I am dreaming:
"What in creation is this?"
Jesus asks,
standing in the sanctuary of my church.
He is spending a few days with me.
We'd gotten up early to have breakfast out--
he'd been intrigued by the omelet and hashbrowns,
wondering aloud if things were kosher.
I didn't know.
We'd then stopped at Target
to pick up items for dinner;
he seemed somewhat dazed
by the wide selection of meats and produce,
the never-ending array of breakfast cereal
a full aisle of sodas,
another of chips.
He simply shook his head.
I had trouble reading his expression.
I thought showing him my church
might get us back on track.
So we come back to his question:
"What in creation is this?"
"It's a church, of course.
This is where we learn to follow you."
He nods, but then says,
"But I'm a Jew.
If you're following me,
wouldn't that make you Jewish?
Wouldn't we be in a synagogue?"
"We're not Jewish," I say.
"We're Christian."
"Say what?"
"Christian," I repeat.
"We're Christians."
I start to feel confused.
"You know, named after you:
Christ...Christian...Christians"
Why wouldn't he know this?
"If you're named after me,
wouldn't you be Jesusians?
or Jesusites?"
"No...now wait...
we're Christians because we worship you,
the Christ."
"You worship me?
I don't recall asking people
to worship me.
When did that start?"
"Oh, gosh."
This is not going as I planned.
I wonder if Pastor Cheryl is in her office--
she'd be better equipped to handle this.
"Umm...I guess it began after you died...
or rose from the dead...
or went up to heaven.
Don't you want us to worship you?"
"What would be the point?" he asked.
Big pause.
"I'd far rather you loved one another."
Second big pause.
"I really thought I made that clear."
Third big pause.
"Well, okay," I say,
unsure of what to say next.
He starts to look around,
walks up the isle toward the altar,
stops to look at the stained-glass windows,
which depict scenes of his life.
What is he thinking now? I wonder.
What--through his eyes--does this look like?
My thoughts are a jumble:
hashbrowns and bacon,
Coca-Cola and Cheerios,
steeple and hymnals,
Jews and Christians,
churches and synagogues...
And my Jesus,
bewildered,
zig-zagging a peculiar path
through this hub of my faith.
I watch him.
Who are you, really?
And what am I to you?
I wake up.
I lie in bed, motionless,
musing, wondering...
praying...
reaching my heart toward him.
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