I don’t much believe in Christology anymore….

though for a lifetime,

(so far)

it felt like an arm-in-arm stroll with an old friend in the night.

He, watching for pot-holes in the street.

Me, side stepping debris from seasonal changes

littering the side walks on our way.

You know!

A friendly, helpful walk in the darkness.

Me, trying to make everything right

before my final fatigue.

He, making it so.

But,

lately it’s just got too damn complicated!

All the preliminaries I’ve had to sign-on-to:

The membership dues to belong to some stone buttressed cathedral.

The foggy-by-faith-alone understood

“The lord our god is three”

nonsense of trinity.

His (and lately, her) penis-less conception

just because some celibate pope overcompensated.

Overcoming accusations of original sin

with its silibent snake and its apple tree.

All that ….stuff

blocking simple access to

beautitudes and a prodical parable.

Sure!

I could point my finger at Paul

for all his complicating mularkie,

for centuries of sclorotic concrete layered

around a startling ephiany …

But, really, it’s too late .

I just don’t want to mess with any of that

accruing list of synodic foolishness

any more.

Maybe,

on some Friday evening solo meander ,

just at sunset,

I’ll see some vagabond derelict

stretched out on a park bench.

He’ll look like an old hippie

from the 60’s,

peaceful, unthreatening,

his old scars faded away…

I’ll say, “Hi! I’m Ken.”

And he’ll say, “Cool man!

My name is Jesus.

Cop-a-squat!”

And,

maybe I will.