Chapter 22 Almost Identical to the Big Dipper, Part 5

I waited there for a while, seemingly alone as a cool evening breeze started to toss and sway and bring life to my parking lot vigil.

Halfway through my second beer, I ran my finger along the Corona label, which has always been fascinating to me. Well, the entire bottle is, actually, because most beer makers don't use the clear glass anymore; too many problems with sunlight messing up the quality and taste and such. Apparently, the Corona makers keep their supply in good shade until it's ready to come out, and we all know that the solid cardboard case keeps out light too.

Whatever the case may be (no pun intended), I think the clear bottle makes it taste the way it does and I happen to like it. Maybe you do too.

Now, the Corona name could mean just about anything: from a cigar to a crown to a part of a flower. Some others may have told you they’ve had a spiritual awakening while enjoying a Corona or two.

Or six.

It could be that they’ve taken yet another meaning of Corona a little too seriously, that being the colorful, hazy ring surrounding the sun or the moon. It’s caused by ionized gas and light colliding and it’s quite a beautiful, if not an altogether spiritual experience. You know, St. Elmo’s fire kind of stuff.

But then again, it is just beer.

Regardless, there was no Jesus #2 anywhere in sight, so I rested my head back and shut my eyes, allowing the breeze to dance over me. I listened as the voices of those coming and going overlapped and formed something of a symphony with other night sounds.

And then, there was a whisper.

“Greetings, my child.”

I spun around and looked in every direction, but I was still alone.

“I am here, trust me.”

But he wasn't, really—here, that is. At least I couldn’t see him. How many Coronas had I downed?

“Seek not my face, for I’ve been consecrated.”

Well, he certainly sounded like Jesus, I suppose.

“Is that why I can’t see you?” It came out like a demand, but that was probably the beer talking.

The breeze picked up and swirled in front of me.

“You’ll see me, but not here, for I don’t reside in such places. Yours is not to wonder why, but to follow and know the rituals and rites as set forth by those before you. Only through this may you come to me.”

Huh?

“Well, what if I don’t?”

(I know many who find him that way, and that's great, but if that’s not my bag, was he saying there'd be no chance for us?)

He was silent. It was a deafening silence and I started to feel it on my skin. I was becoming more than a little afraid, and wanted to take back my question. After a painfully long pause, he temporarily broke the tension:

“You’re a fan of Springsteen, aren’t you?”

That was the last thing I expected him to ask.

“Actually, yes, I am.”

The wind whipped up even more and goosebumps appeared on my arms. The tree with the narrow branches and wide leaves started to engulf me, and suddenly I was quite aware of the darkness. I felt the freckles (which are almost identical to the Big Dipper) searing my skin.

“Fear’s a powerful thing, baby.”

He sang it, just like that, and again he sounded pretty good, this whisper and shadow of a Savior.

“Submit yourself to a healthy fear of me, and find your peace only among the brethren, the saints, the priests who will intercede on your behalf. Hold vigil for me, but not here among the commoners.”

That was all it took. Why could anyone at any time come to him then, but not now? Wasn't the most repeated command in the Bible fear not?

So, I resurrected the Jersey chutzpah of my youth, and it seemed serendipitous as I prepared to confront yet another of my childhood misunderstandings about Jesus.

“You forgot the rest. Fear is a powerful thing, but…” (I gave him my best Boss):

“It can turn your heart black you can trust. It’ll take your God-filled soul, and fill it with devils and dust.”

And, just like that, the mini parking-lot-typhoon ended. One thing I do know: however we get to Jesus, whether here or there or anywhere, we shouldn't be afraid.

There was a faint ring of light hovering and mimicking at least one meaning of the beer I was drinking. It was fleeting, though, and not so beautiful. My mini-constellation stopped burning and then, it was just me again, wondering who or what had just spoken to me.

He sounded fine at first, this Jesus impersonator, but then I saw right through him.

Just like the empty bottle I was holding.