And so I packed my bags and flew to Milan, Italy, and bee-lined to the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie.
This was where, in the 1490s, Leonardo da Vinci painted, on a dining hall wall, his famed mural.
I entered the church and lit three candles—one for Fou-rou, one for Bizarro, and a third for Pinkie. (I’m not religious, but I believe in respecting the traditions of others when inside their homes.)
And then I approached the 29-foot wide mural.
I ‘d learned from my past encounters with paintings to focus on swirls or texture or eyes. And so it was with The Last Supper.
Within a couple of minutes I found a rhythm based on the Holy Trinity:
At the table, diners are bunched in groups of three; and there are three windows behind Jesus.
The Christ, himself, is shaped like a triangle, draped in blue and orange (Van Gogh’s favorite colors), looking down at the open palm of His outstretched hand.
In DaVinci’s depiction, Jesus just announced that one of the apostles would betray him. He looks sad and resigned to his fate.
I felt my heart accelerate into a rapid beat as giddiness consumed me.
And suddenly I was there, at The Last Supper, facing Jesus of Nazareth.
He looked up, startled. “Do you come in need of food?” He asked.
I stood speechless, not knowing what to say to one of the world’s most famous personages of all time. I shook my head.
“Do you carry a message?”
I shook my head.
“What is the reason for your presence among us?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Yes, why? Why did God the Almighty create a world so full of pain and suffering? A world where great artists—the angels of universe—are scorned and humiliated and live in poverty? A world in which a young innocent girl can die alone from sickness?”
The apostles hushed themselves into silence.
Jesus finally spoke. “You’re asking me? I’m about to be betrayed and, as a consequence, I will suffer the most excruciating death.”
“And why is that so?”
“I must die for the sins of humankind.”
“But why?”
“So that we can be forgiven and go with the Lord.”
“Forgiven for what? Pinkie never sinned.”
“We all sin.”
“So why did the Lord create a world of sinners?”
Jesus shrugged.
“Well, I didn’t ask to be born.”
“No one does.”
“Exactly,” I said. “No one asks to be born. Yet here we are. We get pushed out into the world and, if we’re lucky—and I mean the luckiest of the lucky—we’re born into a good family with shelter and food on the table. Yet as soon as we’re a few years old we’re forced into school, where we have to listen to boring teachers yak their heads off all day about boring stuff we don’t really need to know and we’ll never use. And then…”
“Pardon me, if you will,” said Jesus. “But this is supposed to be my last supper. There isn’t exactly a lot to eat here. And someone…” Jesus cast an irritated glance to his right… “someone forgot the wine.”
“And then,” I continued, “when you’re 18, you’re pushed out the door and told, unless you’re pressed into more schooling, you have to toil eight hours a day doing hard labor or mindless stuff, ordered around by lunkheads, just so you can afford someplace to sleep and food to eat. I mean, who asked for this?
“And most people feast on the flesh of animals. Living beings! With real feelings! And real nerve endings! And these living creatures—God’s creatures—are bred in horrible conditions and slaughtered and sold to everyone as food. And if that isn’t enough, human history is a wreckage of brutality and murder on a widespread scale. Constant wars! Constant suffering! Humankind is like an army of germs, not only slaughtering one another but suffocating the very organism on which they live. They consume without replacing and they scatter their poisonous waste—just as cancer does to healthy cells.
“And if you’re lucky, you grow old,” I continued. “But what good is that? Your body breaks down. You lose your ability to do things, to think properly. Your loved ones cast you out to become someone else’s problem—people paid to humor you, only you don’t think anything is funny anymore. And then maybe you get sick, cancer, and you suffer, in terrible pain.
“God could not have created mankind, certainly not in his image, unless he is the devil. So whose child are you really?”
All eyes of the apostles turned to Jesus in shock and great anticipation.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “The only thing we have going for us is love.”
"Exactly," said Jesus.
“But here’s what happens: We fall hopelessly, desperately, obsessively in love—and most of the time the objects of our love and desire do not feel the same way, cannot reciprocate our feelings. Or they do, but only for a little while, before they lie and cheat and break our hearts. But let’s say two people find true romantic love. This is a physical and chemical reaction in the body that releases endorphins and makes us feel good. But it wears out! It’s short term! Scientific studies have shown that love has a shelf life of between 15 and 30 months. After that, it’s more about patience and tolerance than genuine love. And though we con ourselves into believing otherwise, it’s always the same.
“And here I am, grieving for a girl in a painting from over two centuries before my time, tortured by her image because her family shipped her out from Jamaica, where she was born and which she loved and longed for, shipped her to England, where she caught whooping cough because London back then was dirty and disease-ridden, and there she dies alone at the age of 12.
“Why her, Father of Heaven and Earth? Why Pinkie? And why must I suffer this, this absurd situation, entering paintings?”
“Why not?” said Jesus. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
I shook my head. “Your proverbs, your parables, your prayers—they work to your advantage right now, among your crowd, the apostles—and I can tell you, your wisdom endures for very many centuries, at least 20—and you are one of the most revered and enduring figures in human history. But if you showed up in my time, as promised, I don’t know if your wisdom and spirituality would cut it.” I paused, considering this, spawning a new idea. “Why don’t you come back with me? Save yourself from the horrible death planned for you and return with me to my time?”
Judas, nearby, stirred. He wanted his 30 pieces of silver.
“I must accept my fate,” said Jesus.
"What are you, some kind of masochist?"
Jesus drilled his eyes into mine. “I had a vision of your arrival. But I cannot allow you to change history. I know what we must do.”
The apostles twitched with excitement.
“But we will do this after my crucifixion.” Jesus winked. “An exit-stage-left, if you will. So if you don’t mind, I have a Eucharist to conduct.”
When Jesus was done with His last supper and His Eucharist, I watched His agony in the Garden of Gethsemane; I watched as Judas betrayed Him with a kiss, and continued to watch as one of His disciples drew a sword and cut off the ear of one of the Romans on hand to arrest Him.
It reminded me of when Paul Gauguin severed Vincent van Gogh’s earlobe.
Jesus turned on his disciple and rebuked him for violence. “All who live by the sword shall die by the sword.”
And I watched Jesus led away.
The next thing I recall was Jesus standing before Pontius Pilate, the governor of Judea, who adjudicated the matter.
Pontius announced that Jesus had done nothing wrong and was innocent of all charges brought against Him—and then condemned Him to death by crucifixion.
Next thing, I looked up and saw Jesus nailed on the crucifix, a crown of thorns upon His head to mock His claims.
The sky began to darken, and the earth rumbled, as if experiencing an earthquake.
A voice instructed me to look down. Upon doing so, I saw a silver cross about four inches long on the ground beside me.
“Pick it up,” the voice instructed. “All 21 grams of me.”
I did so.
“Put me in your pocket,” said the voice, which I now recognized.
“You were declared innocent,” I said. “So why did you get the death penalty?”
“People in authority don’t like to be challenged,” replied Jesus. “Church and state prefer status quo hypocrisy—it’s more comfortable for them. And politicians always play to a crowd. Ready? Let’s get on with power and glory.”
I opened my eyes feeling somewhat serene—and immediately faced my old friend, Eddie the bartender, in Wonder Bar, Asbury Park, New Jersey.
He looked at me with sore eyes, flicking them back and forth between me and someone to my left.
I turned. “Whoa! You’re really here!”
Jesus looked around Wonder Bar in, well, wonderment.
The bartender shook his head crossly at me. “You can’t bring him in here!”
“Are you kidding?” I said with incredulity. “Do you know who He is?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m under strict instructions not to allow homeless people in this bar, under any circumstances. I’ll lose my job, boss.”
"But... but… He's not homeless. He's..."
The bartender cut me off. “Where do you live?” he demanded of the figure.
“Wherever the will of God takes me.”
The bartender glared at me. “Ya see?”
“Go ahead, “I said to the figure. “Introduce yourself.”
“I don’t have time for this!” snapped the bartender. “Okay, I give up, who the hell are you?”
“I am Jesus of Nazareth.”
The bartender rolled his eyes. “Okay, Jesus—time to go.”
“But He really is,” I said. “I just brought Him back with me.”
“Oh, really? From where?”
"The Last Supper."
“I give up.” Eddie turned to grab something and plunked a pitcher onto the bar. “If you’re really Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, turn this water into wine.” He poured water into a glass and set it before the bearded figure.
Jesus closed his eyes and moved his lips in prayer. He opened his eyes and nodded.
The bartender put the glass to his lips and sipped. “Water,” he said.
The figure shrugged. “After traveling through 20 centuries I guess I’m a little rusty.”
“That’s good.” The bartender snickered. “A little rusty. You could do stand-up, man. The ocean’s that way.” He pointed with his thumb. “So please leave quietly and go walk on it.”
A minute later, Jesus and I stood on the corner of Fifth and Ocean. It was just past three in the morning. He plucked a shot glass from his robe.
“You took that?” I said with incredulity.
The figure nodded. “I always said I’d arrive like a thief in the night.” He looked up. “Thank you, Father.”
I looked up and saw a moon face with a toothy smile, a cross between Howdy Doody and Alfalfa from The Little Rascals.
“I’d like to take you to meet Dr. Stendahl, my psychiatrist.” I said.
“You think I’m crazy?” said the figure.
“No. He thinks I’m crazy.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not sure what to think anymore,” I said.
“Do you believe you are real?”
I looked down at my feet, checked the palms of my hands and held them to my face, not unlike Bizarro in The Scream. “Yes.”
“Do you believe that what you have done is real?”
“Should I?”
“Without you, I would not have arrived here."
“Does that make me sane?”
“Maybe, maybe not. There are principles of the universe we are not clever enough to understand. You should look at this—you bringing me here—as a miracle that cannot be explained.”
“But what if you’re not real?” I said.
“What if you’re not real,” He replied.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What if you’re just a character in a book that’s supposed to guide me to my Second Coming?”
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