Jesus and Aliens

By Peter Bowden


Over coffee and sausage patties, she said it plain: “My mother-in-law thinks aliens don’t know about Jesus.” He looked up from the toast, blinking once. The morning light came through the window, soft and gold. She stirred her creamer slowly, like the world might tilt if she rushed it. “She said, if there’s life out there, they might not’ve heard the story. No cross. No Bethlehem. No second chances.”

He thought about that—about stars burning in silence for billions of years, whole galaxies spinning with strangers who’d never tasted bread or wine or knelt in fear and wonder. It made him feel small, but not in a bad way. Like a child in a cathedral, whispering under vaulted heavens. What would salvation look like to someone with green skin, or six arms, or no concept of sin?

They finished breakfast with fewer words. The syrup bottle was sticky. The dog snored beneath the table. And all he could think was—maybe the real miracle wasn’t that Jesus came here, but that love might find a way everywhere, even to the far ends of space, where no one knew His name but still hoped for something good.

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