Moses
I believe in the God of the Hebrews and also Moses but know them only through movies. “Moses, Moses,” on Pharaoh’s dying lips. I think of Moses, impressed by his durability. The first sight of unending sand would have driven me down. I’d have been all over Jethro’s daughters like a hot Israeli robe…. An old theater, large, golden snakes writhing on the circular ceiling, imitation gargoyles on brass balcony railings, seats so soft they could swallow you up. On screen, Moses and his long, gray hair, Moses parting the Red Sea, Moses on our lips at Nick’s where you could buy four red-hots for a dollar. At the bus stop not even Moses able to keep four kids from pummeling an old lady with her own purse. A black leather purse, with two fake diamonds flashing under the streetlights with each whack.
I’d like to repost my piece on Easter and Jesus today. Happy Easter to all!
I.
My prose poem “Moses” returns me to my youth where, at the Shea’s Movie Theater in Buffalo, NY, I was fortunate to see movies like “Ben Hur,” “The Big Fisherman” (about St. Peter), “The Ten Commandments,” and especially “The Robe.” As my poem suggests, to a boy of middle-grade age, these movies and the theater itself provided a bit of a religious experience. And, in a very Catholic city, even if you happened to be an atheist ten-year-old boy (if they, indeed, existed back then), you could still enjoy the great popcorn the theater offered, the possibility of watching men dismembered under chariots with blades attached the hub of their wheels, and the strange stirrings in your privates when a woman with very large breasts appeared on screen. Even better, after the movie, no matter who you were, you could stuff your face with 4-for-a-dollar red hots at Nick’s, a small greasy spoon located right behind the theater.
To be honest, you didn’t have to be a kid to love these movies, and even now, I look forward every Easter to watching the “Ten Commandments,” so imagine my surprise when I couldn’t find one religious movie on Cable-TV, not even Mel Gibson’s depressing one on the passion of Christ. And even when I discovered an Easter movie on my local cable provider, they wanted at least four bucks to view it. “Really, assholes. It’s Easter. What do you think Christ would make of that?”
So what did TV offer instead of over-muscled gladiators, burning bushes, provocative women, and great lines like Yul Brynner’s “So let it be written! So let it be done!”? Well, instead of that spiritual and visceral pageantry, I could watch “American Idol,” “Pawn Stars,” “Naked and Afraid,” and “American Kidnapping: Finding Elizabeth Smart.” And those were some of the good shows.
Given these choices, there wasn’t much to do but go upstairs and look at old Easter photos of me as a kid scarfing up potato chips and shrimp cocktail, and pigging out on ham and pineapple. There were other photos, too, of me in my church clothes wearing a shiny black suit and tie, a silly black fedora, but also my exquisite black pointy dress shoes with Cuban heels, which my drunken Uncle Eddie called “Spic shoes.” But the photo I liked best was one from when I was about seven. We hosted Easter dinner at my house that year, so I put on my gladiator helmet and breastplate I had gotten the previous Christmas. In the photo, I was pointing my sword menacingly at the camera, more than prepared to be the only Roman centurion with the balls to defend Jesus against all comers—even the nitwits who programmed Cable TV and ruined my Easter.
II.
And now for Jesus, Here are two of my favorite prose poems on Him—prose poems suggesting that He’s a pretty cool guy. “Nice Socks” was written by me; “Goodtime Jesus” by James Tate.
Nice Socks
I’m outside the Covid Compassion Center when Jesus arrives. He says, “The hole in the knee of your jeans was merely purchased.” Gibberish, of course, but when Jesus talks, you listen. Is it because of the calmness of His voice? The pools of peacefulness in His eyes? I can feel Him reading my mind. It’s like a mule kicking me in the back of my head. Hard not to feel sorry for Him in this weather, with cold slush blanketing the pavement, and He’s wearing His trademark leather sandals. I take off my shoes and offer him my woolen socks. He puts them on, re-straps his sandals. “People are just doing the best they can,” I say, thinking He’s come back to orchestrate the Final Showdown. He looks up, smiles. “Nice socks,” He says. “I’m beginning to accept what I cannot change,” I say, trying to make a good impression. He looks up again, points to His feet. “Like I said, nice socks.”
Goodtime Jesus
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beautiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.
I’m not sure where I stand with God. I need to believe in Him/Her/They, but, as they say, need is not quite belief. Karen Armstrong, an ex-nun and author of a terrific, readable book called The History of God, recounts her struggles with “belief.” She writes:
“As a child, I had a of number of strong religious beliefs but little faith in God. There is a distinction between belief in a set of propositions and a faith which enables us to put our trust in them. I believed implicitly in the existence of God; I also believed in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, efficacy of the sacraments, the prospect of eternal damnation and the objective reality of Purgatory. I cannot say, however, that my belief in these religious opinions about the nature of ultimate reality gave me much confidence that life here on earth was good or beneficent. The Roman Catholicism of my childhood was a rather frightening creed.”
No matter what your religious background is, or if that background ennobled you or permanently messed with your childhood head, I think many of us can agree with Armstrong’s ambivalent attitude toward “God.”
I would argue, though, that Jesus is a very different animal. Yes, there is the suffering Jesus, whom we celebrate at Easter. As a child, unlike my classmates, I never feared the Stations of the Cross. On the contrary, I looked forward to them. I was uplifted by the pain inflicted on Jesus and inspired by how He endured it for us future dummies.
And yet that suffering Jesus wasn’t the one I eventually settled upon. For me, to find meaning and value in the life of Jesus, I needed to humanize Him. That’s the point of “Nice Socks” and James Tate’s “Goodtime Jesus.” In my poem, Jesus inexplicably ends up outside a Compassion Center, which is a fancy name for a medical marijuana establishment in Rhode Island. He’s cold, man, His feet awash in slush.
Naturally, the narrator is surprised to discover Jesus freezing His ass off in His “trademark sandals.” At first, he has the common sense to offer Jesus his socks, but then he becomes more interested in impressing Jesus by making grand statements and apologies. But unfortunately for my narrator, my Jesus doesn’t feel like saving the world today. He just wants a pair of warm socks and is probably thinking, “I understand what you expect from me, dude, but today it’s all about my feet.” Which is why, at the end of the poem, in response to the well-meaning narrator, all Jesus can do is to repeat, “Nice socks.”
Is he making a joke?
I like to think so because my Jesus, unlike the Jesus of most denominations, has a sense of humor. He’s a cool guy. Yes, He’s willing every Easter to reenact His passion and resurrection, but sometimes He just wants a pair of “nice socks” so He can warm his toes and relax for a while—just as James Tate’s Jesus just wants to be left alone to ride His donkey, and when He does, He finds himself suddenly in love with “everybody.”
It’s a kind of miracle, don’t you think? The kind of gesture we would hope for from a flesh-and-blood Jesus, so that some numbskull like me might arrive a few centuries later to celebrate it in a little essay on Easter. Or, as Yul would say, “So let it be written! So let it be done!”
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories
Find out why he is giving away his new book of prose poem/fragments, even though he has a publisher for it, by downloading the PDF from the below link or going to OLD MAN’S homepage. His “Note to the Reader” and “Introduction” at the beginning of the PDF explains it all: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss+
I laughed out loud at this: “Really, assholes. It’s Easter. What do you think Christ would make of that?”
And this: "We hosted Easter dinner at my house that year, so I put on my gladiator helmet and breastplate I had gotten the previous Christmas."