First, consider His garments. He has wisely abandoned His traditional robes for an outfit that pulses with modernity; a Columbine-style trench coat worn over desert camis suitable for a warrior from His native Middle East. This is a Jesus that was born in a foxhole, not a stable. True, in His left hand he still holds the Dove of Peace, but look in His eyes. They are the eyes of a man who has seen one too many of His Apostles die face down in the mud. He is just as likely to scream "Pull!" then toss the bird into the air and blast it into feathers with the automatic weapon strapped to His right side, laughing maniacally all the while, as proffer it to you. He is no longer the Prince of Peace. At best, he is the Prince of Wary Armed Truces. Turn the other cheek to this Redeemer and He'll shoot off your jaw. And who can blame Him? He's been crucified. Doesn't that entitle him to a diagnosis of PTSD as much as any namby-pamby homeless beggar holding up a "Veteran" sign at a major intersection?
On his belt he wears a grenade and a canteen. The canteen is filled with water, but he can turn it into wine any time he needs to. His helmet is placed on the ground beside him; whether this is because all enemy fire has been successfully suppressed or merely because He obviously has potential cosmetic issues with helmet hair is left to the critics to decide.
He no longer wears sandals, but his footwear is still traditional; lace-up combat boots. The trade-off in foot protection and traction on the battlefield is probably well worth the sacrifice of greater difficulty in walking on water.
I am seriously considering opening a shrine, despite having to open my bathroom to the hordes of semi-incontinent elderly faithful it will draw. You can burn His image into all the toast and tortillas you want; you can see His face in all the tree trunks in the ground and every cloud in the sky, but you will never see Him like this anywhere else.
My kid says it was the last one on the shelf.