Another Fine Messianic Mess
He wasn’t a prophet. Not a saint, not a visionary. His hands weren’t even calloused—he’d failed as a carpenter and a fisherman, though he did once build a bookshelf that lasted nearly a year.
Most nights, he struggled to choose between the red or blue frozen pizza. Sometimes he’d answer scam calls just to hear a human voice. That was the sum of his readiness for glory.
Some say the Chosen are marked by destiny. Others say the job falls to whoever’s left holding the phone at 2:33 a.m.
It’s 2:33 a.m. The Chosen One walked the city’s empty streets, a battered folder clutched under one arm, its cover stamped in faded red: INSTRUCTIONS: FOR THE SELECTED INDIVIDUAL (DO NOT DISCARD).
The folder was heavier than it looked—maybe stuffed with cosmic responsibility, maybe just full of blank pages. He wasn’t sure anymore.
No one recognized him. That was the point. To be Chosen is to be ignored until needed. Storefronts yawned darkness. The neon from a vape shop made his face look greenish and vaguely saintly.
He kept walking, stepping over a flyer: SEEKING MESSIAH. EXPERIENCE PREFERRED. MUST BE WILLING TO TRAVEL.
His phone vibrated. Calendar alert: Save the World (all day, recurring).
He thumbed through the folder. Blank. He sighed. Out loud. Someone, somewhere, shushed him.
A new app had appeared overnight—blue icon, burning bush logo, three unread notifications. He tapped. The screen flickered: Congratulations! You have been selected as The Chosen One. Please accept Terms and Conditions.
He pressed “More Info.” Fine print poured down, endless: Responsibilities include but are not limited to: saving, redeeming, healing, reconciling, explaining the unexplainable, answering all prayers, paying for previous Chosen Ones’ failures, and acting as scapegoat for unresolved systemic issues. Must be able to lift heavy expectations. No overtime compensation. Non-union.
His inner monologue muttered, Fantastic. I can’t even lift my own mood, let alone humanity’s baggage. Where’s the skip intro button?
He accepted. The app crashed. Divine silence.
A church basement door creaked open. Inside: a circle of folding chairs, half a dozen Chosen Ones nursing coffee, paper cups ringed with anxious teeth marks. One passed him a pamphlet: “Tips for Surviving Your Crucifixion (2nd Edition).”
“Welcome,” sighed a former messiah in a Hawaiian shirt. “First time?”
“Is it obvious?”
They all nodded. “Give it time.”
Someone launched into a testimonial: “Back in ’33, expectations were lower. Now it’s all hashtags and livestreams. You can’t save anyone if they’re busy scrolling.”
He tried, later, to deliver the message. Climbed a park bench. Cleared his throat. “We’re all chosen, you know. Any of us could fix things.”
A cyclist blared a horn. A woman turned up her podcast. A small dog barked, possibly in agreement.
Someone yelled, “No! That’s not the deal! We want a real Chosen One—someone who’ll suffer, take the blame, and die properly!”
His phone pinged: RELIGIOUS INFLUENCER GOES LIVE: “Remember, the Chosen One’s job is to pay for your mistakes so you can keep making them. Like and subscribe!”
He kept walking. Each streetlamp blinked on as he passed—maybe a sign, maybe a malfunction. He ducked into an alley. His folder started vibrating. He opened it. Inside: a single business card—INTERVIEW PANEL, 8:00 A.M., DON’T BE LATE.
He arrived to find three panelists at a folding table: a bishop with a Bluetooth headset and a “WWJD” lanyard, a therapist with a mindfulness mug and a clipboard full of self-care checklists, and an HR manager so bland and square that her badge literally read: MATRIX.
The bishop cleared his throat, toggling his mic. “Have you any previous experience saving worlds, my son? And please, nothing prior to the last Reformation. We need references.”
The therapist beamed, pen poised. “How would you describe your approach to trauma bonding with large groups? Are you more ‘affirmations and aromatherapy’ or ‘direct confrontation and tears’? Please answer in I-statements.”
The HR manager didn’t look up from her screen. “Can you outline your willingness to work weekends, holidays, and major apocalypses? Also, are you GDPR compliant and willing to submit to a background check for prior crusades?”
The Chosen One opened his mouth, but the bishop cut him off: “Do you see yourself as more of a Redeemer, a Transformer, or a Motivational Speaker? Answer quickly—we have other candidates.”
He tried to answer: “Well, I—”
The therapist interrupted. “Would you say you have unresolved martyr issues? Or are you comfortable being seen as a projection of the collective’s unmet needs?”
He stammered, “I, uh—”
The HR manager shoved a packet across the table. “Please initial every page of the job description. It’s mostly just: Don’t screw it up.”
A task list followed: – Unify all major religions (before lunch) – Forgive everyone, including those who don’t want it – Solve global warming with three fish and two loaves of gluten-free bread – Remain humble, charismatic, above reproach, and available 24/7 for hate mail and performance evaluations – Maintain a positive presence on all social platforms; Myrrh optional but preferred
He stared. “And the benefits?”
The bishop smiled benevolently. “Occasional visions and discount incense.”
The therapist added, “Complimentary group therapy. Snacks not included.”
The HR manager, still dead-eyed: “Access to martyrdom insurance. Must re-enroll annually. And a branded water bottle.”
His inner voice screamed, Maybe I should’ve just been a plumber.
He tried, one last time, to give his real message. “You don’t need me. You just need to start. The power was in you all along.”
The crowd booed. Someone lobbed a “Save Us” sign at his feet. A small boy tried to Venmo him a guilt payment.
He ducked down a side street, folder clutched to his chest, passing a wall plastered with outdated posters: “Messiah Auditions—Season 34.”
He stopped at a dirty mirror and stared. “You’re not The Chosen One. You’re just the one who showed up tonight. And that’s enough.”
Somewhere, an automated email pinged: Dear Chosen One, thank you for your application. Unfortunately, the position has already been filled by the next candidate in line.
He shrugged, dropped the folder in a recycling bin, and walked into the morning light. Maybe today, he’d just try being human.
At exactly 3:00 a.m., the Messiah Management Console flagged another incomplete assignment.
“Applicant #2025 has left the folder in a recycling bin. Re-opening applications. Please contact support if problems persist.”
Somewhere, in a forgotten inbox, a little red icon blinked: 1 New Messiah Needed.