Wednesday, December 19, 2018

Jaffa Street at Christmas Time

Abraham, said God, give me your Son.

Uh…

Abraham looks up from his hummus-stuffed pita on a bench on Jaffa St. The sun is shining wanly on a pale winter day.

Excuse you? Abraham addresses his question to the sky—you just gave him to me—are you crazy?—that’s a no. Hard pass, Jehovah, no can do.

The sky does not reply.

Are you kidding me? shrieks Abraham—are you actually serious? That’s nuts. That’s illegal. There’s no way I can do that.

The stray tabby purring by Abe’s leg gets thrown into the fray:

What about this cat? If you’re feeling so bloodthirsty today, won’t this feline slake your thirst for living flesh?

The sky is blank and dusty.

God, no, pleads Abraham.

My son, says God, my love.

It’s not the son I want, it’s your heart—will you give it to me: every part, every inch of you that’s mine, please return it to me. I want every part of you that is another’s. It’s not because I’m greedy but because I’m generous, and you must be, too.

This is awful logic for a Tuesday.

Surrender isn’t pretty, says God, hanging from a Cross.

What’s the use?

Memories of Easter Sundays, Triduums of light and dark, psalms with candles in the choir loft, bowls dripping with Nutella, conversations stolen in corners by the hammock, heartbreak, madness, someone’s lost their pants, singing in Italian sun, California, playing card games with young cousins, waiting in the rain for Mass, sleek parties after rusty liturgies, Hell’s Kitchen apartments in the sunshine, turning up for Jesus, homemade donuts and lots of alcohol, Chick-Fil-A on bumpers, olives at a wine bar, making out on couches, Easter sunrise at the Vatican, egg hunts, baseball, lamb cakes, deep breaths through the Easter Vigil, Silence, baptism, making messes in the kitchen, Cadbury eggs, falling in love.

What’s that to me.

Nothing but a life that you can give me, that I can inhabit.

What good is that?

Dunno. But that’s why I did this whole creation biz. And, so far, I’m into it.

But why? When most of it’s so dreadful.

You ask too many questions (like most of what I’ve made). I think because what’s real is what’s worth loving. And loving means being a part of it.

So what you’re saying is…?

Include me, please.

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