El Gringoqueño

We’re back in a new chat with Jesus. Welcome back everyone, and Jesus - how have you been?

J: Not good, not good at all. I’m a bit distressed with this organized religion thing.

I: What do you mean? I thought that was an invention of yours.

J: *looks askance at interviewer*

I: *defensively* What?

J: Look, I was the original anti-established organized religion guy. Geez, I came here to tear down the temple, remember? My goal was to tear it all down and - well not so much tear it down as re-purpose it - wait.. let me think for a bit.

Okay, here’s a good analogy. Let’s try this on for size.

Let’s talk about warm chocolate chip cookies, shall we?

I: Oookay… I’m listening

J: Good, let’s think of the institution of the Church as a big warm chocolate chip cookie. Let’s think of them all, all the churches like that - all big warm chocolate chip cookies. The Catholic church, the biggest Christian denomination founded in my name has this huge honking warm gooey chocolate chip cookie and it’s going stale. They’ve stirred and baked this enormous cookie and what do they do with it?

I: I’m kinda lost with the whole cookie thing.

J: Sigh, cookies? Cookies are love, dude. Cookies are love. You’re killing me.

So you’ve got this huge cookie. What are you going to do with it? I’ll tell you what I did with it. I starting breaking off pieces and handing them out to people.

Breaking - it - apart. You got that?

Every time I went to temple, I’d shove some pieces of it in my pockets to take to the sick, outcast, and the forgotten. The tough thing about it was, I couldn’t sneak much out, but to some of the people living on the outermost fringes of society, a crumb of the stuff was pure gold. It made me feel really good to be able to brighten their days and bring them some morsels from time to time.

I: Did they really have cookies back your day?

J: Again, love, dude - love. Cookies are metaphors for love. The church is supposed to be a manifestation of love, therefore it’s like a cookie, best eaten with a glass of warm milk.

So I’m all, ‘Tear down this temple and I will rebuild it in three days’, but that’s not what I said. I said to tear it down and feed it to my hungry brothers and sisters, then we would return and rebuild it in three days. It’s another metaphor. Love and cookies work best when shared freely. Cookies, when kept to yourself, just get moldy and nasty. It gets stale and old and rotten, then you spend all your time trying to keep it from getting nastier, preserving it, putting it in the freezer, protecting it from harm. If you’d just eaten it when it was warm you would have always had fresh cookies. You see it’s not ABOUT the cookie, it’s about sharing the cookie, using the cookie.

The problem was that when I spoke about these things, you all whipped out your little notebooks and wrote down: "Must make cookies. Cookies are sacred. Cookies are the key to everlasting salvation." And you all went off and made little cookie shrines in my name (like I hadn’t seen that before, sheez). Look, it’s for e-a-t-i-n-g. *mimes putting a cookie in mouth, chewing*

But when my hungry brothers and sisters came to taste the cookie, you brushed them off saying, "No, no, no, you mustn’t touch the sacred cookie. That’s one of the blessed mysteries of the church and you went back to the fabrication of more cookies on display under glass."

You can see how it’s a little frustrating. I was the original destroyer of organized religion. I’m not for it. I wasn’t for it. I was a disruptive force, a sacrilege, a heretic, and a subversive influence.

I like to think I was the mad subversive cookie baker.

And I’d hoped you’d all get giddy with cookie baking and serving and just go crazy dishing them out to the corners of the world. Some of you did, God bless you, you got it, but there’s a whole bunch of you who didn’t. I hoped that you’d search out the most lost, the most hungry, the most unloved and offer them a piece of your cookie, and say, "You look hungry, here’s a plate of warm cookies and milk. Best eaten now. We can always make more. Don’t waste your time preserving them."

Get to it man, get to it!

"How do you call yourself?" I asked extending my hand.

He mumbled something.  I couldn’t make it out.

"Could you say that again?"

"Escgael," he said again as I leaned in.

"Eh?  What was that again?"

"Esdasel."

"Could you write it down please?"  I handed him a pen and paper.  I watched him write out E-Z-E-Q-U-I-E-L. "Ah, from the Bible - the Jewish prophet.  Interesting.  Cool."

He smiled.

"Okay, now that we have that out of the way, I’m James o Jaime en español.  Pleased to meet you.  So, Ezequiel, first I want to ask you why you came down today?"

"I always come down."

"Okay, did you come down for a particular reason?"  I always ask this because I’m not sure if a particular inmate is coming to the session for religious study, general chit chat, or just to get out of the general population for a respite.  I can go all religious if need be, but I prefer to weave it all together in a more secular way.  But really, it’s all the same to me.  Me da igual. 

"I’d… like to look for… Jesus." 

"Why?"

He shrugged.  Look I don’t know, maybe.  Maybe I felt I was supposed to say that.  Or maybe I was trained to say that.  Or maybe it felt good to say that.  Or maybe I’d like… I dunno.

"What do you want to do?" I asked him.  "What would you rather be doing right now?"

"I’d like to be out of here."

"Yeah, but if you were out of here, what would you be doing?  What do you like to do.  What would you like to do with your time?"

"Paint cars."

"You mean like in an auto shop?  Hmmm, that’s interesting."

We talked, or rather, I talked/asked him about painting cars and his talents and what he liked to do.  He was a quiet kid.  He didn’t say much.

"Hey, you ever see that show on MTV, ‘Pimp My Ride’?  It’s this show where they take an old beat up car and turn it into a work of art.  New seats, new rims, tires, interior, rugs, sound system, televisions, computers, new dash etc.  They always put a super fine paint job on it too.  You want to do something like that?"

"Yeah."  He smiled his eyes twinkling.  He was still a kid of few words, but he had these twinkling eyes.  I’d have to pay attention to his eyes for clues to his thoughts.

"So, how might you paint these cars?  What would you paint?" 

"I don’t know." 

"How about some clouds, and ‘Mi bendición’ with a Puerto Rican flag with a cool metallic ice?"

"Yeah."  His eyes got wide again.  It’s like I could read his thoughts before he even knew he had them.  I could see him dreaming about his beautiful paint job.  I watched reflections in his eyes of some big aluminium rims, sweet Pirellis, neon in the undercarriage, an awesome fade on the side panels with a Puerto Rican flag waving in the cool tropical breeze.  It was like a big piece of sweet candy and I could see it tasted good to him.

"It’s like art, you know?" I offered.  "One of the things that we share with God is the need to create.  It’s one of the things that takes us back to the divine, compartimos ese trato con Dios.  He was sitting there all alone and he had this big nothing, but a lot of love.  He could do no other thing than create… everything.  So great was his love, he created us.  That’s what it’s like when we create.  When we create we are doing the same thing that God did.  We are fulfilling the same need.  We are sharing in the divine."

Ezequiel nodded.

"So, guess what," I added. "Lots of famous painters throughout history created paintings on all kinds of places, walls, poles, town squares, floors, ceilings, carriages, you name it.  They painted everything.  Maybe you do this painting on the car that says, Jesus es el salvador or mi salvación, Jesus.  Whatever."  I thought maybe I was getting corny now.  I pictured in my mind a typical heavily modded import with a rosary and crucifix hanging on the rear view mirror.  Painted on the exterior I saw a big mural of La Señora de la Providencia, an image of the Virgin Mary, with an infant Jesus resting on her lap painted big and fat on the hood.  I saw chrome, lights, a crucified Christ on the door, and a cloud-like father figure emerging from a heavenly scene. 

It’s not my taste, for certain, but I loved it.  I see some of the graffiti here and I must say I am in awe of the talent of these kids.  While I wouldn’t own a Jesus-pimped car, I have to say I’d love to look at it.  I’d love to drink it in, enjoy the art, appreciate the expression.  I would stand in awe of such a creation.

I shook Ezequiel’s hand before we left.  It was a pleasure to meet you, I said.  I told him that I dreamed of the car he would paint.  I told him I dreamed the dream as if it was my own.  I wished I could paint that car the way I dreamed it.  But, I told him, I’d probably screw it up.

It was up to him to do it right, because the world needs that car.

I: Welcome back everyone.  We’re here with Jesus in our studio for our continued discussion on topics of the day.  He’s agreed to speak candidly with us on a variety of subjects.  So, without any other introduction, let’s begin shall well?

J: Sounds good to me.  Lovely to be back.

I: Lots of things have changed since back in the day.

J: Yeah, why back in my day, we didn’t have all this stuff that you have today. 

I: Do you think the nature of sin has changed much?  I mean, are we tripping over the same stuff that we tripped over before.

J: Well, sin hasn’t changed at all, not one bit.  In reality sin is just a missed opportunity.  I’ll leave it there for now, because I think we have sin scheduled for a later show, right? 

I: Yeah, that’s next I believe.  Really looking forward to it.

J: But no, sin has not changed just the stuff you trip over.  You could say the vocabulary is different, but not much else.

I: Okay, then one of our viewers wrote in with the following question: "Dear Jesus, I think you are the bomb.  Yo.  I am a high school student and I play football.  I have been pressured to use steroids.  I told them I wouldn’t do that stuff, but I’m not very big, and everyone else is doing it.  What should I do?"  Travis from Ft. Worth, TX.

J: Oh, man, dude, that sucks.  I really feel for you.   I know how Texans love their football.  Well, you know my advice is to not do the ‘roids.  That’s an easy one.  But how do you justify it?  "Why?" is the bigger and more important question.  Let me pull out the tactic of one of the guys with whom I had/have the most fun, Socrates, and begin with another question.  Why do you play football?  And since Travis isn’t here, I’ll direct the question to our studio audience.  Why do you play football, baseball, or any game?

I: Okay, you there sir, in the back.  Stand up and say your name and where you’re from.

Guy:  I’m Steve from Orange County.  In the words of Vince Lombardi, you play to win.  That’s it.

J: Steve, you are right, Vince did say that and you know I always hate to disagree or directly contradict any of my children, but in this case, there’s no way around it.  Vince was wrong, and so are you.  Sure, winning is fun.  When you compete in a sport, winning feels better than losing, sure.  I know that.  But my question, was, why do you play football? Err, sorry, emphasis should be on the word "play."  Why do you engage in the activity of football. 

Steve: Hmm, I’m not sure I understand the question.

J: Not many people do, Steve, not many people do.  Let me do my best to communicate what the point of all this is, what the point of all games, competitions, jobs, roles, anything and everything that you could possibly do in your life.

Let me re-ask the question.  What is the point of playing baseball?  The correct answer is the simplest.  "To be the best baseball player I can be."  What is the point of playing football?  "To be the best possible football player I can be."

So, what does that entail.  Does that entail taking steroids?  Are steroids prescribed by the commissioner of baseball (well, he sorta did, but I’m not gonna go there).  They are not part and parcel to the sport of baseball, not part of the public persona, not an acceptable part of being a baseball player.  If you take steroids, you must hide it.  You can’t owe your home runs to HGH, or whatever.  You can’t say, my league leading sacks were a result of the extra pure steroids that I got from my pharmaceutical company.  Thank you Jesus, and thank you Pfizer, for making me this year’s home run king.  You don’t wear their logos on your uniforms proudly detailing all your drug enhancements.  Now, would you all agree that that’s not acceptable?

So, what do we have then?  Baseball and football players who are hiding who they are, lying to be better at a sport that they have no interest in truly playing, that they have no true interest in being.  They want to be winners or rich or superstars, not baseball or football players.  Let’s be clear about that.

It is as stupid a question to ask: What is the point of the game of baseball? and answer "winning" as it is to ask: What is the point of life? and answer it with "dying."  Dying is not the point of life, but it will come to you.  Winning or losing is not the point of baseball.  But they will come to you.  Forget about death.  Forget about winning or losing.  They are all limiting, irrelevant conclusions to that thing which you do and do with gusto. 

What is the point of life? What is the point of being born? 

The point, my friends… wait for it, wait for it - is to be fully alive.  To be what you were meant to be, and be it, fully and completely and wholly.  If you are gifted with the talent and determination to play baseball, be it.  Play baseball, be that player that practices his heart out, that runs out the infield grounders every time, to be at second base before that outfield fly is caught, to hustle, and play every out whether it’s the beginning or the end of the game, whether you’re behind or not.  The purpose of being a baseball player is to play.  If you lose your way and believe that winning, or earning, or spending, or getting, or beating, or any other -ing that isn’t being is the point, then my friend, you’ve lost your way, and you will not find fulfillment in anything you do.  It saddens me, for sure, when I see Rafael Palmero losing a few steps and resort to steroids.  It saddens me when he forgets he’s a ballplayer whom I loved to watch.  I’m there at every game, by the way.  I love baseball, which is why I’m answering Travis’ question with baseball instead of football.  Sorry, I’m a baseball fan, and if you have any doubt about it, I have only two things to say.  Red Sox.  White Sox.  My own little brand of humor. 

Anyway, I love to see and feel the joy of you doing what you do.  I came to see ballplayers playing ball, and it saddens me when I only find winners or losers or Yankees…*chuckle*  I’m kidding, I’m kidding.  I love the Yankees too, but they need some ballplayers for sure.

You’re all winners to me when you’re doing what you were meant to do. 

So steroid use? Yeah, sure there’s nothing inherently wrong with steroids or that stuff, but I have to ask you:  Why don’t you love the game of baseball?  If you think that you have to cheat on a test to get ahead in school, or because everyone else is doing it, I ask:  Why don’t you love learning?  If you think that you have to fudge the numbers on your sales report to impress the boss and get a raise, I ask: Why don’t you love your job?  If you steal or cheat or lie or any of the multitude of small things you can do to get a leg up on your competition, I ask you:  Why don’t you love your life?  What have you got against being fully alive?

It’s okay, really, my only true wish for everyone is for them to be truly, madly, stunningly, deeply, passionately, and crazy in love with what they do.  Don’t do something for the result you might get out of it.  Don’t do something because you want to win.  Do that thing because, and only because, you love doing it.

The outcome will take care of itself.

Peace out, my brothers and sisters.

It was reported today in a small Midwestern town that a glass of milk was found to be half empty. 

"There was so little milk," said 12 year old Timmy after immersing his chocolate chip cookie only halfway.  "You see, it’s all good on this side, but this other.  It’s mighty dry, I’d say."

News crews and emergency workers were dispatched to the area to investigate.

"I’ve never seen anything like it.  Half empty?  Why when I was young, it was half full.  What is this world coming to?"

Cows are denying production problems, but sources close to the industry, have noted cows always deny any problems exist.  A spokescow, had this, "I can’t speak for Timmy, but we have not had any issues with production.  I can’t speak for the glass in question either, but perhaps the glass size has increased.  We’ve noticed that the glassware syndicate has been slowly increasing size for years.  I mean, you can’t blame cows for an increase in glass size.  Can you?"

There you have it; is a trade war brewing between cows and glassware manufacturers? 

A researcher with the local university, confirming part of this story, had this, "We’ve been studying the relationship between volumetric content and receptacle utilization for some time.  Our studies have shown great promise, but Federal grants in this field have left us underfunded and overburdened, I’m afraid, just as we were to make some sense of this tragedy.  Let me just say this:  there is something going on, and someone doesn’t want us to find the truth.  Think about it.  George Bush’s father, owns stock in a company that supplies butane gas to run warehouse equipment.  This very same equipment is sometimes used to cart around boxes of glassware… even loading them on trucks to be brought right to your door.  They’re hiding something, I know it."

Can we trust our government?  Is there a conflict of interest?  Why are they cutting funding in this important area that affects the public health and our children?  What about the children?

These are all profound questions, questions that this reporter will investigate until the truth is revealed.  We will work around the clock to get to the bottom of this.

Why is the glass half empty?

Yesterday was a weird day to say the least, an odd confluence of events that left me feeling nostalgic. 

I had been following the Michael Jackson trial with a combination of revulsion, sadness, and hope; revulsion because of how far he’s fallen, how weird and repulsive he has become, sadness for a broken man, broken lives, and an uncertain future, and hope that a beloved figure from my youth wouldn’t end up being a total lie.  

You see, I didn’t want Michael Jackson to be guilty.  I didn’t want that man who made such great songs throughout his life to be something so horrible as to make his entire life a lie.  I didn’t want my youth to be trashed.  He’s gotten weirder and weirder throughout his career, but it’s been in discrete steps.  I can deal with that.  Okay, between "Off the Wall" and "Thriller" he got a nose job.  That’s okay, I guess.  Between "Thriller" and "Bad" he became white.  Okay, nose job, white, maybe something else.  It’s weird, but okay.  And it went from there, little by little the man that was Michael Jackson became someone else… but slowly.

I still liked his music.  That was the one thing that remained constant.  It was always great stuff.

The accusations of pedophilia had been mounting throughout the 90’s, and I remember many a conversation with fellow Jackson fan and friend, John, "Do you think it’s true?"

"Nah, you see it’s - " And on we would go, justifying Michael’s behavior, weirdness, and a media and populace eager to tear down stars, thirsty for bloodsport only too common in our society of idol worship.

It reminded me of conversations that I had with friends in the latter half of the 70’s and on into the 80’s throughout the unrolling of George Lucas’s Star Wars. 

"Do you think Darth Vader is Luke’s father?" We would ask each other.

"Naw, man, no way.  Darth Vader is evil." And our eyes would go wide at the possibilities.  We would debate it for hours.  It consumed us as we waited what seemed an eternity for Return of the Jedi.  Three years is an eternity to a 10 year old. 

I guess in some ways yesterday was too bizarre for words.  I silently cheered that Michael Jackson was declared Not Guilty.  My heart beat in fear before the verdict was read, not for Michael Jackson, but for my youth, my ten year old self, for pureness, passion, and love.  If Michael was just another sick twisted bastard, what can a child believe in?  Are we all to become jaded, cynical, and empty at such a young age?  Is there any place for a child to find refuge in the pure and the clean? Does everything always have to soiled with the muck and sludge of our failures, out inadequacies?  Is there anything pure and noble left for which to strive?

Laura, Olaia and I watched Return of the Jedi last night.  Laura and I had finally gone to see Revenge of the Sith and afterward had undertaken the trek through the first three movies.  It was weird watching them again, blasts from the past.  Olaia watched them with us, full of questions about who was bad, why they were bad, who was good, why that guy was trying to kill that guy etc. 

So we were watching Return of the Jedi last night and Yoda was on his deathbed.  I looked over at Olaia and she was crying.  Tears were welling up in her eyes as Yoda lay dying.  "Daddy, why does Yoda have to die?"

"Because he is old, Olaia.  It’s okay, Yoda is going to be Luke’s guardian angel." She focused on that and seemed to be take heart.

When the movie was over, she came to me and gave me a hug.  "Daddy, I loved that we watched that movie together.  I really liked it."

"You are the sweetest little girl in the whole world.  I’m glad too."

And I basked in the warmth and glow of my daughter’s innocence, her pureness, her faith. 

I sit here reflecting on my own.  Maybe, just maybe I have retained a portion of my youth today, or if not real, at least I have plausible deniability, and I’m gonna go with that.