deVan and Picture #12: deVan’s Second Visit

Visit #2: The Comedy Lesson

Exactly one week after his first encounter with the man on the cross, deVan once again hauled open the unlocked back door of the Catholic church and slipped inside. He wanted very much to continue his discussion with the man in Picture #12, but it didn’t seem right to just walk over there. Instead, deVan went to the first of the 14 pictures scattered around the walls. “Stations” they were called.

            He stopped at each Station, like a train does, and thought about what his new friend had gone through the day he died. Since they had indeed become friends, deVan found it much harder to make his way around the church a second time. Tears were in his eyes and on his face when he circled back to Picture #12.

            “Why did they do this to you?” deVan blurted the words more loudly than he intended.

            “Hello, deVan.”

            deVan lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Jesus. It upsets me, you know? Who did this?”

            “The people in charge back then, the Romans.”

            “What right did they have to torture you and kill you?”

            Jesus sighed a little. “Oh, it was all perfectly legal. I was tried and convicted.”

            “Of what?”

            “Claiming to be a king. Only the Roman authorities determined who was a king.”

            deVan held out his arms. “Did you say you were a king?”

            “No. I made fun of earthly kings. I rode into Jerusalem on a donkey.”

            “What’s wrong with that? They didn’t have cars then.”

            “What was wrong was that I was mocking the Roman king. He would ride into a city with on a great steed—”

            “A what?”

            “Horse. With all kinds of banners and stuff.”

            “I see,” deVan said and smiled. “So when you rode in on a little donkey you were mocking the king. Cool.”

            “I was trying to get across that I wasn’t like the kings that rule the world. I didn’t depend on force, soldiers or weapons. I didn’t live in a palace with all kinds of luxury. I was not a king.”

            “What were you, then?”

            “I was a rabbi, a teacher of God’s law.”

            “So there’s God’s law and then there’s the world’s law. And because you followed God’s law, the world’s law said you should die.”

            “I couldn’t have put it better.”

            deVan shook his head. “All right, Jesus, all right. I get the world’s law. It’s how powerful people on earth stay powerful. What’s God’s law?”

            “Live in love.”

            deVan widened his eyes. “That’s it?”

            Jesus most likely shrugged. “Yes, deVan, that’s it. That’s the whole Bible, what I called the Law and the Prophets.”

            “I’ve seen bibles. They are huge. A whole lot more than three words.”

            “Ha,” Jesus said. “That’s just the start of it. Millions and millions of pages have been written about who God is and what God wants.”

            “And you’re saying it boils down to ‘live in love.’”

            “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

            “Okay, but how do you do that, live in love?”

            “See,” Jesus smiled. “This is where the words mount up.”

            deVan was just a tiny bit offended. “Look, I’m not asking for a bible’s worth of answers.”

            “I know, I know,” said the man on the cross. “I was asked the same question a few dozen different ways. ‘What more must I do’ ‘Who is my neighbor?’ ‘Which commandment is most important?’”

            “Did you always answer the same way?”

            “No, deVan, I was a rabbi, a preacher. We never answer the same way. Sometimes I would tell a story that made my point. Sometimes I just said some version of ‘live in love.’”

            “Okay, Jesus, give me a version of ‘live in love.’”

            “Are you testing me?”

            “I’m asking you.”

            “Fine. How’s this? Love the Lord your God with all your strength and love your neighbor as yourself.”

            “Yes, good, so, who is my neighbor?”

            “Ah. This is where I usually tell a story.”

            “Hm. I see where this could get to bible length.”

            “Right?”

            deVan thought for a moment. “So, is there a short cut?”

            “Sure. Just ask, am I living in love at this moment?”

            “Did you recommend that when you were a rabbi?”

            “Not exactly. Maybe I should have.”

            deVan raised his finger. “What you should have done is lighten up.”
            “Excuse me?”

            “Yeah. Religion, it’s always so, oh, you got to do this and you can’t do that. I mean, did you ever just crack up?

            “Crack up?”

            “Yeah, laugh. Ha ha ha, laugh! Wasn’t anything ever funny?”

            Jesus became a little vexed. “Yes, deVan, we laughed a lot, my friends and I.”

            “Why don’t we ever hear about it?”

            “Because the people who wrote about me weren’t focused on the comedy.”

            “Why not? A little comedy might have made you more interesting.”

            “You did the Stations of the Cross. You didn’t find that boring, did you?”

            “No, it’s interesting, but it’s sad. It makes me cry. You’re my friend, and this happened to you. It’s awful.”

            “It is. And I’m glad you are my friend.”

            “But you need to balance it out. You said you laughed a lot. Let’s hear about that.”
            Jesus became a little nostalgic as he thought of the laughter. “There was one time,” Jesus began. “My friends and I were walking to this town, and a crowd started forming around us.
            “Did that happen a lot?”

            “Yeah. I got a reputation as a healer, so people came with every illness under the sun hoping I would cure them.”

            “Not funny yet.”

            “Just listen, deVan. There was this guy, Zacchaeus, who wanted to see me, but he couldn’t with the crowd all around me, so he runs ahead and climbs a tree, a sycamore, I think.”

            “I’d do that.”

            “Yes, you’re pretty short. So was Zacchaeus.”

            “He was short.”

            “Yes, but when I saw him up in the tree, I didn’t know that.”

            “And?”

            “I looked up and said, ‘Hey, Zacchaeus, come down here.’”

            “You knew his name.”

            “People were pointing up at him and calling him, ‘Zacchaeus, how’s the view up there?’”

            “They were mocking him.”

            “So, I told him to come down. He climbed down. When he jumped to the ground right in front of me, I realized he wasn’t just short; he was very little. He came up to my cincture.”

            “Your what?”
            “My…um…my belt.”

            “And?”

            “I laughed.”

            “Right in front of him?”

            “I turned my head. But I think he knew. James and John laughed out loud.”

            “Who were they?”

            “My youngest apprentices. Not much older than you.”

            “Then what?”

            “Then, then I was so embarrassed I invited myself to dinner at his house.”

            “So you humiliated him and then mooched off him?”

            “No, eating at his house was considered an honor.”

            deVan pinched his chin and thought for a few seconds. “So him feeding you was an honor for him.”

            “You know, I’m the rabbi, kind of the important person, so who I choose to eat with honors them.”

            “I get it. If Taylor Swift came to town, it would be a big deal if some normal person had her over for dinner.”

            “Something like that, yes. Also, Zacchaeus was a tax collector and people did not like tax collectors, so eating at his house upset a lot of people.”

            “Now that’s like Taylor Swift eating at the Joker’s house.”

            Jesus was feeling a little anxious at this point. “I don’t think that’s a perfect analogy, but, look, I was just trying to get across that funny things happened.”

            “No, no, I’m with you,” deVan said. “This has potential. It could be funny. But you got to tell it funny.”

            “Tell it—”

            “Funny. Tell it funny. Like when you call the guy and he jumps down off the tree. You don’t say he came up to your, what was it?”

            “Cincture.”

            “Yeah, totally not funny. What about you say, he landed and then stood up. I was waiting for him to get taller but he stopped at my belly button.”

            “Belly button is funnier than cincture?”

            deVan sighed. “Yes, Jesus, belly button is definitely funnier than cincture.”

            And Jesus listened intently, as deVan, a kid with a genuine flair for comedy, discussed the many ways Jesus could make the story of the little person who climbed the tree much much funnier — all the while making sure nothing was said that would offend little people…or tax collectors.

            

            

             

            

 

 

deVan and Picture #12: deVan’s First Visit

This begins a series about a curious young lad named (by himself) deVan, small “d,” OK? It’s about a lot of things, but mostly it’s about friendship.

Visit #1: The Tri-OON Guy

 

He had walked by the big, wooden door many times and just as often had felt the urge to open it. It looked to be ajar, not tempting him but inviting him. “Come here, look inside, bet it’s interesting.” What made the unlatched door even more enticing was the fact that the front door of the church was locked, so clearly someone did not want him entering the building. Carelessly, they left the church’s back door accessible. That was the door he had waked by so often.

            He’d never been in this church before. No one in his family attended any church. He went to a synagogue once when his best friend Stewart celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. That was fun, for the first three or four hours. All in all, he had to admit he was more than a little curious.

            One Saturday morning he awoke, and the first item of interest delivered to his consciousness was a declaration: today, I am going into the church. He ate a bowl of Cheerios Oat Crunch cereal, his third favorite, left his house, and sought the back door.

            It was indeed unlatched and unlocked. That did not make it easy to pull open. It was made of wood, heavy and thick. This not only did not surprise the boy, it confirmed a conviction of his, that all Church doors, front and back, were big and thick and wooden and heavy and hard to open. A thin, insubstantial church door was just unthinkable.

            Inside he was greeted by a dingy wall three feet in front of his face. This was because he was in the middle of a long corridor. A bare light bulb screwed into the ceiling offered eerie illumination. Turning his head to the right he saw a room at one end of the corridor. The room looked uninteresting, so he turned his head left.

            Several paces down that way was a door, not much different from the door to his bedroom at home. The position of the door led him to believe that this was an entrance to the churchy part of the church. (It provided access to the sanctuary, but he wasn’t current on technical terms for various areas of a church.)

            He opened the door; it was reassuringly thick and heavy, not really like his flimsy bedroom door. He entered. Immediately to his right was an altar. The carpet behind it was worn, and he assumed correctly that the minister stood there during services.

            The boy looked about and smiled. The church was all his. “Hello,” he called, aiming all the way back to the choir loft. The returning echo caused him to emit a laugh, which also echoed. As he glanced around he saw a number of statues, all of them seeming to have adopted similar positions, standing straight and looking down, none of them wearing normal clothes. What they wore were robes, top to bottom, covering everything. Fashion sense was not in evidence.

            When he looked off to the left, against the side wall, he noticed a quite different scene. It became clearer as he walked toward it. It was a picture, or rather part picture. The items in the picture bulged out like little statues. He looked along the wall, all the way to the back of the Church, and saw that there were a lot of these bulgy pictures lined up side by side.

            He walked to the first one. A man in a robe was standing with other men beside him. At the bottom was an explanation: “Jesus is condemned to die.” It wasn’t hard to tell which one was Jesus. He was in chains and bleeding from the head because someone had pushed a circle of thorns into his skull.

            He knew some things about Jesus but not much. Most of it had to do with Christmas when he was born in a stable and animals sniffed him and all. But this was something else. Someone condemned Jesus to die? Now he was curious. He walked to the second picture.

            “Jesus receives his cross,” was the inscription at the bottom, and, sure enough, a couple of guys were putting a large wooden cross on his shoulders. The boy felt a little sick at this. “They made you carry your own cross? That stinks. What did you do to deserve this? I thought you just healed people and stuff.”

            He soon realized that the pictures were sort of like pages in a storybook. The story was easy to follow as the boy passed from picture to picture, 14 in all, circling the entire church. Jesus falls under the weight of his cross, not once but three times in three different pictures. A man named Simon helps him carry the cross part way. Jesus passes his mom and then some women who are crying. Finally, he reaches the execution spot, and he is stripped — that’s the word that was written — stripped of his garments, nailed to the cross he was carrying, dies, is taken down and buried. Some storybook.

            After making his way to the last picture, the boy meandered back to the one with Jesus on the cross, Picture No. 12. Jesus was hanging there looking down at two people standing on the ground below him. There was a man and a woman, also in head to foot robes, looking up at the man on the cross. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is this what happened?”

            “Pretty much.” The answer came directly from the picture, although nothing in the picture moved at all. The voice didn’t echo, it just sounded clearly in his ears, like it was coming from air pods, which it wasn’t.

            The boy looked up at the man on the cross. “Did you say something?”

            “I said the pictures are pretty accurate.”

            “So all this happened?”

            “To me, yes. Well, except…”

            “Except what?”

            “I’m a little embarrassed to admit it.”

            “Go ahead, there’s no one here but me.”

            “I fell a lot more than three times.”

            “How many times did you fall?”

            “I’d already been through a lot and was frankly exhausted. When they put the cross — the thing was heavy, no joke — put it on my shoulders, I slipped right away. I think I fell or stumbled about every two steps.”

            “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

            “I’m just saying the storyteller got it wrong, saying I fell three times.”

            “It’s fine. It’s actually better that way. My teacher calls it poetic license. It means the storyteller can change the story to make it more interesting.”

            “Poetic license?”

            “Yeah. Look, if they did a new picture for every time you fell, it would just be a story about you tripping and falling. They rest of the story would get lost in all the tripping and falling.”

            “I get it. It flows better with just three falls.”

            “Also, three falls gets the point across that you fell a lot.”

            “What brought you here, uh…”

            “My name is deVan. Small ‘d’ capital ‘V.’”

            “Nice to meet you deVan. I’m—”

            “I know, Jesus.”

            “Right.” Jesus paused. “deVan. That’s an unusual name.”

            The boy smiled. “Yes. I thought it up all by myself.”

            Jesus squinted or would have squinted if any visuals accompanied his clear air pod voice. “You thought up deVan? Didn’t you get a name when you were born?”

            “Yes, but I changed it when I transitioned. I’m transgender.”

            “How did you come up with deVan.”

            “How did you come up with Jesus, Jesus?”

            “It’s complicated. My name in my native tongue is Yeshua; the Greek is Jesus. It means, roughly, “he is going to save you.” I got that name before I was born.”

            “Before you were born?”

            Jesus paused and then spoke. “How is the transition going?”

            deVan smiled. “I started hormone blockers a while ago. I get weekly sessions with Dr. Wingott; she specializes in trans kids. We talk about how everything’s going. I know you’re from a long time ago. Do you know anything about transitioning.”

            Jesus chuckled. “I went through a pretty big transition myself.”

            deVan’s eyes widened. “You transitioned to a boy?”

            “Yes.”

            “So your sex registered at birth was female?”

            “No, my transition began before I was born.”

            Jesus now had deVan’s full attention. “This I want to hear about.”

            “The uncomplicated way of putting is, I was God and then I became human.”

            “That does not sound uncomplicated.”

            “Yes, there are many much more complicated ways to say it. It starts by understanding that God is a triune God.”

            “Try-OON?
            “Three in one. God has three divine parts or persons.”

            “Really?”

            “At least in this church.”

            “What do you mean “in this Church? Are you someone else in other churches?”

            Jesus sighed deeply. “I’m quite different in some other churches. You just happened to break into a Catholic church.”

            deVan raised an index finger. “I didn’t break in, Jesus. The door was unlocked.”

            “You happened upon a Catholic church. That why there’s all these statues.”

            “Other churches don’t have statues?”

            “Not on this scale.” 

            “Do they all have the 14-picture story on the walls?”

            “Only the Catholic churches. They call it ‘The Way of the Cross.’”

            deVan mused. “Not creative but pretty much on the nose.”

            “They are also called the ‘Stations of the Cross.’”

            deVan smiled. “That makes sense.”

            “It does?”

            “Yes. They’re like stations, train stations. You go around and stop at each picture, like a train.”

            “Hm,” Jesus said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Anyway, in this church you were one of the three parts of the what kind of God?”

            “Triune.”

            “Sounds like a Marvel villain. Try-OON, three-headed evildoer from another dimension!” What do the other churches say?”

            “The Unitarian Universalist place two blocks over doesn’t generally go for the three-in-one notion.

            “What’s their pitch?”

            “If you stumbled into the Unitarian place instead of here, I would have been more or less a really good guy.”

            “Then I’m glad I stumbled into here. You’re a lot more interesting here.”

            “I’m glad you stumbled into here, too, deVan. You’re pretty interesting yourself.”

            deVan smiled up at his new friend. “Now you got three people looking up at you on that cross. Tri-OON, you might say. Can I come back again?”

            “Break in any time, deVan.”

            “OK, Jesus.” And deVan left the way he came, resolved to visit his new friend again soon.