My wife, Betsy, and I went to bed last night and finished our daily Wordle (third guess, 93 skill, 32 luck). Betsy read a chapter in her book group book while I returned some work emails. Then I surfed social media while Betsy rolled over and fell asleep because she’s a far wiser person than I am.

Within minutes, I was deeply troubled by the ridiculous, offensive lies rampant online.

One high school classmate ranted about pet-murdering immigrants and said fact-checking is communism. A childhood acquaintance said Democrats would burn in hell for killing newborn babies. A coworker said Kamala Harris created inflation by opening the borders to “bad hombres” who killed 13,000 real Americans, stole “black jobs,” and will vote illegally for her. And a distant cousin claimed Harris is a witch who slept her way to power and that Trump was chosen by God to be president until the Rapture.

Before I knew it, I’d wasted two hours doomscrolling. The craziness shocked me so much that my vision fluttered and momentarily blurred. When my eyes refocused, I was startled to see a smallish, olive-skinned man with thick hair, scraggly beard, and kind eyes standing at the foot of the bed.

“Jesus Christ!” I cried out.

“I’m glad you recognized me, John,” Jesus replied and sat on the bed beside me.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

Jesus nudged my laptop. “Can you search my name?”

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I typed “J-e-s-u-s” into Google, and dozens of porcelain-skinned, blue-eyed, sandy-haired dudes filled my screen.

Jesus made a tsking sound. “They all look Norwegian. I love Norwegians, but do I look Norwegian to you?”

Before I could answer, Jesus continued. “Does your computer say if Americans are following my teachings? Do they help the poor? Free the oppressed? Work for peace? Heal the sick? Welcome the stranger? Toss the money-changers from the temple?”

Jesus glanced at a Facebook post that said we must drug-test welfare recipients or lock them in jail. I scrolled away quickly, but the next post showed an AI-generated image of a muscled-up Donald Trump with an AR-15 rescuing kittens from dark-skinned caricatures. In the background, a Norwegian Jesus flashed a double thumps-up. A pop-up ad asked me to send $1,000 for an autographed “Trump Bible” (printed in China).

Then a tall, bearded figure in a black suit emerged from the bedroom’s shadowy corner. He tipped his stovepipe hat.

“I’ve always liked the name ‘Abraham,’” Jesus said.

“President Lincoln?” I gasped.

“Hello, John! Can you use that newfangled device of yours to check on my Republican Party?” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “We founded our party to fight slavery, you know.”

I typed the words “Republican” and “Slavery.” An article about North Carolina’s Republican gubernatorial candidate appeared. Honest Abe’s eyes widened.

“Wait,” Lincoln said. “A Republican and a black man who favors slavery. That … doesn’t …” the 16th president trailed off.

Jesus shuffled his sandaled feet. I considered asking if they wanted to play Wordle.

The air suddenly shimmered, and an alien with slender limbs, gray skin, and enormous, featureless eyes appeared and hovered above the bed.

“Hi, guys!” she said with a curiously musical voice.

“Great to see you again,” Jesus said.

“Been awhile,” Lincoln added.

I asked, “You know each other?”

“Sure,” Lincoln said.

“We ask for advice sometimes,” Jesus said.

“By the way,” Lincoln said to Jesus. “Trump is claiming you saved him from assassination. Did you?”

Jesus shook his head. “I don’t intervene that way,” he said.

“I did that,” the alien said.

“You saved Trump?” I asked. “Why?”

“Assassination isn’t helpful, no matter how dangerous and terrible the target,” the alien explained. “Or how inspiring and wonderful,” she continued, nodding to Jesus and Lincoln. Jesus unconsciously rubbed his wrists and Abe seemed to be resisting an urge to touch the back of his head.

“Votes not violence,” the alien said. “Ballots not bullets.”

“You have the best sound bites,” Lincoln said with a nod. “Thanks again for that ‘better angels’ one.”

The alien looked pointedly at me, opaque eyes reflecting my dumbfounded face bathed in laptop light.

“Humanity doesn’t need to kill Trump. The good humans of America need to defeat him by millions of votes and a landslide in your idiotic Electoral College thingie. Give him the butt-kicking he deserves. Show him and his confused supporters that hate won’t make humanity great. Only love will. Humans need to see the world as a giant spaceship hurtling through the universe with a crew of billions of beings who should work together to survive and thrive.”

Lincoln smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

“A-men,” Jesus said.

I nodded, then whispered, “Yes.” Then I said the word again and again, louder and louder, “Yes. Yes. Yes! Yes!”

Suddenly, I felt Betsy shaking my shoulder. “John! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

“What?” I mumbled.

“You were shouting ‘yo! yo! yo!’” Betsy said.

“Is that Norwegian for ‘yes’?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” Betsy replied.

We both lay back and breathed deeply until sleep arrived. Just as I drifted off, the alien closed my laptop, Lincoln tucked me in, and Jesus whispered in my ear, “Get your early voting ballot in the mail tomorrow.”

John Sheirer is an author and teacher from Florence whose latest book, “First-Person American: Personal Essays About Our Nation’s Public Issues,” collects his recent Gazette columns.