Dear Jesus Bunny

(I moved this here from MySpace.)

Is it so much to ask, on Easter, for my dad to get a new liver? We had what turned out to be transplant dress rehearsal last Monday when a donor liver from Iowa was vetoed at the last minute, after hours of build up. The surgeons didn't tell us why, but under such circumstances, you have to take their word for it. If it's not perfect, you may as well connect a porterhouse steak to the bile ducts and hope for the best.

We were all hoping that you would come through for us again on Friday, which was his birthday AND--soooooo appropriately--Good Friday, the day when, according to tradition, Your Dad, the Dude on the Cross, made the ultimate sacrifice to save everybody. But that didn't happen, despite Your Family's well-documented flair for the theatrical, so now I'm gunning for today, which I guess is really your BIG DAY, a day of capital "R's"--Rejoicing... Renewal... Resurrection. Today, it would still make a good story. "Family's Easter Sacrifice Gives Colorado Man New Life" would make a great slug. Don't you agree, Jesus Bunny? Although I feel a little uncomfortable now that I've suggested it.

You're probably wondering why I'm not taking my appeal directly to Your Dad, since it is his celestial coming out party everyone is celebrating today. And truth be told, you, Jesus Bunny, are just the fuzzy mascot of a brilliant marketing campaign involving ritual homicide and a self-disinterring corpse (Nothing personal. I call 'em as I see 'em). But you bring up a good point. It's complicated, but I'll try to explain. Nothing in life is black or white, contrary to what Bill O'Reilly, lawyers, or Hitler would have us believe. If your job as a magical rodent handing out egg-shaped chocolate to children for the afore-mentioned disinterred corpse hasn't already made you acutely aware of this fact, it will in time, Jesus Bunny.

To break it down, there are two main obstacles that prevent me from making a direct appeal. First, I don't prescribe to the notion that I will be saved because Your Dad died for my sins and the follies of all Mankind to save me/us, although I really like the idea of a guy walking around telling lepers, beggars and whores that they are as worthy of heaven as the wealthy and the educated--without even panhandling. Love thy neighbor, loaves and fishes, don't cast the first stone, and all that. Lovely parables. But they get packaged together with all of this mean-spirited crap, and apparently I'm supposed to swallow the whole pill if I want to truly appreciate the lovely stuff, which I'm disinclined to do. Second, assuming I set all that aside and attempt a heart-to-heart; after we get through the ice-breaker chitchat, what would I say to Your Dad about my dad? How does one go about praying for the death of a total stranger? Isn't that sort of like telling someone you're going to shoot their kid and then asking to borrow the gun?

Of course I wouldn't put it exactly like that, but that's the reality of what has to happen for my dad to get a transplant, and it sure doesn't feel like an acceptable ask. Whatever else I believe, I do believe in the Golden Rule. But my dad is the color of Grey Poupon through no fault of his own and that's the least of his problems. He needs a new liver NOW. So you see my predicament.

Look, Jesus Bunny. I'll be straight with you. I don't see a way around this ideological awkwardness without you acting as intermediary. Your cousin, that fat elf, isn't the appropriate messenger. He's out of season, and besides, he's always laughing and winking. I doubt he's taken seriously at Your Dad's dinner table. Angels are intimidating and bureaucratic. I need someone sincere.

My friend Josh used to have this cartoon taped to his windsheild of you--this tiny rabit crouching before Christ in agony on the Cross--holding an easter egg, your little paw outstretched in offering. A pure, ridiculous gesture. It was hilarious and touching and it perfectly captured all the absurdity, hopefulness, contradiction and innocence of Eastertime.

This is a time of extreme absurdity, hopefulness, humor and desperation for my family. On Good Friday, my dad's birthday, I had a big basket of cookies delivered to his hospital room with a card that read, "It's not a new liver, but I hope this brightens your day." A pure, ridiculous gesture. What else could I do?