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The teenage Jesus is standing in the middle of the living room, blood dripping onto the carpet from his outstretched hands and from the wounds on his sandaled feet. In this case I know better than complain about him ruining the rug. I know whose blood this is and why it is being shed right here. Jason and Lazarus are both prostrated on their faces at his feet, and Jesús has just dropped to his knees. The rest of us remain where we are seated, too astonished to say or do anything.