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It’s that time of year again! Time to wish my good pal, Yeshua, many happy returns.

I remember when Jesus and I were friends. I would call him up and ask when he was coming back and he would just laugh. “Soon, brah, soon.” But he never did. After a while, I just figured he didn’t wanna hang out anymore. He never takes my calls and no one else has seen hide nor hair of him.

It’s been over 2,000 years since he walked the deserts of the Middle East, no doubt attracting stares due to his pale complexion, flaxen golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. So typical of Middle Eastern Jews back then.

Seeing the news reports coming out of that region every day, it’s no wonder that he has chosen not to go back. With his long, flowing locks he might be mistaken for a woman and end up beaten by Egyptian police, beheaded for witchcraft, or forced to wear a burqa. No doubt it wouldn’t take long for them to kill him again.

But still, some folks say that Jesus has found them, or that they have found him. But I’m skeptical. After all, I was once a close pal and he hasn’t so much as sent me a text or email. Maybe he was jealous of my friendships with the likes of Dawkins, Russell, Templeton, and, of course, the late great Hitchens. Or maybe, like most children, I just outgrew my imaginary friends.

Seems the only people who “think” Jesus has found them are those who have hit some sort of bottom in their life, such as criminals, recovering addicts, people who have suffered a major traumatic experience, and others who have been damaged emotionally in some way. They attribute the finding of inner strength and determination to an unseen external force rather than the power of their own personal will and persistence.

This is demeaning to the power of their own humanity. I only see people helping people in this world; no magical fairies or pixie dust picking up the pieces of ruined and shattered lives.

Jesus just never seems to tap normal, well-adjusted people on the shoulder (just like non-Catholics never seem to get possessed by demons). Guess we’re all doing ok. Still, if you’re out there Jesus, happy birthday. I will burn a goat in your honor and collect hundreds of severed foreskins.

Oh right, sorry—that was your Pa who was into those things. My bad!