Jesus came back yesterday. No, not the second coming, more of a ‘just a little while and then I’ve got to run.’ Guess what? He didn’t have Caviezel’s nose or a younger Schwarzenegger’s forearms or Henri Nouwen’s puppy-dog eyes or Driscoll’s rave and cant. I’m serious. You may not believe this but he prefers Claret for communion (big surprise), sports a Greek fishing hat exclusively (did not see that one coming), has memorized Bukowski’s poems, all of them (really?), and maintains a weakness for Karen Carpenter (said she’s to die for). Yeah, he was really chatty, just put it out there, like he wanted me to know he was much more than Sunday morning’s pastel anxieties. And get this, he didn’t say anything about hunger or next year’s election or twitter. I’m serious. Finally the conversation dragged, he glanced at his watch (older model Oris, nice) and said ‘gotta run, pard.’ After he left (just took off jogging) I felt dizzy to say the least, but strangely at ease. He forgot his keys. He’ll be back.