Rob and Goblin and I were taking our usual late-night stroll through Central Park when we encountered a man with long hair and a full beard; he wore a long, white robe with a brown mantle, a bat-utility belt with various bulging pouches, and work gloves the size of oven mitts. "Was that Jesus?" I wondered aloud after he passed. What I wanted to say was, "Was that Jesus wearing oven mitts?" but I thought that would be too disrespectful. Jesus almost certainly does not do his own cooking; it is sacrilege to imply otherwise.

On our way home, the unearthly strains of a melody surrounded us. "Maybe Jesus is playing the trumpet," Rob said. Indeed He was: under the bridge near Squirrel Holler, the lonely Christ played a mournful, echoing tune.

I still wonder how he managed to play the trumpet with those oven mitts on, although I suppose that is not in the same league as walking on water.