Jesus on the Landing

In the morning, on the landing, I meet Jesus with a gun to his head.


It is my favorite painting.


I remember the large lady on a bicycle at my aunt’s house, beautifully mounted.


My cousin did that, with markers, all in the front garden while ensconced in her wheelchair.


I like the large lady.


But not as much as this self-sacrificial, suicidal Christ.


The artist is a Messianic Jew who regaled us at Sedar with schoolboy stories featuring skivvies.


We laughed so hard we cried.


Then we ate the horseradish and cried even harder.


Jesus is on the landing.


My whole life revolves around Jesus.


My life has been transformed by Jesus.


So how is it that I still eat hamburgers, wander the city on foot, and feel confused?


Mere mortal, you follow in the footsteps of your Master.


Jesus, did you feel confused?


Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam: You make dry bones rattle and come to life.


I was dead, and now I live.


But this means striving, not spiritualism. This is flesh-and-bones suffering till Kingdom Come.


The paradox: The first will be last.


No one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for my sake and for the gospel will fail to receive a hundredfold in the present age—houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and fields, along with persecutions—and to receive eternal life in the age to come, said Jesus.


I confess I look forward to the age to come. I confess I do not always desire to be on this earth.


I set my face like flint, ready to pull the trigger, waiting for Jesus-on-the-landing to say, Go.

– Sister Still

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