A Vote for Jesus: A Satire on Campaigning, Corruption & Political Crucifixion

By John Briggs

This hilarious satire is send-up of today's ludicrous political climate. Jesus Christ, a poor carpenter from Bethlehem, PA, dares to take on ruthless six-term Senator Herod Antipas. Determined to run a clean campaign full of promise and hope, Jesus promptly runs into a buzzsaw of dirty tricks, dirty money, shady characters, incessant polling, and constant calls to change his image. If Jesus wants to win this election, he'll need a miracle. Called both "clever" and "brilliant", A VOTE FOR JESUS is one of the best political satires in decades. It's Life of Brian meets Catch-22!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Uban Creek Books
• Release date: Apr 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393102960

John Briggs

John Briggs, Ph.D., is a professor of English and the journalism coordinator at Western Connecticut State University. He lives in Danbury, Connecticut. F. David Peat holds a Ph.D. in physics from the University of Liverpool and has written dozens of books on art, science, and spirituality. He lives in London and can be reached at www.fdavidpeat.com. They are the authors of Turbulent Mirror.

Book preview

THE GOOD SHEPHERD

H

erod leaned close to the TV. That was no small feat as he had to roll himself forward and off to the right at a forty-five-degree angle before tucking his legs to the base of the couch and pushing, but all that effort was worth it. He swore his opponent said, I am the way and the truth and the life. What the hell did that mean? No matter how honest you were, saying you were the truth itself was a lie. No wonder this Jesus spoke like a madman—he was a madman. He had to be. Nobody but a madman would state his actual policy positions at his first press conference. Everyone knew that by taking a position you lost half the voters before you finished your sentence. If Jesus kept losing a half here and a half there, the only returns he’d see would be diminishing returns.

For Herod, however, that was the slow route. Catching him saying something asinine was the quickest way to dispose of an opponent.

Herod faced his aide. Please tell me that was recorded.

Of course, sir. Everything’s recorded. Everything.

Then play it back! Play it back!

Don’t you want to see the rest of the press conference, sir? His campaign manager...

Screw the press conference! Play it back!

How far back?

To that reporter!

The aide scrunched his tweezed eyebrows. At least two dozen reporters cajoled the candidate. Which one...which one...it had to be the last one. The one that got his boss all excited.

Had to be.

He hoped it had to be.

The aide rewound the DVR back ninety seconds, finishing a moment before Herod’s press secretary stuck her head in the door. Excuse me, sir—the press is clamoring for a statement. Do we have anything we want to say?

In a minute! Herod barked. In a minute!

Yes, sir. The press secretary closed the door with the softest possible click. After eighteen months on staff, she understood that silence was often the press secretary’s greatest weapon. Some days, it was the quintessential definition of her job. Other days, it ranked just behind obfuscation.

Found it, sir, said the aide.

Well, turn up the volume! We barely heard it the first time.

The aide did as instructed before hitting play. And there it was, seemingly in slow motion.

Who are you?

I am the way and the truth and the life.

He was on a hot mic, sir. A hot mic!

The hot mic—the devil’s plaything of politics. Even half-seasoned politicians knew that if a camera or mic or reporter was within a hundred feet of you, you played it cool and said exactly what you were supposed to. In fact, if anyone was near you—an aide, your wife, your mistress—you said exactly what you were supposed to. You couldn’t trust those bastards either. You were always one disgruntled employee or divorce away from facing a scandal.

It was a lesson Herod learned the hard way: in public. Twenty years ago he called a reporter asshole on a hot mic, broadcasting it to the audience in front of him and the audience at home. His team spun it the best they could, saying that such language—and such open contempt for the press—showed just how tough Herod was. That was the real him breaking through his crafted persona. It was a gamble his followers loved, covering his wager by sending the reporter thousands of emails and letters addressing him as Dear Asshole. Herod gained the reprieve he needed, which allowed him to swear even more on the campaign trail and in the Senate chambers. His image transformed from daddy’s boy to no-holds-barred brawler, and he never had to act tough to do it.

When you’re a winner, the dice always come up sevens.

Herod’s aide brought him back to the present. What do we do with it, sir?

That’s easy. We sit on it.

Sit on it, sir? But that tape’s gold.

No, it’s lead. It becomes gold when we catch him in a lie. That’s when we show him saying he’s the truth.

Brilliant, sir.

Yeah, thought Herod. Now all we have to do is catch him in a lie. But this is politics. That could happen before sundown.

Herod scooped one last piece of chocolate from the crystal bowl. Get our friend on the line. No one comes from nowhere. I want to know everything there is about that guy. In the meantime, I’m going to piss on my opponent’s parade.

PETER CEPHAS STOOD opposite a dozen aggressive print reporters. The TV correspondents, who needed to get facetime before getting the facts, had already ducked outside to get on-air.

I will be available to answer any of your questions, but please remember to pick up a copy of our itinerary on the way out. Tomorrow, Jesus will be at Hades Steel in Bethlehem...

That’s when the initial murmur turned into an onslaught.

Who are these virgins?

It’s just a parable, not an actual...

Does Mr. Christ know these virgins?

No, he doesn’t know any virgins. I mean, maybe he does. I don’t know. We never ask.

Why virgins/?

The candidate misspoke. He meant...

Are these virgins part of the campaign?

They’re not actually virgins. They’re...

Does Mr. Christ personally know they’re not virgins?

There are no virgins! It’s a story. It’s a para...

Has Mr. Christ ensured they’re not virgins?

No, he...

What does his wife think of this?

Mr. Christ is not married.

Why ten bridesmaids? Does the candidate support polygamy?

Of course not! He believes in the sanctity of marriage. His parents were married.

Does he respect women?

Yes!

Does he think virgins are foolish?

No! Jesus loves virgins.

Does he support the Virginity Pledge?

Now, that’s a personal choice...

Peter had enough of this insanity. The press tossed out questions just to make him look bad. And they were succeeding. Not only was he playing their game, he was playing on their field with their ball. The only good news was there were no TV cameras. They weren’t necessary. Half the hands in the room held up cell phones taping every word. He’d be all over the Internet within the hour. Peter had his first viral hit and it made him sick.

The next few words exploded out of his mouth like a frat boy bringing up the evening’s beer.

It’s a parable, people! Do you know what that is? There are no virgins, no bridesmaids, no groom. It’s a parable!

The press stared at him in strained silence until one of them asked the natural follow-up.

So...what does it mean?

Peter didn’t know, but the last thing he could do as campaign manager was admit he didn’t know what his candidate was talking about no matter how clueless he or the candidate appeared to be.

Well, since you’re not listening to me, I’ll get the candidate himself out here to put this matter to rest.

Peter dashed offstage for the safety of the back room. The press shrugged. They knew he didn’t know what it meant, but without him saying that, all they could write was, It appeared Mr. Cephas was unsure what the parable meant, but they knew he didn’t know. They weren’t even sure the candidate knew, but they weren’t leaving without finding out. Or without another messy quote. Whichever made better copy.

Peter found Jesus two feet inside the door to the back room enjoying orange juice in a paper cup. All the good cups in the office were placed in the press room for the reporters, leaving the staff—well, him, his brother Andrew, and Jesus—to use second-rate cups and plasticware. None of that surprised Peter. What shocked him was that Jesus was talking to a reporter. Alone. Without supervision. No candidate should ever be alone with a reporter. Always have witnesses!

But Peter didn’t have time to explain why his candidate was making a press faux pas minutes after he himself made one. He had to put out this campfire in this room and the raging inferno down the hall. Fortunately, he knew how to put out two fires with one bucket. A bucket of ice-cold water called reality.

You have to get out there. The press doesn’t understand your parable. You have to explain it to them, or they’ll get it wrong tomorrow.

I don’t see why. It’s very straightforward. The five virgins who didn’t get the oil...

Don’t explain it to me, explain it to them! They’re the ones who’ll be telling the world about virgins tomorrow. Your whole message will be lost!

Jesus couldn’t imagine a fate worse than having his message lost, altered, or misunderstood. He placed his empty cup on the round Formica-topped table in the center of the room, patted Peter on the shoulder, and said, Let’s go. He turned to the young reporter, If you’ll excuse me.

Peter and Jesus stepped out of the small room. To Peter’s surprise, the young man didn’t follow. Must not be much of a reporter if he’s going to miss this debacle.

Jesus returned to the rostrum he left a few minutes ago, displaying the same confidence he had before. The room’s instant silence brightened the glow in his eyes.

I understand some of you don’t fully understand my parable. That’s my fault. I should have given you a better explanation. In the story, America represents the wedding, the voters are the bridesmaids, and the groom is the future. Some voters are wise and some are foolish. Those voters who know what we need to do to make this country a success will act to make that day happen. They will prepare. The foolish will not. They will fall for false promises and vainglorious boasts. And if the foolish win out, America, like the wedding, will be a disaster. It will come unexpectedly in the middle of the night, and half this country will grow scared, insecure, and angry. The American empire can succeed or succumb. It can be great, or it can collapse under the weight of its own malaise. The wise brides had their oil and were prepared. We must listen to the wisest among us.

The room stayed still for several uneasy seconds. Although the purpose of the parable had not been obvious, it was obvious that Jesus treated the reporters like intellectual equals. He gave them the chance to understand, and in explaining it with the utmost poise, had done so with the voters. He treated neither like his enemies. Or children.

Jesus gave them a faint smile to once again wrap up his portion of the press conference. Thank you all for staying. I found this day invigorating, and I hope you found it enlightening. Good luck making your deadlines. I look forward to reading every story.

Jesus slipped from behind the podium and escorted Peter to the back room. They found the young reporter standing there, the door propped open against his chest, his face peering around the corner. The sparkle in his eyes indicated he caught every word after all.

There is no darkness in you—only light. I know what you mean when you say ‘I am the way and the truth and the life.’ You can actually do it. You can bring the haves and the have-nots together. You can ensure that those who sow and those who reap rejoice together!

You’re quite the wordsmith, Jesus replied, ushering the young man into the room while giving him the most sincere smile. Someone finally understood him.

Peter closed the door behind them. He understood something, too. The power of those words that washed over you like an untamed flood could only come from one writer.

"You’re John Patmos, right? Bethlehem Star? The young man nodded. I like your stuff. You give the news some insight. Some context. Hmmm..."

Jesus knew where Peter was going with his Hmmm, but John was still in the dark.

Jesus is right. You’re good with words. How’d you like... how’d you like a job writing our speeches?

Peter hesitated to ask because the campaign needed a friend in the media, even if it was the hometown paper. Still, he could use someone to keep Jesus on script without putting silly words in his mouth about virgins and bridegrooms and oil. It sounded more like an orgy than a wedding, and that was an image he didn’t need after one day on the campaign trail. No, as much as Peter hated to admit it, the campaign needed John to write Jesus’ story. This scribe could transform him from lowly carpenter to great communicator.

So, what do you say?

John looked down, pushing waves of hair behind his ears. A second later, he eyed the two men with the joy of a monk embracing nirvana. I’ll quit my job right now!

Peter grabbed John’s left arm before this grad student of a man could bolt past him.

Wait! Give us a good story, then quit your job!

HEROD ENTERED HIS PRESS room greeting more than half the reporters by name. He shook hands as if this were a reunion of old friends. It wasn’t, of course. They had it in for him—which only meant they were fair and not favorable—the exact opposite of what Herod wanted. Still, he treated them like family when it suited him, and right now, it suited him.

He stood in his usual spot, two steps to the right of center in the room. His staff assured him the lighting there was best, although they also told him he had no bad sides, right before telling the cameramen where to set up to make sure they didn’t capture his bad side. Everything about the process was controlled, right down to the message. Herod had run it by his press secretary on the way out. She punched it up in places, giving him guaranteed keywords, until she was sure it didn’t sound like he was insulting his opponent, even though that was all he planned on doing. He always said that backhanded compliments were still compliments if you didn’t look into them. Passive-aggressive wasn’t just the approach of overbearing mothers.

Herod faced the press corps, small as it was, for his rebuttal. The important thing was that they were the A team and not the second-stringers covering Jesus. Herod would get bigger headlines for sure. The small-market papers and various penny savers could pick up the leftovers the next day. Within twenty-four hours, he’d blanket the state.

Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I know you all want to know what I think of my opponent. First, I welcome him into the race and look forward to a vigorous debate. A new candidate always strengthens our democracy.

Several reporters stifled yawns. Same spiel, different election. Little more than civil drivel. But with Herod, there was always a but. One shoe never dropped without the other already falling.

But...

There it was.

But what of my opponent? Well...he’s alright. But that’s it. He’s alright. Jesus is just alright. He smiled at the press, and then his press secretary. After all, she gave him the line, replacing his original headline, Inexperienced Loser Enters Senate Race. I’m sure I’ll like him. He seems like a very nice, though naïve, young man, and his plans for this great state are terrible. Dangerous even. We’ve heard them all a thousand times, and they’ve been rejected by the voters because they don’t work.

With Herod’s trenches established and set to repulse any attack, he brought out the offensive weapons: the sound bite, the political equivalent of the Gatling gun, rapid-fire quips destined to make copy on-air and in print, and most importantly, be believed by the gullible on social media.

My opponent plans to raise taxes. My opponent wants to raise the deficit to pay for welfare. My opponent does not support our troops. I can’t make it any clearer: he is not the right man for this job. I have been a senator long enough to get things done, and I will continue to work for the great people of this state. My opponent says he’s a carpenter. Well, I’m sure he’s a very good carpenter. Herod then smiled, hitting up the room for his big line. I’d hire him to build my house, but I don’t want him in the House—or the Senate. He paused, not to wait for the few chuckles he got, but so the TV crews would have the proper space to edit the film. Thank you all for coming. There will be no questions at this time as I have a very important meeting to get to. But thank you again, and we’ll talk plenty about the election in the coming months.

And Herod walked out of the room, ignoring the few questions thrown his way. The only thing he heard was his aide whisper, I called our friend. You have a meeting in two hours. He says, ‘Don’t be late.’

HEROD PLACED HIS CALL exactly two hours later. He had his aide set three alarm clocks so he wouldn’t miss it. And like clockwork, the CEO of Hades Steel answered the phone on the first ring in the husky tone that made him sound more like a phone sex operator than the leader of a Fortune 500 firm.

What can I do for you, Senator?

Herod always appreciated a man who respected his time but figured this was more because his friend had better things to do.

I need to take advantage of your...

Connections?

Yes. Herod wasn’t sure why he was sweating. He was a sitting senator and committee chair, yet he got the impression that this CEO could buy and sell him if he ever asked for too much. He was certain the tax cuts he helped procure for Hades Steel alone were more than enough to cover the cost, which didn’t make it enough to cover his own backside.

You’ve been very good to us over the years, said his friend, and I reward loyalty. I won’t even ask for anything in return, though I’m sure you’ll discover certain legislation we’d like to see passed. Voting for it will earn you our gratitude.

I’ll look into it, said Herod, code for ‘consider it done’ and not the usual synonym for maybe. But that was the appropriate response to gratitude, which was code for ‘campaign contribution.’ Which was reasonable. Hades Steel and its subsidiaries stood to gain billions if that legislation passed. And what was the point of having a hundred billion dollars if you couldn’t get a billion more?

Good. Clear your mornings for our friends in the media. We’ll also dig up every piece of information on this Mr. Christ, from his finances to his love life. You’ll know everything you need to know. If he has a skeleton in his closet, we’ll find it. If he doesn’t, we’ll skin him till he does.

Thank you. Herod was sure skinning him was a metaphor for creating a skeleton, but with his friend, he was never sure. He only knew that those beads of sweat now trickled down his face and onto his collar.

I am happy you don’t want him removed from the race, Herod. That’s very mature of you.

He can run, said Herod, I just want him beaten and bloodied in the process. After all, democracy must be preserved.

His friend chuckled. He liked sarcasm best when it was unexpected yet effective.

I see he’s going to be at your plant tomorrow. Perhaps...

Yes, and he will be allowed to speak to our workers as long as he stays outside the gates. We must give the appearance of being fair, Senator. After all, democracy must be preserved, and the best ones to preserve it are the ones who control it. I mean, who else has that kind of power?

Herod nodded, which ordinarily would not work on the phone, but he knew his friend didn’t expect an argument. Or care that he agreed.

Your opponent is a man of the people, the CEO went on. Be wary of him. I’ll give you all the information you need to beat him, but the beating is up to you.

The line went dead without another word, leaving Herod to swim in the silence that followed. He missed the old days of the dial tone, the droning buzz telling you definitively the conversation had ended. For now, his only comfort was the bottle of wine he kept for emergencies, which could be anything from celebrating to commiserating. Tonight, he wasn’t sure which to toast. He could celebrate his friend’s monumental help or worry that, for the first time since his first campaign, he was in for a slog.

God, he needed a drink.

A drink, and a good woman. That intern.

The one who danced at the office party. The one he couldn’t take his eyes off of even after his wife stopped talking to him.

He tapped the intercom that went directly to her office. Would you come in here, Salome?

He poured two glasses of wine instead of one. He’d made up his mind. It was a celebration.

GIVE & YOU SHALL RECEIVE

J

esus and Peter stepped from the car, one clearly dressed for this event and the other underdressed but comfortable. The maroon awning stretched from the hotel to the sidewalk, offering shelter to dapper guests and sharp-suited valets in accessorized maroon vests, none of whom jumped up to park the car with the peeling brown paint that made it look as dull as a donkey. It was worth less than the tires on some of the luxury vehicles sitting in the main lot. Peter argued they should have arrived in a limousine or Bentley—something that said style and class. Something that said Jesus was a formidable candidate with powerful backing. He would have even taken a Mustang, a car that proclaimed power rather than this upgraded Pinto they parked by the curb. With any luck, it might be mistaken for trash and hauled away. Jesus, of course, would have none of it. It was his car and it had served him well for more than a decade. He was as loyal to it as it had been to him.

It’s my image, he said. It makes me one of the people.

Well, I hope those people show up when we need a push.

Jesus laughed and pointed out that they arrived at their destination without incident.

Yeah, said Peter, but also without being noticed. Which was not true. They had been noticed, but for all the wrong reasons. People pointed as they passed, and a tow truck followed them for several miles hoping to pick up business when they broke down. Peter was grateful they had not yet printed up bumper stickers to plaster all over the car like groupies on the road, though he realized those might hold the vehicle together, or at least cover up the rust spots.

Peter popped open the trunk and pulled out a camera bag before handing the keys to a valet who appeared to have drawn the short straw. As the young man ground the car into gear, Peter made a mental note to give him a big tip so that any stories or snide comments he told tomorrow of the shabby, would-be senator had a happy ending. A pound of generosity could always blunt an ounce of derision.

And that’s what tonight was all about. Giving one thing to receive another.

Peter put a hand on his candidate’s shoulder as they walked up the steps and through the brass-framed glass doors. Remember, this is about money. They’re here because they’re curious. And because they hate Herod. Well, mostly because they hate Herod. That’s the best way to gain support. It’s also the best way to inspire them. Now, you can inspire them, but get the money. In fact, the more you inspire them, the more we get.

I understand, but we don’t need big money. If our supporters give us five or ten dollars, so be it. This will be a movement of the people.

Peter hung his head. This was going to be a tough sell, like Arctic ice vendor or liberal pundit on a conservative station.

Look, a movement like that can win, but only if every single person in the movement gives. They won’t. Ninety percent won’t Take the big money when you can, or you’ll be outspent like Herod’s prince to your pauper.

Have faith, Peter. People will rise up.

I’m sure they will, but until they do, hit these people up for the big bucks. We’ll call it start-up capital. They’re only paying fifty dollars a plate, and that’s still doubling our coffers. You get better known, we can make that five hundred a plate. Maybe five thousand. The catch is that you get better known through big money, and that money allows a hundred times more people to give you five- and ten-dollar donations. Got it?

Got it. Politics is a pyramid scheme.

Peter chuckled. He wouldn’t have drawn it up that way, but it explained why powerbrokers threw money at politicians in order to make more money. Yes, it is, but for a good cause. Follow the money is a good way to catch criminals. It’s also a good way to get elected.

So I can then become a criminal?

Peter laughed the last few feet to the ballroom doors. That’s good. Use that wit against Herod. Call him out.

The porter opened the glass-paneled doors draped in precision-cut, semi-sheer curtains. Twenty heads turned their way, each one above an elegant evening gown or black-tie tuxedo. Yep, should have sprung for the monkey suit, thought Peter, who realized you don’t connect with the poor at a rich man’s event. Dress the part you’re playing.

Jesus, on the other hand, entered with a broad smile and a wave to the room. Believing you’re the way and the truth and the life bolsters your confidence. These donors might not have been his normal social circle, but if they helped him spread his message, he would forever call them friends.

A man in his mid-sixties wearing the best weave money could buy stood up to greet Jesus. He had a warm, firm handshake that showed how excited he was to have this candidate here. As he asked how Jesus wanted to be introduced, Peter stepped away to place the camera on a tripod in the back of the room. He thought he would have a minute or two to set everything up and get it rolling as these introductions usually ambled through a joke or two and excessive, even exuberant, praise for the guest of honor. Ladies and gentlemen, the man said, leaning into the microphone attached to the podium by a bendable stand, our guest tonight needs no introduction because he’s asked me not to give him one. This brought as many strange stares from the audience as nervous titters. "He says he will explain who he is.

And so, without further ado, I give you the man of the hour and the next six years, Jesus Christ."

I have got to write him a better introduction, sighed Peter, racing to finish his one pre-show task. Something with pizazz. Something that says he’s a superstar and not the understudy to the county commissioner.

Jesus reached the podium placed dead center on a parqueted dance floor as the speaker gave way, stepping to the side while leading the applause in a vain effort to bring the crowd to its feet. He failed, but it was not entirely his fault since it wasn’t what any objective observer would call a crowd. A small gathering perhaps. A herd of well-heeled political paleophytes. But Jesus knew they could become believers because they showed up. They were the only ones who came here out of the hundreds of people invited, and so Jesus took the stage as if entering a stadium, shaking the man’s hand and waving and pointing to individual supporters, connecting with every person in the room table by table. He thanked them without quieting them, knowing that twenty diehards could carry his spirit for days and his campaign for hours.

Thank you so much for that generous welcome. I know you have come to hear me speak not because you are devoted followers but because you no longer believe in Herod or his cause. This was an understatement. These people would vote for nearly anyone else, and Jesus was anyone else. All they wanted to know was that he could stand up to Herod and make a fight of it. They could not abide seeing another idealist crushed under the weight of Herod’s political machine. If this Jesus gave them hope, they would give him cash, the surest thing in America to prove commitment.

"I am tired of politicians being the lesser of two evils when the winner should be the greater of two goods. Every politician asks you to join his cause, but I will not, for I am here to join yours. I am here to be your voice in the wilderness when those in power will not listen. I ask not that you serve my