SUNDAY
Jerry Francis
gazed at the stars, twinkling brightly against the pitch black sky. How pretty,
he thought. Then his attention shifted as he realized thorns were poking him in
the back. A moment later his thoughts changed once again, and Jerry now
wondered why he was lying in a briar patch staring at the sky, why his mind
seemed to be operating in slow motion, and what in the world was that odd
hissing sound?
Lifting his head
slowly, Jerry looked toward the curious noise. He saw the silhouette of a car
about 20 feet away, with the driver’s door flung open. Steam spewed from the
spot where the crumpled front end pressed against a large maple tree. Fragments
of information began to drift into Jerry’s foggy brain: he had been watching a
baseball game on TV at his friend Vinny’s house. He never called home to tell
his wife Brenda where he was. It was after midnight when he finally left. He
was driving fast along the deserted state highway and rehearsing out loud what
he hoped would be a believable excuse. And that’s all he could remember.
Jerry raised his
hand and gently touched the lump on the top of his forehead. No wonder
everything’s foggy, he thought. The next thought to pop into his mind was, I’ve got to get back to the road and flag
down another car. He lurched into the sitting position and immediately saw
more stars as the blood drained from his head. “Oh no,” he mumbled, “Don’t
faint now…” But it was too late. The last sensation he felt before losing
consciousness was the tingle of thorns poking him again as he flopped onto his
back.
*
* *
Jerry felt the
bright sunshine before he actually saw it. As he emerged from his long and deep
slumber, the warmth of the sun baked against his face. A few moments later, as
his eyes started flickering behind closed lids, he saw vivid red colors. When
he opened his eyelids ever-so-slightly, blinding white light streamed in,
causing Jerry to cup his hand over his face. As he lay there, trying
desperately to remember exactly where he was and exactly how he had gotten
there, another curious sound filled his ears: the growing crescendo of a large
group of people shouting, which reminded him of the crowd at Yankee Stadium
when the bases were loaded and the cleanup hitter was striding toward the plate.
As Jerry wondered
why a crowd of people would be gathered along a rural state highway in the
suburbs of New Haven, a clear voice pierced the air from no more than a few
feet away. “Jeremiah! Jeremiah!” the voice said. Then Jerry felt a hand grab
his shoulder. “Jeremiah! Why are you sleeping?! Come on, get up. He’s almost
here!”
With help from the
mysterious hand, Jerry slowly sat up and carefully peeked through the fingers
still covering his face. He saw the blurry form of a man kneeling beside him.
“Are you…are you
the ambulance driver?” Jerry asked slowly.
“Were you drinking
wine all night?” came the terse reply. As Jerry thought to himself, No, I only had a few beers at Vinny’s,
the voice continued, “It’s me, Benjamin, and the man I told you about last
night, Jesus of Nazareth, is here! He’s entering into Jerusalem! Can’t you hear
the crowds?!”
Jerry eyes were
finally adjusting to the bright sunshine, and he took a long look around at his
surroundings. What he saw almost caused the blood to drain from his head again.
Yes, there was a
crowd of people there, hundreds of folks lining each side of the road. But
Jerry no longer wondered why a crowd was gathered on a rural state
highway—despite their curious clothing—because he was too busy wondering why the
road was no longer paved and how all the maple and pine trees had turned into
palm trees.
The man called
Benjamin helped Jerry to his feet. As he stood, Jerry looked down and noticed
he was wearing a long tan robe and had sandals on his feet. “What the— Where’re
my jeans? My Nikes?” he said. Jerry paused and looked at the excited crowd
waving palm branches. “Toto,” he whispered to himself, “We’re not in
Connecticut anymore.”
“Oh, here he
comes!” Benjamin yelled.
The shouting grew
louder and some people stepped forward and spread palm branches and articles of
clothing in the center of the dusty road. A small procession came into view.
Above the roar, Jerry heard people, including Benjamin, proclaim in unison,
“Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the
highest!”
The procession
came near Jerry’s spot along the road. Not
exactly the Rose Bowl parade, he thought. About ten bearded men were in the
lead, holding palm branches and waving to the crowd. Next was the obvious
center of attention, a man riding sidesaddle on a donkey. Another eight or ten
men brought up the rear, with some women and children following in their wake,
and that was the entire show.
When the donkey
was directly in front of Jerry, the rider looked straight at him and smiled. A
cold chill ran down Jerry’s spine as the man’s gentle gaze seemed to penetrate
his soul. “Whoa, wait a minute,” he said, as the last bit of fogginess vanished
from his brain. “This looks just like…” his voice trailed off as he tried to recall
the details of his childhood Catechism classes. “But, but it can’t be,”
he said. “That was 2,000 years ago.”
For a moment,
Jerry wished he had accompanied his wife and kids to church once in a while.
But then he quickly remembered why he never went to church: he simply didn’t
believe any of it. “Oh, I’m sure there was a guy named Jesus,” he would tell
Brenda whenever she brought up the subject, “but all that stuff about miracles
is a bunch of fairy tales.”
“Isn’t he
wonderful?!” Benjamin shouted, interrupting Jerry’s thoughts. “Jesus will be
the new king of Israel! He’s going to lead us in a violent revolt against the
Romans, just like I told you last night!”
“What do you mean,
‘last night’?” Jerry asked. “Last night I was watching a Yankees game on Vinny’s
big-screen TV.”
“Last night you
were with me,” Benjamin replied, “at the secret meeting of the Zealots. You
pledged your life to help us overthrow the Romans.” As Benjamin spoke, he
carefully opened the front of his cloak and revealed two sharp daggers hanging
from his belt. “And here’s the weapon I promised to give you.”
Benjamin carefully
passed one of the 12-inch blades to Jerry, who held it by the handle between
thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead mouse. “Ohh-kaaay,” Jerry said
slowly. “Someday you’ll have to fill me in on the details of what I did last
night.”
“Hide it in your
cloak,” Benjamin ordered urgently. “You know we’re not allowed to have weapons.
We’ll be arrested if they catch us!”
Jerry nervously
fumbled with the dagger and concealed it in his robes, relieved that no blood
was drawn in the process.
“Now, come on,”
Benjamin said. “Let’s follow Jesus and meet up with our brother
revolutionaries. Maybe the battle against the Romans will begin today!”
“Wait a minute,
Benny,” Jerry stammered as he grabbed Benjamin’s arm, “I, uh, I’m not sure
exactly what’s going on here, but I think I have an idea who this Jesus is, and
you gotta trust me, it’s not gonna happen that way.”
“What do you
mean?” Benjamin asked.
“I, I don’t think
Jesus is going to lead an army and drive out the Romans,” Jerry replied. “At
least—if I understand what Sister Mary Margaret taught me twenty-five years
ago—not in this world. In fact, Benny, by Friday this whole crowd is going to
demand that Jesus be put to death!”
“You were
drinking all night!” Benjamin laughed. “How are you going to kill Romans with
your head filled with wine?”
Jerry couldn’t
think of an answer—he couldn’t even comprehend the question—but the idea of a
stiff drink sounded pretty good. Benjamin put his arm around Jerry’s shoulders
and the two men began walking up the dusty road toward the center of Jerusalem.
As they walked, Jerry shook his head in amazement. “Man,” he said softly,
“Brenda is never gonna believe this excuse.”
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