Back to Basics

The DJ and the Divine

A shaft of radiant light curved through the clouds like a harp string drawn across the heavens, soft and pure. Somewhere beyond what angels could comprehend, within the realm of the Infinite—where stars were thoughts and galaxies dreams—stood Jesus, quietly radiant, his robe fluttering in an invisible current of love. Around him shimmered the Divine Presence: the Father, the Infinite Light. Not form, not figure—just light, love, and a voice that seemed to speak in every language at once and yet in perfect silence.

Jesus tilted his head, his eyes soft with thought. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

A pause. Then the Father’s voice emerged, not as sound but as a ripple of living truth:

“Yes. The world has become numb to stillness. It needs to feel again. Not in mind alone, but in spirit.”

Jesus smiled gently. “I could go as I did before—simple, barefoot, among the poor. They would recognize me in the silence of the streets.”

“They would walk past. Eyes down, hearts armoured. The old ways have been paved over.”

A flicker of humour danced across Jesus’ face. “So… shall I try a robe again? The white kind, long sleeves. A little floating light? Maybe a dove?”

“Cliché,” came the Father’s response, rich with gentle amusement.

“Okay,” Jesus said, chuckling. “How about as a homeless man? That would get past their ego. A lesson in humility.”

“They would ignore you. Or film you without seeing.”

Jesus raised an eyebrow. “So what do you suggest, Father?”

There was a pause—brilliant, infinite—and then the Father’s light glowed with playful mischief.

“You shall go… as a DJ.”

Jesus blinked. “A what?”

“A Disc Jockey. Decks. Beats. Bass drops. You’ll be the shepherd of sound. A remix of light and rhythm. Let them find the Holy Spirit not in sermons—but in the beat.”

“…Well,” Jesus said, lips curling into a grin, “you always were good at surprises.”

And so it began.

The world did not shake when Jesus arrived—not at first. There was no earthquake, no choir of trumpet-blazing angels hovering over cities. Instead, he appeared in Ibiza.

He stepped off a battered ferry, tanned, unshaven, wearing mirrored sunglasses and a sleeveless white hoodie that shimmered faintly in the sun. His jeans were torn in the right way, and a pair of old headphones hung around his neck like a sacred relic.

Behind him, perched proudly on his shoulder, was a bright red parrot named Elijah, who squawked and chirped in multiple tongues, including fragments of Aramaic and Kanye lyrics.

“Squawk! Love one another! Drop the bass!”

The first people who saw him thought he was part of a street act.

But when he entered a beach bar one night—uninvited, barefoot—and stepped behind the DJ booth, the world began to change.

He laid his hands over the decks. There was no music playing. People were murmuring, drinks halfway to their lips.

Then: a hum. A warm pulse. The beat began low and slow, like a heartbeat resurrected. The melody was soft—violins wrapped in sunlight, whispers of ancient languages, notes that sparked memories of childhood, forgiveness, and rain on dry soil.

The crowd stopped moving.

And then he said, without a mic: “This beat is for the broken-hearted.”

And he dropped it.

The nights that followed were the stuff of parables no gospel had yet written.

People came from all over. They danced not in wild abandon, but in joy that cracked open their hearts. Lawyers wept beside waitresses. Atheists danced with monks. CEOs sat on the sand and sang with children. No one asked why it felt holy. They simply knew it was.

Jesus would dance, too. Laughing, spinning, sweat and light on his brow. And when the music faded, he would speak—not sermons, but truths.

“You are already loved. Even before the first breath.”