FICTION - excerpt from "Messianic Memoirs"

originally published in THE RECTANGLE,
The Literary Arts Journal of Sigma Tau Delta
International English Honors Society, 2006


A Long Island woman, shortly after dying of a heart attack while preparing smoked salmon for her husband of twenty-two years, told me about this. While shopping once in a religious bookstore (for the record I never go in those places, it’s like a hall of mirrors on Coney Island, only creepier) she spotted a figurine of a bearded man in a robe and sandals. When asked who the figurine was supposed to be, the old spinster who owned the shop smiled and said, “It can be Moses, or Abraham or Jesus or whoever you want it to be.” This basically sums up the root of my problem.

The world over, for nearly two millennia, I have appeared in the most peculiar places, inspiring something like a sacred chronicle of Elvis sightings. My face has appeared on everything (though I’m still anticipating the cover of GQ) from a mysterious burial shroud to a homemade tortilla. Coincidentally, I once saw the face of Sir John Gielgud in a Caesar salad; as I raised my fork he whispered, “et tu?” Anyway, I often wonder how people, who have never seen me before, recognize my face and know it’s me. How do they know it’s not the incorporeal apparition of Dick Clark, another face that seems to persist through the ages? My answer is they cannot. Let me explain.

First off, Roman law forbade the use of flash photography or audio and video equipment at crucifixions. Today, if elderly men in suits can enjoin tourists at the MOMA to obey a similar law; imagine how successful a detachment of armored centurions were? Since you’re probably wondering, the reasoning behind that law was Rome’s attempt to safeguard the method of their uniquely brutal means of execution until it could be copyrighted and subsequently sold to other bloodthirsty nations and Hollywood. Marketing, where the real money from the Roman Empire was made!
Anyhow, without describing the gory details (I’m still a fan of non-violence though I do enjoy the Three Stooges) my death went off without a hitch (historical addendum: hitches were added to the crucifixion process sometime in the 2nd century to prolong death and thus increase sales at the snack bar). So, because Ken Burns’ brilliant career was still centuries away, not only were my chances at an Oscar nomination ruined but the lofty responsibility of preserving the crucifixion narrative was left to slightly less reliable, documentary sources: the personal testimonies of my disciples.

Now everyone knows that the best storytellers are people who exaggerate (you should hear Moses after a few martinis; the Red Sea is the Atlantic by the time he gets done) but to make matters worse, the majority of my disciples were fishermen, and you know what that means. Let’s just say that when I found them they were loitering on Bethsaida Beach, ogling the lifeguards and bragging about the one that got away. For Judas, the one that got away was this shicksa shepherdess, whom we later learned had been sleeping with a Samarian soothsayer who saw the whole betrayal at Gethsemane incident before it happened. Incidentally, I heard they married, abandoned their respective sheep and sooths and eventually broke into televangelism.

So before the good news of the Gospel could be spread throughout Judea and all the regions hereafter (I like to throw in an occasional ‘hereafter’ or ‘verily I say unto you’ for dramatic effect) I had to round up my frenzied disciples who had spent the three days after my crucifixion trying to get their old jobs back and preaching the bad news that I had died and they had made a dreadful mistake. Imagine having to explain that to your friends and makhetunim? Needless to say my post-tomb appearance allayed their fears and doubts; except for Thomas who demanded to feel my nail-pierced hands and wounded side, as well as see some positive photo id and proof of insurance. Thankfully, Joseph of Arimathea still had my driver’s license, student id and Jerusalem Public Library card. I did let him keep my cup though, which I think he later pawned when his monogramming business went under.

Don’t get me wrong; my disciples were a great group of guys as healing, preaching and drinking buddies go. I don’t think I have to tell you that when thirteen guys get together and one of them can change water into wine, you can get pretty shickered up. Still, for all their skill in casting out demons and dividing bread and fish, there wasn’t an Edward Gibbon or Huston Smith among them. I must confess, sometimes the Gospels read like John Cage wrote them.

Despite my disciples’ literary handicaps and other minor obstacles (the Dark Ages for example) the tales and parables of my life, death and ascension into heaven (I actually walked backwards up a hill in the fog) spread throughout the land that would be known as Christendom. I suggested naming it Christ World, with plans for a Euro-Christ World in Paris but (oy vay!), when I gave Peter the keys to the kingdom and popes began speaking ex cathedra, everyone stopped listening to me.

So by the advent of DaVinci’s, The Last Supper, which unfortunately omitted our grass skirts, leis and coconut drinks, the world had accepted a certain likeness of me that still appears on candles, t-shirts and statues today. And speaking of statues, I’ve never figured out why mine don’t look like Michelangelo’s, David. Granted, I only went to the gym twice a week, never on the Sabbath, but overturning the tables of moneychangers in the temple can be quite a workout. As for David, I hate to burst everyone’s bubble but he was a scrawny shepherd boy from the wrong side of the pasture, not ugly, but about as close to the Olympean ideal as Woody Allen.

If a certain wall-eyed, French existential philosopher were here he might conclude that no finite point has any meaning without an infinite reference point; which is to say, in carpenter’s terms, that people who claim to see me without any reference point by which to recognize me, are full of… well let’s just say something besides the Holy Spirit.

When considering my iconographic dilemma, too often I relate to Jimmy Buffet’s song,
I Heard I was in Town. Since my resurrection I’ve been continuously astounded to discover the people to whom I’ve spoken, denominations I represent, books I’ve coauthored, cults I’ve established, napkins I’ve blessed, not to mention the countless shrines, stadiums and personal computers where I’ve made appearances. And the real downside to all this is appearing without getting paid, not even a handful of denarii (and I still play to sold-out shows, which is quite an accomplishment when you consider the generation gap). When I tell my mother it’s not easy being the Messiah, always offering mercy and forgiveness to everyone, she says, “From that you make a living?”

I suppose when it all comes out in the wash, the important thing is that a Long Island woman wanted to buy a statue of me. Whether it looked like me or not, religious faith can be a beautiful gesture that distinguishes man from beast; just remember that misrepresentation and slander is something even snakes and rats frown upon.