There were three things Isabella Jenkins knew for certain: one, she was going to Stanford; two, her family's hopes rested on it; and three, angels were not part of the five-year plan.
// CELESTIAL OPERATIONS CENTER //
// TRANSCRIPT: PRIORITY ALPHA COUNCIL //
The problem was not a mystery. It was a malfunction.
Archangel Gabriel gestured at the main holographic display, where data streams representing global faith metrics twisted into frantic, contradictory knots. One strand, labeled #HustleCultureChrist, pulsed with aggressive orange light. Another, #AlphaJesus, burned a sullen, violent red. They spiraled around the stable, gold filament of core doctrine, threatening to snuff it out.
"The Blank Spot is no longer passive," Gabriel's voice was calm, but it held the gravity of a collapsing star. "It has become an active corruption. These human fabrications are not just stories; they are becoming self-reinforcing dogmas. And they are breaking the system."
A Presence, felt as focused sunlight and bottomless patience, filled the chamber. GOD. Listening.
"Show them," the Presence intoned, not in words, but in a shift of the air.
Gabriel zoomed the display in on a complex, ethereal latticework that shimmered behind the data streams—a celestial city of light, logic, and compassion. "The Empathic Resonance Grid," he said. "It's the translation layer. It takes the raw material of human feeling—love, grief, hope, despair—and facilitates… grace. A nudge towards kindness here, a flash of courage there. It operates on consensus reality. On a shared, understood baseline of what goodness looks like."
He highlighted a section of the grid. It was flickering, distorting. "The conflicting data from these fabricated 'Jesuses' is creating a feedback loop. The Grid doesn't know how to process prayers for competitive advantage or vindictive triumph that come wrapped in the Savior's name. It's causing a logic cascade."
A junior angel, Gadreel, cleared his throat from a secondary console. "In the last terrestrial quarter, we've logged a twenty-two percent drop in successful 'Quiet Comfort' interventions. Concurrently, there's been a thirty-five percent spike in anomalous 'Righteous Indignation' flares—self-righteous anger that misaligns with the core justice algorithms. The system is misinterpreting the source code."
"What is the prognosis?" The question vibrated through the chamber.
Gabriel's face was grim. "If we don't correct the source material—provide a definitive, lived-in reference point for the Subject's foundational humanity—the Empathic Resonance Grid risks a localized brownout. Starting in the most affected sectors. Compassion becomes computationally unreliable. We're not talking about the end of faith. We're talking about the erosion of its practical, quiet utility. A world where people feel even more alone in their pain."
A softer, drier voice cut through the heavy silence. "It's a pastoral issue, not a punitive one."
All attention turned to Miguel. He looked, as always, like a man who had just finished a very long budget meeting. His expression was one of weary practicality. "They're trying to understand Him," he said, consulting a celestial tablet. "But they're using broken mirrors, and the reflections are starting to warp the light itself. Our job isn't to shatter the mirrors. It's to provide a clear window."
"A window," Gabriel repeated.
"A limited re-engagement. A targeted, observational mission. We don't need another crucifixion. We need a documentary. One observer. To document the ordinary. The aim is to generate a data packet of such resonant, mundane truth that it reboots the Grid's understanding of the core program: Jesus of Nazareth, Fully Human."
The golden Presence considered. A wave of profound, reluctant love washed through the chamber—the love of a parent sending a child back into a feverish ward to heal the other patients.
"The risks?" The question hummed in the substrate of reality.
"Contained," Miguel said swiftly. "Limited duration. Full cognitive constraints on the Subject. He'll know what He is, but He'll have to re-discover the feeling of it. A human brain, human hormones. We choose an observer from the demographic nexus. Not a saint. A… noticer."
Gabriel zoomed in on a planetary map. A dot over Phoenix, Arizona, glowed. "The location is set. The host family is vetted and logically sound—a retired engineer with a propensity for detailed observation. The observer candidate…"
A file materialized. A girl's face, sharp-eyed and tired, appeared beside streams of data.
JENKINS, ISABELLA.
AGE: 17.
PERCEPTUAL ACUITY: 99.9th %ile.
CONTEXTUAL ANALYSIS: EXCELLENT.
VOICE: CLEAR, WRY, INCREASINGLY CYNICAL. (See: Blog, 'The Human Codex')
CURRENT STRESSORS: HIGH. (Familial Financial Instability, Academic Pressure)
NOTES:Seeks truth in patterns. Currently believes she is alone in her observations. Ideal candidate for recognizing the sacred in the mundane.
"She sees," Miguel said, simply. "And she writes it down. She's perfect."
A moment of celestial silence, thick with the weight of infinite consideration.
APPROVED.
The word was a soft thunder, a finality.
Gabriel nodded. "Operation Second Draft is greenlit. Observer recruitment authorized. Now, who informs the Principal?"
Another beat of silence. This one was profoundly awkward.
Every non-corporeal sense in the room turned, slowly, to Miguel.
Miguel's shoulders slumped a millimeter—the celestial equivalent of a full-bodied sigh. He straightened his (metaphorically) boring tie. "Right," he said, his voice the definition of bureaucratic resignation. "Of course. I'll… go and have a word."
---
// A QUIET CORNER OF PARADISE //
The corner was a woodshop that smelled of cedar and deep peace. Jesus—in the form most familiar to the celestial payroll—was at a bench, his hands steady on a plane, smoothing the edge of a cypress board. The shaving that curled away was a continuous, fragrant ribbon.
Miguel materialized nearby. A pot of basil on a windowsill immediately bent its leaves toward him.
"Sir?"
Jesus didn't look up. "Miguel. Just in time. Dovetails or box joints for this? It's a chest for Miriam. She's tired of the moths getting at her spare robes."
"Dovetails are a classic, Sir. A fine choice." Miguel stepped closer, tablet in hand. "I'm here about a… different kind of project. It's about your earlier work. The incarnational period."
Jesus set the plane down, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Is there an issue with the paperwork?"
"The paperwork is flawless. It's a… systems issue." Miguel swiped his screen into the air, displaying the chaotic data streams and the flickering Empathic Resonance Grid. "The stories they're telling about your silent years are corrupting the translation layer. The machinery of compassion is glitching. They're starving for the truth and poisoning themselves with forgeries."
Jesus leaned in, studying the glitching grid. A deep, divine sorrow passed over his features. "They are building houses on sand again. And calling the blueprint holy."
"Which is why we need to pour a new foundation. A limited re-engagement. As a teenager. In Phoenix. With your awareness… subdued. You'll know who you are, but you'll have to feel your way through it all again. We have an observer. A scribe."
"Phoenix," Jesus said, testing the word.
"The host family are good people. There will be fences to mend. And… algebra."
A faint, human smile touched Jesus's lips. "Algebra. The parables of 'x'. I remember finding them elegantly frustrating." The smile faded. "And the cost?"
"To you? The strain of containment. To the world? A chance to remember what goodness actually looks like. Not a brand. Not a weapon. A person."
Jesus looked from the infinite peace of his workshop to the frantic, wounded data streams. He saw the #AlphaJesus tag, a rendering of himself as a muscular warlord. He nodded, slowly.
"For the record," he said. "And for them."
He stood, a decision made in the setting down of a tool. "When do I start?"
"The vessel is prepared. Integration is set for Monday. You'll be Joshua H. Joseph. 'J' to your friends."
"'H'?"
"We're workshopping it. It stands for 'Human.' We thought it fitting."
Jesus picked up a small, off-cut of cypress, running his thumb over the grain. "Human will do just fine, Miguel." He took one last look around the shop. "Well. Let's go get me a backpack."
---
// MESA VERDE COMMUNITY CENTER //
The community center smelled of lemon floor wax and low-grade anxiety. Isabella Jenkins sat at her usual table, a fortress of textbooks and empty iced-coffee cups, and tried to conjure a compelling personal narrative for Stanford out of the bland chaos of her life.
Her essay draft glowed on the laptop screen:
"A Bridge Between Worlds: How My Bicultural Heritage Forged a Resilient Observer—"
She deleted the line. It was a lie. The truth was her Black dad's family thought she needed to "secure the bag," her Mexican mom's family gently inquired about tamales and nice boys, and she felt less like a bridge and more like a disputed border. The real essay would be: "How to Survive When Your Parents' Financial Anxiety is a Third, Silent Roommate."
A sharp, clean scent cut through the lemon wax—damp earth and expensive root. She glanced up. A man stood by the plastic ficus. He hadn't been there a second ago. He looked like a mid-level city planner. And the ficus was now leaning toward him.
Okay. Weird.
She packed up, the don't-make-eye-contact instinct screaming. His voice stopped her cold.
"Isabella Jenkins."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. He walked over, silent on the linoleum, and placed a manila folder on her copy of The Great Gatsby.
"My name is Miguel. I am here to inform you that you have been drafted."
Isabella blinked. "Drafted? Like, the army?"
"Not the army. A higher jurisdiction. Celestial Operations, Department of Incarnational Logistics." He pointed at her blouse. "You have a mustard stain. It's from last Tuesday's concession-stand hot dog. You were thinking about the structural inequality of booster club funding and didn't notice."
A cold wave washed over her. It was true.
"Who are you?"
"I've told you. We have a systems crisis." He flipped open the folder. The header made her vision swim: OPERATION SECOND DRAFT. OBJECTIVE: MITIGATE EMPATHIC RESONANCE GRID CORRUPTION...
He explained it in flat, bureaucratic tones. The Blank Spot. The fabricated Jesuses. The glitching grid of compassion. A return. An observation.
"You want me to… follow Jesus? He's in heaven. Or—"
"He's in Phoenix," Miguel corrected. "As of this morning. He's sixteen. Joshua H. Joseph. Your assignment is to integrate him, observe him, and document his experiences. The mundane, the awkward, the profoundly ordinary. We need a definitive record to recalibrate… everything."
Isabella laughed, sharp and nervous. "This is a prank. Where's the camera?"
Miguel sighed, a sound of infinite bureaucratic weariness. He pulled out a normal-looking smartphone, tapped it, and showed her the screen.
A live feed of her kitchen at home. Her dad at the table, head in his hands, coupons spread before him. "If the alternator goes, we're done. The coupons are for groceries, Elena, not for car parts…"
Miguel put the phone away. "Your parents' checking account: $412.18. Your bus tomorrow: 4.7 minutes late. You'll second-guess question seven on your chem quiz. Trust your gut."
The world tilted. The vetiver smell, the leaning plant, the impossible knowledge.
"Why me?" she choked out.
"You see clearly. And you write it down." He slid the folder closer. "Consider it an internship. The celestial 401(k) is unmatched. The letter of recommendation will blow Stanford's mind."
"And if I say no?"
"You won't." He said it without malice. A simple forecast. "But to be clear: I am your handler, not a genie. I can observe. I can inform. I cannot alter municipal bus schedules without creating 'karmic backslop' that would ruin a perfectly good soufflé in Toulouse. My role is logistics. Yours is action."
He took a step back. "Integration begins Monday. Read the file. And, Isabella?" He paused at the door. "The mustard. Try club soda."
He was gone. Not out the door. Just gone.
Isabella sat, frozen. Slowly, she opened the folder. On top was a school photo. The boy had dark, curly hair, warm eyes, a kind smile. He looked utterly normal.
JOSHUA H. JOSEPH. GRADE 11.
She slammed the folder shut. Her heart hammered. She looked at her brilliant, cynical blog post on her screen. She looked at the half-finished Stanford essay about being a bridge.
A hysterical giggle bubbled in her throat. She had been drafted by heaven to be a biographer for a teenage messiah. To save the cosmic machinery of compassion.
Her five-year plan was officially in the trash. And final exams just got a lot more complicated.