Jesus and me

Jesus, reported to be the wisest man who ever walked on earth, chose not to write. I choose to believe that’s because he wanted us to put our faith in him, and not in what is written. I watched Mr. Eastwood’s latest movie, and supposed that while making it he had a few thoughts about dying himself. Perhaps not, but I am now of an age where some who are the dearest parts of my life, and so I too, must think clearly, objectively, about death. At moments my heart seems to break.

I have talked to Jesus since I can remember. My mother taught me to. I’ve never heard an audible word in response, but I have been warmed and comforted through ugliness and sorrow. I have been joined in my celebrations and my laughter.

Books are made. Laws are written. Some say God wrote them, and cling to them. Religion, for many, is only an explanation of death, and occurs to them only when they confront their real fear, which is simply loss of life. Jesus promised (someone wrote it down) that by listening to him and believing what he says, I will be aware my life never really ends. This feels true, and much has been made of it by others. But I hear people use the words from the books a lot, and I don’t believe those always mean what folks think they do.

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