Tim Tebow, having revived his professional football career by signing a one-year contract with the Philadelphia Eagles, was thanking the Lord at his luxurious home in Jacksonville when suddenly Jesus appeared to him.
"My Savior," the former Jet, Patriot and Bronco cried. "Is that you?"
"You know it's Me, Timmy," Jesus said, sounding a bit peevish. "It's not like I haven't been here before."
"I know, Lord. And I have prayed and prayed..."
"And for sure We were aware of that. Sometimes Me and My Father think to Ourselves, why won't that boy give praying a rest? Or at least change up every once in a while by asking for something interesting, like a two-on-one oil-wrestling throwdown with Rihanna and Jennifer Lawrence?"
"But my prayers were answered, My Lord! All I asked was for one more shot at the NFL, and yesterday the Eagles called!"
"Timmy, this isn't easy for Me to say." Jesus looked longingly at Tim Tebow's double-door, stainless steel fridge. "You wouldn't happen to have a beer in there, would you?"
"My Lord! My body is a temple! I would not defile it with alcohol!"
"That's what I figured." Jesus let out a weary, thirsty little sigh. "All right, here goes. You're aware that lots of people pray for NFL careers?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"All kinds of people. Kids who are never going to grow up to be more than five-two. Boys who could barely win a footrace with a pile of cinder blocks. Guys who couldn't pass the Wonderlic without a fistful of Ritalin and Stephen Hawking sitting on their laps whispering them the answers. You see why their prayers are not going to come to pass?"
"But Jesus! I was a Heisman Trophy winner!"
"I know this is tough for you to believe, Timmy, but Philly wasn't My idea."
"But how could it not be, my Redeemer?"
"Ever played in Philly? It's a tough crowd there, Timmy."
"But I have played in New York, my Savior! The city of sin!"
"Philly is a tad tougher than the Big Apple, Timmy. Its fans are a bitter lot, hardened by years of disappointment. Their guts are generally roiled by the aftereffects of consuming cheap beer and oily cheesesteaks, making them dyspeptic and rude. They devote their entire hopeless lives to slavishly following one of their generally incompetent sports franchises, the Flyers, the Phillies, or the Sixers, teams that average a championship every fifty years or so. The Eagles are lower than that average, Timmy. Eagles fans boo Santa Claus. They applaud career-ending injuries. They riot in the stands at the least provocation. If all the members of ISIS could be persuaded to attend an Eagles home game wearing Dallas Cowboy jerseys, they would cease to be a viable terrorist threat by about the middle of the third quarter."
"But Lord! If you didn't answer my prayers, whose idea was it for me to play for the Eagles?"
"Their coach, Chip Kelly. The guy thinks he's God."
"My Savior," the former Jet, Patriot and Bronco cried. "Is that you?"
"You know it's Me, Timmy," Jesus said, sounding a bit peevish. "It's not like I haven't been here before."
"I know, Lord. And I have prayed and prayed..."
"And for sure We were aware of that. Sometimes Me and My Father think to Ourselves, why won't that boy give praying a rest? Or at least change up every once in a while by asking for something interesting, like a two-on-one oil-wrestling throwdown with Rihanna and Jennifer Lawrence?"
"But my prayers were answered, My Lord! All I asked was for one more shot at the NFL, and yesterday the Eagles called!"
"Timmy, this isn't easy for Me to say." Jesus looked longingly at Tim Tebow's double-door, stainless steel fridge. "You wouldn't happen to have a beer in there, would you?"
"My Lord! My body is a temple! I would not defile it with alcohol!"
"That's what I figured." Jesus let out a weary, thirsty little sigh. "All right, here goes. You're aware that lots of people pray for NFL careers?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"All kinds of people. Kids who are never going to grow up to be more than five-two. Boys who could barely win a footrace with a pile of cinder blocks. Guys who couldn't pass the Wonderlic without a fistful of Ritalin and Stephen Hawking sitting on their laps whispering them the answers. You see why their prayers are not going to come to pass?"
"But Jesus! I was a Heisman Trophy winner!"
"I know this is tough for you to believe, Timmy, but Philly wasn't My idea."
"But how could it not be, my Redeemer?"
"Ever played in Philly? It's a tough crowd there, Timmy."
"But I have played in New York, my Savior! The city of sin!"
"Philly is a tad tougher than the Big Apple, Timmy. Its fans are a bitter lot, hardened by years of disappointment. Their guts are generally roiled by the aftereffects of consuming cheap beer and oily cheesesteaks, making them dyspeptic and rude. They devote their entire hopeless lives to slavishly following one of their generally incompetent sports franchises, the Flyers, the Phillies, or the Sixers, teams that average a championship every fifty years or so. The Eagles are lower than that average, Timmy. Eagles fans boo Santa Claus. They applaud career-ending injuries. They riot in the stands at the least provocation. If all the members of ISIS could be persuaded to attend an Eagles home game wearing Dallas Cowboy jerseys, they would cease to be a viable terrorist threat by about the middle of the third quarter."
"But Lord! If you didn't answer my prayers, whose idea was it for me to play for the Eagles?"
"Their coach, Chip Kelly. The guy thinks he's God."
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