescence to a misguided, mentally unstable autocrat as sacred honoring? What is your answer, sir?”

Face reddened, Mitch turned to Jesus. “I thought you said all this patriotism stuff is external and irrelevant to salvation, so why all these questions?”

“You’re right.” Jesus replied, “Patriotism is external, but hypocrisy most certainly is not. If you had read at least one of the many commemorative Bibles gathering dust on your office shelves, you would know that I’ve been condemning hypocrisy since the days I preached to the Pharisees. Professing patriotism, while doing nothing productive and then blaming your opponents for the lack of progress is just plain and simple hypocrisy. And for what? Power, Mitch, power at any cost, coupled with a total lack of virtue. That’s what has Brother Jefferson upset, and it’s these sins which bother me.”

“Does this mean I’m going to Hell?”

“Too soon to ask. We still have more ground to cover.”

That’s a relief. I guess I’m not doing so bad after all.

Jesus sighed.

Turning to Jefferson, Mitch said, “Mr. Jefferson, I’ve served my country honorably and faithfully while holding public office over the last four decades. I have supported, protected and defended the Constitution.”

“Have you now?” Mitch read the slight amusement in Jefferson’s smile as a sign of agreement. Jesus knew better.

“Well, my time is up. I’ll take my leave. Peace be with you all.” With that Jefferson gradually faded into a haze, and then disappeared.  

“Wow! I just spoke with Thomas Jefferson. Wait ‘til I get back and tell my colleagues I met Th . . . uh, oh, right. That can’t happen. Either I’m dead and I can’t go back, or this is a dream not worth mentioning to anybody. Which is it, Jesus? Am I dead or alive?”

Jesus said, “Let’s move on. Now you just claimed that you have faithfully honored your oath to support, protect and defend the United States Constitution?”

“Isn’t that just another one of those external things we just talked about?”

“Oh, it is for sure, but please answer the question.”

“Okay. Well, sir, without equivocation I have indeed supported, protected and defended the Constitution of the United States.”

“Let me remind you, Mitch, that lies, deceit and misrepresentation, like hypocrisy, is one of those important, internal things, especially when you swear upon an oath.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Well, let’s see. Article II, Section 2, Clause 2 of the Constitution that you faithfully swore to preserve, protect and defend, directs the President to make some pretty important appointments, including ambassadors and justices of the Supreme Court – appointments that profoundly affect the operation of the federal government. Right?

“Well, yeah, sure.”

“However, the President cannot put those officers to work without first getting the consent of Senate, that institution you claim to faithfully serve. Right?

“I see where going with this, Jesus . . .”

“Just answer with a yes or a no, Mitch.”

“But, Jesus . . .”

“Mitch?”

“Okay, okay. . . Yes.”

“So, if the Senate decides to do nothing when the nominations come over to you, then America has no ambassadors, cabinet officers, heads of the military, or judges, including Supreme Court justices. Right?

“We would never do that.”

“Oh, but you did, so what’s your answer?”

“Only that one time.”

“Mitch?”

“Okay, yes, you’re technically right.”

“Technically? Well, let me set the scene. Several years ago, the President, someone from the opposition party, nominated a highly qualified candidate for the Supreme Court. When that happens, his nomination is sent over to the Senate for your advice and consent. Right?”

“Right. But . . . “

“And as the Senate’s majority leader at the time, nothing comes to a vote unless you allow it, because you control the Senate’s calendar. Yes or no, Mitch.

“Uh- huh, Mitch grumbled.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“And on this nomination, you took to the Senate floor and made up a rule. I believe you called it ‘The Biden Rule,’ and what did you claim this non-existent rule said?”

Mitch hesitated, but under Jesus’ compelling gaze he said in a near-whisper, “The Senate should not consider Supreme Court nominees during an election year.”

“And then, what did you tell the American people?”

Mitch squirmed in his chair. Coughing a few times to open his constricted larynx to let the let words come out, he said, “I said the candidate who wins the upcoming election should choose the next justice.”

“Which you knew at the time was a load of unconstitutional bull. You contrived a deception and wrapped it up in pro-democracy rhetoric, because you couldn’t bear to see this President exercise his constitutional power and privilege, and you wanted show him who was really the boss when it came to choosing judges.” 

Mitch sat in silence summoning the willpower to resist thinking anything for fear of upsetting Jesus even more.

“Now let’s proceed forward about four years. Your guy is now the President. It’s less than sixty days away from a presidential election, and one of the justice dies, creating an opening on the court. Tell me, Mitch, was the Biden Rule still in effect?”

“Well, uh . . . not exactly.”

“C’mon, Mitch. It’s not nice to mess around with Jesus. You and I both know the rule never existed. It was subterfuge. Right.”

“Well, it did kind of exist.”

“Did it exist when you rushed a new justice onto the court just days before the election?”

“Well, I just didn’t enforce it. That’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” said Jesus. “Did it just slip tour mind?”

Mitch remained silent, afraid to think, afraid to speak.

“Of course, you didn’t forget. In fact, when a reporter asked you if you were going to invoke the Biden Rule this time around, you chuckled and said the Senate will take up the President’s nomination and move his choice onto the court – as though it was a foregone conclusion. With one answer you managed to be simultaneously deceitful, hypocritical, and maliciously ironic.”

Mitch frowned, but said nothing.

“And now, you’ve made it known that, should you become majority leader after 2022 mid-term elections, no Democrat-nominated justice will be confirmed, even if the vacancy lasts two years, and maybe longer . . . So let me get this straight. As long as you’re Majority Leader of the Senate, only Republican-nominated justices will get on the court. Would you like to defend the legality and fairness of that proposition? Oh, and feel free to quote the Constitution.”

Mitch thought, I don’t like how this is going.

“Well. Mitch, that’s what all the unrighteous say once they get in front of me,” Jesus said. After a short pause to let his words sink in, Jesus continued. “So, let me rephrase the question. Where in your Constitution does it say the Senate has the authority to refuse to exercise its duty of ‘Advise and Consent’?”

Mitch decided he had to go on the offensive. “Well, sir, I’ll tell you. It’s implied.”

“Implied? Did you just actually say ‘implied’?”

“I sure did. Look, if the Constitution gives the Senate the authority to do something, then by implication it has the authority not to do it.”

“So, you, a self-described originalist, claim that the plain and simple meaning of the text of the Constitution clearly implies that the Senate can prevent a President from doing his lawful duty by you not doing your duty? That was the authors’ intent?”

“Well, the people spoke, we got our man in the White House and we got our man on the court. Pretty shrewd, huh?”

Jesus shuddered.

“And you intend to the same all over again, if given the opportunity? What should I make of that?”

“It is what it is, Jesus.”

At that moment another hologram came into view, this one decidedly shorter than Jefferson, but dressed the same fashion of the period. It was the chief architect of the Constitution, James Madison.

“President Madison,” Mitch exclaimed, “what an honor to meet you! I . . .”

“Wish I could say the same, McCarthy. Oh, sorry, peace be with you both.”

Jesus replied, “And also with you, Brother Madison.” Mitch mumbled something inaudibly.

Madison continued, “Do you realize that you and your so-called ‘originalist’ hooligans in the Senate are making a mockery of Second Article of the Constitution?”

“I forgot, Mr., uh, Brother President, which article is the second?” Mitch asked. “As you know, I’m an Article One guy and I often get Articles Two and Three mixed up.”

Jesus snickered. Madison snarled.

“In Article Two the President of the United States nominates judges to the Supreme Court, and you clowns in the Senate are supposed to either give or withhold consent by a vote. I repeat, McCarthy, a vote! Not sitting on your derrieres doing nothing and talking jiggery-pokery about letting the people decide.”

“But Brother President, I was trying to protect the country from a runaway Supreme Court.”

“In that case, it’s your duty as honest-to-God supporters, protectors and defenders of the Constitution to bring the nomination to the Senate floor, take a vote, and reject the nominee. Simple as that. It’s been done many times before. It happened nine times to President Tyler, poor fellow.”

“We couldn’t reject him.” Mitch said.

“Why not, pray tell?”

“Because a couple of years before his nomination we advised the President that the very same guy would make a good Supreme Court Justice.”

Madison was speechless. He bowed his head and began deep breathing.

“James, remember your blood pressure,” Jesus admonished. Turning aside to Mitch he whispered, “It’s just a metaphor. There’s no such thing as blood pressure in Heaven.”

Madison continued. “Let me get this straight. You once exercised your constitutional privilege of advising the president that this judge would make a good Supreme Court Justice, and then this same President takes your advice and nominates him, and then you refuse to do your duty to bring up his name before the Senate? Did I get that right, McCarthy?”

“You make it sound so . . .”

“Ironic? Moronic? Both?” Madison shouted.

“But Brother President, he really wasn’t the justice we actually wanted.”

“Where in the Constitution does it say the senators get the justices they want?”

“Well, uh, it’s not precisely put that way in the Constitution, sir.”

“It’s not precisely put that way because we precisely did not want senators choosing justices. Their role is to be a check against a president who might abuse his power when nominating judges. You know how I know that, McCarthy? I WROTE IT!  That’s how, you ninny!”

Mitch had no response.

“Your party held the majority in the Senate, so why – and I want a straight answer this time – why didn’t you and your colleagues do your constitutional duty and bring his nomination up for a vote and reject him?”

Mitch held his silence. Is this what Heaven’s like? It’s beginning to seem more like Hell to me.

Jesus said, “Brother James, Mitch isn’t going to answer your question, but I read his thoughts. Mitch never cared about the will of the people. In fact, he rarely does. He did it for two reasons. First, he wanted to show a black President how much power this white Senator possessed. Second, he was providing political cover for his Republican colleagues by not having them go on the public record as having rejected a qualified and respected jurist. But you haven’t heard the rest of the story. Four years later, in an election year, he rushed through the process and got one of his personal choices on the court in a matter of days. When asked about his reversal of policy, he simply dodged the question.”

“Unbelievable,” Madison replied.

“Well, what about the well-qualified jurist the Democrats rejected back in the 80’s?” Mitch interjected. “They skewered the poor man and then denied him a seat on the court.”

“That’s quite true,” Madison said, “but at least the Senate held hearings, took a vote, and the nation knew precisely who voted aye and who voted nay. They fulfilled their constitutional duty and exposed themselves to being held accountable for their vote, just the way we intended. But you. Taking cover behind a barricade of rhetorical manure. You’re both a deceiver and a hypocrite! And a coward to boot!”

“That’s enough, James,” Jesus warned. In an instant Madison vanished.

“Madison has a point, Mitch. You knew you were trying to deceive the American people while at the same time shirking your oath to follow the Constitution.”

“It’s just party politics, Jesus. That’s all.”

“Just politics? Does ‘just politics’ allow you to violate your oath of office and then lie about it?”

“That’s pretty harsh, Jesus.”

“Judgment can be harsh, Mitch.”

“So, I guess I’m not doing so good, huh?”

“Let’s just say others have done better. Okay, Mitch, this is what you’ve been waiting for. We’re moving on to government service.”

Mitch’s mood instantly perked up. Hot diggedy dog! Finally, we’re getting into my wheelhouse. “Oh, goodness, where do I start?”

Jesus interjected, “I’ll start. My rules, remember? Now, from the moment the black President took office during some really tough times for America, a time in dire need bi-partisan cooperation, you and your Republican colleagues pledged to put every possible stumbling block in his path in an effort to make him look weak and his administration look ineffectual. Then you would blame him for getting nothing done, hoping the Republicans would regain the White House and both houses of Congress. Does that about sum it up?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Our purpose was simply to make him look un-re-electable.”

“At what cost? The lives, liberties and well-being of millions of Americans? Remember, Mitch? Government is supposed to govern. But you chose to anti-govern.”

“But it’s just politics . . .”

“There you go again with ‘just politics.’ As it is written, ‘No one who practices deceit will dwell in my house; no one who speaks falsely will stand in my presence.’”     

“Sorry. I’ll lay off the ‘p’ word.”  Sheesh! I try to talk politics, and all he gives me is Bible verses.

“I’ll let that wise crack pass for now. But whether you say it or not, what you call politics looks more tribal warfare to me.”

“But Jesus, he was going to govern disastrously. We had to stop him.”

“So, instead of becoming statesmen, you became saboteurs.” 

Mitch didn’t like the sound of that remark. “That’s not quite how I would put it.”

“Then how would you put it?”

“We’re just playing the game of good old-fashioned pol . . . Sorry.”

Jesus groaned.

“You know who really hates this ‘game’ all of you so-called leaders of government are playing?” Behind Jesus Mitch saw another hologram coming into view, this one much taller than Madison. It was George Washington.

Mitch was awe-stricken. He rose from his chair, his knees beginning to buckle in a genuflecting motion.

“Brother McCarthy,” said Washington, “for goodness sakes straighten up. If you wouldn’t fall on your knees at the sight of Jesus, you had better not do it for me.”

Trying to come to attention, eyes unable to meet Washington’s for fear of fainting, Mitch sputtered, “General, er, President, uh, Brother, sir! I’m overwhelmed. What a pleasure. No, what a distinct privilege to meet you: America’s greatest hero, my personal hero, my role model, my . . .”

“Enough with the groveling, Brother Mitch,” Washington snapped. “And call me Brother George. I have no rank here.”

“Yes sir, Most hon . . . , I mean, Brother Pres . . . uh, General, I mean G-George.”

“Jesus invited me here to call you out for your obsessive allegiance and obeisance to that national scourge known as political parties. It’s disgraceful!

Taken aback, Mitch involuntarily blurted out, “You’re kidding! Oh, sorry, sir, no disrespect.”  

“Look at this face, Mitch. Do I look like a prankster to you?”

Mitch looked up at Washington, and noticed his eyes were exactly as Gilbert Stuart had painted them. “Oh, no sir. I’m just a little surprised by what you said.”

 “If you had read about me, you wouldn’t have been. As I said in life, they are baneful and they tear the country apart. I wrote in my Farewell Address: ‘The common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it.’

“Furthermore, my esteemed colleague, Brother Eisenhower, said, ‘If a political party does not have its foundation in the determination to advance a cause that is right and that is moral, then it is not a political party; it is merely a conspiracy to seize power.”

“Wow, such beautiful words, but you both overlook one thing: people don’t always agree on everything.”

 “Precisely my point! We had some very strong disagreements in my time. But we expected principles and policies would cause temporary factions to form, but I never expected that it would always be the same people on the same side all the time. I figured my ally today may well be my opponent tomorrow.”

“President George, Sir. I mean Brother George, may I remind you that when you left office, Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson formed political parties.”

“Yeah, and I give them hell every day for it. Sorry, Jesus, bad choice of words . . . And look what happened?  Each party gathers up a bunch of principles and policies in one pile, the other party does the same. Then you tell the American public ‘Choose my pile,’ and the other party says ‘No, choose mine.’ And the people are asking ‘Is that the best you can do?’” 

“Haven’t you heard of the term ‘working across the aisle’? We do that all the time.”

“Yes, I’ve watched proudly as you work across the aisle naming post offices and declaring some random day to be National Eat Fiber Day. Now that’s what I call true statesmanship!”

“Watch your sarcasm, George,” Jesus interjected.

“Sorry, Lord. Now, Brother Mitch, what about this marvelous parliamentary invention you call ‘kicking the can down the road.’ What’s that?”

“It merely means postponing action until a later date to give the matter more thought.”

“Nice try. To the American public aching for leadership, it’s the shameful, craven and feckless practice of getting nothing done through regular order.” 

“Sir, I beg to differ . . .”

“Of course, you beg to differ. You’re the prime example of what I’m talking about. Your Congress is divided into two gangs of stubborn, quarreling children playing games until you absolutely must act.”

“Gee, I’m sorry it’s not working out for you like you wanted, George, but politics is politics . . . Oops.”

Jesus glared.

“You know, Mitch, when we won our independence and were about to set up the world’s first real self-governing nation, I thought our government would attract the best, brightest and most virtuous men, and eventually women. Now look at you. Duty, honor, wisdom, and civility are now dead in a city I’m ashamed to say is named after me. If I were alive, I’d ask Congress to change the name to Do-Nothingtown.”

Jesus, seeing frustration written all over Washington’s face, intervened and thanked him. With head held high, exasperation written all over his face, Washington slowly faded from view.

Mitch raised his hand, wanting to get Washington’s attention for one last try to end the meeting on a positive note, but he was gone. Disappointed, Mitch took his seat opposite Jesus.

Jesus began, “So, here you are, Mitch. Brother Jefferson has convicted you of hypocrisy, Brother Madison got you on deceit and chicanery. And Brother Washington condemned you for coveting power and neglecting duty. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Mitch shook his head from side to side. “These guys just don’t understand.”

“Three of the most notable founding fathers don’t understand? Did I just hear you say that?”

“Look, they’re good guys, don’t get me wrong. They’re just a little too old fashioned.”

“What you’re trying to say is that they admire Cicero and you admire Machiavelli.”

Knowing Mitch had no idea what Jesus was talking about, he continued, “Now we come to the main part of this interview. We’re going to talk about the sheep and the goats.”

“The what and the whaaat?”

“When I was hungry, did you give me something to eat? When I was thirsty, did you give me something to drink? When I was a stranger, did you invite me in? When I needed clothes, did you clothe me? When I was sick, did you look after me? When I was in prison, did you come and visit me?”

“I don’t get it.” Is this some kind of a trick?

“No, Mitch, this is not a trick. This is about servanthood.” 

Then why’s he talking about sheep and goats?

“You’ll soon find out. For now, answer this question: Did you do any of these things for the least of my brothers and sisters?”

“What difference does that make?”

“All the difference in the world, Mitch. If you did nothing for these, the least of my brothers and sisters, then you also did nothing for me. Now do you understand?”

“Sorry, Jesus, but I have to ask again: what’s food, water and clothing for your brothers and sisters got to do with me being here?”

“Everything,” Jesus answered, piercing eyes fixed upon Mitch’s.

Boy, Jesus means business. This could get me into some deep . . . uh, doo-doo. Mitch straightened up in his chair and declared, “My answer is yes, sure I did those things for your brothers and sisters.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Look here, Jesus, I’m a great American and an outstanding leader of my government, all the way from my beginnings on the city council right up to the United States Senate. So, yeah, I took care of your brothers and sisters. That’s what I do.” Kinda.

“Okay, let’s explore that. Please recite the Preamble to your Constitution.”

“What? Are you changing the subject?” I hope.

“Just humor me.”

“Sure, I’ll be glad to: We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, um, then it talks about justice, law and order, and oh yes, and a strong national defense. And then it goes on about the blessings of liberty. I think that’s it.”

Jesus snickered. “Seriously, Mitch?”

“I hit ‘em all, didn’t I?”

“Not quite. The justice part you got partially right. You confused law and order with insuring domestic tranquility. You substituted strong national defense with providing for the common defense. Then you completely left out promoting the general welfare. How could you leave out promoting the general welfare?”

“Welfare! I hate that word. Let me tell you something, Brother Jesus.” Mitch reached back into his memory bank and pulled out an excerpt from an old stump speech. “There are two kinds of people in America, the makers and the takers. Our job as leaders of government is to provide the opportunity for makers to prosper in a safe and secure homeland and to incentivize the takers to get off welfare, become makers, and put some skin in the game.”

“How do you incentivize the takers?”

“By giving them as little as possible so they will wake up, smell the coffee, get off their duffs and get a job.” 

“All of them?”

“All of them!” Mitch’s confidence was rising again.

“Can all takers become makers?

“Why not? America is the land of opportunity.”

“What about children living in poverty in high crime neighborhoods and attending pathetic, rundown schools? What about single mothers who can’t work because they can’t afford decent daycare? What about people who can’t support a family on a minimum wage income? What about the mentally ill, the homeless, and the profoundly physically and mentally disabled? What about your suicidal veterans? What about the innocent people rotting away in prisons? What about refugees fleeing oppression and seeking asylum in your country? What about the uninsured or underinsured facing huge medical bills, bankruptcy, and eviction? What about seniors who were once makers but now have to decide between paying for medicine or paying for housing? Who is supposed to promote their general welfare?”

“Family, friends, and charities,” Mitch replied without hesitation.

“Good half answer, but families, friends and charities cannot come close to fulfilling all these needs. What happens then?”

 “Look, Jesus, small government is liberty. Big government is a nanny state.”

“Have you already forgotten the preamble, Mitch? It’s the mission statement of your nation. Without promoting the general welfare, where’s the justice and domestic tranquility? Where’s your safe homeland if the least of my brothers and sisters are left behind.” 

“Pardon my French, Jesus, but that sounds like a load of liberal bull crap to me. In fact, Jesus, you must be a . . .”

“Socialist? No, Mitch, I’m a king, the one and only true and perfect king. I am the epitome of justice, virtue, righteousness and mercy. But when I look at your nation, one which professes in beautiful prose the inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and then I see millions of your citizens denied them, I want to weep. Your country has so much potential, but when someone asks why the richest and allegedly most compassionate nation on Earth can’t take care of all its citizens, people like you cry ‘Socialism!’”

“As we should. Socialism is a scourge upon humanity, Jesus. It has to be stopped.”

“It’s that kind of deceptive, misdirected attitude that will put you in with the goats, and, believe me, Mitch, you don’t want to spend eternity with the goats.”

“Goats, goats, goats. C’mon, Jesus, would you please tell me what this is all about. Also, how much longer is this going to take?”

“Got plans, Mitch? Am I holding you up?”

“I’m just getting curious about my fate. That’s all . . . well, anxious really. I’m not so sure about anything anymore.”

“Mitch, That’s the most honest statement you’ve made since you arrived. I think it’s time I showed you something.”

At that moment the cloud-bank off to Jesus’ left rolled back revealing two doors. To their left was a very wide door. Over it a sign read “Goats.” Off to the right was a narrow door, over it the sign read “Sheep.” Jesus bade Mitch to follow him. He opened the Sheep door and they both stepped inside. As the door closed behind them, a soft, blissful light revealed the most beautiful garden Mitch had ever beheld, bringing a soothing touch to his eyes. A gentle, refreshing breeze bathed his face. A delightful floral fragrance filled his nostrils. Off in the distance the singing of sublime hymns of praise could be heard. All of his anxiety suddenly transformed into an overwhelming feeling of peace and well-being. He felt light as a cloud. Thoughts of returning to the Senate evaporated from his memory. His mood was pure joy and contentment. The space wrapped him in a loving embrace he had never experienced before.

“Oh, Jesus, I’ve never felt such pure delight. May I stay here?” When the last word left his lips, they were instantly transported back outside, once again facing the Sheep door. Mitch was crestfallen. His prior state of mind immediately returned.

“We’re not finished, Mitch.” With that he escorted Mitch to the other door and opened it just a little. Without even stepping inside an icy chill blasted forth causing frostbite over Mitch’s face. Jesus shoved Mitch inside and closed the door, not entering himself. Frightened by Jesus’ absence, Mitch stood petrified, noticing the absolute absence of light around him. Not even his bright white tunic was visible. Malodorous sulfides engulfed him, causing his throat to constrict and inhibiting his breathing. The deadly silence gave him the unmistakable impression that he was the only being in existence. The feeling of utter loneliness and helplessness seized him with panic and despair.

He screamed, “Jesus, get me out of here. I beg you. Save me!”

Immediately he was once again standing with Jesus, facing the Goat door, light restored, the frostbite gone. The panic subsided.

Was that a foretaste of Heaven and Hell that I just experienced? I must ask Jesus.

Jesus smiled.

“That’s for you to decide, Mitch. Before I was crucified, I told a parable about a king who separated the sheep from the goats. He welcomed those to join the sheep in the beautiful garden by declaring, ‘For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ But the people answered that they had not done anything like that for the king. The king responded, ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Then to those consigned to join the goats in the abyss he said, ‘Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ Now, do you get it?”

Mitch could only stand in silence, head bowed low.

“Mitch, after I was resurrected and before I ascended into heaven, I asked one of my disciples, ‘Peter, do you love me?’ Peter answered, ‘Of course I love you.’ Then I said, ‘Feed my lambs.’ Do you see where this is going? There is no negative word to describe any form of government that cares for the least of my brothers and sisters. Feeding my lambs is mercy, not Socialism. Brothers Jefferson, Madison and Washington brought forth a very good system of government upon Earth. With wisdom and virtue, it can go a long way to fulfilling the needs of the least of my brothers and sisters. With hypocrisy, deceit and greed for power, not so much.”

Mitch looked up, shivering with frightened anticipation, and asked “What is my fate, Jesus? You must tell me, what is my fate?”

“Actually, Mitch, you’re not going through either door, at least not now. This whole time you’ve been here, back on Earth only forty-five seconds has elapsed. You see, you were in a serious car crash. You coded in the ambulance on the way to the emergency room. During that brief period, I brought you here because you are an important man, and I wanted to impress upon you the consequences of your beliefs and actions. Think of it as a gift to you and your country.

“After your heart stopped, you were treated by three EMTs, and with a little help from me, they’re bringing you back to life. By the way, the EMTs, one an African-American, another a Native American and finally a Latina Dreamer, they despise what you stand for, but all of them busted their butts to save your life. When you regain consciousness and can speak, don’t forget to thank them.

“In a few moments you will hear their voices, faint at first, as my voice fades. You will recover from your injuries, I’ve seen to that, and you will live many more years. The accident will leave you with a slight but permanent limp, but I’ve left your mind in the same condition as before the accident.”

Just then, Mitch heard other voices, very faint, but quite animated. He looked anxiously at Jesus, filled with questions. He noticed the light in the room was dimming and the image of Jesus began blurring.

“Jesus, don’t leave,” Mitch begged. “I have so many questions.”

The other voices became stronger, along with the wail of the ambulance’s siren, and he barely heard Jesus say, “Free will, Mitch, free will. It’s my gift to humankind. Use yours wisely.”

Suddenly the Judgment Seat Chamber disappeared from sight, replaced by an unfocused view of the ambulance’s ceiling and two EMTs hovering over him, their voices much clearer now.

“He’s opened his eyes!” one of them exclaimed. “If you can hear me, blink your eyes twice real fast.” 

Mitch complied.

“You’re gonna make it, Senator McCarthy!” The two attending EMTs exchanged fist bumps, while the driver blasted the horn in celebration. “George Washington University Hospital is just two blocks away.” 

Mitch smiled at hearing Washington’s name. It was that familiar, enigmatic smile which always failed to signal what was actually on his mind.