This evening, the doorbell rang. We live in a predominantly Jewish suburban neighborhood of single family houses, a demographic fact known far and wide. I opened the door and was greeted by a nicely dressed man.
"I have come to bring Jesus to your home," he said.
I reacted almost immediately and asked, "Is he coming for dinner?"
The man said, "He will come any time you are ready."
Aha, I had a live one. "Well, tonight we're having a stir fry. Does Jesus like chicken?" I asked. The man's eyes glazed slightly. "I don't know if he still keeps kosher, after all these years," I continued, "but this is a kosher home, so he'll be able to eat."
The man fumbled into a briefcase and handed me a printed brochure, which I ignored. "If he wants to daven Mincha [say the afternoon prayer service] before he comes, the shul [synagogue] is only three blocks from here," I said.
He gulped, "What?"
I repeated my statement and added, "You mean Jesus Christ, don't you?" He nodded. I continued, "Born in Bethlehem?" He nodded and started to back away from my door. I smiled and said, "If that's the guy, he's Jewish." As he started to turn away, I said, "You're invited too, but no butter on your dinner roll," and the guy almost ran down the walk.
My wife asked me who was at the door and I told her, "Some friend of Jesus."
She knows me. She shrugged. "And did you invite him in?" she asked.
I nodded, "Sure. I invited him and Jesus to dinner, but the guy ran away."
She walked back into her office, and said over her shoulder, "You don't speak Aramaic, dummy. Jesus would have a lousy evening here."
I told you, she knows me. I forgot all about the language problem.
[Note - originally written by Leon Schwarzbaum (email@example.com) and posted with his permission - ed.]