The View From Here
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
WHAT DID JESUS LOOK LIKE?
WHAT DID JESUS LOOK LIKE?
Last night Art and I were watching CNN, and they showed part of a documentary about Jesus. The thrust of this particular piece was that people were curious about Jesus’ physical appearance. They showed many renderings of Jesus throughout many different cultures. What was striking, and this was noted, was that every ethnicity thought of Jesus as being one of their own. Native Americans portrayed him as a Native American. Africans portrayed him as an African, and so on. Of course, we as European Americans are most familiar with the blue-eyed, fair-complexioned image, which runs throughout Western culture for the past two thousand years.
Then they showed a “scientific” rendering. They had extrapolated from an ancient skull what a man of Jesus’ time might have looked like. Indeed, the image that resulted looked an awful lot like a composite of the Jewish boys in my high school class in Pittsburgh.
But I couldn’t help but think all the while we were watching that this documentary, fascinating as it might be, misses the whole point. I feel confident that Jesus was unconcerned with his physical appearance. He would be much more happy to know that, as we approach the celebration of his birthday, we were honoring His spirit. After all, Jesus was a rabbi. The literal meaning of the word “rabbi” in Hebrew is teacher. What did this man teach that is of value to us two thousand years later?
But of course, to quote Madonna, we are “living in a material world”. In twenty-first century America, there is a very high premium on people’s looks. If you don’t believe me, think of the flak Donald Trump has taken for his hairstyle. Now think about it. Is The Donald’s hairstyle his most important characteristic? Is his hairstyle more important, say, than his style of capitalism, his attitude toward business, his success or failure as a husband or as a father, even?
We live in a time when models are plucked from the pages of magazines and transformed overnight into movie stars. Does it matter whether they studied method acting? Does it matter whether they’ve ever read Shakespeare? Does it matter whether they have clear diction or the psychological sophistication to understand the roles they play? I leave it to you to answer any of those questions. (You can guess my own opinions).
So, last night as I was trying to sleep, I had this wild thought. What if you really could judge a book by its cover? What if everyone’s looks were a kind of code for who they were? What if every lying politician had a long nose? What if every beautiful girl had the soul of Mother Theresa? What if every vain, egotistical movie actor had a pot belly? What if every rapist was marked with acne scars? What if every larcenous criminal really did have beady eyes?
Well, it would be a different world, wouldn’t it? All we would need as an electorate would be photographs of the candidates plastered all over the media. But wait? Isn’t that how we elect our leaders now? Yes, only in my hypothetical world, it would work.
Perhaps in school we would learn The Code. There might be pull-down charts in every classroom showing each physical characteristic and its translation just to the right, like this: (picture of a very long nose) = Lying. (Picture of square jaw) = Trustworthy. Then when we go to vote, voila! We vote for someone who looks like Dan Quayle and we get someone who acts like Abraham Lincoln. (Ah, if only it were that easy).
Well, this morning when I woke up I was sandwiched between Art, who had his arm around me, and our cat, Henry, who was curled up beside me on the bed. Art was still asleep, snoring just a little. Henry was purring and when I stirred he reached out and tapped me with his paw, begging for a little affection. I reached out and petted him and it brought the biggest grin to my face. I woke up feeling so much love and warmth and gratitude.
So for today, when I try to imagine what God looks like, I will see Henry’s face, or Art’s face. And when Henry tries to imagine what God looks like, maybe he’ll see my face, or Art’s face. And maybe it’s the same for you. I am far from Catholic, but I do have to say that, suddenly, the act of communion makes sense to me on a certain level. We are the hands and the face of God, at least, when we are engaged in acts of love and kindness.
What did Jesus look like? He looked like us. Like all of us.
© 2004, Robin Munson
ME & GEORGE BURNS
(Author’s Note: Just for the record – This is fiction. RM).
It happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to be scared. I remember that I was pulling into the next lane. I had my left turn signal on, and I glanced back over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. I must have been going about 65, which was actually a little slow for the 405 that day. But when I turned back around, the truck in front of me had stopped. All I saw was red tail lights. Then black.
Next thing I know, I’m in the ER at Cedars. I see lots of little kids. One with her head in her mother’s lap, and the mother was stroking her head, ever so gently, with that fifty-yard stare. Then I saw me. It felt like I was on the other side of the room and I recognized my hair. The rest was harder to make out. I was a mess. I saw lots of activities around my guerney. Someone pulled out the paddles and yelled “Clear!”, just like they do on TV. They were pounding on me for a long time. Then someone pulled a sheet up over my head and wheeled me away. But – Wait a minute! They couldn’t have wheeled me away because I was still in the room, checking out everyone else. Then I realized what had happened.
There was no tunnel. There was no bright light. Nobody called my name or waved to me. It was very disappointing, to tell you the truth. But not a bad sensation, just floating. You know that feeling you get when you’re falling asleep and you’re about half-way there? It used to happen to me all the time. Then images began.
Now I was in a steam room. I mean it. A schvitz. Like the old Jewish men used to visit once a week. All tiled in black and white. Hot as hell. (Just a figure of speech). In fact, I heard my grandfather, Mair, was very fond of the schvitz. He took my father there as a rite of passage. It was probably more important than a bar mitzvah. Now, this is funny because I’ve never been in a schvitz in my life, so now that I’m being inducted into my own personal heaven, why a schvitz?
Pretty soon, the heavy steel door opened, and in walks, well, George Burns. As in “Burn and Allen”. As in the movie, “Oh, God”, and the sequels. There he was, wrapped in a big white towel, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He took the cigar out and said, “Hiya, kid!”. I was stunned.
“Are you God?”
“Sure”.
“But – Why do You look like George Burns? As a matter of fact, you sound like George Burns.”
“Isn’t that what you expected?” A little sly smile played on the corner of his mouth.
“Well, I guess so, but I always imagined that that was just my immature spirituality and that You would enlighten me later on”.
“Your spirituality is fine. Listen, I don’t really have an image that you could recognize, so I do it on a case-by-case basis. You expected George Burns. Moses expected a burning bush. Get it?”
“Okay, yeah, I think I do. Do I get to ask questions?”
“You just did. Go ahead. Fire away.”
“Am I – um – dead?”
“Your old body is vacant, if that’s what you mean. It’s ready for the recycling bin.”
“The ‘recycling bin’?”
“Oh, sure. Nothing goes to waste, I promise you.”
“So – How are we having this discussion?”
“Well, just because your old body is sent back to the earth doesn’t mean your soul is scrapped, too! You’re a good soul. Sturdy. Indestructible, actually. You’ve heard the expression “immortal soul”?
“Yeah, but I never took it very literally.”
“Well, that’s understandable. Most people get confused by the body and think that’s the whole deal. Very common misunderstanding.”
“Well, so. How did I do?”
“You done good, kid. I’m proud of you”.
“Really?”
”Yeah. You did your best. You learned from your mistakes. And you were really good at loving.”
“Yeah, but I mean. I never did figure out why I was here, I mean, there. You know, I wasn’t a big success at anything. I never got that hit record.”
“You mean, you weren’t famous or wealthy?”
“At the risk of sounding shallow, yes.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Hit records never impressed me. Neither does fame. And wealth, well, you know. In and of itself wealth has no value. Can even be a problem.”
“But – I don’t know what my Purpose was. Can you explain that?”
“I don’t make up your Purpose. You do! That’s free will. One of my finest inventions, if I do say so Myself.”
“No predestiny?”
“No. How do you think I amuse myself? I’d be bored if I could predict your every move, much less control it. So now I’ll ask the question. What was the purpose of your life?”
“Ummm. I was a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister. . . I guess.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Yes. I was.”
“Very good, kid. So, what’s the purpose of being a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister?”
“Is there a purpose?”
”Sure. An important one. See, it’s all about connection. The biggest misery is to feel isolated, alone. The greatest joy is to feel connected.”
“So by making people feel connected, I contributed to their joy?”
“You’re a quick study. More tomorrow. I’m an old man. I’m tired”.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. Everywhere. Don’t worry kid. Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I don’t exist. I’m as near as your own heartbeat”.
“Oh.”
He left by the door, which I thought was very sensitive. I was new to all this, and He was trying not to shock me.
© 2004 Robin Munson
GOD LAUGHS
A couple of days ago we were at the hospital visiting my brother-in-law, who had undergone surgery two days before. He was having a tough time, as the surgery was extensive, and they had him on a lot of medications. We were there to give him moral support and comfort.
I was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed, engaging in light conversation. All of a sudden, I got a stomach cramp. I told myself firmly, “Not now!”. I shifted in my chair to get more comfortable. Then I began to feel nauseous. I began to count backward from 100, trying to get into a meditative state. As I was counting backwards, I looked around the stark hospital room. My brother-in-law, Eddie, dressed in the ubiquitous hospital gown with the blue pattern on white, was hooked up to all kinds of I.V. tubes – Saline solution, morphine drip, catheters – he looked like the bionic man. I felt at that moment somewhat divided from him, as is always the case when the relatively well come face-to-face with the relatively unwell.
Now the nausea was beginning to get more intense. I began to feel very warm. I began to sweat profusely. I bent down in my chair, once again trying to find out how best to get comfortable. I vaguely heard my husband, Art, ask if I was okay. I mumbled, “I don’t feel very good”. Someone said, “Put your head between your knees”, which I did. Meanwhile, Art went out to the hallway to get a nurse.
Next thing I knew, a couple of nurses were in my face, telling me to sit up and asking me questions. I began to vomit. Someone put a bed pan in front of me. Once I had vomited, I began to feel a little better. I heard myself say, “I’m okay.” But the nurse said, “We’d better send you down to emergency so they can take a look at you.” I kept apologizing – to Eddie, to my husband, to my mother-in-law, to my father-in-law. It had not been my intention that day to add to everyone’s troubles. Had I had any inkling that I was at all under the weather, I never would have come to the hospital. And I was embarrassed. I mean – here I was making a scene, when Eddie was the one who truly needed attention.
Well, they put me on a gurney and wheeled me down to Emergency. Art stayed with me. A reasonable facsimile of Doogie Howser, a very nice young man, came in and questioned me. It seems they were afraid I was having a heart attack. Someone asked me if I was pregnant, which was the comic relief of the day. I had to take off my sweater and replace it with a hospital gown. As it turned out, they took some blood from me (they had trouble getting me to bleed, and I thought I would have another episode just from all the prodding). They took a chest X-ray. They gave me an EKG. Then, they decided to give me some I.V. fluids. Finally, I could see my reflection in the glass of the double emergency doors. I was a patient. There was no mistaking it – the hospital gown, the I.V. It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. For several hours I lay there, dextrose or saline solution dripping in to my veins, my name written on a big chalkboard. Nurses and technicians and Doogie dropping by every so often to reassure me that they were just waiting for results of all the tests.
Finally, at about 7:30 in the evening, the results came back. All was within normal limits. I could dress and go home. The I.V. was taken out. The official diagnosis was a “pre-syncopal episode”. The reason, basically, “who knows?”. The hospital gown came off and my sweater was returned to me. I got down off the gurney and walked out with my husband and my in-laws. For me, this time, it had been a five-hour ordeal, but it was over. Eddie was still up there on the sixth floor.
Sometimes odd things occur in our lives, and we are left to make sense out of them. I think maybe I was over-identifying with Eddie, and maybe that was the beginning of my feeling woozy. Or maybe I ate something that wasn’t quite right. Or maybe it was the smell of disinfectant in the hospital. Or maybe it was a combination of everything. But this time, I was okay.
It was a reminder to me that our lives can turn on a dime. Here we are, planning for our futures. Putting money aside for our “golden years”. We can’t help but see the future stretched out before us like a long, unending road, dotted with pleasant memories, holidays, grandchildren, perhaps travel, retirement, gray hair, learning a new language, hard-won recognition of our accomplishments, and the list could go on endlessly. But there is a Yiddish expression that translates to, “Man plans. God laughs”. We are allowed the illusion of having control over our lives, and within the larger framework, to some extent, we do. But the Big Picture is beyond our mortal control. And a little reminder such as I had the other day is a blessing. It forces me to remember that every day is precious. Every breath is precious. Our time here is limited, and we are definitely not in charge. Someone or something else is running the show. And whoever or whatever It is – It’s got a great sense of humor.
Recent Comments