But, like, does Jesus even HAVE a TV, and other questions about the Messiah

Yesterday, I found Jesus.

At first I thought it was The Dude from Big Lebowski but then I realized this guy probably thought he was Jesus – or at least wanted to look like him – and I’m a big believer in letting people self-identify.

Besides, he may not have even seen the Coen brothers classic anyway, because does Jesus even have a tv? So many questions.

(Anyway, I kept following him.)

As I walked in his footsteps, I realized that I actually knew him. Not KNEW him knew him, but had seen him before — BC (Before COVID) in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher just chillin’ in Golgatha, as a matter of fact — which I remember at the time felt a little morbid, like why would he return to the scene of the crime, ya know?

But what do I know – I’m just a Jewish gal with a touch of Jerusalem syndrome myself, and anyway these days, PCE – Post COVID Era – and stuck in the gravity well of October 7, everything is strange.

I heard from someone that he’s actually originally from Cleveland – and his name is Steve and he came to visit on some kind of archaeology experience and just stayed too long at the fair.

(Then, someone else told me this isn’t the guy – that he’s actually European and his name is Stanislav or Sven, and  that Steve is back in Ohio and working as a tax attorney and happy as a cricket. And THEN another person said that I made him up and he doesn’t exist in the first place, so there’s that.)

The thing is, here in Jerusalem, there are many like Steve/Sven et al —  women in white wafting about with rings on their fingers and bells on their toes and chasing the light, pilgrims from far flung places who feel so so moved by the flow of the holy city that they break out in song within her streets (hymns, mostly, but I swear I once heard one group totally rock a Gregorian rendition of Uptown Girl by the 6th station where Christians believe Veronica wiped Jesus’s face, shopkeepers who say they’ve been visited by God and can tell your fortune…

I’m just a Jewish gal with a touch of Jerusalem syndrome myself
Photo: Yitz Woolf

But this guy – he stands out, maybe because he looks the part… white robe, bare feet, long hair. Straight out of Cleveland (or somewhere in Europe?)  by way of an interesting trip, the scent of frankincense, myrrh and Abu Shukri hummus emanating from his pores.

He stayed through COVID. He stayed through the war. (He stayed along with the Christmas decorations the municipality hasn’t taken down in years.)

He abides.

I think that’s pretty badass, tbh.

“You’re a false prophet!” A man yelled at him as he walked ahead of me.

He shrugged.

“You aren’t the Messiah!” Another shouted. “You’re just a very naughty boy!”

He smiled and waved at no one in particular.

He didn’t see me. But if he had, I would have waved back.

A ray of light hit my face hard, and I blinked, and suddenly he was gone. Maybe he turned a corner and I had missed it. Maybe he stopped for a Coke. Maybe he just… vanised? Nah that’s crazy, but hey, these are crazy times.

It all makes me
Wonder:

When IS the Messiah coming? I mean, only Israel’s post office is legally allowed to take THIS long, right?

And the world is on fire – literally. Our summers are too hot to bear, temperatures skyrocketing. Wars around the globe continue to rage — no, not just here in the Holy Land. Starvation in Yemen. Brutal fighting in Sudan and DRC. This would be, like, a really, really REALLY good time for an era of peace, know what I’m saying?

I look around. The city swelters. I lean against the a stone wall and into the soft shade between the bars of light. People pass, a warble of languages all around me. Like, literally, a priest, an imam and a rabbi stroll by, together but separate.

We are so separate in our worlds of pain, passing one another without seeing, hearing without listening. And now I’m a Simon and Garfunkel song. Jeez.

I look up at the sky. Dude. Now would be a really good time to come.

Maybe the Messiah can be a regular person – Maybe she’s just a tired shlub walking down the street, picking up groceries, feeding a stray cat… maybe he’s protesting the government when it feels necessary, planting a garden, serving the country in any capacity, washing the dishes… maybe she’s from Bethlehem or maybe he’s Steve from Cleveland… maybe all that’s necessary for one to be the messiah is to show little kindness in the face of a mad, mad world and make others smile a little in the storm, and bring a little water to our parched and weary souls.

Maybe being the messiah will have no fanfare – no chariots, no trumpets, no doves and unicorns … it’s so loud these days anyway with the pinging and then binging and the honking and the shouting and the roar of the fighter planes and the boom of the rockets. Maybe the messiah will be a gentle whisper — cool shade on a hot day, or a warm hug at yet another funeral, or a smile at a stranger who seems to be having a tough time, or staying around a little longer to see if we can help do the dishes or clear the table. Maybe that’s it. Just a stranger on the bus just trying to make her way home (oh Gawd, there I go with the songs again “) who offers her seat to someone else.

Maybe it’s just going to sleep and feeling safe.

So then, don’t we all have that potential?

Whether we are the great great great great whatever of King David, or not – maybe we each have the ability to be that force of gentle kindness and unlock a portal to the messianic age.

But hey, again, what do I know – I’m just another tired shlub trying to make her way home, who sometimes drinks to much and usually curses too much, but also tries not to step on bugs, and randomly follows Jesus down the street in the middle of the Old City because he looks like The Dude from Big Lebowski.

But hey, all this makes me smile.

Maybe it’ll make you smile, too.

And so, we continue to abide.