I don’t know when I started actually liking the painting. I’d wake up in the morning, stare at it momentarily, feel somewhat comforted by the image of this fake Jesus. Weird, I know. Even cheesy. Nothing in my life outside of that was better, but focusing on the painting first thing in the morning brought a little hope that no matter what, all would be well. National politics with its surges of screamers and haters had less effect on my inner peace. I began a daily ritual of praying for world peace, the Middle East, our own country. Even my neighbors. Why hadn’t I thought before to pray for them? Right where I live, for heaven’s sake.
This particular morning I was prepping for Saturday flea market. The season was in full swing but I hadn’t gone back since homing the painting. I was anxious to chat with the old man who passed it on to me, to discover why it was me he singled out. To see if there was any reason besides just unloading a piece of old junky art that wouldn’t sell onto a likely looking sucker.
I parked and locked my bike outside the gate, hoping no one would steal the double basket that I had never fully secured over the back wheel. There on a bench sat Jojo, a well-known community homeless man. Jojo had once been a thriving business man with a wife and kids. What happened I couldn’t say, but he’d been homeless and seemingly content for a long time.
I sat down next to him in a moment of loving thy neighbor, said hello, extended my hand. I’m John, I offered. He sat silent and looked away. I wondered if he got sick of people trying to be nice to him. But I asked him how he was doing anyway. Good, good, he said. He finally smiled. I could see sandwiches peeking out of the pack he carried and a bottle of water on the bench.
Before I thought about what I was saying, I asked him if he knew Jesus.
I don’t like your Jesus! He spat the words out. I was taken aback. What could I say? I wasn’t there to push “my” Jesus on him. So I commented on the weather, asked if there was anything he needed. He shook his head and mumbled thanks.
I got up and walked away, pondering whether there was any value in talking to anyone about Jesus. I had some ideas of the Biblical Jesus, who he demonstrated himself to be. It seemed to me more important to simply try to be more like him than to mention him. You know, be kind to the poor, feed the hungry, be nice to your neighbor and don’t steal their shit. Love God (somehow) and Honor Thy Father and Mother.
Later I wondered if there were different versions of Jesus. How did Jojo even know what “my Jesus” represented? Maybe what he assumed about the subject wasn’t really my Jesus at all. Heck, I wasn’t even sure who my Jesus was, to be honest. And why hadn’t I pursued that opportunity for conversation? An open door I had closed without even trying.
I determined to dig a little deeper the next chance I got, if there ever was a next chance with anyone.
There was no booth that day for the old man with his paintings. I didn’t know if it was a temporary absence. I was surprised at how let down I felt, not being able to visit with him.
The next morning I observed a slight smear near the eye of Jesus on the painting. Had it been there all along? I’m not known for attention to detail. Then I remembered I had sprayed ammonia cleaner on
outer glass when I got it, wiping off flea market dust. Some moisture must have gotten beneath the glass.
