Electric signs on the highway flashed messages telling us to stay home and stop the spread. Small cars zipped past me tonight as I drove to the megamarket, their drivers’ faces illuminated by phones and dashboard screens. Strange how we’re so hell-bent on speed rather than slowing down, perhaps a misguided defense against decay. I passed a church sign that said, “Jesus paid the price, you keep the change.”
Do I believe in Jesus as a man, myth, or concept? I’m not sure. (But I hear a jangly echo of the Byrds singing that Jesus is just alright, oh yeah.) I recently learned the origin of Jesus’s chest wound: a final stab from a lance to ensure he was dead. The violence of Christianity still startles me, although it probably shouldn’t. Is suffering always a prerequisite for faith? I also learned the word “gospel” comes from “god spell,” an Old English phrase for “good news.”
Idling at a light, I glanced in the mirror and did not recognize myself. I’m still becoming familiar with the mirror-shock that signifies middle age. I have so much more grey hair this year.
