What can YOU say in six sentences?
There is a picture of Jesus hanging in the guest room, his expression tender and contemplative, as if he is trying to come to terms with something painful; his large eyes stare left, perhaps seeing a memory of someone or something lost.
It was one of few pictures in your childhood home, the first and favorite image of this genteel Jesus which survived generations of depressed drunks on the cross of the every day, the every hour of need.
You always preferred this Jesus of your childhood, your mother's Jesus with chestnut eyes full of apology and forgiveness, the one that welcomed little children and rode the donkey on palm fronds, healed and saved and died to rise again.
The Jesus of your teen years was the drab version your pigeon-toed aunt Charlene and Tate Springs Baptist Church taught, the Don't Drink/Don't Dance/Skirt at the Knees Jesus, then he turned on a dime when you moved back home, grew solemn and Catholic, a slumped wax figure at tiny St. Paul's with its bad acoustics, pimpled-faced rock band, and deacons with bulbous purple noses.
In your twenties there was the pyramid-shaped Unity Church and minister Howard Ceasar's Jesus, a complex metro-messiah wearing a stained toga and borrowed sandals, the extraterrestrial son of the Father/Mother God, intriguing like Donald Shimoda in Richard Bach's Illusions, flawed like Father Ralph in Thorn Birds, but he expected you to hold hands and sway in the pyramid, came with too much Shirley McClain and Carlos Castanada, so you gave away your meditation books, tossed the Nag Champa incense, and haven't seen Howard or Jesus since.
Today there is an old echo of a Jesus you can't feel anymore, a faded image that could be anyone, like so much graffiti in cities gone numb.